The night the Rhymer went whack

9

He wore a corduroy smoking jacket with offsetting velvet patches, an ascot, designer britches and matching fingernail polish. His shoes also matched the velvet, his belt and the ascot.

The barber was the man who met them at the warehouse and the man who ran things and saw to it that music, books, poetry and art would forever be alive. He was expecting Dashet but Sharissa was a pleasant surprise as he was delighted to meet her and her flute. “Ahhhhhh, a simple canvas high school flute case. Black, just like the one I had. Look,” he continued, inspecting it further, “a pocket on the inside to hold the silds, swab and rod. You can only imagine what I used to put in there.” He smirked. “A delight,” he concluded as he still had his total focus on the case. He stroked it like a cat, eyes closed, in a world all to himself as it must’ve brought back fond memories. “A pure delight,” he echoed, as he held it to his chest.

“Straffe, I’d like you to meet—” Dashet interjected, but was quickly interrupted and left standing alone as something caught Sharissa’s eye.

Mesmerized, she was drawn to an instrument that she had only dreamed about. Her music teacher had spoken of its greatness but she’d only seen it in pictures. Thought to be extinct, here it was, glistening silver, keys polished, setting on brass hooks and backdropped against a mahogany wall. She stood staring not daring to touch but Straffe marveled at her curiosity and invited her to continue. “Go on, let me hear you play,” he encouraged, as he strolled next to her.

“Sharissa,” Dashet finished as he joined them, placing his hand on Straffe’s shoulder. She extended towards the alto flute, caressing its long-ness like a newborn baby. Settling into position, Straffe handed her a piece of silk as she wiped the mouthpiece before placing it between her lips. Cinq Miniatures soon filled the air, immediately provoking a single clap of enthusiasm from Straffe as he kept his hands pressed together shaking them with delight. As she continued to play, he strode around the suite, quickly gathering everyone to come and revel in the magnificent sound filling his soul. All unbeknownst to Sharissa as she played, eyes closed and still facing the wall. She had gathered a crowd, a crowd of musicians, artists, sculptors, painters and singers. A crowd that knew music, knew its depth, purpose and structure, and they were pleased.

Art inspired art and they all fed off of each other’s talents. They’d paint to the tunes that were airborne, joining in and jamming when a familiar song floated through the building. They’d construct together, stroke for note, bonding, needing to release their inner spirit in this troubled world, but this rookie performance was special, so they just sat, listened and learned. And Straffe loved every moment. Post crescendo, a tear escaped Sharissa’s eyes as she turned and faced a crowd of love and togetherness.

Only fifteen and with both parents and friends most likely frantically searching for her, at that moment, amazingly, their worries weren’t Sharissa’s primary focus. Could this euphoria of adulation be her new home, new family and friends?

She again wiped the mouthpiece and also the flute and just as methodically as she retrieved it, placed it back upon the brass hooks that displayed it on the wall. And after receiving a couple of bravos, some claps and high fives, everyone quickly dispersed back to their own creations. “What is this place?” she said, watching the crowd retreat as Straffe decided to show her around.

“Maybe you should call your folks,” he instructed, with an understanding of where her mindset should be. She had thought about it as she and Dashet trekked to this utopia because she knew the second she would be late her parents would begin to worry more each moment that time wore on. She knew that her friends would tell them the last place they had seen her and they would all venture to that very corner where she met and played with Dashet, but she also knew how unsafe that would be. Yet, she still didn’t want to call as Straffe handed her a phone. She shook her head no, knowing that once he placed the phone back down, her past would be her family and as she looked toward Dashet she saw where she hoped her future lay.

So Straffe, with his compound built for talented strangers, stragglers, orphans and miscreants, led her to her interest then proceeded to play host in his creation. “Are you here to stay,” Dashet questioned, halting his strumming as she approached. Even his question was lyrically in tune as he fiddled with the strings.

“Yes,” she affirmed, producing a huge smile from Dashet, solidifying her bold decision.

They sat together, trying various instruments, eating and learning as she soon discovered that if Straffe was the king of the compound, surely Dashet was the prince with the constant interruptions to assist with a pitch correction or to perfect a key that wasn’t sounding right. Or to have his portrait painted, for he was strikingly handsome and she was honored to be the focus of his attention.