Garden Breakfast
When I moved to Brooklyn six months ago, I had no plan, money, or job.
I'd just flown in from Antigua after a month-long, transatlantic
voyage on Rugosa - a New York 40 racing yacht. Sailing time is
thinking time, and for a month I weaved in and out memories and
predictions of an increasingly surreal existence. At some point,
Brooklyn became the only clear answer. It was one of those arbitrary
revelations that seemed to evade reason, but was completely
unavoidable, as if I were driven by forces other than my own. If
you're interested, people usually call me Tucker, or possibly Nat,
depending on the person. Either is fine though…names are just a
formality.
My Brooklyn apartment turned out to be awesome. Actually, it's still
awesome. Only through Craigslist can you find wood floors, a
vegetable garden, two chill roommates, and a short walk to the L-train
for about as much money as a Stones show. Don't go to The Stones,
though. They're overpriced and you'll learn just as much through
their albums as you would watching them tanked on stage. One time I
popped two adderall, sat down with my bass and transcribed Let it
Bleed for two days straight. When I woke up early the next day, my
soul had fused into a blues rock nirvana, patiently awaiting the
courage to be poured out my amp and into the backyard garden where MJ
and Dan were eating breakfast. "Do I have the courage?" It's this
day that I want to tell you about…the day of separation.
I couldn't have asked for better housemates. Nor are there two people
so diametrically opposed who get along so well. At the time, MJ and
Dan were both twenty-one year old college dropouts. And, like
everyone else, they were treading down the righteous path to nowhere.
The ocean got me to questioning my purpose, and although nowhere
didn't sound very exciting, at least they had a destination. So, I
looked to them for a frame of reference.
MJ dropped out of high school at sixteen and ran off to Portland,
Oregon with her alcoholic English teacher. Since then she's gotten
multi-colored tattoos on both arms, a black one on her lower back, a
lip ring, a tongue ring, black cloths and nail polish, an incredibly
loud and dirty mouth, an even dirtier dog, and a craving for alcohol
that she's learned to reject one day at a time. She had an abusive
father, dates abusive guys, and is as outspoken as any drunken Yankee
fan. Now, at twenty-one, she cleans upper eastside condos and watches
Sex and the City for a living. Sometimes I'm pretty attracted to her,
especially when she walks around in stretch pants and a black
tank-top, and even more when she isn't screaming at Tills for crapping
on the floor and tracking it around the kitchen, but I remember to
stop myself. I know better than to follow those who've seen the
devil.
Dan is pretty much everything that MJ isn't. Aside from planting
cannabis in the garden and blowing a few lines every now and again, he
takes relatively few chances. He's soft spoken, shy, unbelievably
considerate, and resembles either a Chinese hobbit or one of those
furry animals from Return of the Jedi. He's also in the habit of
ending every sentence as if it were a question. Whenever he's
nervous, that is, whenever MJ's around, he stutters and slips back
into his native Mandarin accent. He, of course, loves her, but spends
more time fixing computers than working on his confidence. I'm
attracted to his good natured simplicity, but know better than
following the path of a pushover.
I didn't want to torture myself, but without a path, every passing day
brought me closer to nowhere. And from what I saw from MJ and Dan,
nowhere was exactly where I didn't want to be. Or so I thought.
Fortunately, it was the day of separation which fixed all that
anguish.
* * *
It was unusually warm for a New York morning in late March. Patches
of snow retreated to the shadows, and the city birds sang as if spring
had come. MJ and Dan were eating in the garden, and I'd just woken
after my marathon session with Let it Bleed.
I had about an hour window before my nine to five started, and hoped
to spend at least half of that practicing. As I picked up my bass,
something deep and powerful in my core twitched once…then twice.
"…Was that my soul?" A promising buzz from my amp rattled the window
frame while a robin stared at me unnoticed from a beach tree nearby.
I struck a string, and a sparklingly clear tone rushed in waves down
my ear canal, past my eardrum, and through my conchlea to my brain. I
twitched again, and my core swelled with a power that shocked me. A
peculiar haze came over my vision, and my ears became particularly
sensitive to the birds flying to-and-fro. I knew that if I pushed it,
something might explode. Only curiosity trumped my fear. Something
was waiting.
MJ and Dan were still in the garden eating stale bagels when I left
for work. For a month I'd been slaving away eight hours days as a
temp for corporate America, a far cry from the month prior on the
ocean. "Bills need to be paid, regardless of inconvenience, right?"
The paper pushing, coffee drinking, envelope licking hell-hole of a
cubicle steadily sucked every creative ounce of energy from my mind
and body. Day after day my senses were dulled by whiteout and copy
machines gone awry. A special generator in the basement, designed by
four Caltech grad students in the late nineties, not only provided
enough energy to run the business smoothly, but also managed to create
an inexplicable time distortion, so that the last hour of work
actually lasted over a decade before the day actually ended. It was
how they were so successful, especially since I was only paid for
eight hours. Everyday my soul blackened. And every second in the
office killed whatever magical innocence I had left.
The day of separation was the worst of them all. The twitching was
gone, but my core undulated and swelled with more potency every
passing moment. Work proved impossible, especially considering my
increased sensitivity to the birds flying outside the building. At
first, there were only a few, but I could hear every wing flap, and
every note sung. I'd have to ask people to repeat themselves three
times before I understood. As I swelled deeper to my core, more birds
showed up to sing. Every hour they increased in number, all singing
different parts of the same song. By 10am, there were at least 500
birds flapping around the building. By noon, I couldn't understand
the alphabet, and I'd twice mistaken my boss for the copy machine. At
3pm, there were at least 1,000 birds circling the building, some of
them hovering in front of windows whenever I passed by. "Does no one
else find this weird?!" But they just stared with their soulless
faces.
A decade passed, the day ended, and I sprinted back to the L. The
birds didn't follow, but I could hear their song reverberating
throughout my body. My core was like a balloon filled to maximum
capacity, and I didn't know whether or not I'd make it home before the
explosion. "Why is this happening? Something to do with The Stones?"
Without realizing where I was, I'd unlocked my front door and crashed
into the kitchen. MJ and Dan were still in the garden, apparently
eating a second or third breakfast. The birds were back with their
song, flying to-and-fro, to-and-fro, thousands of them. "Don't they
see the birds?!" I looked down to see my body sitting on the chair in
my room. My hands lightly touched the strings of my bass as it
balanced in my lap. I looked out the window and made eye contact with
the large, female robin who'd gone unnoticed that morning. Now it was
impossible to look away. Her dark, beady eyes burned through me as if
she had something incredibly important to share. It was then that I
wondered for the last time, "Will I have the courage?"
Something intangible was dividing in my core, and 10,000 birds sang
brilliantly above a garden breakfast. As they arrived at the end of
their musical phrase, and when they began another, I started to play.
My soul fused into a blues rock nirvana, and never was music so pure
to my ears. All stress washed away as I become one with the bird
song, and seemingly with the universe. My bass so sweet, chuckling
and crying in prose and rhythm, I wept with its beauty. The birds
harmonized rich chords and soaring melodies that spoke of heaven and
hell. I grooved so ridiculously hard I'm surprised I live to speak of
it. As I closed my eyes, the large female robin leapt from her perch,
and landing gracefully at my sill, we all decrescendoed to make room,
vamping with purpose. She left space with such haunting anticipation,
I was sick with reverence.
My core had now swelled to a point where I knew I'd changed forever.
My hands slid effortlessly across the fretboard as I vamped in a
10,000 bird orchestra, my blackened soul now distinct from my body. A
long phrase came to an end, begging logically, and endlessly, for
resolution. Just then, the robin took a breath. Her solo began with
a lick so divinely beautiful and resolved, it dripped with a power
unfit for words…and then…more space, sending me over the edge. As my
soul tore loose from my body, it hung in the ether among shimmering
masses, a nirvana-soaked song, and a rich golden light. My body below
played on, but I was transcended to an elysian realm, surrounded by an
eternal source of love. An enchantment only found in that place oozed
into my soul, covering the black with magic it almost lost.
When I awoke in my bed, my eyes opened for the first time. "Have I
been gone for years?" The clocked glowed 11pm in yellow dots. MJ and
Dan were in the garden with a joint, just finishing the bag of
breakfast bagels they started that morning. I didn't think once of my
path as I stumbled down the stairs to the garden. At that moment, I
was happy.
Skip, 2005