The night the Rhymer went whack

7

The band was playing “Old Black Betty” by Ram Jam when they arrived.

She liked what she heard; she liked what she saw. Tall and handsome with a dusky complexion, deep brown eyes hanging from thick eyebrows and the only thing that tore her away from his splendor was the deftness he displayed on those strings. With a blur, he carried every tune with ease and grace. Used to women staring at him, he was surprisingly pleased to notice this young girl paying attention to his skills; her eyes darting back and forth, watching each of his hands as he strummed his guitar. His fingers actually. She seemed to be capturing each stroke and note perfectly, studying his movements and timing.

He liked that. He smiled while seizing on her flute case and figuring that that would be his opportunity to approach this young beauty with her light brown hair secured in a purple headband that matched her scarf, belt and socks. Her old, soulful eyes contrasted her naïve smile and both complimenting her olive skin. Come, he motioned, then pointed toward her case before mimicking playing the flute. “Play,” he mouthed over the song his bandmates were playing, producing giggles from her girlfriends as she looked from side to side, shocked that he was summoning her.

With much encouragement, she jumped on stage and joined him as he watched her deftly open her case, lick her lips and settle confidently into the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. And sight too. And she played. Nervously at first but he altered the tempo to a pace that benefitted her style and she quickly matured into the groove nicely.

Jethro Tull, Coltrane, Mauro Giuliani, some folk, some new age and classical were just a few of the sounds that survived the destruction. Music, actually, was the only real unifying force that eased the ills of the world. It soothed the dying and decrepit. Even a killer would pause before striking if a familiar tune was heard in the air. Same for a rapist or a robber, because that note or lyric would trigger a memory of a time and place where pain and suffering was minimal. So the audience grew as Dashet and Sharissa concerted their efforts to relieve, even if just for a moment, the stress and strife of the new normal.

But they weren’t just playing for the crowd, their duet became a sense of foreplay orchestrated with a beginning, middle and climatic end. The latter being the kiss they shared, exhausted, as they dropped their instruments to a thunderous applause. “I know a safe place,” Dashet instructed, as they both knew that once the music stopped the crimes would resume.

He had planned, along with the band, to go to a nearby abandoned warehouse that was protected by barbed wire and seemingly stray dogs. But those dogs weren’t strays, they were trained protectors of a safe haven for musicians, artists, designers and writers. People of this ilk came and went, but no killers or rapists or thieves. The dogs could sense these ill perpetrators and their unfriendly desires. Dozens patrolled in the inside and many more on the outskirts. “Let’s just get to the dogs,” Dashet said, as he grabbed her hand and hurried along.

First trotting and now running, she blurted out, “I’m Sharissa,” as they maneuvered through an alley and across an open field. He turned and gave her a half-hearted smile while mostly continuing to concentrate on their safety.

He hated darkness, which was where terror could hide behind any curve or any corner, and it was quickly descending. Only a few blocks more but he withdrew his shuriken just in case. Sharissa kept pace quietly and trustingly. She too was afraid of what the night brought, heightened now by not knowing her surroundings. She listened to the gunshots in the distance and the sirens and screams that their playing had interrupted and thought of her friends she was now separated from.

Those thoughts and sounds were soon eased as Dashet’s strong grip balanced her anxieties as he seemed assured on her protection. A bark stopped him dead in his tracks. He then paused and strained to follow whence it came. Ear lifted, he located it and guided them toward sanctuary. One last dash through a darkened alley led them to safety as the hound, happy to see him, trotted in for some hugs and kisses. They now walked, at ease, as their guide, jumping and licking, happily led them to safety.