Musical

I just want to get away from the noise. That keeps me up all night, lights on. All noises surrounding me like gnats, fleas and flies’ buzzing in a tent even with a net all wrapped around it.

Musical lyrics traveled through my head like the cars driving past me on the adjacent street. Much slower but still keeping me distracted from all the honking, screeching, yelling, light-changing, lane-changing chaos and commotion coming from Constitution Avenue NW and 14^th St NW.    

I didn’t mind the crazy traffic and exclamations bulleting from people as they slammed their horns and pumped irate fists at innocent cross walkers. But I could detox from the noise—I lived in Washington D.C. all my life. Grew up as a young girl, never really knowing anything else. Never really knowing anyone else other than girls not like me. Just like the noise was dreadful, my different roommates’ constant clamor added to the audible nightmare.

I might just leave this all behind. I’m going to cry. I made up additional lyrics to the tune already playing in my head, bobbing my head, and headed back to my apartment.

It was Saturday. I whistled along 14^th St NW and then turned left onto Madison Dr. NW, walking parallel to the National Museum of American History. Eyeing the humongous, literally stone-grey columns aligning the building, I put one black-sandaled foot in front of the other, walking with my hands in my black jean pockets. My eyes then averted diagonally upwards, concentrating on my desire. I had a future—write songs for a big artist. Someone out there would accept me.     

I shrugged.

As I kept treading along the thin, white concrete sidewalk, half-ignoring everyone’s smiles or friendly waves, I considered driving over to that DJ store in the mall. Maybe they’ll even look at the lyrics. Read them? I blinked and smirked to myself as I turned and met a two-lane street. Hitting the silver knob, I looked up and inhaled as I waited for the light to say WALK. Then, I stepped down and ambled along, strutting the white painted lines until I stepped up onto the continuing sidewalk and switched right to climb my four brick stairs. I yanked out my almost embedded keys from my pocket and jammed the right one into the lock, manipulating it so I could get inside and…

Wait, I said I might drive over to the DJ store in the mall, right? Well, maybe not tonight. I studied the cloudless sky as I struggled to pull the stupid key out of the door and then shut it, the soft bang rattling the curtained window and causing the curtains to fly. I whizzed around, slid down against the oak wooden door and pulled my legs into myself. Huddling, I sat, blinking as sadness washed over me. I was tired of being lonely. I just wanted to have a relationship with a girl accepting like me. I sniffed, wiping my nose with a tan finger. I didn’t like my job at the ice cream shop. I didn’t want to spoon another glob of brown fondue onto an upside-down triangle of tan cone anymore. I didn’t want to serve dessert anymore. I just wanted to crawl under my sheets and wake up to a new life—a social life that started with my Golden Retriever, Sandra, barking happily for a day out at the park to go fetch!

That kind of happened. I lowered my arm from throwing an imaginary ball, but I then squeezed my mouth, casting my eyes to the ground. I heard footprints and then claws on the linoleum tile. I looked up. Sandra halted halfway from coming towards me and panted, staring half at me, half at the basement door.  

“Come here.” I urged, beckoning with my waving hands. She did, and I grabbed and snuggled with her. The fact that she was a grown Golden that barked and barked whenever she wanted outside always made me laugh. I knew she couldn’t really know. She didn’t. Because she was just a dog. I fluffed her seemingly happy-go-lucky face and grinned, loving her like my own daughter.   

I did have a roommate, but she ran away to be a fashion designer. Another girl lived here, too, when I first moved here, about thirteen years ago. But she was too boy-crazy—always complaining about the boys in her life who couldn’t take it when she laughed or when she cried over nothing or when she went all drama all because she didn’t get the perfect perfume at the cosmetics store. She was also a little too much to deal with. So I waved ­good-bye and, sadly, that was that. I’ve been here all along. It’s been a long time since I’ve really had someone in my life.

I gently pulled Sandra closer to me, her hind legs sliding towards the door. While her tail thumped the wooden floor, I buried my face in her tannish-yellow fur and closed my eyes, relishing the comfort. Lyrics came to me. I decided I’d write them down, and picked myself up, leaving Sandra to scramble off the floor and doormat. I walked away to the kitchen and grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen off a wire rack instilled into my kitchen wall above the toaster oven. As I scrambled my thoughts down, the pen’s ink flowed onto the whiteness. I was surprised how quickly the blank became a full page of red words breathing before me. I stopped and studied, and nodded sadly, knowing I too wanted to breathe but continuing to pour my life and heart out on the page with every drop of ink the pen held.

I kept writing, forgetting about life for a little bit. I attacked the whiteness, turning red ink into scribbles and scrabbles, words befriending other ones as they streamed from my brain to the page. When I was done, my hand ached, and I rubbed it. I then went to open the small refrigerator that welcomed me with a coldness I hated. I took out the purple container and then pushed the steel door closed. Making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I thought about maybe opening up about my issue to the co-workers at the factory. Would they listen? Could I befriend one of the girls—and then maybe hint at wanting her to become my roommate?   

I opened my mouth, the shock was so real. Consideration hitting every wall within my body was what made me think, Well, maybe I should. To get away from the everyday loneliness starting to weigh on me and crush me.

Sandra barked, causing my feet to jump off the floor a couple of inches. “Sandra!” I scolded, but she just tested me even more. I sighed and went to go grab the leash off of the bathroom hook after pushing the open door further open. Chaining the animal and opening the front door, I stopped when my keys came to mind. I dashed around to find them on the floor. I scooped them up, but when I turned around and sprinted outside, I found myself sprinting even harder to catch up with a runaway Sandra. Calling her name and then yelling as fear iced my veins and embarrassment plastered my attention to the dog and her galloping farther and farther away, I pounded the crowded sidewalk and lunged right for the gold and blue leash. Throwing myself onto the pavement and grasping it, I scrambled up and yanked a yelping Sandra back towards me. I scolded and actually smacked her. A young kid’s gasp caused his parent’s angry voice to reprimand me, but it didn’t deter me from my anger over Sandra’s sudden wild behavior.

“Sandra!” I stood there, looking like an idiot, but I didn’t care. I glared at the hopefully apologetic Sandra but then simpered, dropping to my knees and playing with her. I shook my head at Sandra, pulling her along and back home. Actually, I told myself: maybe I should take her for a walk. But Sandra was tugging in the wrong direction. “What’s going on, girl?” I cocked my fondue-colored hair at her. “What’s happening?”

She whined and made pre-bark noises. “Fine!” I hurried so as to not cause anyone’s attention. I jerked my eyes up. Never mind. There were so many people walking, talking, hurrying and demanding taxis to drive faster and rolling their eyes and complaining for all to hear that the taxis were serving themselves, not their rides. So I exclaimed, “Come on, girl!” We ran and scurried, dodged people, careened past dashing children and rushing parents and finally stopped to catch our breath at an abandoned gravel way with a couple of trashcans knocked over. Some trash must’ve caught Sandra’s attention because she strained against the leash and I gave in, saying, “Only sniff, okay?” She didn’t want to listen to me, because she really pulled on the leash.

“What is it?” I strained this time, yanking her back, but her claws disobediently dug into the dusty, gritty gravel path. I pulled and pulled, but suddenly I fell backwards, hitting my head against the tiny rocks. My vision went black for a minute, and when I opened my eyes, I met a darkening sky. I scrambled up, looking for Sandra. “Sandra!” I yelled. Panting told me she was right there. “Come on!” We jogged back home. Slamming the door shut after flicking the outside and hallway lights on, I sighed, happy tomorrow was Sunday. Maybe I can exchange my apron for a load of cash in my hand. Maybe I can call that DJ store in the mall. I grabbed my iPhone right on the stairwell and dialed their number.

Some guy picked up. “Hello?” His bored voice irritated me.

“Yes—hi, my name is Camilla. I would like to know if you’re currently hiring at the moment?”

“Uh…” A pause and then some rifling of papers. “Uh…it says here that you need to come in and fill an application out. So…do that and... and just do that and then…”

I tightened my grip on the phone. Could this man speak any slower? “Yes. I’ll do that. Just the application?”

His voice dripped weariness. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Thanks—bye!”

I clicked Off and bounced up and down, dancing in front of an oblivious Sandra. “Sandra! I might get a new job!”

The phone rang again. It was him.

After a few minutes of rambling about the job process, he drawled that I should come in no later than 2:30 pm on Tuesday. Great, I thought, I get out of work at 1:45 pm. Inquiring whether he needed to tell me anything else only to get a yawned-out ‘no,’ I almost rushed out good-bye and actually crashed to the floor and squeezed Sandra.

She yawned and then fought to get out of my tight grasp. I released her and watched her gallop and then trot away, sniffing the walls and then walking leisurely towards her food bowl. She crunched, but I jammed my head to the music inside it, returning to the pen and paper. Jotting all the lyrics down, I smiled small, excitement sizzling through me.  

Tuesday at 2:30 pm couldn’t have come faster. I hardly breathed, I was so ready to trade my chocolate ice cream for a chance to work at a music industry and hopefully send my lyrics to a studio. Or maybe here. Someone could read them and then recommend me. Or something like that. I’d have to see. I filled it out, barely being able to hold the pen, and elaborated that this job was going to be so much better than the last one. I was pretty sure my radiant smile and my bright eyes spoke more words than my mouth could ever at that moment. But the guy just nodded, a lazy smile hanging under his nose. I almost rolled my eyes.

When I first walked out of the interview the following Wednesday, I walked away with mixed feelings. The man—the same bored-sounding, tired, ready-for-bed guy slurring about my application process—made me want to just swing around and tell him to put a smile on his face. But I also felt like I could finally show someone what it meant to be ahead of the group—even if I never really got to do that at my current job. Maybe I’ll do so at this one.

As time went on and I gathered so much information about music, this industry and the work involved in becoming even a great songwriter, I grew impatient that I wasn’t just writing hit songs. I hoped that night as I lay back on the thinly coated leather couch with Sandra sleeping under my slippers that someone would help me make some big moves with my words. Maybe my interviewer. Maybe I could even make a change in his life.

Funny feelings bubbled up in me as well as fearful thinking. However, I strived to push that negativity away as I thought about what I was going to say to him to help him ditch his mopey attitude. What would I say? That today was Friday? Then he’d—

No. I’d write a song. Maybe it’d be weird at first, but we could laugh about it. Or maybe I could just ask what was wrong. I tried that the next day.

It didn’t go so well.

“Sorry.” I squeaked, fear sliding through my teeth as the guy walked away, a cold chip on his shoulder. “I need—”

“To leave me alone.”

“Sorry!” I called after him as he kicked the door open more after thrusting it out in front of him. The last I heard and saw was the door banging shut, its bells ringing sweetly.

What’s wrong? I thought, wiping the counter. Is it me? I’m just being friendly. What could be wrong with that? I dusted the rest of the studio and busied myself with ways I could just be myself —while trying not to let the waves of near hopelessness turn into tears on my face. Or was I and he wasn’t buying it? I just wanted a friend.

The following week, I played it safe, but he told me he was quitting. “It’s not your lyrics, Camilla. It’s your attitude.” And that was the last I heard from him as he waltzed out the store and droned good-bye. I, on the other hand, spread a wide smile and hollered, “Nice meeting you!” in the same jolly way I had introduced myself to him last Tuesday. He just kept walking, and I soon scowled, completely baffled, at the ugly carpeted floor of the room.

Was I right for this job? I pondered as I straightened the drum set and organized the knocked-over guitar cases. Was I doing the right thing? I considered as I mopped tiled areas. Was I spending my time wisely? I hoped as I wiped down each record label and restacked them in their allotted slots. I watched the little hordes of people stroll by my shop’s open area. I worked in the mall, but D.C. was a honking car with all its lights flashing. Even now, I heard muffled yelling, probably from an angry driver. I exhaled. What was I doing? I needed to get back to basics.

I cleaned some more and watched as my day wind down to closing. When I pushed my front door closed, I slid down it, ignoring Sandra’s wagging tail and nudging nose under my key-clasped hand. Peering up to the speckled ceiling, I lay my head back and gazed at it.

Soon noticing Sandra, I slapped a tired hand onto her, the nose still going but the whining starting. I groaned, annoyed with her, a little tired of the constant neediness. So I took her collar and chained it to the leash to let her out as far as she wanted to go. Once back home, I told her to leave me alone as I went to look up how to become a real songwriter since Bobby’s advice was stupid. I found a number and called it. The person picked up and was glad to help me. I rejoiced at the end of the call, enthusiasm streaming through my words of gratitude. I hung up, anticipation flooding my veins.

When I got to work, I couldn’t replace the gleeful grin so stretched across my face. When Bobby asked me what was so awesome, I threw out that I received a place to which to send my songs. He shrugged, but I ignored the sarcasm streaming from his lips. The next day, I advised him to stop being so pessimistic, and he snapped at me!

I told him I’ll quit if he kept up the attitude. He quipped, “What attitude?”

“Your ugly attitude. The last guy was a Debbie Downer. Now you’re a Sam Sarcastic. What’s up?”

“I hate this place.”

“I’ll hate it if you always frustrate me.”

“You can’t say that.” He snarled.

“Whatever.”     

He continued with his customers. But did I ignore his ugliness?  

I made funny comments about the way he sold records or swept the floor after every time he walked onto the checkered black and white tiles. “What are you, Mr. Clean?” I even managed to crack a smile on that tight-lipped face.

But he suddenly sighed impatiently, audibly and a little weird. I scrunched my face and decided it was better not to bother him. I couldn’t help it the next day and the next one right before the weekend. I even asked whether Bobby would care to see my lyrics. As bad as they were now.

“Not really.” He kind of threw the paper back at me and continued welcoming customers. I stood there, a little hopeless.