aplus
02-24-2005, 10:35 AM
http://slumz.boxden.com/showthread.php?t=181128
This story won second place in the Ozarks Writer's Short Story Contest in 2004. (http://www.ozarkswritersleague.org/awards.htm) It is adapted from a poem of the same name that I posted on here last year. It will be in my upcoming fiction book, if I ever find a publisher for it...crit or compliment...
Domestic Silence
When my neighbors fight, the husband plays jazz to drown out the sounds of their arguments. He cranks the stereo up so loud that every tenant suffers from mind-numbing headaches. I cringe when trumpets blare through the building after dusk. Inside their apartment is a seven year old cowering in his room, making a lasting correlation between Charlie Parker’s alto saxophone and his mommy’s bruises. The boy deserves a much friendlier introduction to Bird’s innovative improvisations.
I don’t know much about this family, but I am well versed in the music. I’ve lived here for two years, long enough that I can now determine the topic of their disputes by what record is playing. Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue means that the husband is releasing the frustration of financial woes onto her fragile ribcage. The swinging melodies of Duke Ellington are reserved for shouting matches, the type of yelling that is brought on by senseless male jealousy. Electronic jazz-funk, like Herbie Hancock and the Headhunters, is synonymous with the profanities and backhanded slaps of a drinking binge. I don’t even have to explain the subtle irony when songs from Coltrane’s A Love Supreme filter from their doorway.
The husband switches between personalities like turning a page in a book. In public, he seems almost charming and sweet natured, far from the angst-ridden bastard that terrorizes his bride. I despise him for being a living testament to human contradiction: one part music connoisseur, one part wife beater. I hate how he fuses the muffled sounds of spousal abuse with vintage blue notes. I envy his extensive catalogue of classics, since the jazz is so much better than him. I often wonder how he could afford such a coveted collection on a working class salary; perhaps he is up to his chest in debt. But I truly resent him because I cannot enjoy hearing the slick sounds of syncopation knowing that his wife is squirming in anguish.
Yesterday she wore dark wrap-around sunglasses, the type of shades that are usually reserved for elderly folks. The sunglasses only partially concealed the bandage she had over her right eye. Her eyesight was so limited that she had to keep turning her head in a bird-like fashion in order to see clearly. Even though her vision was impaired, she probably could still vividly imagine holding a butcher’s knife in one hand and her husbands’ scrotum in the other, terminating his testosterone and the indignity with one swift swipe. I think she should perform this act of castration with his favorite Louis Armstrong song as background music.
When he refrains from assaulting her face, she has an unblemished glamour that could only come from an upper-shelf gene pool. She always has a bulky overcoat draped over her frame, even when temperatures are warm outside. If she would remove that coat, the world would gawk at a curvy body that would excite even the most discerning smut magazine subscriber. Why does her husband choose to chastise her instead of cherish this beauty? Maybe she didn’t move him in that special way anymore, and that became the groundwork he used to transform their cozy apartment into a jazz-filled torture chamber.
I see her every morning, seconds before I leave for work. I always say hello, while my eyes beg for a detailed conversation beyond standard greetings. But words and pleasantries are worthless to her. Lately she says nothing at all, too terrified to even say “good morning” to her neighbor. She wears her silence as a simple shroud to conceal her complicated scars. She is tired of reciting the countless meek explanations that bring a sour taste to her ears. She is embarrassed by the human tornado that passes through her home. I guess by remaining quiet about the whole ordeal, my silence reluctantly mirrors hers.
I might be risking my street credibility, but I have called the police before. Just once, I swear. It was to save her, one time when a rhythmic beating sounded louder than a bass riff in a song. I complained about the volume of the tunes, thinking the cops would respond to the noise complaint and catch him striking his wife. As the officers approached their door, I watched through the peephole of my door like a horny voyeur. I expected to see her head swollen with bumps and scratches. But the husband must have chosen to punch her torso or back that day, because her features showed no outward signs of tampering. In fact, the woman answered the door when the blue uniforms arrived, slapping on a counterfeit smile that implied she had been happily baking brownies all afternoon. The cover-up was so unsettling and masochistic that I haven’t tried to intervene since. But it is nearly impossible to suppress the reflex to call 911, especially when I can hear reckless thumping and feminine screaming.
I actually become nervous when their apartment is silent. At least when I hear Chick Corea tickling piano keys, I am relieved to know that the woman is still alive. I dread the concept of returning home with the music as nothing but an inaudible memory. Detectives would be milling around the building searching for evidence and witnesses. The shattered dishes and broken furniture would be prepared to vocally testify on her behalf, yet the clusters of onlookers gathering in the hallway would claim ignorance. Cops would hastily cram the husband into the narrow backseat of an unmarked sedan. He would be bound in tight handcuffs, desperately trying to talk to his sobbing son. The young boy would be wearing an oversized T-shirt and clutching a toy robot, wondering where the ambulance just took his mother.
Before I lived here, I listened to jazz almost daily; it was my sacred addiction, my escape from the stress of overdue bills and a long daily commute. Once I move away, I may never listen to it again. I will reside underneath a canopy of silence, a quiet tribute to a woman that I pray will eventually escape from a cruel existence. That way, I will never again have to explain why I feel guilty when I hear my favorite songs.
This story won second place in the Ozarks Writer's Short Story Contest in 2004. (http://www.ozarkswritersleague.org/awards.htm) It is adapted from a poem of the same name that I posted on here last year. It will be in my upcoming fiction book, if I ever find a publisher for it...crit or compliment...
Domestic Silence
When my neighbors fight, the husband plays jazz to drown out the sounds of their arguments. He cranks the stereo up so loud that every tenant suffers from mind-numbing headaches. I cringe when trumpets blare through the building after dusk. Inside their apartment is a seven year old cowering in his room, making a lasting correlation between Charlie Parker’s alto saxophone and his mommy’s bruises. The boy deserves a much friendlier introduction to Bird’s innovative improvisations.
I don’t know much about this family, but I am well versed in the music. I’ve lived here for two years, long enough that I can now determine the topic of their disputes by what record is playing. Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue means that the husband is releasing the frustration of financial woes onto her fragile ribcage. The swinging melodies of Duke Ellington are reserved for shouting matches, the type of yelling that is brought on by senseless male jealousy. Electronic jazz-funk, like Herbie Hancock and the Headhunters, is synonymous with the profanities and backhanded slaps of a drinking binge. I don’t even have to explain the subtle irony when songs from Coltrane’s A Love Supreme filter from their doorway.
The husband switches between personalities like turning a page in a book. In public, he seems almost charming and sweet natured, far from the angst-ridden bastard that terrorizes his bride. I despise him for being a living testament to human contradiction: one part music connoisseur, one part wife beater. I hate how he fuses the muffled sounds of spousal abuse with vintage blue notes. I envy his extensive catalogue of classics, since the jazz is so much better than him. I often wonder how he could afford such a coveted collection on a working class salary; perhaps he is up to his chest in debt. But I truly resent him because I cannot enjoy hearing the slick sounds of syncopation knowing that his wife is squirming in anguish.
Yesterday she wore dark wrap-around sunglasses, the type of shades that are usually reserved for elderly folks. The sunglasses only partially concealed the bandage she had over her right eye. Her eyesight was so limited that she had to keep turning her head in a bird-like fashion in order to see clearly. Even though her vision was impaired, she probably could still vividly imagine holding a butcher’s knife in one hand and her husbands’ scrotum in the other, terminating his testosterone and the indignity with one swift swipe. I think she should perform this act of castration with his favorite Louis Armstrong song as background music.
When he refrains from assaulting her face, she has an unblemished glamour that could only come from an upper-shelf gene pool. She always has a bulky overcoat draped over her frame, even when temperatures are warm outside. If she would remove that coat, the world would gawk at a curvy body that would excite even the most discerning smut magazine subscriber. Why does her husband choose to chastise her instead of cherish this beauty? Maybe she didn’t move him in that special way anymore, and that became the groundwork he used to transform their cozy apartment into a jazz-filled torture chamber.
I see her every morning, seconds before I leave for work. I always say hello, while my eyes beg for a detailed conversation beyond standard greetings. But words and pleasantries are worthless to her. Lately she says nothing at all, too terrified to even say “good morning” to her neighbor. She wears her silence as a simple shroud to conceal her complicated scars. She is tired of reciting the countless meek explanations that bring a sour taste to her ears. She is embarrassed by the human tornado that passes through her home. I guess by remaining quiet about the whole ordeal, my silence reluctantly mirrors hers.
I might be risking my street credibility, but I have called the police before. Just once, I swear. It was to save her, one time when a rhythmic beating sounded louder than a bass riff in a song. I complained about the volume of the tunes, thinking the cops would respond to the noise complaint and catch him striking his wife. As the officers approached their door, I watched through the peephole of my door like a horny voyeur. I expected to see her head swollen with bumps and scratches. But the husband must have chosen to punch her torso or back that day, because her features showed no outward signs of tampering. In fact, the woman answered the door when the blue uniforms arrived, slapping on a counterfeit smile that implied she had been happily baking brownies all afternoon. The cover-up was so unsettling and masochistic that I haven’t tried to intervene since. But it is nearly impossible to suppress the reflex to call 911, especially when I can hear reckless thumping and feminine screaming.
I actually become nervous when their apartment is silent. At least when I hear Chick Corea tickling piano keys, I am relieved to know that the woman is still alive. I dread the concept of returning home with the music as nothing but an inaudible memory. Detectives would be milling around the building searching for evidence and witnesses. The shattered dishes and broken furniture would be prepared to vocally testify on her behalf, yet the clusters of onlookers gathering in the hallway would claim ignorance. Cops would hastily cram the husband into the narrow backseat of an unmarked sedan. He would be bound in tight handcuffs, desperately trying to talk to his sobbing son. The young boy would be wearing an oversized T-shirt and clutching a toy robot, wondering where the ambulance just took his mother.
Before I lived here, I listened to jazz almost daily; it was my sacred addiction, my escape from the stress of overdue bills and a long daily commute. Once I move away, I may never listen to it again. I will reside underneath a canopy of silence, a quiet tribute to a woman that I pray will eventually escape from a cruel existence. That way, I will never again have to explain why I feel guilty when I hear my favorite songs.