"Music Takes Time"

What a crappy photo. I promise, that squash is not swarmed with bugs. That's just my phone's camera adding specks.

Lucas came back to check on the seedling two days after the seed was planted.

"It's not ready yet," Old Man Bones, who watched over things that grow, told him. "Go home and practice. Da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM. That's right." Lucas frowned but marched home, tapping out a simple rhythm on his belly.

Lucas waited a month before he marched back to visit Bones, beating the same simple rhythm that the old man had given him to work with the last time. "Still not ready for you yet," Bones said, "but come here, look at this." He turned the fruit over for Lucas to see. "See this little groove right here? This little notch?" Lucas nodded and pretended that he did. "That's going to be important. You've got to be ready to play it. So try it with some extra notes. Da-DUM, da-da-DA-dum." Lucas practiced for weeks without understanding the point of it, until one day, when, tapping the rhythm against his arm, his finger twitched and struck the bone of his wrist instead. The feeling was completely different. That's all that music was, he realized: paying attention to how the slightest changes felt.

He and Old Man Bones continued like that over the following weeks, the old man giving him new steps in his rhythm each time. Finally, summer ended, and the time for harvest came. Old Man Bones gave Lucas a beautiful drum, plucked straight from the vine. "Now it's ready for you," he told the boy, who ran off and began to play. And you're ready for it, Bones' inner voice added as they both enjoyed the fruits of their labor.

"Bicycle Rider"

 

The other day, a man rode past our house on a bicycle--not an unusual occurrence, except that he was shouting to himself, and waving his hands all around as if trying to shoo away insects. 

This is what I imagine: The man is a mad conductor who views every object in sight as an instrument in his personal orchestra, whose stage--the world--is so large that he needs to travel it on a bicycle to make sure that all the players can see him. "Horns!" he shouts, and car horns blow from a nearby intersection. "Strings!" he yells, and the electrical cables overhead hum lower than a double bass. He loses himself in the music until the song ends in a final tympanic crash that leaves his bicycle a heap of crumpled metallic elements in the middle of the street.

"Clarinet"

 

"Jeez, what is that sound?" she asked from the couch. "It sounds like a clarinet. Or a cat dying. Or a dying cat playing the clarinet."

The man closed the wooden box that kept his song safe and placed the box back on the shelf. "Probably just the neighbor's kid. I think he started taking lessons," he said. "Listen, I'm sorry to have to call it an early night, but I've got this presentation at work tomorrow...." He wiped his hands on the front of his shirt, leaving streaks of dust across the fine-gauge cotton blend, no longer worried about how he looked.

"One Big, Fat, Juicy Apple"

 

"There you go," Araceli said, setting the plate in front of her daughter, "one big, fat, juicy apple."

The apple had actually been cut into slivers better suited for Nailah's little pink petal fingers, but she didn't seem to mind. Nailah giggled and smiled, and Araceli turned to rinse an apple for herself under the kitchen faucet. When she glanced back, however, she discovered that Nailah's delight had little to do with the snack she'd been given.

"Nailah!" Araceli said. "What are you doing with Mommy's phone?"

Instead of placing the phone in Araceli's open hand, Nailah grinned and pressed a button. Suddenly Araceli's phone was transmitting a deep line of dance beats and bass notes, and Araceli's voice, heavily autotuned, was singing a club-ready ode to a big, fat, juicy juicy apple apple apple.

"Oh, lordy," said Araceli. "Honey, what did you do? How did you do that?" Juicy juicy juicy, sang the phone, and Nailah laughed. Araceli narrowed her eyes. "What exactly does it mean to you when you hear that?" she asked.

The music continued. Nailah shrugged and looked around the room, as if the answer were hiding somewhere nearby. "I don't know," she finally said, with a simple, timid smile. "That you have a juicy apple?"

Araceli took the phone from Nailah's hands. "Exactly," she said, marveling at both the depths and limits of her daughter's knowledge. "Now what do you know about uploading and selling music files?" she asked as Nailah reached for an apple slice with both hands' chubby fingers. "I think we just figured out your college tuition."

"AED Speedwagon"

 

The volunteer guide finally caught up with the drummer and the keyboardist, and just in time. They had been about to set up in the building's main hall when she directed them to the auditorium, where a sign inside would confirm that that was where the '80s hair-metal tribute bands were supposed to be.

"Cloud Storage"

 

At night, no matter how hot it had been during the day and how much of that heat lay trapped on the tar-black shingles, she would climb from her bedroom window onto the garage roof and lie there, listening to bands play at the outdoor theater. The sound would echo like rain in a tin cup as it traveled the few miles from the theater to where she lay, but she didn't mind. Sometimes while listening she saw a contrail form in the sky overhead. She imagined that the people inside the tiny planes could hear the concerts as well. She told herself that they would carry the songs they heard with them wherever they were going. It was the kind of thought, on nights like that, that almost made it okay to grow up.