Punk Violin

I remember when I was five, when I was just a little boy, and I met you in kindergarten.

You weren't some sweet, innocent little child, even back then. You were a little monster-

there really isn't any other way to describe it. You pulled my short hair- HARD. With that

tug of hair, pulling my head back towards you, you would whisper words you had no right to

know at your age into my ear. Your soft, warm breath would tickle my earlobe, so much I felt

like laughing. I didn't understand what the words that accompanied that tickling meant, but

I heard the inexplicable malice behind them, so that silenced my laughter. I understood.

I remember another memory even more vividly. It happened one particular day in

April- it was near my birthday, so April must have been almost over. I was playing house

with a girl who wasn't quite there in the head, weird and therefore avoided. I wobbled

there in the play grown-up settings in my play grown-up shoes. The two of us kept

playing even though recess was over, and even though the goddess that was our teacher

called for us to pack up our toys, I ignored her without a thought, just trying to help the

not-quite-there-girl- she didn't realize what was going on. So the teacher yelled at me for

not obeying her, and it made me angry- I HAD just been trying to help Maggie. And you

laughed at me for it. I didn't know why.

When middle school came, I was placed in the highest classes, got perfect grades

effortlessly while you struggled through your normal courses. You hid yourself in black

punk clothes, in silver jewelry that barely grazed your greasy, acne-encrusted skin,

buried yourself in loud, foul music with more rage and hurt in a second of it than all the

cheery pop songs I'd ever heard combined. I downloaded some of the music that you

listened to, and listened to it, even though you DID hate me. For to be fair, you hated me

with good reason- I was smart and smug about it, a know-it-all of the worst kind.

I remember how that know-it-all watched you.

By high school, I had developed high ambitions- to be a doctor, an engineer, a

lawyer, anything that would make me millions. If I had that much money, I could have

everything I wanted, every component of the strange obsessions that I escaped into. As is

so very possible in high school, you did the opposite of me- you disappeared into the

shadows. But you did start a band, so I watched you. I kept watching you, even though

you still hated me- or at least you would have if you'd given me thought enough to.

I remember the shocked beauty of graduation, sitting alongside people I'd known

and formed cautious alliances with since elementary school- people who in truth I

couldn't really call friends. You sat with another boy- he was fair-haired, foul-mouthed,

cool and popular in a low, dark sort of way- beautiful. I recognized him as the

concertmaster of our school's orchestra, who played the violin like a madman. I in my

seat as second-chair cellist had listened to him play solo many times, full of envy for his

dedication, his style, his effortless mastery of his chosen medium of expression. Once, I

heard YOU sing while he played, his instrument wailing out a sultry siren call, your

fingers intertwined with his on the violin as you sang brashly of heartbreak and rage and

payback. Both his and your dark eyes flashed together, the same way they had that other

time I saw the two of you, when you skipped third period behind school. You were

smoking the same cigarette, inhaling that lingering smoke with half-closed eyes. You

would have hit me if you'd known I was watching you either time, third period or

graduation. But yeah, you were wearing black that time third period, but when you

graduated, you and your friend both wore red like everyone else.

I went to a prestigious college, smart and accomplished enough to get into a big

name one like I'd wanted to, like I'd always known I WOULD be able to. I missed my

family, though, more than I'd have thought was possible. I would have given half my

prized anime collection just to see my older brother. And I would have given all of it just

to see you. You wouldn't have been happy to see me, maybe not even have recognized

me, but your presence- the dark familiarity of it- would have given me comfort. Once,

lonely, I tried smoking, remembering the lazy, half-lidded sensuality you'd possessed that

one morning as I watched you do it. I did try smoking- and it was disgusting. I had a

bright future ahead of me, too- money, money, and more money. I couldn't mess that up

by getting lung cancer or emphysema or whatever.

I remember that after that, I dreamed of you even more, the disgusting smell and

taste of smoke permeating each one so much that I'd wake up choking and gagging. I

went to law school for a few years, thrived on arguments and paperwork and

technicalities. When I graduated, I joined a prestigious firm, and after working low for a

while, got catapaulted up to big cases when it became apparent just how good I was. But

I never forget about that person I'd known. I still smelled smoke. I don't know why.

I never tried to find you. I probably should have, but I didn't. The job was solved

for me, anyway. I went to the library one day during the jury's recess. It wasn't anything

terribly big- another sexual harassment case, which my firm specialized in, among other

things, and we had this one in the bag, so instead of staying to talk to the client, I went

to the library. I didn't find any books I wanted, but on the way out I glanced at the

bestseller list, I saw your name at the top, along with the violinist's. You'd written a book

together. Funny, I never knew you could write.

I went back to the court case, calmly gave my rather excellent closing, and waited

with our client for the jury to reach a verdict. They quickly declared the defendant, a rival

law firm, guilty. Our client smiled, hugged me, and went to claim her damages. So I was

free to go back to the library and take out your book.

I took it off the shelf and gave it to the lady at the check-out desk. She simply

remarked, "Oh, that's a popular one." I took it from her, calmly stamped its due date on

the sticker on the back. I waited until I'd gotten back to my apartment to read it. I read it

all in one sitting, the whole thing just that night.

What? I'd never read a book about myself before.