What’s Eating You? Chapter Three

Kent gripped the wheel at ten and two. The low drone of tires on concrete melded with the tick-tock rhythm of the seams. It reminded Jimmy of jazz music; the old stuff his brother soaked in when he needed to decompress.

“I hate to break the silence, Jimmy, but what’s tumbling around your skull?”

“My brother, Paul. He wouldn’t think you were breaking silence, only interrupting music.”

“What music?”

“The white noise. The beating, humming, and whining of the interstate.”

Jimmy tapped on the dash and thumped the door to the common-time pace of the highway beat.

“Oh, I—”

“Shhh.”  Jimmy kept on threading the inside surfaces of the car with the outside tempo. He went beyond the material world, into the invisible waves of sound. As vehicles passed, he used their coming and going as volume control, box beating harder, then softer. His eyelids rolled down, slow and heavy.

Jimmy stopped drumming and a half smile led to a deep breath. He took in air through his nose and held it for a few seconds, then let it out slowly, lips cracked open like a trumpet player.

“I imagined my brother Paul driving to the lake, CD’s spinning, pouring out Miles Davis like fine wine. We were together again, trippin’, not by a substance, but the whole food of jazz.”

Kent kept the car between the lines and synchronized a finger to the sound of the seams.

“You know what, mister Kent?”

“What?”

“I haven’t felt this way in weeks. I never thought the noise of a highway could be so soothing.”

“You’ve got quite an imagination, Jimmy.”

“That’s my brother Paul’s fault. He wasn’t a musician, but he knew music.”

“Do tell.”

“He educated me on the difference between blues and jazz. Blues was communal. B.B. King cozying up to study groups. Eric Clapton lent background music at the bar. Sometimes it took a little Muddy Waters to loosen conversations. And only the self-confident danced to the blues.”

“Interesting.”

“Jazz, on the other hand, was a solitary experience. And tap the only dance to merge into its percussive skips and jumps. According to Paul, there were only three kinds of jazz people. Those who ignore it entirely. Those who claim any three-year-old could play jazz with kitchen utensils. Then there’s those who stop and open their ears all the way down to their navel and box breathe.”

“I’d give a three-year-old a chance.”  

“Heh, Paul’s eyelids often drifted down as he absolved himself to jazz. He told me jazz untangled his mind. It took me a while to catch on. I always felt bad for the drummer, who played the same tip toe beat through most of the songs. Only when the musicians started passing the solo baton around did the drummer roll. Paul cracked up when I told him drum solos made me think of someone falling down a flight of stairs.”

“Totally makes sense to me.” Kent grinned at the thought.

Jimmy continued. “The social part of jazz was internal. The tight interplay was their own private discussion, but they welcomed eavesdroppers.”     

Jimmy looked away and dammed up the pressure of tears. His peace escaped out the window to the passing world.

“You and Paul were close?”

“Yes.” He continued to gaze out the window.

“Any siblings?”

“Ten… nine now. Paul died two and half weeks ago.”

Kent sighed. “Man. So sorry, Jimmy.”

The rhythm of the highway played on and on. Jimmy quaked and folded his arms. He bent over the glove compartment and wiped his eyes, first with the palms of his hands, and then the bottom of his shirt.

Kent noticed an upside-down rainbow just above Jimmy’s left bicep. Jimmy came up for air and apologized.

“No worries, young man. That’s a heavy lift. No tears wasted.”

“Thanks. I’ve been raw with only one emotion; anger. The moment of peace just now…no words. The first time in weeks I experienced some relief, except when I slept. Sleep is a thief, though.”

Kent nodded. “What do you mean?”

“Well, unless you remember your dreams, sleep is absent minded time travel. The past three weeks I have woken up to the same reality. My brother is gone. The door slammed shut. Last night I couldn’t even escape to La La land, so at 3:47am I got up and got moving.”

“Got up from where?”

“The couch.”

“No, from where?”

“Marshall Michigan, home of my pea sized life.”

“Quaint.”  

“Yeah, quaint and boring and small and touristy and— “

“A place from which to leave?”

“All I needed was a shove, and here I am.”

“That’s quite a shove.”

Jimmy reached into the paper bag and took a swig of water. “I’ve lost a few grandparents, but this loss was lethal.”