The night the Rhymer went whack

20

Language is sound and actually the most dishonest form of communication, unless you can decipher its pitch and tone.

Words still evaded Nick. Homeschooled by his mom and small for his age, he still mostly just sat at his comforting window. Every day, every hour and every minute, mimicking more sounds more precisely. A car honk, perfectly, any make, any model and at any distance. Animal sounds too, so accurately that he could confuse and summon any of those creatures to his window. He could likewise quiet all barks at night. He also mastered all the musical instruments that littered their condo. Some acquired by his mom through her love of music, but many others gifted to the boy wonder of sound.

He’d compose to the streets, incorporating the sounds of the outside with which ever instrument he was playing that day. Woodwinds, he learned, were perfect with the sunrise, in tune with the birds and the early morning feel the daybreak would bring. Saxophones and cellos at night. Noon time, he preferred the drums, something about the height of the sun, but not at night for the percussions made light of the severity of the darkness and crime; he didn’t like the feel of that.

The afternoons had no rhyme or reason, so he used that time to practice and play without any structure. As for the night, it needed to be balanced with precision as well as respect, in honor of the many souls that wouldn’t survive into the next morn.

To Nick, the voice itself was just another instrument. He’d get his mom to sing or play some opera, preferably South African acapella and rhythmically align it to the streets. He’d test marriages of tunes like a Mercedes honk with Pavarotti or James Brown with a cat fight. The sounds were endless and it would take him days or even months to perfect a single experiment. But when done, each creation was spectacular. Sounds most people never paid attention to were supplementing some of his greatest creations. He even trained his mom to listen. To listen more astutely, for that was the skill needed to really appreciate the rhythm of musical sounds. She learned what she could, harking back to her days with Dashet, and admired how her son, day in and day out, refined his skill of listening and mimicking and creating.