coloring outside The lines

He enters the old café and instinctively walks over to his normal booth, places his coat on the nearby coat hanger, seats himself, spreading the napkin across his lap- as such is proper table etiquette- before he even knew what he was doing. He looks up finding the café relatively empty- relieving the tension in his muscles. He hears the familiar click of Edith’s high heels as she walks over, pouring a cup of coffee for him. He grips the warm cup and takes a sip letting the bitter fluid roll over his tongue. He notices Edith grabbing a small notebook and a pen behind the bar counter- indicating that she will be taking his order soon. He takes another sip of his coffee- yet this time, as the beverage washed through his tongue, the bitterness was more prevalent on his palate and his tongue squeezed as if it were a towel being wrung to release the water it soaked up- as the waitress approached, he caught himself before the same surprising disgust showed on his face. Edith still there asks, “How is it? I made it the way you’ve always ordered it.”

The coffee started to churn in my stomach, mixing with the acid even more, sloshing around making my stomach cramp and groan silently so only I can hear its cries- “I don’t like black coffee too much. I’d much rather drink something else or at the very least add sugar and cream.” I thought, but my mouth failed to articulate those sentiments as I looked down at my familiar coffee, watching the hypnotizing ripples, drawing me in.

He looks up at her smiling face. “It’s wonderful.” Joe said- he always liked it better when people would smile.

After finishing his cup of coffee, he pays for his drink and left the café only to walk back in since he forgot to give Edith a tip. The sun is barely up as it is still relatively dark and only a few people have started their day. Joe gets into his car and hears the familiar, slightly robotic voice of his GPS and proceeds to follow its instructions.

“Take a left in five hundred feet. Take a right in one mile. Merge to highway sixty five south. Stay on the road for six miles.” As Joe follows the route given, he realizes that this was the way to get to work- he isn’t going to work despite the fact it is supposed to be a normal workday and is actually going the opposite direction of his intended destination. Joe turns his car around- changing the destination on his misleading GPS even though he already knew the route by memory anyway.

“Follow the road for 40 miles.” He loosens his grip on the steering wheel, allowing it to breathe freely. He releases the tension in his leg, his calves drooping down and his foot sinking in as if he is slowly submerging underwater. He follows down the straight road, his hands floating on the steering wheel, as if the car is driving itself on its predestined path, his foot sinking deeper in the depths.

Joe looks over at the blurred road sign on the side of the freeway- the green stretching out far past the actual sign. He reads, “Speed limit- sixty five miles per hour.” He lifts his foot off the brake, but Joe pauses, listening to the wind, ramming his car like it were bullets- his car speeding so the dashes on the road seems to be one straight line.

I listen in to the melody of this wind, the high pitched whistling as I fly against its flow- its song yearns for me to jump out through the window and fly away, escape high to the heavenly octaves of its opera- a dream, yet one too sweet to resist. I roll down the window as to allow a small crack and the breeze ambushes me attacking the top of my head like hurricane and its ferocity spilling on to my forehead and eyes- it takes hold of any little hair it can grab and pulls with all its might- but the seat belt held me back, and I find my foot once again on the accelerator.

The wind turns to ambiance and he hears the echoing noise of a pen scratching into paper, frantically dancing around and a definite hard line finishing the note. He sees his father’s face, angered and crunched showing off his wrinkles, yelling words yet only deep, bellowing sounds came out, yet with the same piercing pitch that permeated into his soul, scraping it and his whole body shivers again. And he sees his bow snapped in half, entangled in its curled, loose strings.

And the glorious psalm turns loud, the harmony threatening to burst my eardrums into a bloody I roll up the window quickly astonished by its sudden ferocity, closing it off from me, and trapping myself again.

Joe lightly presses his foot on the brake pedal- the sound of the wind grows quieter and quieter until it, once again, is ambiance. The speedometer reads sixty five miles per hour and Joe presses the cruise control button. He passes by another road sign- thirty miles- and the green remains in the confines of the board, not stretching beyond it.

. He takes in a deep breath, relaxing his shoulders and calves, his body reclining into the soft cushions of the car seat- his cushions- his car seat. They are a black color- originally shiny reflecting the sunlight as it glowed on it, but over time it became a dull black, with a faint coat of gray covering it- and it stopped reflecting light. Joe wanted to change them, since he didn’t like the way the headrest strained his neck when he laid on it, but his father said he liked the seats better than ever before. So they stayed, but after some time passed, the seats grew on Joe as his tolerance increased and the strain became unnoticeable.

He hears his mother’s ringtone and he remembers he is alone and that they both share the same ringtone. He answers putting it on speaker.

Joe hobbles over at the sound of the landline ringing. He trots heavily and quickly only to fall and end up crawling again. He climbs up the kitchen counter and grabs the phone in his meaty hands. He looks up to see his dad, looming over him like a giant and he says, “Remember to always say who’s speaking when you pick up the phone, son.”

“Hello, Joe speaking.”

“Hi honey.”

My heart drops as her voice echoes in my car, vibrating so vigorously that the speedometer seems to quiver between two dashes and my face winces as the shaking reaches me, making my whole body tremble forcing out an exasperated sigh.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working Emily?” I ask.

“I’m don’t need to work on my break.”

“Is that so.” I reply back. I hear in the muffled background people speaking, their conversations blurring to an indistinguishable mesh of sound and I notice the tone of supervisors, ordering their subordinates to do their bidding. Their voices fill my car with an ambiance- I try to tune into one conversation, any conversation. Yet the habitual silence soon catches up.

“Don’t be quiet at the table Joe and answer my questions,” Joe’s mother said. Joe sitting down at the kitchen table. He looks over to the trash can and sees his coloring book his sister ripped in half. Joe pokes his food not taking a bite of it. His mother orders, “And stop playing with your food, its bad table manners!” And Joe takes a bite despite him not being hungry.

“How is your day so far?” Joe asked.

“It’s good.”

“It’s about noon, have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“Its nice weather isn’t it love?”

“Joe it’s raining.”

“You don’t like the rain Emily?”

“I don’t. By the way, your coworker who just had her baby said that if we wanted we could pick up her old clothes whenever we want.”

I didn’t speak for a while and I say, “I told you, I have doubts.”

“Joe all my friends are using theirs already!”

Silence.

“Anyway, your mother called me to ask you to pick up some cherries on your way there.”

“We met at a cherry stand didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did.”

And the silence swung back to haunt again.

Joe replies, “Well I will pick them up. And tell Edith to hold the thought.” And Joe hangs up the phone, exiting off to his right since the last town he passed was 10 miles the other direction.

He pulls in to this makeshift dirt parking lot- muddy pickup trucks were scattered all across the space and he saw another dirtied white truck pull in, forgetting what the lines on the ground were for, contributing to this labyrinth. Joe parks his car in a secluded area- in between the lines. He unbuckles his seat belt, exits his car, and locks it- he sees the driver exit out of the white truck- a man with a cherry, wrinkled face sporting a dulled, leather cowboy hat and a worn red flannel over his wife beater. He looks over at Joe, and Joe reflexively smiles politely and before he could turn his head away, he sees him smile back, raising his hand up and yodeling, “Hi there friend!”

His voice cracked between pitches, and the changing sounds made Joe unsteady. Joe awkwardly put his hand up as a response and his smile turns to a frown when he turns away, and unusually checks to see if his car door was actually locked. Joe turns around and yelps with surprise, his arms moving in towards his chest as if to cower, when the man in the cowboy hat appears in front of him.

“Nice to meet you there! I’m Billy!” taking Joe’s hand from his folded arms, shaking it vigorously. His hand is rough and he shakes with a strong grip, though he surprisingly smells like a peppermint cane on Christmas Eve.

“Ummm.” Joe replies.

“You here for the market right? I would be more than happy to show you around!” And he took his hand and put in on Joe’s shoulder, escorting him through the farmers market and Joe left scrambling for the right response for Billy. “Right on this stand you’ll find the crunchiest carrots in the whole wide world. Uncle Scott farms them like no one else, am I right Scotty?!” and Uncle Scott smiles showing his missing front tooth, “Over on the right side,” bringing me over to another stand, “Ms. Janice Goldfields has the most delicious sweet potato pie I’ve ever eaten in my whole life,” “Umm hi, my name-” and Billy rushes Joe past Ms. Janice, “Now this man right here is our local butcher, but don’t let the blood-stained apron scare you, he’s just a big softy unless you talk to one of his daughters,” the beefy man smiles at Joe and chops a slab of meat in front of him, “Now Mr. and Mrs. Copperson grow such scrumptious cherries but I have to say their apples are their signature,” Joe’s ears perks at the sound of cherries and begins to say, “Umm, actually this-” and Billy walks Joe over to yet another stand and starts, “Now you haven’t seen this farmer’s market until you have-”

“Billy I think he wanted to stop at the cherries.” Said a sweet, honeyed voice that flows around me like the tail of a kite, dipping in and out around my arms, and tickling my ears with its candied harmony, and fleeing back, luring me to turn to the source of such melody. And I turn around and mistake a woman for a siren. Her exotic and unique beauty was like none that I had ever seen before. Her short, boyish hair frames her face so perfectly, her soft jawline, receding down to a narrow, round chin. Her skin is a soft dark brown like milk chocolate in all its creaminess and sweetness. The sunlight gleams down on her, and no shadows exists on her torso or her straight figure. She catches me looking at her, and she smiles a white gleaming smile framed with soft lips. She walks up to me and says,

“I can take you to the cherries if you want.”

“Hi.” And I fumble for what I am going to say next.

She laughs a laugh that fills me with euphoria and the butterflies start to flutter in my stomach and my face begins to grow hot.

“Amy, you should be ready to play tonight, not stealing my guests!” Billy pouted.

Play? I look down at her and see a guitar case strapped onto her back.

“Umm, Amy is it? You play guitar?”

“And sing too, mainly all original pieces. I’m playing in a bit so you can watch me play, Mr.?”

“Joe! Umm, it’s short for Joseph, but everyone calls me Joe.”

“Alrighty, I’ll be looking forward to seeing you in the audience.” She said and she stops herself halfway, turning back over to me and says,

“Oh and by the way, I like Joseph better,” winking at me before she turns away. I watch her strut away, her hips moving side to side in a harmonious rhythm and I find myself walking after her, mimicking that same rhythm of hers.

I take a seat in front of a wooden stage where Amy will sing and play again. I feel a breeze flow through me, the same hectic wind, yet this time it wasn’t rising up, yet it feels settled in this strange, hectic town. I see people bustling around the market- laughing, without any regard for social standards. I see Billy in the corner giving a flower to a young girl and the butcher, his apron and face seeming bloodier than they were before. People began filling in, taking the uniform seats and arranging them in various circles and lines- and it looks, with these people’s uniquely colorful flannels, each carrying a bounty of fruits and pies, like a picture of the Milky Way I saw once, and with every person taking a seat from its original position, the similarity becomes clearer and clearer. And the wild winds and wild town, stops seeming so barbaric, and it becomes more normal.

Shrieking whistles and thundering claps fill the afternoon sky, and Amy steps out onto the stage her radiance shining ever so brightly. She grabs the microphone and says,

“Hello everybody! This one is for all the new folks in town,” she looks to me and smiles, “welcome.”

And then the universe grows quiet- children running sit crisscrossed on the floor, their eyes wide and their bodies still- not even the wind dares make a sound as all wait in anticipation. And her song begins. Her strumming, fluid, letting each note ring to its fullest and then the next one accompanying with its own style and own pitch. Her fingers dance across the strings, gliding across them with a light touch to signal their turn to sing. Her notes elevate me up high into the heaven the winds tried to take me. I close my eyes- yet within the darkness the music color my vision. Streaks of red, blue, and sparkling gold appear and dissolve into microscopic squares, and the dust swirl around me like a whirlpool, lifting me higher and higher into salvation, and her vibrato shoots me to the gateway, bursting through the pearly gates into a blinding white light of high notes. And I smell the sweet potato pie, and the dust cradled that aroma. I open my eyes and see it dance around and through the audience, replacing the laughter with an even more joyous sound. I look back up at Amy and the sound waves, the colored dust, shimmer around her- I begin to feel relief with this dancing harmony and content. I imagine my violin, and its sounds working with hers, intertwining into a glimmering braid that sashes around Amy and this town. Both instruments in perfect harmony singing their story into a beautiful melody.

I watch as he snaps my bow in half, throwing it down to the floor by the hair, mixing the rosin with his sweat rendering it unusable. He takes my violin and steps on it, snapping the strings out of place. My mother and sister watching with dead eyes, and he looks at me and says with more clarity than I have ever heard before, “I never wanted this for you.” And they walk out together, leaving me and my broken violin alone to wither all because I said, “No.”

Joe fumbles out of his seat, falling down in a panic- he sees people looking at him perplexed. Joe stands up, brushes himself off, and heads to his car, calmly walking, trying to hide the fact he wants to sprint to it- he hears sandy, hefty footsteps walking towards him and Billy asks,

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to the bathroom.”

And before Billy could once again uninvitingly walk him around, he walks off. He reaches his car and the car has trouble starting. Joe twists the key while pressing the brake as his father showed him once when this happened to him- however, Joe tries it over and over, and when all hope seems lost, the car roars again and he hears the GPS notify him,

“Merge onto highway 65 and stay on the road for fifteen miles.”

He turns into the freeway and thinks to himself,

“What an abnormal, strange town,” as if trying to convince himself. Amy flashes before his eyes and Joe command weakly, “Stop it!” Yet the wind around him still pulls him in- naturally yearning, and Joe drives off, pressing the cruise control in his car once he hit sixty five miles per hour.

And her melodious music sings to me again, and I see in front of this straightaway road, Amy sitting on her barstool, creating more stripes of sound with every strum- and I yearn to join her.

The splintering sound of the strings snapping punctures my ears and leaves a violent ringing in my ears that overwhelms the sound of her gracious soul.

“Such an abnormal, unsettling dump!” Joe imagines his father saying in a voice not his-he had a much more commanding tone. The sun begins to droop down and it sets behind his childhood house when he arrives.

He knocks on the door- the click, clack of his mother’s heels grow louder until she opens the door to find her son.

“Oh darling!” She says, opening up her arms- Joe hugging her.

“Did you bring those cherries?”

“I apologize, I forgot them. But you don’t even like cherries.”

“Yes, but when you told us how you met Emily it was such a romantic story I thought you would drive back home and have a second honeymoon.”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“Oh yes it is, come in honey we have dinner waiting.”

He walks inside his old double storied house and hears his mother’s signature command, “Shoes off,” even though he is already taking them off. He walks past the living room, where there were two couches facing the TV. He remembers when his parents and sister would sit down on the weekends and watch TV shows until it was past his sister and his bedtime. He walks into the dining table where he finds the table set in an orderly and symmetrical fashion. He sits down and calls to his mother,

“Hey mom remember the first time I tried to set the table?”

“Yes, you didn’t know what you were doing,” Pinching Joe’s cheek like she did when he was a child. His father appears coming out the stairs and Joe stands up, putting out his arms for a hug, but receiving a firm handshake instead. They sit down to eat and Joe reaches over the mashed potatoes with his spoon and his mother slaps his hand. “You still don’t know what you are doing. Grace.” They pray grace, and Joe watches his father take his food first- he follows afterwards. They fill their plates and Joe tells his parents,

“There’s something going on between Emily and me.”

His father, not looking up says, “Yes son, my day has been pretty good,” looking up he asks, “How about you?”

Joe’s face flushes red and he replies, “I stopped by the diner we all went to that one time.”

“Elsa, the waitress there also likes Sophia Webster’s heels- classy staff means a classy restaurant. You bought a pair for your wife didn’t you?” his mother asks.

“Yes but that’s what-”

“Is that all you did?” my dad asks, “What happened on the road?”

Joe’s face turns to a bright red and he begins to feel hot. “I stopped at this really shanty town. There was this one girl-”

“A girl?” Joe’s mom exclaims her eyes wide, “A married man doesn’t look at other women.”

“It’s not a big problem to look Nancy.” My dad replies, and they stare at each other and the chandelier flickers- the first time Joe ever saw that happen.

Joe breaks the silence, “Mom, dad, Emily wants children.”

“It’s about time. Most couples your age already have kids.” Joe’s mom says.

“Yes, but you are supposed to have kids with someone you love. And-”

“What do you mean you don’t love her? I’ve seen you two together. You listen to each other, you buy her presents, you pay attention to each other, that’s how your father and I are and we love each other dearly."

“Keep in mind though son that a newlywed couple are more lovey-dovey than older ones.” His father adds.

“I don’t know if that works for us.” I say to parents. They look up and squint their eyes at me. I see Amy again, playing her guitar in the background and I tell my parents,

“I don’t think that ever has.”

Joe jumps back at the sound of his father banging his fork and knife on the table and he says with his booming voice,

“You are married now and I won’t stand to have one of my children have a divorce. It’s bad enough you decide to abandon your job for this pointless excursion.”

“There are plenty of other people who can push papers-”

“You need money to support your family Joe! That is what a man is. You work hard to get a steady job to make money to support your family. I thought I made it clear to you in high school when you applied for that art school.” And I hear splintering strings and the snapping of my bow. “You need to go back home and forget about your petty problems and live like I’ve told you.”

I sit stunned and I play with my food in circles until my mom excused me from the table. I got into my car, turning on the headlights and drove back to his wife.

Joe sees a young girl, standing in a sundress that looked like one his mother used to wear next to a cherry stand. Her hair is long and her body is curvy, yet she managed to retain her modesty. And Joe knew that this was the type of woman his parents would approve of.

He drives on the road, his car running smooth, the pistons gliding in their chambers.

I see Billy again, taking me through the bustling Farmers Market. Uncle Scott, putting two of his carrots in the sides of his mouth to make a kid laugh, and I feel on my shoulder a tapping, and turning around Ms. Janice Goldfields throwing a pie into my face- and I laugh, licking the sides of my mouth to taste it’s goodness.

The car starts to churn and moan.

Joe thinks of sipping his black coffee, the taste growing on him as he likes the bitterness. He thinks about his job, analyzing data, signing documents, an effortless, work and he can come home to a wife and a home cooked meal.

The car stops moaning and purrs like a cat being pet.

I see my broken violin and the acceptance torn and crumpled in the trash can. I try to bow it one last time, but practically no sound came out, and the little squeaks that did were eventually choked out- my heart grow heavy and my face tenses to a frown.

The headlights begin dimming and blinking at irregular moments and the acceleration turns choppy.

Joe sees his parents for inspiration. They were his model relationship. Yet he recalls he had never seen them kiss or hug each other.

The car begins to swerve.

Joe looks back to his college days- parties and being drunk- things that wouldn’t have happened if he had went to the music school. He then sees himself crying into his accounting textbooks.

He puts on the emergency blinkers and tries to retain control of the car.

Joe peers into the future with Emily, trying to imagine the happiness of his life and his child. Yet no matter how hard he strained his eyes, he couldn’t see anything.

I see Amy again. We are standing next to each other on the wooden stage. She looks over to me with these eyes that sparkle like the sun reflecting off water. She sits on her stool and begins playing her guitar, the music making me sway- I allow the resonance to take me on a journey through the market- the place where the wind stood still. And with a strum, she hands me my violin, intact with the strings connected and my bow’s hairs not greasy with my father’s sweat. And I see us play together, the harmony I dream of, the rich red and the deep blue sounds stretching past my instruments and diving into the world, and I didn’t hear that splintering noise again.

The car breaks down completely and I pull off to the side of the road. I look at the car, the old graying seats, and my neck begins to hurt. I walk away from it and I take out the card Billy gave to me. “Amy Young,” and I dial her phone number in my phone. And she picks up, her sweet voice and my heart fills with elation. And I say,

“Hey, I never had the chance to hear you sing.”

End