Play It Again

Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they fall, sometimes violently, into a certain state and then unknowingly elect to remain in it. This is a kind of death. I guess when your spirit gets broken, you start to see cracks in everything; darkness not only in your culture but within yourself. Especially within yourself.

I am like an apparition moving through the streets. I keep my eyes on the worn leather of my shoes. I know the way; which streets to turn down, and when the stoplights will turn green. I know it as sure as I know the stitches in my shoes, just as I know people will avoid me because of what I am: dead. There are some, mostly newspaper vendors and shop-keeps, that see me everyday, sometimes even look for me as I appear through the sea of business suits, skirts and cell-phones. I don’t look at them. I don’t like to see myself reflected in their glassy eyes.

Maria is with me, though. Maria is always with me, and I know, I still believe, that she loves me. Together, she and I stop at our familiar corner, and I profess my love to her. My duster, shabby and long, trails in the filth of the sidewalk, and my cap has a hole in the side. I am not handsome, surrounded by my cloak of deadness. The absence of life oozes from me like a virus that infects everything it touches with the same fate. I am ugly next to Maria, who is the most beautiful creature on the earth.

Sing with me, I say, My heart, my love.

We begin our passionate embrace, and soon her neck is damp with the effort of our love. Her skin rests against my cheek, familiar and smooth. She trembles so sweetly, and my fingers dance along her neck, faster now. She sings-- a blessed sound, and my eyes sink close as the notes move through me like oxygen in my lifeless veins. The desperate cry of a violin and her dead lover paint the cool morning air with tragic melody.

Occasionally, there is the soft thump of coins or the whisper of paper hitting the lining of the open case at my feet, but I don’t attend to these distractions. We play until the brisk morning air turns warm and creates beads of perspiration that roll down my pasty, dead face, salty against my lips.

“Nice playin’, brutha.”

I crack open one eye to meet the droopy gaze of a tired gentlemen, his hair long and greasy, as he smiles at me. As black as the pit where my heart once was, he arrives like clockwork every day. I do not know his name, I don't ask. He doesn't ask for mine either. He drops his usual forty-seven cents into Maria’s case, and I nod. With a plucked chord of laughter, Maria begins to dance, and the gentlemen sings.

You take the low road, and I’ll take the high road.

We finish our duet and I give him back a nickel, which he bows over in appreciation. He is never wealthier than me, but he is rich in that his heart beats. In this world of breathing, living people I don’t mind you, I tell him, but he can’t hear my deadened voice.

I play on, but this time I don't close my eyes to block out the world. I watch. In the sea of faces, there suddenly appears a familiar visage, and my hand grips tighter to Maria, the movement of the bow screeching to an ugly halt.

He looks like me, before I died. He passes by me as if in slow motion. It is as if a cellar door has been cracked, sllowing me a glimpse into my past. A mockery? Perhaps, perhaps not. I see him, and I love him, as you can only love yourself. His concerto tux drowns his thinning figure. His tie has been tugged loose and it hangs on his neck like a noose waiting to be yanked tight. The slump of his shoulders bears a weight that threatens to overtake him with every step and the violin case dangling from his fingers seems impossibly heavy. In his eyes is a deeply rooted sense of fatigue and defeat; he is tired, but more than that, he is scared.

You keep your head up, I say. Don’t you quit. I can't say it gets better, but I can say it will get worse if you don't make up your mind and choose to live. Please. Live.

He disappears into the crowd, fading like a mirage from sight. I pick up my bow and pull out a single, haunting note. I lift the bow away and the replying sound echoes through the air like a battle cry. I begin to play again, my eyes open and seeing, reborn.

When an elderly woman drops a few quarters into my case, I smile-- a yellow, dry smile, but real one, alive. And, in a voice cracked from disuse, I say, “Thank you.”