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The wind was icy and sharp on January 12th. Thomas had been walking for blocks and was unable to hold in the warmth of his small body with his cold arms any longer. He ducked into an alley that was just a degree milder. He saw a box and quickly flattened it out to use as a seat. He scrunched down and stared at the dark brick wall opposite him. His teeth chattered as the wind rushing by on the street hit that wall and spun around in a quick spiral towards him. Looking to the right, Thomas saw that the street was empty. He never thought he’d see a downtown street in New York City deserted like that, even at the premature hour of three o’clock in the morning. In the other direction, down the alley, there was nothing. It simply ended with a small metallic door in a dead end. Above were old rusted black fire escapes and beyond that a sliver of the night sky. Distributed among the blackness were little points of starlight which were very clear in the wintry atmosphere, unusual for New York. Thomas hesitated on the celestial beauty, thinking of his favourite author. He remembered reading in an English course a fitting quote by that author, Oscar Wilde: "We’re all lying in the gutter, but some of us are gazing at the stars." However, this was only a flash in the frigid boy’s mind as the immediate physical world drew his eyes closed and pushed up against the fabric of his sleeves to keep them from getting frostbitten.
As his body went numb, his mind became less rigid in thought and memories began floating past his consciousness, quickening in pace till his head was spinning with them. Music he’d written or played or listened to mixed together in some fantastic symphony of internal sound. The loudest notes were those of the electric bass. That was his instrument. He was an incredible bass player, capable of intensifying the deep sounds into a string of fervent tones that could easily stand alone. He never tried to do solos though. Thomas knew that the bass, like its name, was the foundation of the song. It needed to support and give meaning to all the giddy wanderings of the other sounds in the group. He could identify with the drums though. His thoughts shifted over to his mother. He’d never known her properly because she had died when he was two. The images of her few photos were always trapped in his mind, just like she was in the photos. He’d often gaze at the pictures wishing she were in his world instead of in that world of gardens, marriage, relatives, and lakes. Thomas didn’t know why such a lovely woman had married someone like his father. The insults and threats pounded on Thomas’s brain like fists. "Thomas, you’re not my son, you’re too much of a wimp." "Boy, if that mug of yours got any uglier, I’d have to send you to the pound!" "You’ll never be anything but a gravestone." And that was when he was in a good-spirited mood. After his father had been drinking, the words would solidify into pure hatred. His father, named Frederick after his great grandfather, was a wreck of a man. He had emigrated from Ireland and met Thomas’ mother, Claire, in Detroit. They had fallen in love and married, but after Claire’s sudden death Frederick became a heavy drinker. The welfare checks could hardly support him and his two boys. Fits of depression racked his soul every time he remembered Claire, which was every day. The only solution was to forget, and the only way to forget was alcohol. However, Thomas had caught his father unawares a few times. Fred would be sitting absolutely still in his frayed brown armchair drinking Guinness, his favourite, with the afternoon sun filtering onto his body through the gauzy curtains and dust in the room. Thomas would stand silently at the doorway with a look of angelic acceptance on his countenance. His father often began singing at these times, and it was always the same sad song he must have learnt back in Ireland. There were only a few words sung very sweetly, it went something like "Jesus’ blood never failed me yet, never failed me yet, ‘tis my fate I know, though he loved me so." Thomas thought his father had a nice voice when he sang that song. It was through these small discoveries that Thomas learned to love his father because Frederick never made it an automatic love, it had to be cultivated. Thomas envied his older brother, William, who had moved out of their rundown house in Roseville, Michigan to Flint to work in a car factory. Working in a factory was the last thing Thomas could ever see himself doing, but at least William was through living in the family’s dusty house with their broken father. He had escaped.
Then there was the band. His best friend Lee had been the lead vocals and guitar. Lee never quite understood Thomas, no one really did. Staring at Thomas, Lee would say, "Thomas, you’re making the song sound depressing with that chord. The lyrics are about going on a road trip, not dying. Okay?" Thomas would look at the ground and slowly raise his eyes to meet Lee’s, with eyelids half closed. "Alright, Lee. I think I know what you’re looking for." Then he would play it perfectly. "Now why didn’t you just play that before, Thom, it sounds so much better." Thomas didn’t think so, but it didn’t matter, it wasn’t his song. After practice, Thomas would carefully pack up his bass and carry it home on his back. The local girls always watched him when he went by. To them, he was dark and mysterious. His face was just like the male models in their teen magazines, except his had an irresistible edginess about it. Some days, he’d glance over at them. These were the moments they cherished. His deep black eyes were like liquid and, in the girls’ estimation, they were the most beautiful eyes they’d ever seen. The girls would stare at him till he was out of sight, his gliding, secretive gait like a ghost in their mind’s eye. Thomas had no clue about any of these goings-on, though. He never thought of himself the way the girls did. He hardly knew they existed. If he had, the last thing he would imagine is that they were all in rapture of him. He felt very dull and uninspired to himself; not someone that people would like to get to know, so he didn't let anyone. He never tried to befriend others. Lee was just an accident. They had become friends at a concert two years before. Lee was in the mosh pit being as energetic as ever, jumping the highest and screaming the loudest. A large man was getting fed up with Lee and rudely pushed him. It was probably a harder push than the man had intended because Lee went flying to the outskirts of the crowd and landed on the side of his head, cutting his earlobe on a piece of broken glass. Thomas had been concentrating on the music while standing completely alone. He was the only one to notice Lee’s dive into the sun dried grass. Thomas walked over and knelt down to help Lee who was dizzy and in quite a bit of pain. The large man was nodding to the music, oblivious to the result of his callous action. Lee was the most affable person Thomas had ever met and it didn’t take much for Lee to coax him into a friendship. As it turned out, the two lived in the same neighbourhood, so when Lee told Thomas that he wanted him in a garage band Thomas accepted out of friendship and curiosity. Now Thomas was starting to evolve rapidly as a musician. The band was good, but Thomas played at a naturally high level that his band mates would probably never reach. He began to feel the need to escape everything, like his brother before him. Not only the band and the house and his father, but his life. Thomas wanted a different life and decided that he had no choice but to take the risks that scared him to the core.
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Karis
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Comments
Beaituful ( Applause) Ogemdi Ike | Jun 11th, 2002
Hey, Karis, This just isnt fair. Lets hear the end of the story...!
hahahaha Karis | Jun 11th, 2002
you people!
*shakes head*
you make it up...otherwise I'll have to write a whole NOVEL!
I agree with qnp Jennifer Hall | Jul 10th, 2002
You are a good writer! I really, really, want to hear the end!! Write the novel, Karis!
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