Chapter Thirty-Six
The angry first notes of the composition filled the auditorium with sound... and my mind with words...
"You have a degree in music, did you really think that was going to get you anywhere? Why don't you think things through Michael?" her voice carried through the house. "You're thirty years old, you're a grown man. If I was any other mother, you'd be out by now."
"So why don't you throw me out then!"
"Because I love you too much," she yelled back.
"Well why don't I just take that burden from you then. I'm leaving. I'm going to California."
"With what money? You don't have money to get to California. Where are you going to live? What are you going to do?"
"People go to California all the damn time, they get famous, they make money," I yelled. "Mom, I'm good at what I do. I'm a good pianist."
"I never said you weren't, but it's not a life, it's not a career. What are you going to do, concerto your way to millions of dollars?"
"I could."
"You can't. You need to get a job, Michael, you need to grow up."
"Why don't you respect me?!"
"I do repsect you, I just wish you'd grow up!"
"I am grown up!" I yelled. "I'm grown up and I'm going to California and there's nothing you are going to say or do to stop me."
"You can't just go to California!"
"Why not?" I demanded.
"Because... Because I SAID SO!" she'd reached the pinnacle. The point where, when I was a child, she always won the argument with those four simple words. She was, after all, the mother.
But not that time. Instead, that time, I looked her right in the face and said, "I don't care. You're narrow minded and you don't believe in me, and I don't care what you think."
The music danced a trail that conjured images of the routes and town names on a map. A map that spanned the distance from Atlanta to Los Angeles. I pictured the plane, and LAX as the plane was in a holding pattern, that space-age structure far below as it had been a week ago, on Brian's day for the failed mission of Return of the Kevi.
And next, the music turned into a declaration of independence, a song about freedom...
My room mate from college was waiting at the bus stop when I got off the bus that had taken me from LAX. Leonardo had studied drama and was waiting for his Big Break to come. He had a job at a pizza place in the mean time and offered me to stay at his apartment until I'd found a decent job. When I got off the bus and the smell of city and salt had filled my nostrils, I'd felt invigorated. I'd felt freedom. The world was mine to conquer and mine to gamble with my music if that was how I wanted it to be. I was okay with being a starving artist, whether my mother was okay with me being one or not. And Los Angeles, this city filled with dreams, promised me that I could succeed.
With a sweep, the music dipped into a darkness... a time of depression and struggle...
California dreams are many a time just that - dreams. Dreams that never come true. I'd battled failure and loss and discouragement. I'd struggled through part time job after part time job, trying to upkeep my end of the rent before Leonardo kicked me out, our friendship having dissolved with his patience. I'd struggled to try to forge a life on my own, but things mounted up and soon I'd found myself living on the streets, enough money to buy food and things like that but hardly ever enough to keep a roof over my head.
The darkest moment of my life - marked by the deepest baratones of the piano's keys - had been lived under an overpass by the highway. The traffic rumbled overhead at all hours of the night. The scene there was so much like that movie Where The Day Takes You that I kept waiting for Little Jay or King to appear. I wanted out of that life, I wanted a good night's sleep, and to feel hopeful again.
I'd decided to go home. I knew my mother wouldn't turn me away. I'd go home and I'd get a real job - maybe as a music teacher or something; I could picture myself doing that. I'd apologize for being terrible to her before... I'd swallow my precious pride... pride that had foolishly separated me from my mother - the bravest, most saint-like woman I'd ever known in all of my life... the woman who had raised me, single-handedly.
Obligingly the song lifted into a hopeful, climb, like a promise being realized, reaching for the answer to a question that was never asked.... and as it built up to that climatic, abrupt ending that so shocked every person that had yet listened to the piece... I understood why... why it ended that way.
Her house was on the other side of the park. I was running through it, my heart beating in my chest, my bag slung over my shoulder, the case containing my keyboard clutched in my fist. I hadn't even heard the guy coming up behind me until it was too late. He didn't get much, I didn't have much for him to take. I mean he got my keyboard and the clothes in the duffle bag, I'd assume. But I'd spent every last red cent I had on the airline ticket home.
I wonder if it was a waste for him, mugging a poor guy like me?
I'd never made it to my mother's to get the answer that would finish the song and so it simply ended, hanging there in the room, asking a question at the same time as it answered so many others.
As soon as the final note, the one that asked Am I still your son?, faded in the arena, I leaped up from the chair of the piano and ran toward the backstage, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. Brian looked ecstatic about the music; Howie, Nick and AJ were all grinning as I neared them, proud and excited because I'd lived up to expectations they'd had for a person that I could never be, simply because I wasn't him.
I passed by the others and grabbed Nick by the shoulders. I looked him right in the eyes. "My name is Michael," I said.
Nick looked shocked for a moment, then realization to the words I said dawned on him, and then he looked stunned. The other guys were exploding with questions behind me, but Nick just stared at me, his eyes searching mine. "You remembered?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, "It just --" I pointed back at the stage, "It just flooded me. That song... that piece, it tells the story and I just... I wrote it for her, for my mom. It's hard to explain right now, I'll explain later." I let go of his shoulders and passed by him, ignoring the other guys altogether as they shouted questions after me. I had to get to Marty.
I pushed through the doors that led to the seating area, and I squeezed between the rows of girls to the center aisle. Marty was still facing the stage, her jaw dropped, her eyes welled with tears. "Excuse me," I pushed by the last girl that stood between Marty and I. Mr. Wilder looked over at me and nudged her arm. Marty turned to me, a look of shock and confusion filling her eyes. Her lower lip trembled.
"Mom?" the word felt good...right...in that heavy, comfortable way, like a blanket feels in winter.
"Michael?" her voice was thick, caught in her throat, "What happened? What - your face - what --" she stepped toward me. Several fans were looking at us with interest. The Boys were standing on the stage, staring at us; Nick's eyes wide like he couldn't decide if he was shocked, scared, or incredibly excited.
"I tried to come home," I said.
She stepped closer, put her hands on my cheeks, and I bent down to look into her eyes. Her eyes filled with tears and her face contorted. Her arms wrapped around me, pulling me into her chest as a silent sob shook her head-to-toe.
After Self by Pengi
