444
Hopes and Wishes
Her fingers clawed up and down the fret board in perfect rhythm, her body swaying in time to the notes pouring from beneath calloused fingertips. Eyes wide shut, she breathed in through her nose, drawing energy from the very air around her. She was oblivious to the stage at her feet, the spotlight trained on her solitary figure in the middle of the black expanse, and the empty seats spread out in front of her. In her mind, she was filling a stadium the size of Washington and packed with as many people as it could hold with screeching guitar riffs and melodious vocals. Her dreams faded away as her fingers slowed and stopped, the song over.
A rushed round of applause came from the last row of chairs, breaking through her concentration on her guitar and her soul as it leaked from the ends of the guitar strings and pulsated from the body of the wooden acoustic. The kid in the back came to watch the girl up on stage ferociously play her guitar in the swirling dust illuminated by the spotlight each Friday. He was a regular. He was the only regular.
She squinted into the darkness, trying to make out the figure of the boy, but, as always, he was gone before she could call on him. She sighed and thought, Another empty show. The farthest wing of the mall near her house was hers every Friday night, but she had only ever played for the boy. She slipped her guitar into the beat up case and jumped off stage, preparing her weary feet for the walk home when her phone buzzed. She wrestled it out of her pocket and glanced at the screen. Haley, it read in glowing letters. She waited for the buzzing to stop and deleted the voicemail from Haley. 4:44, the numerals told her. She sighed. My favorite number. Lucky? Yeah, right.
A fluttering around her feet caught her attention, and she reached down to grasp a piece of piece of paper. Bringing it into the light, she read the name of the nearest music specialty store and the ticket number 444. And then it hit her; the store was holding a drawing for meeting her favorite band. The drawing started at 4 and ended at 5; she could make it! Holding firmly the ticket stub, she weaved in and out of the holiday shoppers at the mall and out onto the windswept street. Veering left, she ran the length of the mall and a block farther, her guitar case hanging precariously from a finger. She added to the milling of people at the store front, gasping for breath that couldn’t seem to flood her lungs quickly enough.
“And the final, prize, the one you’ve all been waiting for…” the announced droned on in the characteristically cheesy voice that all announcers have. “A chance to meet the band members of My. Chemical. Romance!” Crowd went up in cheers. Loud woohoos! and Yipeees! echoed around. A wolf whistle here or there. “Ticket number 4…4…4!” Silence all around. Disappointed groans and “Fuck the system!” reverberated through her ears as she stood, stunned, in the back of the crows.
Someone grabbed her arm and shouted. Lead her to the front like a dog herding a lost sheep. The crowd dispersed, left behind miscellaneous trash articles and unused ticket stubs. The announced filled her in on the wheres, whens, whos, hows…but she could hardly nod and blink. Gasping for breath, she choked on air. Meeting her savior? Shaking his Godly hand? Surely she could stutter a thanks, a simple You mean so much to so many? Even breathing his air would be enough for a lifetime of happiness, surely.
*
She huddled closer to the wall, sheltering her thin body from the wind. The pre-Christmas concert was her opportunity to meet him, the opportunity she had won with a discarded ticket lying at her feet after another empty show. She’d get used to it. Her guitar case knocked against the wall as people jostled past her like cattle to water when they opened the gates. The announcers voice was far away as she tried to hear again his directions. Find backstage. Show the guard your pass. Third door on the left. and then the voice faded because she was there. It was up to her own mind to send directions to numb fingertips so they’d bend to her will. She reached out for the doorknob and turned it.
The black haired angel’s head swiveled to face her, followed quickly by the thin guitarist’s head. He smiled a greeting, outstretched a hand to her. By something other than her own will, she took his hand and sat on the shabby couch.
“Gerard,” he said, and all the choirs of angels in heaven joined in.
“I know.” She breathed. “Tweak.”
“Frank,” the thin, wispy man on the couch’s arm said. He didn’t smile, he barely managed to keep her eye contact for a second.
“You play?” The angel inquired. She nodded, frozen. Adrenaline performed a deafening concert in her ear, rushing through her body to excite the cells and nerves in fingertips. Her skin was burning with the heat. “Play me something.” His command was gentle.
Mechanically she pulled her guitar out and slipped the strap around her head. The black finish glinted in the dim dressing room light. Her spindly fingers found the strings and she was lost. Immediately the guitar commanded her hands to race, to spin, to strum, to play. She was lost in the guitar’s music, the notes bursting from the strings faster than her fingers could play them. Heads turned, all five men were staring at her fingers as the manipulated the guitar into riffs unheard and chords that soared with the angels. Silence.
His angelic hands held her raw fingers still, but they longed to play. They knew no human limits, they would play for hours without stopping, but her body knew the limits. “I hope you know you’re amazing.” He smiled. Frank’s face was snapshot material; his mouth was a perfect ‘o’ and his hazel eyes were wide with shock.
“It’s because of you,” she started, abashed eyes trained on her shoes. “I hope you know you’re amazing,” she continued.
A rushed round of applause came from the last row of chairs, breaking through her concentration on her guitar and her soul as it leaked from the ends of the guitar strings and pulsated from the body of the wooden acoustic. The kid in the back came to watch the girl up on stage ferociously play her guitar in the swirling dust illuminated by the spotlight each Friday. He was a regular. He was the only regular.
She squinted into the darkness, trying to make out the figure of the boy, but, as always, he was gone before she could call on him. She sighed and thought, Another empty show. The farthest wing of the mall near her house was hers every Friday night, but she had only ever played for the boy. She slipped her guitar into the beat up case and jumped off stage, preparing her weary feet for the walk home when her phone buzzed. She wrestled it out of her pocket and glanced at the screen. Haley, it read in glowing letters. She waited for the buzzing to stop and deleted the voicemail from Haley. 4:44, the numerals told her. She sighed. My favorite number. Lucky? Yeah, right.
A fluttering around her feet caught her attention, and she reached down to grasp a piece of piece of paper. Bringing it into the light, she read the name of the nearest music specialty store and the ticket number 444. And then it hit her; the store was holding a drawing for meeting her favorite band. The drawing started at 4 and ended at 5; she could make it! Holding firmly the ticket stub, she weaved in and out of the holiday shoppers at the mall and out onto the windswept street. Veering left, she ran the length of the mall and a block farther, her guitar case hanging precariously from a finger. She added to the milling of people at the store front, gasping for breath that couldn’t seem to flood her lungs quickly enough.
“And the final, prize, the one you’ve all been waiting for…” the announced droned on in the characteristically cheesy voice that all announcers have. “A chance to meet the band members of My. Chemical. Romance!” Crowd went up in cheers. Loud woohoos! and Yipeees! echoed around. A wolf whistle here or there. “Ticket number 4…4…4!” Silence all around. Disappointed groans and “Fuck the system!” reverberated through her ears as she stood, stunned, in the back of the crows.
Someone grabbed her arm and shouted. Lead her to the front like a dog herding a lost sheep. The crowd dispersed, left behind miscellaneous trash articles and unused ticket stubs. The announced filled her in on the wheres, whens, whos, hows…but she could hardly nod and blink. Gasping for breath, she choked on air. Meeting her savior? Shaking his Godly hand? Surely she could stutter a thanks, a simple You mean so much to so many? Even breathing his air would be enough for a lifetime of happiness, surely.
*
She huddled closer to the wall, sheltering her thin body from the wind. The pre-Christmas concert was her opportunity to meet him, the opportunity she had won with a discarded ticket lying at her feet after another empty show. She’d get used to it. Her guitar case knocked against the wall as people jostled past her like cattle to water when they opened the gates. The announcers voice was far away as she tried to hear again his directions. Find backstage. Show the guard your pass. Third door on the left. and then the voice faded because she was there. It was up to her own mind to send directions to numb fingertips so they’d bend to her will. She reached out for the doorknob and turned it.
The black haired angel’s head swiveled to face her, followed quickly by the thin guitarist’s head. He smiled a greeting, outstretched a hand to her. By something other than her own will, she took his hand and sat on the shabby couch.
“Gerard,” he said, and all the choirs of angels in heaven joined in.
“I know.” She breathed. “Tweak.”
“Frank,” the thin, wispy man on the couch’s arm said. He didn’t smile, he barely managed to keep her eye contact for a second.
“You play?” The angel inquired. She nodded, frozen. Adrenaline performed a deafening concert in her ear, rushing through her body to excite the cells and nerves in fingertips. Her skin was burning with the heat. “Play me something.” His command was gentle.
Mechanically she pulled her guitar out and slipped the strap around her head. The black finish glinted in the dim dressing room light. Her spindly fingers found the strings and she was lost. Immediately the guitar commanded her hands to race, to spin, to strum, to play. She was lost in the guitar’s music, the notes bursting from the strings faster than her fingers could play them. Heads turned, all five men were staring at her fingers as the manipulated the guitar into riffs unheard and chords that soared with the angels. Silence.
His angelic hands held her raw fingers still, but they longed to play. They knew no human limits, they would play for hours without stopping, but her body knew the limits. “I hope you know you’re amazing.” He smiled. Frank’s face was snapshot material; his mouth was a perfect ‘o’ and his hazel eyes were wide with shock.
“It’s because of you,” she started, abashed eyes trained on her shoes. “I hope you know you’re amazing,” she continued.