The night the Rhymer went whack

35

When you’re deprived of music—the art of rhythmic cacophony—you somehow create your own. Your soul has to have cadence.

“I had to be, oh, about ten maybe twelve when I left the south,” The Soundman relayed to Straffe as they were seated in the park. He paused before continuing, catching the shrieks of the birds, the chittering of the squirrels and the babble of the other people seated nearby. He chuckled, thinking back to that day. “It’s funny ’cause even then I just remember, listening. Listening to who’s nice and who’s not and who can help me get to Philly. I didn’t even know how long it would take or even if Philly was a real place. I just remember one day hearing some man yelling and saying he ‘ain’t gonna put up with it no mo. I’m going’ to Philly if it’s the last thing I do!’ So I figured I need to get to Philly too, so I snuck home, made sure my sister weren’t around, put on my best pants, shirt and tie and headed downtown to the bus station and waited. I waited for what seemed like half a day, just standing there.”

The Soundman tossed some bread crumbs toward some pigeons nearby. “And I just remember someone grabbing me. ‘Come on boy, this way!’ they were shouting, but I felt safe and they kept on yelling and telling me what to do and where to go. ‘Duck ya head! Keep quiet! Shhhh,’ they kept saying over and over and I did it. Whatever they told me, I listened.”

Straffe gasped. “That’s insane. You had no idea who was taking you or where they were taking you to. You weren’t scared!?”

“Uh-uh.” The Soundman shook his head. “Like I said, by then, I knew bad from good by just listening. I couldn’t explain it, it was just what I knew. I still can’t see but I know if you smiling, if you sad, angry and what not.” Then The Soundman reached into his pocket and took out a tiny object. It looked like a circular pill box, but the separate compartments weren’t lids, they looked like piano keys. Made of wood, although some keys were highly shined to look either ceramic or marble, or maybe even plastic. You could distinguish a few different colors although it looked worn and well-traveled. He continued his story.

“Then I remember we boarded a bus and just like that, all that yelling and all that tension was left right there at the door. It was left right wherever we was as soon as we stepped on to that bus. There was this calm relief,” he smiled, reminiscing before making a strange clucking sound then two hawks immediately swooped and sat at his feet. He tossed them some meat he had wrapped in a handkerchief. “I recall smelling some pig, some collard greens, some goat cheese . . . when someone stuck a plate right under my nose. ‘Here boy, eat,’ they said, and boy did! I NEVER had anything like that before in my life. Till this day, best tastin’ food I ever had!”

Straffe beamed bright at the joy in his friend’s heart.

“Then I heard this sound, a note, a low drumming, a string, I found out later, from a guitar. Then a thump—now I had never heard any music before. Remember, it was just me and my sister in that one room and some woods. She never hummed or sang to me. And the begging we did wasn’t in no big time city, just the neighbors, so that joy I heard on that bus, wooo-weee!” he exclaimed as he clapped his hands. “But to be honest, it reminded me of the woods. I’d hear the birds singing, the growl of a gator or a bear, a woodpecker, and for some reason, it sounded just like that. I felt comfortable, like I did back home in the woods. At first, it was just a collection of sounds and I know they were on beat, but it took me a few minutes to find the harmony, and like the woods, when I did, I was as home as I ever was.”

He refocused his demeanor, becoming a little more serious with his recollections now fresh on his mind. It’d been a while since he’s thought of his story and it humbled him. “Home with the universe,” he concluded, as Straffe nodded in agreement. “And this thing here. This”—he fiddled with his gadget and twirled it in his hands—“every pitch, every sound, every note I ever heard, right here. Right here in the palm of my hand. My childhood, my joys, my memories, right here,” he exclaimed, holding the instrument with care.

Straffe didn’t dare to ask to hold it, he too just sat there and continued to be in awe at The Soundman’s emotions. Then he watched as he turned his head toward the sky and removed his sunglasses. “This world, this world needs a new beginning. A new life, a new sound. All I hear now is this quickness, high pitch, out of tune, off beat-ness. It’s not right, it’s not natural. My booth is just a quick reprieve, but we need something bigger.” Then he put back on his shades and focused on Straffe. “See, you on beat,” he reassured, caressing his instrument. “You on beat.”