[ the baby ] [ things i did not tell you; things that are lies ] [ the music ] [ the furher ] [ love will tear us apart again: an extended metaphor of the physical manifestation of a broken heart, or a bloody requiem for the might have been ] [ white space ] [ how to disappear completely ] [ sorry ] [ bus stop ]quasi-fiction
[ the garbage train ] [ dissertation on the concept of forever starting tonight, explained in the second person, to an ex-lover, a best friend, and the man in the astor place subway station who asked me for a nickel (or a true story that is 43% lies and 0% plot) ] [ breakup vignettes ]
The Music
by Laura Podolnick
At the beginning of what Byron's old friends would later come to call "the thing with the music," Byron thought two things that were completely wrong: first, that it was pretty awesome, and second, that it‹the music itself--was coming from his across-the-hall neighbor's stereo. Both of these assumptions were reasonable at the time, and both of them, especially in combination, were quite characteristic of Byron. Many men would not think anything coming from a stereo across the hall could be great, but Byron was the type of guy to shrug and smile given nearly any circumstances. And so he spent the first hour with the music assuming it was neighbor noise. Pleasant neighbor noise, too, for which he was grateful. He lay in bed listening to it, and he thought, "I might choose to listen to this myself."
He even debated going across the hall, knocking on the door, and asking for the name of the band. He thought he recognized it at first‹lesser known Stones maybe? Nah, too sonically dense‹but then decided it was unlike anything he'd ever heard. Unlike anything he'd ever heard, and like everything he'd ever heard. Both at the same time. He lay in bed for awhile longer, absentmindedly tugging at a forelock of his dark-brown hair, which had grown longer than ideal, thinking about it, weighing the pros and cons, and eventually decided against knocking on the neighbor's door. He could ask him some other time, he thought. Not worth the trip across the hall. Especially on a Sunday morning. Especially this Kevin guy. Kevin lived right across the hall, in the only other apartment on the floor, but had never spoken a word to Byron. Barely even nodded or smiled that tight-lipped stranger smile, even on the day Byron moved in two weeks ago. Byron was prepared for it‹everyone back home had warned him that New York City was like this‹but he couldn't help but feel a little snubbed.
To his credit, Byron did find it strange that the music lasted all day. He heard it while he showered, while he ate breakfast, while he read the Times, while he meditated, while he balanced his checkbook, while he checked his email, while he talked on the phone to his friend Lena, while he ate dinner, while he washed the dishes, and while he sewed a button onto his nice green work shirt as the sun went down. By this point, Byron no longer found the music to be pretty awesome. And he knew he was an easygoing guy, but he was starting to find the music pretty annoying, and his neighbor pretty inconsiderate.
He, again, debated a trip across the hall and ultimately decided against it.
He tried instead to drown out the music with a DVD of Sex and the City. It was the only DVD he had in the apartment. Most of his things were still in storage back in Louisiana. The Sex and the City DVD didn't even belong to him. It was an ex-girlfriend's. Stephanie's. He kept it less for sentimental or entertainment value than for the simple reason that he was not so good at throwing things away.
Strangely, the music seemed to get louder as soon as the show began to play. Byron turned up the volume, and the music went up as well. He let the DVD play and the music remained at the louder volume. He cocked his head and thought and then turned off the TV. The music reverted to its original level.
It was then‹eight-thirty-two pm on that first Sunday‹that Byron first realized that the music was probably not coming from across the hall. Kevin, though unfriendly, was neither that passive-aggressive nor, well, quick. No one was that quick. The volume increases were exactly simultaneous with any volume increases of Byron's own doing. Byron experimented with turning on other sounds. Other music if varying genre, the vacuum cleaner, a few chords on his guitar, and finally, his own scream.
"AAAAAH!" he yelled. The music became deafening. A smash of drumbeats and a twirly bassline and some horns. Byron yelled again, and a distorted guitar was added to the mix. He had a hunch, and he was going to prove it by walking around the block. He grabbed his keys from the nail by the door and stormed out of the apartment, bypassing the elevator, running down all five flights of stairs, running onto the sidewalk, running down east 22nd street, past second avenue, past first avenue, towards the water. And the music did not change volume. It did not change tempo. It did not go away. It did not change at all. It was just as loud under the FDR, by the East River, as it was in hiswell-insulated one-bedroom. The volume was not really changing after all. It remained constant in the percentage of Byron's perception it demanded.
This is when Byron realized that the music was not coming from anywhere at all. He knew the band‹was it a band? The orchestra? The ensemble? The what?‹was inside of him. That it was not part of the rest of the world. No, this music could not be external. That was impossible. This music was all him. He tried to pay attention to it for the first time since that morning. The sound was rich and thick, aural porridge. Chocolatey brown and full. Big. Not bright. Not dark, either. He was unable to really define it, except to think that it sounded like every instrument playing at once, mostly in harmony, with varying speed and the occasional solo. No voice. He looked down and noticed for the first time that his torso was moving with the heavy beat. Thump, thump. He was fairly sure he was not making this up. He hoped it would go away as he fell asleep, and that it wasn't a sign that he was schizophrenic or having a stroke.
Monday morning came, and the music remained. Sleep was something of a respite. Byron couldn't remember not hearing it in his dreams, but he couldn't say for certain he did hear it either. That was better than being all too sure that it was there.
Work was hard. Work was always hard. Now it was especially hard because he was starting to have trouble hearing people speak. The music was not so loud as to drown out voices, but it was very distracting, and Byron was already distractible by nature. A large part of his job was negociating the sale of bonds by telephone, and he could barely understand anything any counterparty said to him.
By noon, he had thought four times of asking his boss if he could go home sick. But he decided not to do it. Byron had only been working at Goldman Sachs for a week and a half. They were paying him enough that he would be able to be rid of his Harvard loans within the year. They paid for his entire move. He couldn't go home in the middle of the day already, especially for something this silly.
He was afraid the music was making him sick, though. "You ok, buddy?" the guy in the cube across the way asked him several times. Alex. His name was Alex. Short and stocky with that sweaty-red-face/yellow-blond-hair complexion. Easily confused with Alan, three cubes down, who was just a little taller and more muscular, but even redder and blonder. It was only his second week and already Byron felt as though he would never fit in with the rest of the guys. Everyone was so intense and uncomfortable-looking. Everyone sweated all the time, even when it was cold. Byron was slight and dark-haired and pale. He was not given to excessive perspiration and his eyes were large, hazel, and guileless. The eyes made him the kind of man who is prettier than he is handsome. He replied to Alex, each time, "Yeah, I'm cool, man" and he supposed he was, even if his face was starting to trend towards the color of the green shirt he was wearing. He could feel his skin becoming clammy.
Around 4, motivated by a wave of nausea inspired by the sound of incessant violin, piano, xylophone, and percussion solos over the constant backdrop of every instrument ever, Byron went into the men's room and stared himself down. Yup, greenish face. "DO. NOT. PUKE" he demanded of his reflection. Bagpipes, three trombones, a kettle drum, what else. He couldn't decide if it would be better or worse if it came in discernable songs. Or one small song repeating, even. Or if it were fewer instruments, or there were no discernable solos. Either way. He looked himself in the eyes. "NO." He didn't gag. "GOOD BOY BYRON." He hoped no one else was here to hear him talk to himself. He peeked under the stalls. No one. Good. He was going to be fine. He would just have to get used to it, that's all. He could go to the doctor in three months. That's when the health insurance would kick in. If it got worse, he promised himself, he'd go to the emergency room. For now, he'd go back to his work, and then go home, and then see what happened.
Byron first found himself singing along on Tuesday, while waiting for the 14th street crosstown. A girl stood beside him and looked at him as though she found him strange. She was very pretty, but a cold kind of pretty. All blondness and blueness and paleness. He always preferred honey-toned brunettes with goldish eyes and big, lippy smiles. So he didn't bother to try to explain or to placate. He just ignored her and kept singing along. But it was the first time he really thought about the fact that no one else could hear the music. How odd it must be, he thought. How odd it must be to not hear this when I can.
He called his mother on Tuesday night and told her about the music.
"What do you mean, music?" she asked. She sounded suspicious and scared, and it scared Byron.
"Just...music. You know, music."
"In your head."
"It's not that big of a deal."
"Not that big of a deal. Sounds like a big deal to me, Byron. I don't know, I just don't know. Can't you go see a doctor?"
"Ma, it's just like having a song run through your head."
"Is it? I don't know. It doesn't seem that way to me, it just doesn't sound like that the way you said it. I don't think you'd call me up and say, Ma, I've got a song in my head."
"Well, it's not really a song. It's just....music."
"Byron, I'm worried. You're worrying me. I've been worried, really worried, nonstop ever since you moved to that place, and now‹"
"Ma, it's the safest big city in the country."
"It's got you hearing music in your head."
"It's not fair to blame this on New York. It would have happened anywhere. It would have happened in Lafayette‹"
"But it didn't."
Byron sighed.
"It's that they're working you too hard. I know it. I knew this would happen. They work you till you're crazy. It happened to your father and it's going to happen to you."
"Dad never worked for Goldman and he never lived in New York." Byron's father drove a truck for thirty six years, until one day, five weeks prior to Byron's move, he drove his truck into a canal and drowned. Cargo that day was cartons and cartons of children's socks. Hundreds of thousands of little lace socks, in the bottom muck of a Louisiana swamp, never recovered.
"Same game, honey, same game."
"Well, what do you want me to do, Ma."
He could hear tears in her voice. "I want you to come home. I want you to get married to a nice girl, like that Stephanie‹"
"Mutually exclusive, Ma. Stephanie would not be happy in Lafayette, Louisiana." Stephanie was originally from Seattle and had remained in Boston after she and Byron graduated.
"What I want is for you to be happy, is all."
"I am happy."
"You're hearing things inside your head. That's not happy." She was crying.
"That has nothing to do with happy. You're the one who isn't happy. You're the one crying."
"I'm just worried about my only son! My only family! You're all I have‹" and her voice dissolved in tears. Her voice had the same timbre as the piccolo that was now playing most prominently in Byron's head.
"Ma, forget about it. It's really not a big deal. Don't worry about it. I've got to go."
"I love you."
"I love you, Ma." And he hung up.
That had only made it worse. A stream of tears ran down Byron's left cheek. Maybe she was right. Maybe he should go home. It was scary not knowing anyone in this entire city. No one except unfriendly Kevin across the hall and red-faced Alex and Alan at work. And his boss. Shaun Kogel. Byron sat on his bed and seriously considered buying a plane ticket home, if only for the weekend. Maybe his mother was onto something‹maybe the music did have to do with New York. Maybe going home could cure it.
But plane tickets for dates so soon would be so expensive. And what if the music didn't stop? Could his mother stand to be around him while he was in this state?
He decided not to go.
That night, sleep no longer offered a respite. Not only did Byron hear the music in his dreams, he dreamed about trying to make it stop. He dreamed that the music was actually physically inside of him, and that the only way to remove it was to surgically cut it out. In the dream, the emergency room, which was really more of a school cafeteria, and the nurses were lunch ladies, threw him out and called him a liar. But outside a homeless man‹who was his exgirlfriend Stephanie's father--offered him a knife, and winked. He was then immediately in a red room with four square mirrors, horizontally placed on one wall. He stared into the second from the right and began to cut open his torso with the knife. He made the vertically, and felt a keen sensation of it being a vagina. Too vulgar for his taste, but what is there to do: a dream. He winced in pain‹of course he could still feel pain‹but kept his eyes open the whole time. He had to see. What was in there. What was making the music. He had to see the band play. He pulled the slit wider and smiled as he saw something shaped vaguely like a tuba.
He awoke screaming, with the music loud enough to partially drown it out.
Wednesay. Hump day. He would have to make it through the week. His shirt was white. White for Wednesday. A day of double yous. A day of double mes, he thought, walking to the bus stop. Me-outside, who can do his work, hold it together, be a person, and me-inside, with this music.
Eleven-forty AM. Alex said, "Hey man, want to order in lunch from Europa?" Lunchtime already, Byron joked. Alex patted his stomach. "Got to feed this! Gotta eat, dude!" Hahaha. Laugh, Byron thought. Hahaha. This was a trombone-heavy day. French horns, too. Really shrill, oh god. Oh god.
One PM. Byron stepped outside with his phone. Tried to call his friend Lena. She was his best friend from high school. They grew up together. She would understand. She would know. She didn't answer her phone.
The music was getting louder on its own now. Every day, it was just a little more prominent. Now it was nearly impossible to negotiate any trades over the phone. Byron had emailed all his contacts and lied to them, telling them that he had lost his voice and that until further notice, all business had to be done via instant message and email. No one was thrilled with this development, especially Shaun Kogel, who called him in and wanted to know about the business with the email and instant message.
"What's this I hear about you losing your voice?" Byron could barely hear his boss's voice over the sudden and then repetitive crash of cymbals in his head.
"I did, this morning. Seriously, my throat is killing me." Byron managed to fake a hoarse voice.
"Oh," Shaun Kogel nodded. "Well, go home. Take a day. We can't have you getting sicker or getting all the other guys sick."
Byron walked home. He couldn't face the raising volume of the music that was sure to happen while a train pulled in, so the subway was out. And he felt weird on the bus‹too many people sitting near him, in broad daylight, not hearing the music but maybe, just maybe, suspecting that something was wrong with him. Unbearable.
Maybe it was time for the emergency room.
He didn't even know where one was. He didn't know where anything was. Two and a half weeks now and he didn't even know where to find a real grocery store. Freshdirect and Chinese delivery had kept him alive to this point. Byron clapped his hands to his head and looked up. He just didn't know where an emergency room was and he didn't know how to find out. The music was precluding thinking. He couldn't remember how to get home. He was starting to forget how to walk. DO NOT PANIC he thought, but the end of the word panic got lost in something that might have been a theramin.
He sat down on the sidewalk. "HELP!" he screamed. "SOMEBODY HELP! HELP ME! HELP!" he repeated it, over and over, and everyone just walked past him. He closed his eyes and held his knees to his chest and rocked back and forth, screaming, until he blacked out.
Byron woke up, a day later, in a dumpster. He had a black eye and his leg felt like it might be broken. He didn't remember anything past screaming on the sidewalk. But the music‹the music! The music was somehow, magically, serendipitously, really, truly, finally gone. Byron screamed, and screamed again, and crawled out of the dumpster, and screamed again, and walked home, and screamed again, and laughed, and screamed again: and there was just silence.