Drumbeats into My Heart

62. Jordi Isn't Sure

The sun is trying to pulverize me today. I'm wearing my wide-brimmed sun hat, but it's not enough. I'm not sure a full canopy of shade would be enough either. Without a single whisp of a breeze, nothing stops the heat radiating up from the pavement and blanketing everything under its heaviness.

Or maybe the heaviness is in my heart.

Regardless, it's stinkin' hot out here.

Of course the hottest day of the year would coincide with the DMV parking lot farmers market. I didn't really want to come here today, but it's the closest market to my house. Plus, it's Saturday. It might be a treeless, soulless location, but it certainly isn't lifeless. Visitors come in throngs to this location.

I wipe the sweat from my brow and watch the farmers scurrying to dump ice on their wilting vegetables. I feel like a wilting vegetable myself, but I'm here and all set up to play. Time to earn my keep.

It takes me a little longer than usual to get into the groove of it. A small part of me—the part I can't control—keeps wondering if Seth will show up. I've been doing a rather thorough job of avoiding him, so I don't know why he would still want to, but that doesn't stop the silly crumb of irrationality from hoping. On theother hand, I'm also dreading he might actually show up to talk.

Sometimes, when I'm alone in my room, I half expect that iconic scene from the movie Say Anything to play out in the parking lot of my apartment complex. Seth would be standing there, 80's style boombox lifted high over his head, blasting the song he'd dedicated to me. Which was silly, of course. Who even has those boomboxes anymore?

What would I say to him if he did appear? Would I admit he was right? That I did need help? The very thought sours my mood even further. Right or not, the way he went about trying to publicly coerce me into doing what he wanted was so wrong.

I squeeze my eyes shut and valiantly push the thoughts away. Focus on the rhythm. The rhythm will save me every time.

I concentrate on two buckets. I don't need to look at them to hammer out a catchy beat.

Boom-tikka-tikka-boom-tikka-tikka

Yes. That's it. Like a slowly moving tide, the sour mood eases away, replaced by harmony. Life is simple again.

I hear the plink of a quarter being dropped into my tip jar and murmur a thank you. I stay in my zone, eyes closed against the harsh brightness of the afternoon.

These gigs aren't so bad. I might complain about the venue sometimes—especially on days like today—but I usually enjoy it once I get into the swing of things. Winnie used to snort at my use of the word gig. "It's a gig when someone hires you," she'd say. I keep calling them gigs anyway because it makes me feel like a working musician with an actual a job.

Tikka-pop-tikka-pop-tikka-boom-boom-boom

The cadence courses through me, as natural as my own pulse. I don't think about the heat, my new homework, or the ache in my heart. I am rhythm.

But, as always, the feeling is only temporary. Hours later, when the vendors begin packing their wares into crates, I start doing the same. And I'm aware of everything again. The oppressive heat. My status as a newly diagnosed dyslexic person. That uncomfortable hole in my heart. Outside of the zone, I'm a fallible human being again.

The tip jar is the last thing I stack into my little trailer. As I'm about to secure the lid onto it, I notice something odd-shaped nestled among the coins and bills.

I reach inside and extract the object.

Whatever it is, it's wrapped inside a five-dollar bill, cinched tight by a rubber band. I tug at the band. It snaps off, allowing the bill to slide away and flutter back into the jar.

Is this...

A pair of black earbuds and a power cable wrap around what appears to be an old MP3 player. A number of scratches adorn its plastic surface. In a flash of recognition, my head snaps up, scanning the lot for Seth, hope rising that he's still here. This is his player, I know it. I recognize it from all those times we sat side by side while he shared his music with me.

But he's not here. It's just straggling shoppers lugging bags of produce to their cars and vendors loading boxes into vans.

I swallow down my disappointment and squeeze the player in my hand. Why am I disappointed? I'm mad at him, aren't I? I've been refusing to see or talk to him for good reason.

I open my hand to stare at the innocuous little player, and something occurs to me.

I'm not so sure of those reasons anymore.

Sometimes we have to reevaluate our reasons for not doing something. Like not hitting that Vote button. (And if you have been hitting it, thank you!!)