Below is the second of four images, to see the first check out last weeks post...
The Young Man knocks once.
After a moment a man opens the door, as soon as he lays eyes on the Young Man he takes a calculated step backward.
“How are you old friend?” The Young Man’s voice is utter calm, his smile whips up again, the Old Friend settles and returns a bubbling grin.
“I’d wondered when you’d come back around.”
Their charmed looks continue in a silence; a gust rattles the wood over top, the bare trees sway, their branches splinter and shiver and shake, the hangar rings and winds at their command, there is the sound of pebbles tumbling down the brush to the cul-de-sac, pooling every hour.
“May I come in?”
The Young Man clutches himself, the wandering in his face becomes apparent, he keels slightly, looks up smiling again, plainly.
“Of course you may.”
They enter at corner of the room, one entirely of bare wood with musical instruments tangled along the walls. The Old Friend goes over the other corner of the room and takes a seat at a slick upright piano beside the bed. The Young Man looks about, most curiously at an upright bass, before taking a seat on the bench by the door. He fingers the small acoustic guitar that is leaning on the bench, the strings are loose and clang as he pulls it onto his lap.
The Old Friend slowly opens the rounded cover to the piano, he watches as his face runs warmly into a jagged capacitance, fingers glide quickly across the keys, then a slow bluesy rhythm, chords corralled and stammering in a blind fuss. He looks over at the Young Man feeling out his instrument while pondering the possibilities in a chorus or verse--two notes, four chords, a rest, then a movement into shapes of silence.
The Young Man hiccups his mitts against the frets, they displace the tension in a phantasmal silence, he strums and it ripples, the result is clumsy, like a carriage getting rolling.
Together they make their way downtown; a quaint, narrow way and its radiant colours. It is early on a weekday, and coming down, at the end of the thoroughfare are the pumpkin paste bricks of the cathedral fitting inveterately into a sky whose blue has become littered with the white of the clouds. There is no one around, the narrow street is empty yet the Young Man whispers
“You’ve so many beautiful instruments, and you play so well, surely you record?”
The Old Friend crosses the street, it begins to snow and he lies along the sidewalk in a patched quilt all alone. He becomes immediately drowsy and his eyes fall on the carriage, it is immobile and uncertainly occupied.
Before taking a rest, he mutters
“I have a few different things, I keep them out of sight... could be in the closet or under the bed, or behind one of the walls... something might be recording, or maybe not, but I listen back and there’s the song.”
Ty Jenkins Link Author