A Life Of Its Own

Spotlights flooded the stage with artificial light, entering every pore of the imperfect hardwood and permeating even microscopic cracks. Phillip did not so much as squint as he stared back into the audience that was invisible to him, veiled by the brilliance, and made a humble bow. He delicately rested his rear and legs on the stool, so deftly that the slight exhalation never resonated through the hall’s acoustics. Resting his hands on the ivory keys, he triggered an explosion of colorful sound that resonated through the ranks of people.
It comes as no surprise that pianists often make natural dancers. Phillip’s movements up and down the keyboard seemed to materialize at the ends of ten miniature feet. Each finger bent, curled, and even swayed as if having its own personality. Often, his two hands would have to cross over, and it was easy to perceive a slight wave between the two, a cordial greeting, a passing wave. His head, too, seemed independent of the other constituents of his body, and gave the impression that it was not being used at all, though this was no mechanized reproduction of a practiced motion. Each finger had a life of its own.
There was an odd dancing effect on the keys too. As they dove down and hammered each string in the piano’s body, they caught the light. A pseudo disco-ball effect pranced on the painted ceiling above. The cherubs that watched over the mesmerized people seemed to float about, rather than being transfixed, static, merely a representation of life. One look in their direction actually sparked fear, an odd belief that all of the holy things in their plump hands might shower down on the red velvet seats.
Phillip radiated beauty to his immediate surroundings. Within the soundproofed walls of the auditorium, he unleashed a beautifully calculated barrage of sound waves, tickling every hammer, anvil, and stirrup with unrelenting persistence. At some point, he seemed to transfer all the life that coursed through his veins to the very tips of his fingers, as if putting the rest of his body on autopilot. Every time his fingertip touched a key it was like a delicate kiss which the porous material seemed to lap up and prepare for the next. One final note rang, one parting exchange between man and instrument, and Phillip rose, bowed, and exited the stage to a roar of applause.
He tried to exit the stage, more accurately. Just a step away, he was met by a man in a black suit with a white shirt and a white tie. The audience could only see Phillip, who was paused, one foot on the stage and one foot out of view. Clearly, the man was either important or considered himself to be, and would not let Phillip past without releasing his statement, as if pent up and slamming on the cage that was his memory. Proper viewer etiquette would suggest that a worthy performance deserves clapping until the performer leaves the stage, and this made conversation between Phillip and the man quite difficult and strained. After bouts of yelling and what appeared to be sign language, the man produced an envelope, made a botched attempt at a hand shake and left, utilizing an unnecessary about face maneuver.
“A draft?” His wife asked him.
Phillip ran his fingers through his hair, and repeated his earlier words. “Yes, a draft. Not a cold wind, not an essay outline, not any other synonym you can pull out of your ass. The kind where you go. And you kill people. And you come home and they don’t even give you a pat on the back. The give you post traumatic stress disorder though. I think that’s supposed to replace a pension.”
“Why do you they want you? A breeze could blow you over. Artillery would be a nightmare. You could lift more with your fingers than you could with the rest of you arms.” She paused, and noticed his face drop. “I’m sorry. Look, it’s late, you’ve had a long day, and we should just get some rest.”
They finally agreed. “You’re right.”
With that, he pushed his chair back a little, moved the pile of mail out of the way, rested his head on the kitchen table and went to sleep.
The bus seemed as discontent as its passengers. Phillip tried to get some sleep, resting his head against the plastic window, and every time he did the suspension let out a grunt and banged his head against the nearest, or more often, the hardest object in proximity. He decided to try napping on the back of the fake leather seat in front of him. The experience gave him newfound respect for the strength of speed bumps and the resilience of the human skull. The bus complained the whole journey, accenting its distaste with the occasional dissonant creak, with subtle undertones of burning rubber to hint at future problems. Phillip shrugged and viewed the other recruits in the vehicle. At least the bus was animated.
Boot camp was bad food. A lot of instances where getting wet is mandatory but not logically necessary. It was beds that were not the same color when they were new. It was a lot of paperwork and education, along with all of the physical labor, unpleasant people trying to make the whole experience more appealing to only themselves, cooks who could care less and cleaners who should have better jobs. Phillip felt like a fat kid in middle school.
After a couple of unforgettable nights certainly worthy of forgetting, boot camp came and went, which originally struck Phillip as a positive event. Of course, he failed to look into the future and realized that the sensible progression of boot camp is actually going to war. Phillip yearned for the black and white keys that he colored the world with. He wanted to sit at his own piano, to feel the stool already conformed to his shape. He wanted a warm drink in a thick ceramic mug. He wanted to sit on his porch and watch the world go by.
Instead, he got a rash. A sizeable one at that. He accumulated some kind of hanging odor that never seemed to leave his side, like the companion nobody would ever want. Sitting in the humvee, he felt at ease, knowing he could no longer attempt, and inevitably fail, at trying to evade the funk. The humvee seemed to grumble too, but more like an angry teenager. The movements were jerky and unpredictable, the undertones of hot shell casings sharp and bitter. Phillip shook his head. He preferred the bus.
After boring days at base camp, he dragged himself, and his smelly invisible companion, into the humvee once again. Manning the turret at the top, Phillip went about the automatic motions he was trained to do in camp. Sweep left, sweep right, look up, gun down, view the starving children on the side of the road, wonder why someone is throwing rice at you, sweep left, pray that that’s a toy gun, sweep right, I’m going to have military tan lines. There was a rhythm to the process, but it felt alien to Phillip.
He woke to saline. His chapped lips were tricked by the tears, first hydrated, and then sapped of any liquid through the salt. The light was brilliant, almost familiar, but it hurt his eyes. He had a one person audience. Something seemed unpleasantly lodged in his nose, as if he was permanently stuck with the feeling right before a sneeze. His body was cold but his hand were warm, almost as if covered by their only miniature blankets.
After adjusting to the light, he found his wife standing over him, silently spilling tears onto the hospital bed and his gown. Even her breathing was inaudible, and Phillip couldn’t help to crack his lips to form a smile. There might be times for words, but now was not such a time. His wife smiled and kissed him on the forehead, and he closed his eyes to lull himself back to sleep, and reached across his body to scratch his arm. He screamed.
Screaming seems to clear the mind, to create some kind of vacuum that only stays as long as a person screams. Phillip wanted to scream forever, to be empty forever, and to never let that cavity be filled. He shot a brief glance at his hands to confirm his thoughts. Both were stumps, and more accurately, he did not truly have hands anymore; he had nothing beyond his wrists but a bundle of gauze. He stared, hoping they would appear, that someone had run out of ideas and made this a reality show, or that his eyes weren’t well adjusted or something-something, anything. Phillip stopped screaming, but the emptiness inside him remained.
It had been a while since he lost his hands, but he was still in the hospital, somewhere in Switzerland, with his wife permanently attached to his side. The odor seemed to have vanished. Phillip considered it a fair trade.
“We can’t stay here forever Phillip. It’ll eat you alive and you know it.” She tried to reason.
“I’ve already been consumed. ‘It’ will just be picking at a carcass.” He shot back.
“You’re alive, i-” She paused. Her first two words felt like enough.
“Well I-” He stopped short as well. They both knew what was going to say.
His wife quieted her voice, as if suddenly aware of an audience. “This is Switzerland.” She whispered.
“Thank you.” He whispered back sarcastically.
She cleared her throat. “They can-they can, you know…” A brief pause “put you down.” She blurted, without changing her expression. “There are two buttons over there. One turns off all these damn machines you haven’t needed for weeks. We can go home. The other one puts poison in your IV drip. I’ll be outside.”
Her exit was so quiet Phillip had to watch her leave to make sure. His head dropped, and he stared at the nauseating pattern on his hospital gown. He reached across the bed and
He reached across the futon to grab the remote, while wondering how someone could sit through the whole movie. A soppy plot, a predictable twist. He shook his head, as if trying to punish pop culture. He turned off the TV, watching the final image, Phillip’s disgusting hospital robe, fade off of the screen. He sighed and dragged himself upstairs, and went to bed.