prose piece thing whatever

Okay, guys. This is just an...opening scene of something. I'm not sure what. It's just prose of some sort, and I like it.

It was inspired by the music we listened to in Julia's class. (man I miss prompts):

"What are you making me listen to?" I ask, pulling on the cord of his iPod headphones and dragging it over the bed.

"What do you mean? This is spectacular stuff right here."

I shake my head. The screen says it's some a cappella group. Somehow, I'm not understanding where he gets off in saying this is spectacular. "Chris, this isn't even music. This is a bunch of guys saying 'do' over and over again on different notes."

It's his turn to shake his head. "This is music. These guys that are saying, as you put it, 'do' over and over again? They are amazing artists. You have to appreciate their work and talent. It's got to be hard to--"

"No. I can't. Change the song or I'm leaving. I'll go downstairs and play with your little brother," I warn. He acquiesces, afraid that I'd actually go downstairs and play with his little brother, something I'd never do. His four-year-old brother always seems to have something sticky on his hands and snot running out of his nose. I don't like children. And I know that most people would say "But you were a child just a few years ago" or "Why? You're a child yourself" but I don't care. I can't handle little kids. They're whiny and loud. Sticky, too.

The new song isn't much better. It's Dolly Parton. I mean, I love Dolly as much as any other American, but her music...not so much. It's ridiculous. I tell him this just as Dolly starts belting about some girl's clothes and how they could stop traffic.

Chris turns to me, mouth falling open. He's always over gesticulating, just like a cartoon character. "You can't be serious. I understand about the other song, some people don't like a cappella groups, but Dolly? She's a classy lady."

"...Who need to wear less makeup and find a new profession. Change it."

Once again, he does. This is our routine. He plays any one of his 2301 songs, picking out specific ones that he thinks I might like. I usually don't. He's made a playlist for me, but so far I've hated--okay, disliked--everything. Or at least decided that cows shouldn't be allowed to record songs when they're in pain.

Don't get me wrong, I love music. I'm way into the Killers and a few other bands, but not the stuff that he usually listens to. Chris has always liked obscure bands and crazy music. He actually has a whole collection of different tribal songs from around the world--about twenty or thirty. And then he has the 'Sounds of Silence' CD that is entirely made up of crickets chirping, refrigerators humming, and water dripping. He loves that album; I can't explain why.

He's never looking for music, but he's always finding it. At least once a week he comes straight to me when he gets to school with a grin on his face. "I found something new," he'll say, holding out one of his 7 CD cases or his iPod, sometimes even an old cassette tape he's pilfered from his fathers basement closet. All he has to play those on is a terrible radio with crackly speakers, but he says this gives the song even more charm.

Right now, all I'm hearing is the click, click, click of him scrolling through the thousands of songs. It's kind of musical in itself. Finding music in everything that isn't music is a little habit I picked up from Chris a couple years back when we were sitting on his roof listening to traffic. It doesn't mean it's always good music, but it's rhythmic nonetheless.

He's stopped clicking but I don't hear anything. "What--?"

"Just wait, it's a slow start," he says.

Gradually, like waiting for a new year, I hear something start up in the background. It's not even an instrument, from what I can tell, just something synthesized, electric. It makes a great sound, though, a kind of whooshing noise. As it builds, a guy's voice kicks in. He repeats the same lines over and over, with a few variations each time.

“Hey, I kind of maybe like this one,” I say.

His eyes widen. He's making cartoon faces again. "Seriously?" he asks. "Like, seriously seriously?"

"Only kind of," I say, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

He jumps up and starts dancing on his bed. He's screaming and the ear bud falls out of his ear.

"Chris. Chris! You can't stop jumping now, you're going to knock me off," I say, grabbing hold of the comforter.

"This is the most exciting thing to happen all year. No lie. Really exciting."

He goes to the dry-erase board hanging on the wall and writes down the song title. He's only got four up there already, and then two bands. He calls it the Lane List, a list of all the songs I've liked that he's put on my playlist, and the bands that he's made me CDs of, on which I've loved or liked almost every song.

"It is not the most exciting thing to happen all year."

"Yes. It is," he says, nodding vigorously, his head almost looks like it's going to fall off. "This could alter the entire playlist." His tone is serious, low.

Okay, so now I'm curious.


Ready.
Set.
Workshop!

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