Page 28 - the NOISE September 2014

10:15 SATURDAY NIGHT
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The boy surfaced to find himself seated in the sink. His half. He watched the leaky faucet dribble into the other side. The steady drip drip drip was hypnotic, like a metronome. It was the only sound in the empty house.
Ever since he was old enough to climb up the countertop, the sink was his personal spot. The cold porcelain against his back and bare arms felt comforting. He would pull his knees up to his chest and huddle there for hours until he fell asleep and his mother would carry him off to bed.
That was years ago, of course. Now he was 16 and the sink wasn’t such a comfortable fit. His bluejeaned legs hung over the edge, his stocking feet stuck out in the air. The only part of his body close to porcelain was his rear end, which was grow- ing numb by the minute.
He finished off the beer and opened another. Dad brewed his own, a new batch every spring, and it was a damn sight stronger than that swill they served in the pub. The old man didn’t seem to mind when a few bottles went missing now and again.
He supposed he was lucky to have grown up in an artistic family. Both his parents sang and played piano. They encour- aged their children to take up instruments, paint, write, what- ever inspired them. Their home was full of music and art and books.
His two brothers were nearly 15 years his senior. By the time he needed their guidance and friendship, they had moved out, gone away to college, then married and started their own families. He would see them on holidays and they were more like uncles to him. His little sister was his best pal, but she was a girl.
Without his brothers’ boisterous presence, he grew up shy and sensitive, always with his nose in a book. He lived in a constant state of melancholy. The things that made other children joyous (a spring shower, a ladybug, summer vaca- tion) filled him with a vague sadness. His teachers and other adults were constantly asking him what was wrong. He never had an answer.
Luckily, music found him. The years of piano and guitar les- sons paid off when he joined his first band at the age of 12. He developed his songwriting skills. His first dozen or so were naturally quite awful, but they improved. He wasn’t frontman material. His singing voice came out a strained yelp and his bandmates had to stifle their laughter when he taught them his compositions.
The glam era was at its height in Britain. He would see photos of Bowie and the New York Dolls and wish he could wear makeup. Not to look feminine but to mask his face, like a mummer or a clown. He longed to be anonymous, to blend in.
One time he shoplifted some black mascara and waited until the household was asleep, then crept into the bath-
room and applied it to his eyes and lips. His reflection stared back. Ordinarily, he saw himself as hideously ugly (his mother would disagree) but with the makeup on he felt cool and tough and not anonymous at all.
Women eluded him. He would get close to one, then say something strange and scare them away. Everybody else in his band had a girlfriend and they thought it weird he didn’t. Not that he was opposed to having one, but his mind was busy with music and books and whatnot. Sex wasn’t that im- portant to him.
Until the day he met her, and then his whole life took a hard left.
He stared at the silent phone. Why hadn’t she called?
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He surfaced to find his face wet. He snuffled and dabbed at his eyes with a shirt sleeve. Boys don’t cry, his Aunt Har- riet had scolded him once. Well ... sod off, Aunt Harriet. It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.
The girl had transferred from another school. He spied her on the first day of classes lugging her cello case into the band room and he was smitten. The instrument was almost as big as she. The movement of her tiny hands across the strings was sensual. A burning sensation grew in his stomach as he watched her play.
Most of the boys at school ignored her. The more adventur- ous of their fellow musicians would gallantly offer to carry her cello case, and they were each rebuffed with an icy “No, thank you.” She seemed to want to be left alone.
He was unable to remove her from his thoughts and dreams. Nearly a fortnight passed before he couldn’t stand it anymore. On a Friday after final bell he walked right up to her, heart pounding. She looked at him with a “well?” expression. He noticed her eyes were hazel with flecks of gold. He opened his mouth, but no sound emerged.
He was about to ask if he could carry her cello case when he glanced down and ... O Providence! ... saw a copy of The Stranger poking out of her bookbag, the same edition he had at home. This nugget of information anchored him. He took a deep breath and locked eyes with her.
“You’re reading Camus?”
“I just finished it.”
“What did you think?”
“I thought it was marvelous.”
“Me too. I was inspired to write a song.”
Her face imperceptibly changed.
“You wrote a song? About The Stranger?” “I did. Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes, very much.”
He took her into a rehearsal room and shut the door. He explained he had composed it on guitar and she nodded. He sat at the piano, played the chords and sang his song. Her re-
28 • SEPTEMBER 2014 • the NOISE arts & news • thenoise.us