boy
and horn
amidst
the hems of trenchcoats he sat with his michevious smile – that
one that all young children seem to share with themselves in private
moments. not meant to revel in planned disobedience or taking pleasure
in rebelling against some standard; we have to be much older before
we learn that smile. he sat with the smile, maybe it’s better
called a look of wonder, with that wondering smile, knowing he was about
to do something that gave him extreme pleasure, without knowing why.
the anticipation of a direct flood of delight captivated his face and
appeared in outward form as some sort of unknown smile. unknown was
about to happen, because he didn’t know how those creatures above,
who could not relate to his smile, were going to react; he didn’t
understand what social implications his action was going to have. he
knew it would have some, he knew some reaction would ensue, some clamor,
or silence, or harsh words, or pitying smiles, or streaming delight
shared for the faintest of seconds, but which? his fingers danced in
the space of anticipation around his toy, his pride, his weapon, and
his instrument. there would be no forethought, no conscious consideration,
no moment of decision or act of will. he would blow it, he knew, but
he didn’t know when, and he didn’t even know that he knew.
I don’t even know that he knew, but I saw the smile; the smile
spoke to me, and I knew that sometimes I didn’t want to know.
in my trenchcoat, socially conversing, bantering with other gloves,
trenchcoats, wool hats, briefcases and backpacks, the corner of my eye
caught that intrinsic gleam in his and I regressed into myself and watched.
words shouted above the roar of themselves through me and over me, and
everything seemed dimmer. that smile - its aftermath somehow created
a space in the packed car, a void with a tangible surface, barrier.
I’m supposed to live in a hopeless country. post soviet times
have been difficult, and people rarely smile. black is the color of
choice, and vodka and beer the savior in the streets after work and
on weekends. discos console the youth’s angst and the sky is gray,
not blue. but I’m not from this country and I am hopeless as well,
sometimes. standing, the day had been heavy on my shoulders; my long,
heavy coat absorbing the hours. lost in its own perception, culture
was indefinable to me. then he blew that plastic horn as loud as his
eight year old lungs could manage – a blaring inconsistency resounding
in its toneless punctuation off every wall, through every trenchcoat
and underneath every fur hat. a wrinkled sound, its edges scraping the
air and its dissonance burrowing ferociously, it lifted life for a second.
ineffable laughter replaced the mysterious smile, emanating from that
source of unknown delight and curiosity, unbelievably impressed with
the audacity of the contrast he had just created. onto the hum of daily
transportation he juxtaposed a guttural, unrefined, accosting, beautifully
loud, mechanically crude chaos. as an alarm the horn blow shocked the
latent desire for the monotony of one minute to the next, and everyone
turned to the perpetrator. that smile of wonder, of anticipation, of
shocking the world into existence once again racked the boy’s
small stature with seizures of pleasure and laughter. slowly the sound
faded, its memory lingering for only a few seconds, as the heaviness
descended once again, crushing its primitive plea. scolded for his dabble
with shock and wonder, thoughts might have begun forming in his head.
did he plan to blow the horn? why did he do it? why did it make those
bigger creatures so upset, especially the one he loved? didn’t
they like how loud it was? anticipation told him beforehand how delightful
it would be, but that sound was just so satisfying, it conquered anything
he could have imagined. did everyone else feel how jarringly loud and
obnoxious it was? wow. that’s what I thought he was saying. at
least hoped he was. his fingers playfully spun the small plastic tube
in his fittingly small miniature palms, and, head down, I could see
that wonder and smile begin to return to his face. I don’t think
he was toying with a future rebellion, consciously intending to derive
pleasure from contradicting his mother; he wasn’t old enough for
that. he forgot, I think, about those moments; that lighteness created
by the sound suffered in his memory, slowly losing its consistency,
and he wondered what it was really like. lost amidst the trenchcoats,
high heeled shoes, and black pants he sat in his seat spinning his instrument
of terror and dissonance. he remembered the painful sobs of laughter
only vaguely – why had they consumed him? what kind of sound was
it exactly? how loud was it? his eyes and mouth began to itch once again
in simultaneous certainty of the future. the memory was fading, basically
gone. soon, he would be back in the unknown, forced to exert life upon
it. I wished I could ride the subway a little longer.