The night the Rhymer went whack

13

Nick was growing into a young teen, his personality beginning to shape and Sharissa began to realize that her days of sheltering her child were fewer than she liked.

Another day, she thought as she opened her eyes, feeling as if the memories of her mate were just a dream. She looked around at the soundproofing and snickered at how much influence he had on her and their son. Her life was now dedicated to their child and she still wondered why she had him every time she heard gunshots, explosions, screams and yelps.

She tried to see Dashet’s features in him, but she couldn’t. She wanted to see Dashet every time she glanced in his eyes but she only saw a little of herself and that saddened her. He still had very little hair. She could tell that it won’t be thick and bushy like his dad’s and his eyes weren’t as dark and lustrous. She often stared at him while he slept and that was when she most contemplated, trying to piece together his existence. But then he would wake, giving her pure joy from his smile and his scientist-like take on the world.

Nick’s routine had stayed consistent these past few years, and, though still small for his age, he was now able to do most of his idiosyncrasies himself. He fixed his own breakfast and opened and closed the window at his own desire. He still didn’t speak. He just gestured to reveal exactly what he wanted. He would shake the cereal box when it was near empty or on rare occasions, round his cheeks and steadily blow, signaling he’d like to go outside and feel a cool breeze.

Sharissa had learned to trust his rare desire to venture out, relying on his acute sense of danger. He’d mapped out the peacefulness of his surroundings to the point of solidifying their safety whenever the need to risk stepping outdoors arose.

They had gotten a pet a few months back. A stray dog. A young mongrel Nick had squealed for when he noticed it, wounded, just outside their building. Pointing and gesturing to hug it, Sharissa quickly ran downstairs and retrieved the battered mutt. His right hind leg was twisted and bloodied and she cursed her son for wanting this extra burden, but just a few weeks later she was able to mend him to good health and soon he was as good as new.

Rambunctious, he and Nick quickly became inseparable, forming a welcomed surprise. They’d eat together, bathe together, sleep together, and most importantly, sit at the window together. Rascal loved sound just as much as his master. Nick loved watching his ears attentively perk up at sounds only dogs could hear, and, with Rascal’s help, Nick began honing his listening skills as well, tilting his head just like Rascal’s, searching for those high-pitched sounds.

He taught Rascal tricks in reaction to specific noises. He’d sit after two baritone bangs and jump after three high pitched metal clinks. Nick soon was able to mimic all of Rascal’s barks, whimpers and squeals perfectly, communicating with his new pet continuously. Then Nick learned something else.

He could influence Rascal’s moods with beats. He discovered that if he walked, banged or initiated any kind of rhythm below one hundred beats per minute Rascal would get agitated. He’d play Queen’s Fat Bottomed Girls as Rascal waited for his food and this frustrated him. Or Nick would stall at providing some playful interaction and the pace didn’t seem fast enough and his annoyance would be evident through excessive growling and barking. He’d then bite on Nick’s pants leg and tug him, shaking his head with vexation.

But contrarily, when Nick increased those beats-per-minute to over one hundred and twenty with any disco record, Rascal was playful and energetic, cheerful and never tiring. For hours he could play, demanding attention, jumping and frolicking as long as the tempo stayed upbeat. The discovery secured a realization within Nick that this was how the world operated.

Crime peaked in slow periods like the early mornings and night times when folks were few and the world spun slow, but during hustle hour, the fastness brought joy to the abundant. Safety in numbers maybe or the upbeat of existence, but whatever the case, jovialness prevailed. And unbeknownst to his mom, Nick began practicing this skill on her as well. She’d wake up to some upbeat Bee Gees and have a dancing good day or he’d produce a methodical drum beat at the break of dawn and she’d have no idea why she was sluggish and negative as the day wore on, frustrated at one thing or another.

Satisfied with the successes of his experiments, Nick thought of testing his powers on the outside world, but how, he thought. With Rascal by his side, he sat and contemplated out the window.