random poem of fate

The Music Room

There once was a man at street 662. He played all his music in perfect tune. Every night his disturbed, yet still beautiful notes cascaded through the twisty, narrow streets.
The staccatos populated he eerily empty night time square with its dark, frost bitten, Norwegian air. The house of Jeremiah Xavier was situated right next to my abode.

I had never met my talented neighbor, but had heard he was quite eccentric. Not much of a surprise in my eclectic melting pot of a neighborhood which was complete with a crazy bird lady and a good share of alien theorists. This man, however, was particularly fascinating.
His night music is comparable to champagne for the ears, but only at night could this music be heard. I envision he's a hardworking man. Saw clicks and hammer beats are all that can be heard from his house in the day

You may wonder what makes Jeremiah Xavier so distinct and noteworthy. Why he isn't just another night musician. Well here is what lends to mine and my neighbors curiosity.
None of us could determine what instrument could make such a sweet and pristine sound. At first we decided he must be an instrument craftsman. This was to no avail. Rarely anything ever entered his squatting, wooden house. The exceptions were a few neighbors.

He must have a very moving message, because the 5 times my neighbors have visited the man they all decided to move away immediately without a goodby glance.

Whether he's a Juilliard trained specialty instrument musician, the creator of his of his own devices, or something else entirely I was curious.

Curiosity is like a bubble it may float around for a while but eventually it pops. It was a crispApril night that my curiosity was ready to burst. I heard saw screeches all day and new there was certainly a brand new instrument. The seductive harmony was incredibly precise and rhythmic. Most important in determining my latter actions was the fact that he was playing my favorite tune. I could not wait. I felt like the tune was meant to be my own personal sera ade, so I changed out of my pajamas and walked down the diminutive 10 foot stretch between my house and my neighbors. 

There wasn't a doorbell only a door knocker fixed to look like a displaced jawbone, an odd style choice of course but I have learned not to question my neighbors choices. "Knock, knock"

I expected to wait long for him. I half hoped that he wouldn't come to open the door at all.
The fat rusty door, however, swung open with a screech shortly after I had knocked. It was as if he were expecting me and had been playing that particular song as a means of compelling me towards the small, ruddy, old house of his. I have never been a very fearful person but as I now am approaching the door my heart is jumping like a child on a trampoline or a trapeze artist.

Any chance of running back to my apartment fleeds as the symphonic music comes to a halt and I am shortly after greeted by a Greek looking man in his 40s. He acts as if I were a much expected guest. "Ready for your lesson," he inquires. By now I am utterly confused, but it was my curiosity that had brought me to Jeramaih's doorstep and it was this same driving force that made me answer, "yes." 

He led me through the main entry way of a house more industrially suited than aesthetically so. Nothing, however, appeared out of the ordinary until, of course, we reached our final destination, an ornately decorated room complete with vineyard inspired wall paper. "This is the music room." 

I search the room for whatever novel instrument sheds it's sound through the town each night. There are actually 5 instruments; all 5 are finished with a sanguine, ruby shade. One is shaped like a keyboard, another like a flute with ridges, another like a harp, the next like a piccolo, and still the next like a sort of scaffolded viola. My self given tour of the room ends with a question from my questionable host. "Do you play any instruments already?"

"I used to sing while I was younger, I have never played any instruments though."

"That is alright" he answers "the most beautiful sounds come from the human body." He nodded doctrinally as he told me this, closed the door and said "let's begin."

He starts out by saying a few words about each instrument, a few words that prompted innate fear in my self and ultimately a fight or flight response. This is what he said: "the woodwinds and whistles are crafted mainly from spinal chord, while the keyboard is primarily splinters of harder limb bones; I make all my strings from sinew."

Next, I ask a question to which I'm not sure I want an answer. "Which animal are these pieces from?" 

"As I told you" he replies "the most beautiful sounds come from the human body." Anyone else I would have suspected to be lying or even laying down a dark joke, but there was a sense of disturbed passion and zealotry in the man's lit up eyes.

"Um, I have to go" I say. 

"Just listen to my story and let me  teach you a couple tunes. In no time you will be such a natural that you will no longer be playing the music, but you will rather be the music, sit." He pulled a couple small, black stools that had been camouflaged in the corner of the room. I sit knowing I have no alternate choice. He begins his story.

"Ever since I was a young boy I have had an affinity for music. It was my older brother, Kevin, who taught me my first instrument, the piano. The two of us couldn't have been closer. As I grew older I honed in on my art of music. I started adding a couple other instruments to my repertoire: the violin and the drums. 

My childhood was transient. All of my most distinct memories consist of me and my brother exploring the forest by our house and singing songs that we crafted ourselves. Soon enough I would be on my way to Juilliard school of music. That is if the gold rush had never happened.

My brother was ambitious. He wanted to get rich. Just like the hundreds of other young American men, we made our way to Colorado in the hopes of striking it rich. We did.
My brother invested in this house we are in at this instant, imagining that it could be used as a sort of vacation home. I on the other hand bought a stratocaster and a brand new grand pianno. The wealth came, however, with significant risk and eventually significant loss.

It was about a week after my brother and I had found the trove of gold that made us rich, at least rich by our standards, that Kevin Xavier passed away.

For the first time in my life I could not feel the music. I could not push out the emotions I was feeling. My instruments were doing me no favors in tempering my emotions. I lit my new stratocaster and piano on fire in rage. I do not regret it. Formerly learned instruments were not now useless in appealing to the dark void left by my brothers death.

Desperate,  I kept searching. I learned the harpsichord, the oboe, the piccolo, the mandolin; the list kept growing and growing. Soon I had  learned over 20 instruments. All to no avail. Left without a means of releasing my tensions. I took to murder, something I once thought of as unspeakable, something I now know is inevitable.

It was the supervisor at the mine that we had worked whom I first killed. He had not saved my brother from the mine incident, so in a way he deserved it. Early America was quite disorderly. I was easily able to escape inconspicuously to Norway; it was no arduous task. This was not before I discovered something the equivalent of magic. I rediscovered music.

After I shot the supervisor he collapsed to the floor. It was the precise moment that his head jolted to the floor making a hollow echoing tone, that I immediately loved, that I re-found my sound. This is when the idea struck me. I would craft an instrument from his bones. What better way to recover from the death of my brother than by playing Mozart's fifth on his perpetrators spine.

The instrument was a success, but not nearly as good quality as the pieces I create these days. It was half percussive with a whistle like feature. When I left America I had to leave my invention. Imagine what customs might do if they realized the components of my creation.

When I moved here I began to create a collection. Those neighbors that 'moved' didn't move far. In fact they are right here."

He gestured to the instruments. "Now let's begin our lesson."

"Sir, I'm not sure I feel comfortable playing an instrument that required a person to die, no matter how beautiful it's sound is."

"Your choice, but remember play or be played."

From then on a duet was heard wandering through the town each night. Each note the constituent of a never ending story of notes that some diligently transcribe and others simply ponder. The arrangement was continued each night. During the day all that could be heard was the sound of hammers and saws. No supplies went in only the occasional neighbor.

The sounds continued; once in a while it sounded like the band had grown, but no one could know for sure. They could just listen, admire and be curious.

There once were men at street 662. They played all their music in perfect tune.