me tell you something,” Harlan shifts in his chair. “When your father was your age, maybe a couple years older, he fell in love with music. He was maybe 16 or 17, just around that age where you transition from being whiney into finding yourself. They say a 14 year old is going to be challenging, to not believe a word out of their mouths until you know they are telling the truth. You’re 13, so I can trust you, right?”
Alex laughs, and puts the device in his pocket. “Sure.”
“Good.” Harlan continues.
“Your dad, when he got to be a little bit older, started branching out. You can’t do that nowadays like we did back then. You’ve got your videos, or games, whatever you call them. You have music in the palm of your hand, and you can take it with you wherever you go. You have the Internet—I’m lucky if I can send an email. Your father didn’t have the things you do, but he loved music all the same. Do you love music, Alex?”
“Yeah.” Alex adores music; it has been his religion since he bought Ozzy Osbourne’s Black Rain in 2007. He remembers the night he brought it home, riding with his parents, his mother shooting his father looks of concern, his father, from the driver’s seat, head banging responsibly.
“Your father loves it too, as I’m sure you know. Can you believe your father was in a band at about your age?”
“Really?” Alex straightens in his chair. Alex dreams of forming a band himself, although he has no idea how to play an instrument, sing, or find band mates. He’s begun to write lyrics; simple rhymes, tangible pieces of his mind and soul. He uses an orange pad of paper for his writing, no larger than the distance from the base of his wrist to the tips of fingers. His father bought him a guitar for his 13th birthday. Lyrics are his chosen method of expression; he doesn’t need to develop calluses. His 7th grade English teacher told him he should consider writing as a career; lyrics are a sister to the writing his teacher mentioned to him. For all his reservation, he needs expression to survive; a songbird in an echo chamber.
“What did he play?”
“He sang. Your old father walked out there and sang!” Harlan’s glasses flash in tune with his voice.
“Sometimes, he’d strut out there with a guitar draped around his shoulders. It was so natural to him. I went to see him when he played Hatboro High School in … wow, that must have been 1976, ‘77? I remember him walking out there, and just the way in which he sang to the crowd, it was as if he were flying.”
“What happened to the band?”
“They got a female singer, actually. I guess your dad got distracted. They replaced him with some pretty redhead. She had a nice voice, too, but it wasn’t the same.” Harlan then remembers where exactly he’s sitting, and he shakes his head as his recollection turns to disgust.
“Don’t ever smoke, Alex. Just don’t do it.”
“I don’t plan to.” Alex assures him. The smell of sweetly vile smoke is a lingering constant on Alex’s life.
“Can I hear that song, then?” Harlan asks, pointing to the music player.
“Sure.” Alex snatches the buds from where they dangle, and hands them to his grandfather.
Harlan carefully places the buds in his ears.
“It feels like I’m contacting the mothership, kid. How do you put up with this?”
“You get used to it.” Alex taps the play button.
Harlan hears the chimes of the piano first. No matter how old he gets, no matter how far he journeys from home, Harlan holds onto the music of the world. His son and grandson inherited the need for sound. Harlan closes his eyes, as the soaring voice of Pat Monahan reaches his ears. He’s no longer in a waiting room, but in a chapel.
Harlan’s foot taps to the beat, independent and subconsciously powered. Cynthia looks over to them, a knowing expression on her face. Her husband, the traditionalist, the lover of classic cars and mechanics, is lost in some world stemming from the palm of her grandson. Alex keeps his focus on the mp3 player, the conductor of the magic. The song speaks of a woman’s journey around Jupiter.
Alex knows his father lives in his favorite songs.
One day, Alex had asked his father about his favorite musical bands; the two sat together for around three hours, discussing music, with Alex’s downloading service open on the computer. Alex bought the songs his father loved, “Jupiter” included, and Alex produced a small CD for his father. The CD is a constant fixture in Michael’s car. Their connection transcends whatever galaxy, whatever asteroid belt, whatever distance separates them. Harlan is sitting right in the middle of it, with his ears clogged, eyes closed, and his heart full.
The two of them barely hear the doors open from a distant world, with a visitor walking into where Cynthia, Harlan, Alex, and Lauren sit waiting, an astronaut walking on the moon.
The surgery is over.
6
September 13, 2009
Alex has attended the Bowersville School District since 1st grade. The local community of Bowersville consists of approximately 100 square miles, but only 150 students constitute a graduating class. At Bowersville, bonds between students form from early ages and often strengthen over the course of time. Alex can open up one of his middle school yearbooks and honestly say he ‘knows’ nearly everyone on the pages. Alex considers his friends sacred, because even when his family falters, his friends remain constant.
Alex gets on the bus at the end of the day feeling familiarly tired. One of his best friends lives down the street, but rides a different route. Neighbors live next door to one another, but with more breathing room than the compression of a suburb. The high school kids are anomalies. He’s read about them in the wildlife journals of gossip, observed them in their natural habitats, but only recently has encountered them face to face. They sit in the back of a bus in a cloister.
Alex is confident he will do fine in high school. Most of the time, he listens to his music and keeps his business to himself. His father warns him about the high schoolers, too—they do things that are frowned upon in the McGregor household, most often recounted to Alex as his father lights up a cigarette.
Alex stations himself near the middle of the bus, listening to his music, gazing out the window. Perhaps he will lose some of his excess weight, and become a social butterfly. Maybe his parents will fix their marital issues. Perhaps he’ll fail, and the entire world on his shoulders will crash down like a space-bound submarine falling back to earth.
“Alex!”
Alex pretends not to hear. He knows, from his clinical observations, which freshman is attempting to seize his attention. The scientifically named Kenny Locke should only be engaged if one wishes to experience a more interesting bus ride than simple songs.
“Alex McGrugger!”
Alex laughs, and his bubble is shattered. Kenny is a connoisseur of inappropriateness, and the textbook example of his father’s misplaced fear, in a convenient package of medium build. His hair is lengthier than Alex’s, housed neatly under a green skater’s cap.
“I know you can hear me, dammit! Take your earphones out and talk to me!”
The
