(no subject)
bob dylan plays at a nightclub outside of houston, texas, for one night only and there are limited tickets and the only show that doesn’t sell out right away is the show at one a.m.
The soft, sandpaper breathing of Sophie’s little sister lying next to her in bed helps Sophie to keep track of time. The exhales, easier to count, come every third tick of the glow in the dark second hand on her wristwatch, and Sophie figures in her head that after three thousand and six hundred exhales it must be midnight.
Sophie is fully dressed under the covers. She is wearing tight jeans that she’s only allowed to keep because they were hand-me-downs and a lacy red top she found in her mother’s bottom dresser drawer. No one noticed that she went to bed wearing eye makeup.
She slowly lets her body fall out of bed, sliding from the mattress to her feet, being careful not to tug the blankets. Sophie lands, as planned, on a floorboard that doesn’t creak and stands for a long moment, fully dressed, still for fear of moving.
She walks straight, barefoot, toe to heel, one in front of the other following the floorboard that doesn’t creak to the closet where she grabs a pair of black high heels, one size too big. She carries them in her left hand, and swings her purse onto her shoulder. The keys inside the bag jingle together; metal on metal like the silverware drawer. Sophie’s little sister tosses herself, flinging her delicate little arm up to punch the pillow and tossing her head harshly to the side. The breathing for a moment stops. Something like words rolls out like a groan from Sophie’s little sister’s mouth and Sophie stands, her heart racing, paralyzed.
For minutes, Sophie stands paralyzed.
Her eyes are still closed though and the gritty exhales begin again. Sophie makes her way on tiptoe, following all the floorboards in the old house that don’t creak, to the front door. The latch takes a full minute; she twists the lock so slowly, wincing when the deadbolt makes a thumping sound as it slides away from the doorframe. Sophie tugs open the heavy wooden door, and creeps out of the house still barefoot, backwards, easing it shut behind her.
A black Volvo is idling in the street two houses down from Sophie’s. As planned, the headlights are off and the driver’s silhouette is only barely visible. Sophie runs barefoot down the walk, swings open the car door, bumbles awkwardly into the car.
“Hey Soph, you good?”
Sophie nods, and slips on her shoes.
In the same house, fifteen minutes later and twenty feet down the hall, Sophie’s mother Lalis wakes up. Glancing at the clock, she realizes she must have fallen asleep. She slowly lets her body fall out of bed, sliding from the mattress to her feet, being careful not to tug the blankets and disturb her husband who thought they were too old for this sort of thing, her husband who didn’t notice that under the covers, Lalis was fully dressed.
The music is so loud it’s like a million sound waves crashing into your ears all at once. Like every sound sounding together. Like wind chimes in all the same key shaking in the biggest gust of wind to blow since forever. The music is like one giant melody made up of every melody anyone has ever sung.
The music is like whatever decade you’re living in. The music is like everyone everywhere listening to whatever they want and loving it. The music is the same to everyone but no one too. Like a million people who all love the same song at once.
The music is like a million voices in one crowd singing along, all voices hearing every one but their own. The music is like one clear and perfect pitch. Like three sounds at once coming from the same pair of lips.
The music is like the story of the moment it’s playing in and every moment it’s played in before. The music is just like Sunday morning in the kitchen with the waffle maker. The music is like the back yard as sound slowly reaches the side of the house floating from dad’s shed in the backyard.
The music is like the humming of your blood as you sneak out of the house in the middle of the night.
The music is like the day during the summer before Sophie turned twelve when Lalis put four broken beach chairs, four towels with Disney characters on them, and a cooler with four of everything inside and drove the kids and herself to the beach. They drove slowly all the way, and Sophie got to sit up front because she was the oldest, which was usually a drag but worth it for moments like this. They drove slowly with the windows open and the kids giggled and bickered the whole time in the back but Lalis didn’t care she just hummed along with the music and whispered every word to Mr. Tambourine Man in a soft voice.
Like that day, when Lalis rubbed sunscreen into Sophie’s back, mixing white cream with sand and broken shells. The music bumped away from the car parked with the trunk sticking out towards the ocean, sending sound into the salty summer air. And they built a whole kingdom of sand castles and let their fingers wrinkle in the salty Gulf and drank lemonade right from the thermos. The music hung there all the while in the sticky heat and everyone who walked by smiled as they hummed along.
In the waning applause before the encore, Sophie leaves her boyfriend clapping at an empty stage and goes to the bar. She looks old enough to buy a drink, or at least old enough to be offered to be bought one, but instead she pulls two crumpled dollar bills from the back pocket of her to tight jeans and asks the woman behind the bar for a coke. The woman fills up a plastic glass while Sophie waits, staring at her hands, at the scratches in the gummed up wood of the bar, at the glow in the dark second hand of her watch ticking. Her little sister, asleep in her bed is exhaling sandpaper breaths.
As Sophie turns away from the bar with her glass with two little red cocktail straws sticking out of it, she faces her mother. Lalis is beautiful like Sophie is beautiful: even when they aren’t smiling. Sophie’s mother glances down at the drink in her hands, and out of reflex, Sophie shakes her head as if to deny the accusations inevitably coming her way. But instead of Sophie getting scolded, instead of Lalis demanding Sophie hand the drink over right this instant, instead of Lalis being so disappointed in her oldest daughter for sneaking out, breaking curfew, putting her life in danger, what happens next is the crowd applauds and screams. They turn their heads to the stage, and Bob Dylan is back, sitting hunched on a wooden stool with his guitar. He’s playing the opening chords of Blowin’ in the Wind.
And the music, the music is like the air pressing against the air, like mothers and daughters in the stale dim darkness of a club outside of Houston.
The soft, sandpaper breathing of Sophie’s little sister lying next to her in bed helps Sophie to keep track of time. The exhales, easier to count, come every third tick of the glow in the dark second hand on her wristwatch, and Sophie figures in her head that after three thousand and six hundred exhales it must be midnight.
Sophie is fully dressed under the covers. She is wearing tight jeans that she’s only allowed to keep because they were hand-me-downs and a lacy red top she found in her mother’s bottom dresser drawer. No one noticed that she went to bed wearing eye makeup.
She slowly lets her body fall out of bed, sliding from the mattress to her feet, being careful not to tug the blankets. Sophie lands, as planned, on a floorboard that doesn’t creak and stands for a long moment, fully dressed, still for fear of moving.
She walks straight, barefoot, toe to heel, one in front of the other following the floorboard that doesn’t creak to the closet where she grabs a pair of black high heels, one size too big. She carries them in her left hand, and swings her purse onto her shoulder. The keys inside the bag jingle together; metal on metal like the silverware drawer. Sophie’s little sister tosses herself, flinging her delicate little arm up to punch the pillow and tossing her head harshly to the side. The breathing for a moment stops. Something like words rolls out like a groan from Sophie’s little sister’s mouth and Sophie stands, her heart racing, paralyzed.
For minutes, Sophie stands paralyzed.
Her eyes are still closed though and the gritty exhales begin again. Sophie makes her way on tiptoe, following all the floorboards in the old house that don’t creak, to the front door. The latch takes a full minute; she twists the lock so slowly, wincing when the deadbolt makes a thumping sound as it slides away from the doorframe. Sophie tugs open the heavy wooden door, and creeps out of the house still barefoot, backwards, easing it shut behind her.
A black Volvo is idling in the street two houses down from Sophie’s. As planned, the headlights are off and the driver’s silhouette is only barely visible. Sophie runs barefoot down the walk, swings open the car door, bumbles awkwardly into the car.
“Hey Soph, you good?”
Sophie nods, and slips on her shoes.
In the same house, fifteen minutes later and twenty feet down the hall, Sophie’s mother Lalis wakes up. Glancing at the clock, she realizes she must have fallen asleep. She slowly lets her body fall out of bed, sliding from the mattress to her feet, being careful not to tug the blankets and disturb her husband who thought they were too old for this sort of thing, her husband who didn’t notice that under the covers, Lalis was fully dressed.
The music is so loud it’s like a million sound waves crashing into your ears all at once. Like every sound sounding together. Like wind chimes in all the same key shaking in the biggest gust of wind to blow since forever. The music is like one giant melody made up of every melody anyone has ever sung.
The music is like whatever decade you’re living in. The music is like everyone everywhere listening to whatever they want and loving it. The music is the same to everyone but no one too. Like a million people who all love the same song at once.
The music is like a million voices in one crowd singing along, all voices hearing every one but their own. The music is like one clear and perfect pitch. Like three sounds at once coming from the same pair of lips.
The music is like the story of the moment it’s playing in and every moment it’s played in before. The music is just like Sunday morning in the kitchen with the waffle maker. The music is like the back yard as sound slowly reaches the side of the house floating from dad’s shed in the backyard.
The music is like the humming of your blood as you sneak out of the house in the middle of the night.
The music is like the day during the summer before Sophie turned twelve when Lalis put four broken beach chairs, four towels with Disney characters on them, and a cooler with four of everything inside and drove the kids and herself to the beach. They drove slowly all the way, and Sophie got to sit up front because she was the oldest, which was usually a drag but worth it for moments like this. They drove slowly with the windows open and the kids giggled and bickered the whole time in the back but Lalis didn’t care she just hummed along with the music and whispered every word to Mr. Tambourine Man in a soft voice.
Like that day, when Lalis rubbed sunscreen into Sophie’s back, mixing white cream with sand and broken shells. The music bumped away from the car parked with the trunk sticking out towards the ocean, sending sound into the salty summer air. And they built a whole kingdom of sand castles and let their fingers wrinkle in the salty Gulf and drank lemonade right from the thermos. The music hung there all the while in the sticky heat and everyone who walked by smiled as they hummed along.
In the waning applause before the encore, Sophie leaves her boyfriend clapping at an empty stage and goes to the bar. She looks old enough to buy a drink, or at least old enough to be offered to be bought one, but instead she pulls two crumpled dollar bills from the back pocket of her to tight jeans and asks the woman behind the bar for a coke. The woman fills up a plastic glass while Sophie waits, staring at her hands, at the scratches in the gummed up wood of the bar, at the glow in the dark second hand of her watch ticking. Her little sister, asleep in her bed is exhaling sandpaper breaths.
As Sophie turns away from the bar with her glass with two little red cocktail straws sticking out of it, she faces her mother. Lalis is beautiful like Sophie is beautiful: even when they aren’t smiling. Sophie’s mother glances down at the drink in her hands, and out of reflex, Sophie shakes her head as if to deny the accusations inevitably coming her way. But instead of Sophie getting scolded, instead of Lalis demanding Sophie hand the drink over right this instant, instead of Lalis being so disappointed in her oldest daughter for sneaking out, breaking curfew, putting her life in danger, what happens next is the crowd applauds and screams. They turn their heads to the stage, and Bob Dylan is back, sitting hunched on a wooden stool with his guitar. He’s playing the opening chords of Blowin’ in the Wind.
And the music, the music is like the air pressing against the air, like mothers and daughters in the stale dim darkness of a club outside of Houston.