Distraction
These words rang in Eddie’s head as he walked down the Manhattan streets: “Don’t be a distraction.”
He repeated this in his mind over and over, a mantra of some disheartened youngster who wanted only to look up and see the world he had dreamed about his whole life. This thought, through repetition, acquired a breath of its own and manifested in the form of a little ball that followed Eddie as he walked along each avenue. It would roll, bounce, and hurdle its way down the sidewalk and continually cross his field of vision, shimmering like a luminescent crystal ball all the while, trying to get his attention. But Eddie kept walking.
New York City, for many years, only existed to him in the furthest corners of a bookstore or the tall tale of a mutual friend at a cocktail party. Only a handful of times had he ever stepped foot onto its golden streets, and it was only in his adulthood did he finally resolve to return as an independent walker, thinker, and doer. The visits had not been frequent, but when the visit came, every worry in his life, every care, every ounce of weight he felt the world had piled onto his shoulders, dropped away once he caught a glimpse of the skyscrapers dominating the sky. One odd encounter, though, one mugging, even one glance in the wrong direction, the mere thought was all it took for Eddie to walk a little bit faster. Crack after crack in the sidewalk passed his sight, and his hands lay dormant in his thin cotton pockets. It was only upon sauntering into the street and nearly slammed by a bus that the horn jolted him out of his thoughts. He jumped back, looking up for the first time, past the bus driver whose hand gestures made his heart skip a beat.
“Don’t be a distraction,” he reminded himself as he watched his Thought continue to roll beyond him, weaving between the legs of pedestrians crossing the street. “Don’t be a distraction.”
* * *
Eddie’s fingers now kept time with the rhythm of the thumping of the subway car. His heartrate slowed. When he tapped along to the song in his head, that pesky Thought of his would disappear. It would vanish behind some chair or table, and It would hesitate to alert him to the glances of others. Of course, he still registered those quick looks or the blatant stares of people passing by, pausing to wonder if they could get a glimpse of the symphony he was conducting. In these moments, the Thought would occasionally jump out from where It was hiding and zoom around the environment, bringing Eddie’s attention back to the world around him for a moment. Most times, the Thought succeeded in attainting his attention, and the tapping would stop. But once in a while, despite the strained efforts of this Thought to alert him to his surroundings, It had no effect. It could not, in those brief flashes of time, compete with the beat he composed deep within the corners of his mind. Tapping, rhythm, grounded him.
His eyes scanned the subway car he occupied, taking in every detail he could as he continued tapping. A man stood in the center of the car, a dark grey suit weaving his way through the sardine-like crowd, making sure not to spill his coffee as he answered his phone with a veiled peppiness. The bags under his eyes on an otherwise hardened face gave indications of late nights and early baldness, Eddie observed, but the diver’s watch that was missing the three o’clock and four o’clock markers on the bezel told him that he was only an amateur, trying to make his way up a ladder that valued those creases becoming deeper and deeper. No one on the trading floor would notice if a watch was a little dinged up. But he kept the look up well, besides the few stray hairs on the back of his head, just out of his view.
He looked across the way to a woman, standing a few meters in front of the suited man. Like the man, her clothes, or rather the faux leather blazer she draped across her shoulders, gave her a dignified air. She certainly was more poised and confident than he was; her straight raven locks had the consistency and volume of hair that was naturally wavy first thing in the morning. It signified power to Eddie, as did the half-smirk she wore and her octagon-shaped belt buckle that flashed as the lights whizzed by outside. In her left hand, she held a suitcase, and with her right hand she calmly checked her red nails, freshly painted, Eddie guessed, due to the faint scent of polish wafting across the car.
The two of them, the man and the woman, stood, watching, only separated by a few more crammed bodies. They did not make eye contact, save for once: when the man hung up his phone and looked up, their gaze met for a brief flash of time. Her smirk turned into a smile, and he looked away quickly, bringing his coffee to his lips and subsequently spilling a brown, steaming drip onto his lapel. He stamped his foot lightly, then, eyes still darting, wiped it with his thumb and flicked it away. All the while, not a word was spoken, either between the two of them or to anyone else.
“Don’t be a distraction.”
The Thought managed to jump into Eddie’s sight, first bounding from a corner of the subway car to the lid of the man’s coffee cup, then to the woman’s shoulder. It then hopped down and rolled over to him, tapping his foot impatiently. The subway car grinded to a halt, and Eddie made sure he was the first to exit the subway car, his worn brown dress shoes clacking across the gray granite tiles, the Thought following closely behind.
Consciously, he began to time his steps, like so: his right foot led, followed by his left. He then nicked his right heel against the floor with every other step, doing his best to not appear to be limping or striding with an awkward gait in the process. The result of his heel striking the ground between steps gave a swinging, shuffling sort of rhythm, as a jazz drummer would play to beckon eager feet to the dance floor. The hum of the foot traffic around him provided the swish across the drumhead, and his feet gave him the distinguishable tempo of a grooving big band in his mind as he reached the stairs. He ascended, hesitantly at first, noticing the Thought looking up at him curiously, but began to shuffle his feet back into the rhythm once again as he climbed the stairs, losing his sense of dignity and reservedness he had so carefully cultivated. His tightly bound lips curved upward into a smile as the Thought deflated in protest.
* * *
Stepping into the restaurant, out of the glistening sun that twinkled along the glass panes of the skyscrapers, the room felt more tinged with purple than with light. He squinted, and slowly the color of the room shifted to its natural red. At the center of attraction was a large maroon curtain draped across a lit stage, multicolored lights spilling out onto the patrons. White covered tables lined the room, accented with candles and expensive cutlery. Eddie sat down at the table, the one with his name on it, and ordered a drink. The table was nearly in line with the front of the stage, a perfect view for the evening show. He had made sure it was so, since his reservation had been booked several months before. The chair across from him sat empty, and he could feel the eyes of diners glancing over at him, at the chair, then back to him. Eddie checked his watch; he was right on time, and so was the waiter with his whiskey and a menu. At the sight of the waiter, the Thought darted underneath the table, covering itself in the white tablecloth.
The lights dimmed, shrouding his table is darkness for only a moment before the curtain parted and applause began. Eddie quickly rattled off his order and fixed his eyes on the stage as the drummer set the tempo with a quick shuffle. The familiar euphoria washed over him; he felt waves and tingles of electricity dart through his skull as the drummer glided his stick across the hi-hat with ease, keeping the energy that had built in the room alive and well. It was hypnotic, almost persuasive, lulling him into the moment that was sure to come. As he watched the drummer’s face break into a smile and make eye contact with the bandleader, the rest of the band raised their horns and blasted blast their way into an explosive melody.
Eddie was beside himself in glee. He couldn’t help but smile along with the drummer and tap his fingers and pump his toes, giddy with awe. He was instantly reminded of the first time he laid eyes on Times Square.
* * *
Eddie’s father, many years ago, had thought it fitting to begin a family tradition: when his children reached the age of thirteen, that feared, golden year of angst and rebellion, he would book a short trip with just him and the birthday child to explore the legendary city. Roping in his rambunctious youngsters before they trampled off and begun the soul-searching journey on which all adolescents embark, his saint of a father would take opportunities during the trip to impart priceless knowledge. He had reinforced the value of adventure and comradery. He had exposed his progeny to a plethora of new cultures, sights, sounds, smells and delicious and various foods. Above all, he instilled within them a desire to grow and better themselves, to see the beauty in everything.
The day that Eddie turned thirteen was the day they arrived; it progressed as though he were in the most lucid of dreams. As soon as they emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel, he was caught up in a majestic glinting of sunlight from countless windowpanes and shiny steel beams. The historic streets were lined with skyscrapers his young eyes had only seen in magazines, capturing his attention immediately, their castle-like spires extended upward towards the pale blue sky. What shorter buildings remained seemed to audibly tell tales of a bygone era, contrasting the industrial and efficient with hints of allure and extravagance. Eddie could practically see a hundred years into the past as cobblestone streets made their way within eyeshot, dated echoes of hard-hitting hooves tramping down the way, pulling a carriage in tow. The city stood out to him as its own unique time capsule that was rediscovered every time a new soul laid eyes on it, with no dirt stains or weather damage, only a perpetual polish.
Eddie remembered how his face had been glued to the window as they passed person after person, taking in each street vendor and businessman hailing a taxi; up until this point, He remembered doubting whether these elusive yellow cars even existed. Realizing that their car was hardly moving down the never-ending stretch of metropolis, he had turned to his father, who broke his gaze on the road for a brief second to smile back at him.
“When will we get to the hotel? And why is everyone driving so slowly?”
His father only chuckled to himself and turned away, replying, “That’s New York City for you. We’ll be there soon.”
Only a short time later, he bounded out onto West 44th Street and, for the first time, turned around slowly, still absorbing every visible and audible stimulus he could process. The room at the hotel where they stayed overlooked the crowded street below, and he distinctly remembered perching himself upon the window’s ledge, peering down from above and imagining if he were one of those pigeons on the lampposts that the window overlooked.
The sun had dipped under the Manhattan horizon when he stepped out onto the street once again, blasted by a harsh November breeze from the Hudson. His left hand tugged at the collar of his oversized dress shirt, and his right hand was tucked snugly into his pants pocket, feeling for the Broadway ticket that had been handed to him moments before. The quickly darkening streets maintained their mysterious aura as he followed his father down the cracked sidewalk. Against the dusk, a dull glow at an intersection up ahead became increasingly real, and as they ventured farther through that town, more and more billboards, signs, and advertisements lined the city walls, jutting out amongst the stone structures that, Eddie noted, were transitioning to a sleeker and shinier reality. After a few more paces and a sharp turn around a corner, he was immediately taken aback, eyes unblinking, as he stepped into an entirely new planet, his footsteps slowing to a dead stop.
The city of New York as a whole was indescribable to him. For some, it held the key to a new life and opportunities galore only feet away from their doorstep. For others, it carried with it a scent of disdain and a cold, unfeeling expanse, composed of architecture and crowds alike. No one person’s experience could be quite like another’s in that concrete jungle, and everyone who will step foot in that city will have an opinion, detailed or otherwise.
For young Eddie, he saw all of it at once, and that, more than anything else, was what captured his attention and deep fascination.
The lights in Times Square nearly blinded him as he turned the corner and took in this vast swathe of neon color. He had never seen so many people, such industry, centralized in one street corner. His jaw could only drop in sheer awe as more people than he had ever seen in his young life seemed to materialize from nowhere, each with their own hurts and histories, their voices assimilating into one perennial, nearly deafening, wall of sound. Company slogans and branded products protruding from the countless screens dazzled his impressionable brain, yet they made him ache for the natural brick laying behind the artificial technology that waited patiently, yet fruitlessly, to be exposed.
He could hear the busker before he saw him; in the middle of the plaza sat a man, surrounded by an assortment of buckets, both large and small, and of differing materials. In his hands, the man held two blurs, and his arms blended with the flashing lights around him as he whipped his body back and forth across his instrument. The rhythm and energy produced by a collection of worn-out pails and cans evoked many feelings within him: he felt alive, passionate, and yet surprisingly at ease, a controlled, inviolate sort of peace. He bobbed his head in time with the cracks of the sticks on the plastic, and he found that his feet could not stop tapping. His fingers, nearly frozen from the icy breeze, came back to life and rolled against his legs, improvising his own lines to the song that the man created. They locked eyes, and a knowing smile from the man settled any remaining anxiety and unsureness about the city.
As word and light flashed unceasing, whizzing by with crackles of electricity, a little camera in his mind captured that moment, with the emotional complexities and unbelievable newness of it all. With a swift click, he found himself standing in the middle of the greatest city in the world.
* * *
Every note the trumpets screamed, every cymbal that sounded, every articulation that the saxophone tongued out from behind the bandstand was a world apart from the records Eddie would enjoy by himself every night. His apartment, dingy with age and dust, had become the setting for a grand story each time he clicked his record player on, whirring to life. With a cocktail in hand and his eyes closed, his record player told him stories of steel and concrete, of taxis and taxi drivers, all the glitz and glamor the city had to offer. As he listened to the crackling music, dulled with time, in his mind he simply wanted to exist among the chaos, to saunter the streets without a destination, to watch the faces of every person that walked by. This was all he usually desired from the city: just to be in the audience and watch the world go on without him. But now, washed in the music, he felt engaged again, plugged back in, alive.
In an effort to be noticed, the Thought ended its cowering and hopped onto the table, planting itself between the stage and his line of sight. It vibrated, shaking his glass.
“Don’t be a distraction.”
Grimacing briefly, Eddie shoved It off his table, swiping assertively with his arm. It fell and bounced on the hardwood floor but did not shatter. However, a hairline crack now fractured the crystal-clear surface of the Thought. It rolled, just out of Eddie’s line of sight, fuming and anxious to pop back into Eddie’s mind once again.
The vocalist made her way to the stage and approached the microphone. Eddie took a small sip of his whiskey before nearly letting it drip back into his glass. The woman from the train stood front and center. Her hair was now up, and her leather blazer was replaced by an elegant, Persian-blue satin dress. A thin, blue cape swirled down her back, the edges of which were fastened to two diamond bracelets and made her appear as if she were floating across the room, billowing around her. As her lips parted to sing, the chestnut undertones in her eyes overtook the green as her gaze met his, and she seemed to grin right at him. He stared back at her, mesmerized, and hesitated before shifting his gaze away, halting his rhythmic tapping to the beat.
“Don’t be a distraction.”
Now more irritated than ever, the Thought slammed into his heel and bounced off his leather shoe, careening under the table and causing a racket as It smashed Itself into the underside of the table repeatedly. Eddie rapped his fist on the table several times in a panicked and strained effort to shush It, attracting the gaze of several patrons nearby. The band continued to wail despite the scene he was causing. Only when the Thought finally relented did Eddie freeze, all at once feeling many pairs of eyes bore into his neck. He sheepishly looked around, spotting the waiter a few paces away, observing him and waiting patiently for an opportunity to take his order. The waiter apprehensively stepped forward and cleared his throat, holding his server book open. As Eddie turned forward in embarrassment, he again caught the gaze of the singer, who immediately averted her eyes and smiled a little wider as her gestures became more pronounced. His mood soured.
“Distraction…”
A dark cloud began to form over Eddie’s head. He ordered a simple sirloin and another whiskey, this time a double. The waiter dutifully jotted down the order and scurried away, leaving Eddie to brood. The Thought peeked out from underneath the tablecloth with an agitated, yet guilty, countenance. Eddie gave it no notice as he continued to watch the band. His fingers and toes had ceased any movement; his head did not swivel and bob to the rhythm anymore. His eyes darted from the singer to the trombone soloist, to the drummer, to the pianist, back to the singer, to a saxophonist with an odd haircut, then back to the singer. The whiskey was placed by his hand, and he picked it up, nodding his thanks to the cautious waiter. It was gone in a matter of moments. He signaled for another.
* * *
The lights in the lounge had come up again, washing the room with a tinge of faded yellow that did not mix well anymore with the red curtains, drawn for an intermission. The cloud over Eddie’s head had grown from a small puff of air into a tyrannical tornado which swirled his head this way and that. As Eddie inspected his glass, now empty and quite dry. He held it up to his eye and swung his head from side to side, peering at the room as if the captain of a submarine, inspecting the surface of the waters with their trusty periscope. He was amused by the onlookers that were, in turn, quite amused by him. The Thought had not made a peep in quite a while; it was still hiding under the table and would peek out from underneath the tablecloth every now and again to look up at Eddie, who took no notice whatsoever and instead ordered the cocktail with the longest name on the menu, for fun, he thought.
He tried his mightiest to keep his neck from giving way under the newfound weight of his skull, but to no avail; the muscles holding it up had lost their dexterity. He chomped on the last piece of steak in front of him, subdued in manner yet less careful in his technique. Some of the meat slipped off his fork as he brought it to his mouth, dribbling down his suit jacket. Eddie moaned loudly with frustration and, eyeing the brown spot now staining his gray blazer, dabbed hastily at it with the nearest napkin, which itself had stains from the sauce.
“Distraction…”
The voice came faintly, almost unintelligible, from underneath his feet. Looking down, Eddie finally fixed his bleary eyes on the Thought, who was now pushing against his foot. Eddie began to giggle, kicking lightly at It, which only served to make the Thought disturbed and annoyed that It wasn’t receiving the attention It thought that It so rightfully deserved. The Thought pushed harder in agitation, resulting in Eddie’s incessant laughter grow more raucous. Harder and harder the Thought slammed against his heel, receiving harder and harder kicks from Eddie in return. Finally, the Thought launched Itself onto the table, in full view, and up and down it jumped, sending utensils flying and candles toppling over. It tried ferociously to communicate, but It knew that Eddie could not discern Its voice anymore.
The waiter returned to the table with the check, this time informing the clearly inebriated Eddie that he would need to leave the establishment. Eddie scratched his nose and raised a hand in acknowledgement, stating with a thick tongue that he was just leaving. Picking up the pen with little grip at all, he scribbled his name in large letter over the signature line and began to get up, steadying himself with the chair. Being asked if he wanted a taxi called for him, Eddie shrugged the waiter off coolly, stating that he would rather walk.
As he stumbled across the room, eyeing the door, he couldn’t help but notice the stage, still lit with the curtain drawn in his blurry field of vision. He stopped and gazed at it in wonder. The Thought saw his gaze and began to alert him ferociously that another thought was coming to life, permeating through his brain.
“Distraction…”
Eddie was not aware of the Thought anymore, nor was he cognizant of a new one beginning to form. All he could do with smile with anticipation and an idea.
* * *
Backstage, the lights washed dimly through the curtain, leaving the entirety of the bandstand in partial darkness. The drum kit, however, stood alone, bathed in an eerie glow, and Eddie’s reddening eyes were locked on it as he fumbled behind the curtain, unnoticed. Cocking his head, he was aware that there were voices coming from the dressing rooms just behind the stage. He focused all his waning fortitude on stepping as quietly as he possibly could, making slow progress toward the kit.
The Thought was beside itself in rage, running over and over into his foot with bullying force, trying to knock Eddie down before he could fulfill his sole desire. Eventually, after repeated blows to his heel, the Thought managed to make Eddie trip over himself. His feet flew into the air, sending his body sprawling to the ground with a loud chatter. The voices nearby stopped, and Eddie froze, prostrate behind the piano. Footsteps clamored up to the stage and, not noticing anything amiss in the weak light, retreated as quickly as they came. Eddie breathed a sigh of relief and stood up again, rather shakily this time.
Eddie, finally reaching the drum kit, sat down on the plush throne that gave him access to all the bells and whistles. He marveled at the cymbals, the chrome finish of the tom drums, and the sensitive response from the kick drum pedal. He sat for only a moment, in his euphoric boozy haze, before he picked up the two drumsticks resting on the floor tom. He tried to spin them, but his fingers did not remember their own strength. He managed to catch a stick that slipped from his grasp before it clattered to the ground.
His heart was pounding in his chest. He wanted to scream, to flail his arms, to jump for joy at his newfound prospect. Here, in front of his eyes, was a toy all to himself, one that he was intimately familiar with yet had never touched before today. Behind the stage, under protection of darkness, his dream could now come to light. He gripped the drumsticks tighter now, holding them above his head, ready to strike the snare that sat straddled between his legs.
“Distraction!”
Now, there was a word he was well acquainted with. Where had he heard that word first, “distraction”? Was it in the second-grade classroom, from the mouth of his teacher who had scolded him after tapping too frequently on the desk with pencils? Or was it from his soccer coach, chanting with his team to be a member of a team, and by extent a team in and of itself, without the need for individualism? Or, worse yet, was it his very father, on the streets of New York city all those years ago, telling a bright-eyed, excited teenager to not draw too much attention to himself as he watched the busker beat on his buckets, under the glow of the neon lights of Times Square?
That couldn’t be it, Eddie thought. That was the fondest memory he kept. Every replay of those few days wandering the city for the first time emanated with nothing but wonder and amazement. And yet…he remembered. He remembered, suddenly, the cold hand of his father dragging him away from the busker, away from the rhythm. He remembered he began to protest, saying that he wanted to play the buckets with him. He remembered his dad shaking his head and gesturing ahead, saying above the crowd, “We’re going to be late. The theater is this way.” He remembered, after some resistance, his dad would not budge. “There are people here,” he had said, “that will take advantage of you if you are not careful. That man could be one of them. They won’t bother you if you don’t bother them.” His father kept walking ahead. “Come on, don’t be a distraction,” he said.
Don’t be a distraction.
The Thought scrambled wildly around the drum kit, bouncing between the tom drums and the cymbals, finally settling on the center of the snare drum, pleading up at Eddie not to go through with his idea. Eddie paused, drumsticks still raised over his head. What could this thought do to him? It could paralyze him if he let it, take control of him, bring him to his knees if he could not reign It in. In that moment, through his drunken stupor, he had a startling revelation: his thought was only that, a thought, a figment of his own imagination. It had the power to dictate neither his emotions nor his actions. It could not lift a finger against him, and it certainly could not prevent him from damn well trying at anything. He watched, detached, as the Thought slammed itself on the snare over and over, Its last ounce of effort depleted. Eddie’s power came back to him, and he knew that It now had none. It was all concentrated within himself, in the drumstick he held in his hand.
So much for a distraction.
Eddie’s right arm came down, and the drumstick shattered the Thought where it stood into a thousand pieces, sending countless shimmering shards outward in all directions, to never return to his mind or his heart. He could finally taste freedom.
At once, he felt the waves of sound as he made contact, his right and left wrist alternating with swift marching strokes. His right foot began to drive the beat on the tremendous, thunderous kick drum, and his heavy head now bobbed loosely to the beat he was now composing. He began to lash his arms out to the tom drums, hitting each one in turn, then twice in turn, then with a rotating pattern of paradiddles, always returning to the snare for the downbeat. The sudden exclamations of the crowd behind the curtain and the sound of footsteps rushing backstage had no effect on Eddie as he continued to thrash his body in musical convulsions. At this point there was no discernable rhythm, but rather a string of random notes being struck at odd and random intervals. He was able to graze the edge of a cymbal in a resounding crash before being tackled to the ground.
Time blurred in Eddie’s eyes; in one moment, he was soaring through clouds of ecstasy, and in the next, he was being escorted across the restaurant in the direction of the door. He rubbed his hip, which was now sore and irritated, as he looked in all directions around the room, and he noticed a high-pitched laughter ringing around him. After a moment, he realized it was his own laugh, loose from booze yet weak from the joy he now felt. The Thought was gone; it was no longer a thorn pricking at his heel. No matter how many pairs of eyes he peered into as he was led to the street, the Thought did not pierce his brain like so many times before. He could now stare into the glances and the stares with no hesitation, with no fear.
Eddie felt the harsh breeze of the evening ruffle through his hair. Smoothing it down with a heavy hand, he turned and surveyed the wondrous blinking of lights that surrounding him again. New York, New York, a hell of a town…he looked down the long, narrow street to his left. “Isn’t the Bronx that way?” he thought to himself. He turned to his right. “The Battery is somewhere thataway.” Which way was up? And where was that hole in the ground?
The woman from the train, or rather the stage, stood gazing at him from the corner of his eye. As he turned to face her, a plume of smoke flowed upward and wisped around her head, an ethereal blue angel among drab concrete staves. The chestnut hues in her eyes had faded to a dull gray, and her mouth was drawn tightly around her cigarette. As he staggered his way past her, she flashed him a small, brief grin. He nearly stopped in wonder; the look on her face told him that she knew. She knew his thoughts, his life, his being, his struggle with distraction, and being one. He turned his head and kept walking, but the pit of his stomach kept directing his mind to that single fact: she knew. She knew that he had escaped the distraction, and she hadn’t found it yet. But in that smile of hers, there was no malice, no jealousy. It was a simple, “You made it out.”
He repeated this in his mind over and over, a mantra of some disheartened youngster who wanted only to look up and see the world he had dreamed about his whole life. This thought, through repetition, acquired a breath of its own and manifested in the form of a little ball that followed Eddie as he walked along each avenue. It would roll, bounce, and hurdle its way down the sidewalk and continually cross his field of vision, shimmering like a luminescent crystal ball all the while, trying to get his attention. But Eddie kept walking.
New York City, for many years, only existed to him in the furthest corners of a bookstore or the tall tale of a mutual friend at a cocktail party. Only a handful of times had he ever stepped foot onto its golden streets, and it was only in his adulthood did he finally resolve to return as an independent walker, thinker, and doer. The visits had not been frequent, but when the visit came, every worry in his life, every care, every ounce of weight he felt the world had piled onto his shoulders, dropped away once he caught a glimpse of the skyscrapers dominating the sky. One odd encounter, though, one mugging, even one glance in the wrong direction, the mere thought was all it took for Eddie to walk a little bit faster. Crack after crack in the sidewalk passed his sight, and his hands lay dormant in his thin cotton pockets. It was only upon sauntering into the street and nearly slammed by a bus that the horn jolted him out of his thoughts. He jumped back, looking up for the first time, past the bus driver whose hand gestures made his heart skip a beat.
“Don’t be a distraction,” he reminded himself as he watched his Thought continue to roll beyond him, weaving between the legs of pedestrians crossing the street. “Don’t be a distraction.”
* * *
Eddie’s fingers now kept time with the rhythm of the thumping of the subway car. His heartrate slowed. When he tapped along to the song in his head, that pesky Thought of his would disappear. It would vanish behind some chair or table, and It would hesitate to alert him to the glances of others. Of course, he still registered those quick looks or the blatant stares of people passing by, pausing to wonder if they could get a glimpse of the symphony he was conducting. In these moments, the Thought would occasionally jump out from where It was hiding and zoom around the environment, bringing Eddie’s attention back to the world around him for a moment. Most times, the Thought succeeded in attainting his attention, and the tapping would stop. But once in a while, despite the strained efforts of this Thought to alert him to his surroundings, It had no effect. It could not, in those brief flashes of time, compete with the beat he composed deep within the corners of his mind. Tapping, rhythm, grounded him.
His eyes scanned the subway car he occupied, taking in every detail he could as he continued tapping. A man stood in the center of the car, a dark grey suit weaving his way through the sardine-like crowd, making sure not to spill his coffee as he answered his phone with a veiled peppiness. The bags under his eyes on an otherwise hardened face gave indications of late nights and early baldness, Eddie observed, but the diver’s watch that was missing the three o’clock and four o’clock markers on the bezel told him that he was only an amateur, trying to make his way up a ladder that valued those creases becoming deeper and deeper. No one on the trading floor would notice if a watch was a little dinged up. But he kept the look up well, besides the few stray hairs on the back of his head, just out of his view.
He looked across the way to a woman, standing a few meters in front of the suited man. Like the man, her clothes, or rather the faux leather blazer she draped across her shoulders, gave her a dignified air. She certainly was more poised and confident than he was; her straight raven locks had the consistency and volume of hair that was naturally wavy first thing in the morning. It signified power to Eddie, as did the half-smirk she wore and her octagon-shaped belt buckle that flashed as the lights whizzed by outside. In her left hand, she held a suitcase, and with her right hand she calmly checked her red nails, freshly painted, Eddie guessed, due to the faint scent of polish wafting across the car.
The two of them, the man and the woman, stood, watching, only separated by a few more crammed bodies. They did not make eye contact, save for once: when the man hung up his phone and looked up, their gaze met for a brief flash of time. Her smirk turned into a smile, and he looked away quickly, bringing his coffee to his lips and subsequently spilling a brown, steaming drip onto his lapel. He stamped his foot lightly, then, eyes still darting, wiped it with his thumb and flicked it away. All the while, not a word was spoken, either between the two of them or to anyone else.
“Don’t be a distraction.”
The Thought managed to jump into Eddie’s sight, first bounding from a corner of the subway car to the lid of the man’s coffee cup, then to the woman’s shoulder. It then hopped down and rolled over to him, tapping his foot impatiently. The subway car grinded to a halt, and Eddie made sure he was the first to exit the subway car, his worn brown dress shoes clacking across the gray granite tiles, the Thought following closely behind.
Consciously, he began to time his steps, like so: his right foot led, followed by his left. He then nicked his right heel against the floor with every other step, doing his best to not appear to be limping or striding with an awkward gait in the process. The result of his heel striking the ground between steps gave a swinging, shuffling sort of rhythm, as a jazz drummer would play to beckon eager feet to the dance floor. The hum of the foot traffic around him provided the swish across the drumhead, and his feet gave him the distinguishable tempo of a grooving big band in his mind as he reached the stairs. He ascended, hesitantly at first, noticing the Thought looking up at him curiously, but began to shuffle his feet back into the rhythm once again as he climbed the stairs, losing his sense of dignity and reservedness he had so carefully cultivated. His tightly bound lips curved upward into a smile as the Thought deflated in protest.
* * *
Stepping into the restaurant, out of the glistening sun that twinkled along the glass panes of the skyscrapers, the room felt more tinged with purple than with light. He squinted, and slowly the color of the room shifted to its natural red. At the center of attraction was a large maroon curtain draped across a lit stage, multicolored lights spilling out onto the patrons. White covered tables lined the room, accented with candles and expensive cutlery. Eddie sat down at the table, the one with his name on it, and ordered a drink. The table was nearly in line with the front of the stage, a perfect view for the evening show. He had made sure it was so, since his reservation had been booked several months before. The chair across from him sat empty, and he could feel the eyes of diners glancing over at him, at the chair, then back to him. Eddie checked his watch; he was right on time, and so was the waiter with his whiskey and a menu. At the sight of the waiter, the Thought darted underneath the table, covering itself in the white tablecloth.
The lights dimmed, shrouding his table is darkness for only a moment before the curtain parted and applause began. Eddie quickly rattled off his order and fixed his eyes on the stage as the drummer set the tempo with a quick shuffle. The familiar euphoria washed over him; he felt waves and tingles of electricity dart through his skull as the drummer glided his stick across the hi-hat with ease, keeping the energy that had built in the room alive and well. It was hypnotic, almost persuasive, lulling him into the moment that was sure to come. As he watched the drummer’s face break into a smile and make eye contact with the bandleader, the rest of the band raised their horns and blasted blast their way into an explosive melody.
Eddie was beside himself in glee. He couldn’t help but smile along with the drummer and tap his fingers and pump his toes, giddy with awe. He was instantly reminded of the first time he laid eyes on Times Square.
* * *
Eddie’s father, many years ago, had thought it fitting to begin a family tradition: when his children reached the age of thirteen, that feared, golden year of angst and rebellion, he would book a short trip with just him and the birthday child to explore the legendary city. Roping in his rambunctious youngsters before they trampled off and begun the soul-searching journey on which all adolescents embark, his saint of a father would take opportunities during the trip to impart priceless knowledge. He had reinforced the value of adventure and comradery. He had exposed his progeny to a plethora of new cultures, sights, sounds, smells and delicious and various foods. Above all, he instilled within them a desire to grow and better themselves, to see the beauty in everything.
The day that Eddie turned thirteen was the day they arrived; it progressed as though he were in the most lucid of dreams. As soon as they emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel, he was caught up in a majestic glinting of sunlight from countless windowpanes and shiny steel beams. The historic streets were lined with skyscrapers his young eyes had only seen in magazines, capturing his attention immediately, their castle-like spires extended upward towards the pale blue sky. What shorter buildings remained seemed to audibly tell tales of a bygone era, contrasting the industrial and efficient with hints of allure and extravagance. Eddie could practically see a hundred years into the past as cobblestone streets made their way within eyeshot, dated echoes of hard-hitting hooves tramping down the way, pulling a carriage in tow. The city stood out to him as its own unique time capsule that was rediscovered every time a new soul laid eyes on it, with no dirt stains or weather damage, only a perpetual polish.
Eddie remembered how his face had been glued to the window as they passed person after person, taking in each street vendor and businessman hailing a taxi; up until this point, He remembered doubting whether these elusive yellow cars even existed. Realizing that their car was hardly moving down the never-ending stretch of metropolis, he had turned to his father, who broke his gaze on the road for a brief second to smile back at him.
“When will we get to the hotel? And why is everyone driving so slowly?”
His father only chuckled to himself and turned away, replying, “That’s New York City for you. We’ll be there soon.”
Only a short time later, he bounded out onto West 44th Street and, for the first time, turned around slowly, still absorbing every visible and audible stimulus he could process. The room at the hotel where they stayed overlooked the crowded street below, and he distinctly remembered perching himself upon the window’s ledge, peering down from above and imagining if he were one of those pigeons on the lampposts that the window overlooked.
The sun had dipped under the Manhattan horizon when he stepped out onto the street once again, blasted by a harsh November breeze from the Hudson. His left hand tugged at the collar of his oversized dress shirt, and his right hand was tucked snugly into his pants pocket, feeling for the Broadway ticket that had been handed to him moments before. The quickly darkening streets maintained their mysterious aura as he followed his father down the cracked sidewalk. Against the dusk, a dull glow at an intersection up ahead became increasingly real, and as they ventured farther through that town, more and more billboards, signs, and advertisements lined the city walls, jutting out amongst the stone structures that, Eddie noted, were transitioning to a sleeker and shinier reality. After a few more paces and a sharp turn around a corner, he was immediately taken aback, eyes unblinking, as he stepped into an entirely new planet, his footsteps slowing to a dead stop.
The city of New York as a whole was indescribable to him. For some, it held the key to a new life and opportunities galore only feet away from their doorstep. For others, it carried with it a scent of disdain and a cold, unfeeling expanse, composed of architecture and crowds alike. No one person’s experience could be quite like another’s in that concrete jungle, and everyone who will step foot in that city will have an opinion, detailed or otherwise.
For young Eddie, he saw all of it at once, and that, more than anything else, was what captured his attention and deep fascination.
The lights in Times Square nearly blinded him as he turned the corner and took in this vast swathe of neon color. He had never seen so many people, such industry, centralized in one street corner. His jaw could only drop in sheer awe as more people than he had ever seen in his young life seemed to materialize from nowhere, each with their own hurts and histories, their voices assimilating into one perennial, nearly deafening, wall of sound. Company slogans and branded products protruding from the countless screens dazzled his impressionable brain, yet they made him ache for the natural brick laying behind the artificial technology that waited patiently, yet fruitlessly, to be exposed.
He could hear the busker before he saw him; in the middle of the plaza sat a man, surrounded by an assortment of buckets, both large and small, and of differing materials. In his hands, the man held two blurs, and his arms blended with the flashing lights around him as he whipped his body back and forth across his instrument. The rhythm and energy produced by a collection of worn-out pails and cans evoked many feelings within him: he felt alive, passionate, and yet surprisingly at ease, a controlled, inviolate sort of peace. He bobbed his head in time with the cracks of the sticks on the plastic, and he found that his feet could not stop tapping. His fingers, nearly frozen from the icy breeze, came back to life and rolled against his legs, improvising his own lines to the song that the man created. They locked eyes, and a knowing smile from the man settled any remaining anxiety and unsureness about the city.
As word and light flashed unceasing, whizzing by with crackles of electricity, a little camera in his mind captured that moment, with the emotional complexities and unbelievable newness of it all. With a swift click, he found himself standing in the middle of the greatest city in the world.
* * *
Every note the trumpets screamed, every cymbal that sounded, every articulation that the saxophone tongued out from behind the bandstand was a world apart from the records Eddie would enjoy by himself every night. His apartment, dingy with age and dust, had become the setting for a grand story each time he clicked his record player on, whirring to life. With a cocktail in hand and his eyes closed, his record player told him stories of steel and concrete, of taxis and taxi drivers, all the glitz and glamor the city had to offer. As he listened to the crackling music, dulled with time, in his mind he simply wanted to exist among the chaos, to saunter the streets without a destination, to watch the faces of every person that walked by. This was all he usually desired from the city: just to be in the audience and watch the world go on without him. But now, washed in the music, he felt engaged again, plugged back in, alive.
In an effort to be noticed, the Thought ended its cowering and hopped onto the table, planting itself between the stage and his line of sight. It vibrated, shaking his glass.
“Don’t be a distraction.”
Grimacing briefly, Eddie shoved It off his table, swiping assertively with his arm. It fell and bounced on the hardwood floor but did not shatter. However, a hairline crack now fractured the crystal-clear surface of the Thought. It rolled, just out of Eddie’s line of sight, fuming and anxious to pop back into Eddie’s mind once again.
The vocalist made her way to the stage and approached the microphone. Eddie took a small sip of his whiskey before nearly letting it drip back into his glass. The woman from the train stood front and center. Her hair was now up, and her leather blazer was replaced by an elegant, Persian-blue satin dress. A thin, blue cape swirled down her back, the edges of which were fastened to two diamond bracelets and made her appear as if she were floating across the room, billowing around her. As her lips parted to sing, the chestnut undertones in her eyes overtook the green as her gaze met his, and she seemed to grin right at him. He stared back at her, mesmerized, and hesitated before shifting his gaze away, halting his rhythmic tapping to the beat.
“Don’t be a distraction.”
Now more irritated than ever, the Thought slammed into his heel and bounced off his leather shoe, careening under the table and causing a racket as It smashed Itself into the underside of the table repeatedly. Eddie rapped his fist on the table several times in a panicked and strained effort to shush It, attracting the gaze of several patrons nearby. The band continued to wail despite the scene he was causing. Only when the Thought finally relented did Eddie freeze, all at once feeling many pairs of eyes bore into his neck. He sheepishly looked around, spotting the waiter a few paces away, observing him and waiting patiently for an opportunity to take his order. The waiter apprehensively stepped forward and cleared his throat, holding his server book open. As Eddie turned forward in embarrassment, he again caught the gaze of the singer, who immediately averted her eyes and smiled a little wider as her gestures became more pronounced. His mood soured.
“Distraction…”
A dark cloud began to form over Eddie’s head. He ordered a simple sirloin and another whiskey, this time a double. The waiter dutifully jotted down the order and scurried away, leaving Eddie to brood. The Thought peeked out from underneath the tablecloth with an agitated, yet guilty, countenance. Eddie gave it no notice as he continued to watch the band. His fingers and toes had ceased any movement; his head did not swivel and bob to the rhythm anymore. His eyes darted from the singer to the trombone soloist, to the drummer, to the pianist, back to the singer, to a saxophonist with an odd haircut, then back to the singer. The whiskey was placed by his hand, and he picked it up, nodding his thanks to the cautious waiter. It was gone in a matter of moments. He signaled for another.
* * *
The lights in the lounge had come up again, washing the room with a tinge of faded yellow that did not mix well anymore with the red curtains, drawn for an intermission. The cloud over Eddie’s head had grown from a small puff of air into a tyrannical tornado which swirled his head this way and that. As Eddie inspected his glass, now empty and quite dry. He held it up to his eye and swung his head from side to side, peering at the room as if the captain of a submarine, inspecting the surface of the waters with their trusty periscope. He was amused by the onlookers that were, in turn, quite amused by him. The Thought had not made a peep in quite a while; it was still hiding under the table and would peek out from underneath the tablecloth every now and again to look up at Eddie, who took no notice whatsoever and instead ordered the cocktail with the longest name on the menu, for fun, he thought.
He tried his mightiest to keep his neck from giving way under the newfound weight of his skull, but to no avail; the muscles holding it up had lost their dexterity. He chomped on the last piece of steak in front of him, subdued in manner yet less careful in his technique. Some of the meat slipped off his fork as he brought it to his mouth, dribbling down his suit jacket. Eddie moaned loudly with frustration and, eyeing the brown spot now staining his gray blazer, dabbed hastily at it with the nearest napkin, which itself had stains from the sauce.
“Distraction…”
The voice came faintly, almost unintelligible, from underneath his feet. Looking down, Eddie finally fixed his bleary eyes on the Thought, who was now pushing against his foot. Eddie began to giggle, kicking lightly at It, which only served to make the Thought disturbed and annoyed that It wasn’t receiving the attention It thought that It so rightfully deserved. The Thought pushed harder in agitation, resulting in Eddie’s incessant laughter grow more raucous. Harder and harder the Thought slammed against his heel, receiving harder and harder kicks from Eddie in return. Finally, the Thought launched Itself onto the table, in full view, and up and down it jumped, sending utensils flying and candles toppling over. It tried ferociously to communicate, but It knew that Eddie could not discern Its voice anymore.
The waiter returned to the table with the check, this time informing the clearly inebriated Eddie that he would need to leave the establishment. Eddie scratched his nose and raised a hand in acknowledgement, stating with a thick tongue that he was just leaving. Picking up the pen with little grip at all, he scribbled his name in large letter over the signature line and began to get up, steadying himself with the chair. Being asked if he wanted a taxi called for him, Eddie shrugged the waiter off coolly, stating that he would rather walk.
As he stumbled across the room, eyeing the door, he couldn’t help but notice the stage, still lit with the curtain drawn in his blurry field of vision. He stopped and gazed at it in wonder. The Thought saw his gaze and began to alert him ferociously that another thought was coming to life, permeating through his brain.
“Distraction…”
Eddie was not aware of the Thought anymore, nor was he cognizant of a new one beginning to form. All he could do with smile with anticipation and an idea.
* * *
Backstage, the lights washed dimly through the curtain, leaving the entirety of the bandstand in partial darkness. The drum kit, however, stood alone, bathed in an eerie glow, and Eddie’s reddening eyes were locked on it as he fumbled behind the curtain, unnoticed. Cocking his head, he was aware that there were voices coming from the dressing rooms just behind the stage. He focused all his waning fortitude on stepping as quietly as he possibly could, making slow progress toward the kit.
The Thought was beside itself in rage, running over and over into his foot with bullying force, trying to knock Eddie down before he could fulfill his sole desire. Eventually, after repeated blows to his heel, the Thought managed to make Eddie trip over himself. His feet flew into the air, sending his body sprawling to the ground with a loud chatter. The voices nearby stopped, and Eddie froze, prostrate behind the piano. Footsteps clamored up to the stage and, not noticing anything amiss in the weak light, retreated as quickly as they came. Eddie breathed a sigh of relief and stood up again, rather shakily this time.
Eddie, finally reaching the drum kit, sat down on the plush throne that gave him access to all the bells and whistles. He marveled at the cymbals, the chrome finish of the tom drums, and the sensitive response from the kick drum pedal. He sat for only a moment, in his euphoric boozy haze, before he picked up the two drumsticks resting on the floor tom. He tried to spin them, but his fingers did not remember their own strength. He managed to catch a stick that slipped from his grasp before it clattered to the ground.
His heart was pounding in his chest. He wanted to scream, to flail his arms, to jump for joy at his newfound prospect. Here, in front of his eyes, was a toy all to himself, one that he was intimately familiar with yet had never touched before today. Behind the stage, under protection of darkness, his dream could now come to light. He gripped the drumsticks tighter now, holding them above his head, ready to strike the snare that sat straddled between his legs.
“Distraction!”
Now, there was a word he was well acquainted with. Where had he heard that word first, “distraction”? Was it in the second-grade classroom, from the mouth of his teacher who had scolded him after tapping too frequently on the desk with pencils? Or was it from his soccer coach, chanting with his team to be a member of a team, and by extent a team in and of itself, without the need for individualism? Or, worse yet, was it his very father, on the streets of New York city all those years ago, telling a bright-eyed, excited teenager to not draw too much attention to himself as he watched the busker beat on his buckets, under the glow of the neon lights of Times Square?
That couldn’t be it, Eddie thought. That was the fondest memory he kept. Every replay of those few days wandering the city for the first time emanated with nothing but wonder and amazement. And yet…he remembered. He remembered, suddenly, the cold hand of his father dragging him away from the busker, away from the rhythm. He remembered he began to protest, saying that he wanted to play the buckets with him. He remembered his dad shaking his head and gesturing ahead, saying above the crowd, “We’re going to be late. The theater is this way.” He remembered, after some resistance, his dad would not budge. “There are people here,” he had said, “that will take advantage of you if you are not careful. That man could be one of them. They won’t bother you if you don’t bother them.” His father kept walking ahead. “Come on, don’t be a distraction,” he said.
Don’t be a distraction.
The Thought scrambled wildly around the drum kit, bouncing between the tom drums and the cymbals, finally settling on the center of the snare drum, pleading up at Eddie not to go through with his idea. Eddie paused, drumsticks still raised over his head. What could this thought do to him? It could paralyze him if he let it, take control of him, bring him to his knees if he could not reign It in. In that moment, through his drunken stupor, he had a startling revelation: his thought was only that, a thought, a figment of his own imagination. It had the power to dictate neither his emotions nor his actions. It could not lift a finger against him, and it certainly could not prevent him from damn well trying at anything. He watched, detached, as the Thought slammed itself on the snare over and over, Its last ounce of effort depleted. Eddie’s power came back to him, and he knew that It now had none. It was all concentrated within himself, in the drumstick he held in his hand.
So much for a distraction.
Eddie’s right arm came down, and the drumstick shattered the Thought where it stood into a thousand pieces, sending countless shimmering shards outward in all directions, to never return to his mind or his heart. He could finally taste freedom.
At once, he felt the waves of sound as he made contact, his right and left wrist alternating with swift marching strokes. His right foot began to drive the beat on the tremendous, thunderous kick drum, and his heavy head now bobbed loosely to the beat he was now composing. He began to lash his arms out to the tom drums, hitting each one in turn, then twice in turn, then with a rotating pattern of paradiddles, always returning to the snare for the downbeat. The sudden exclamations of the crowd behind the curtain and the sound of footsteps rushing backstage had no effect on Eddie as he continued to thrash his body in musical convulsions. At this point there was no discernable rhythm, but rather a string of random notes being struck at odd and random intervals. He was able to graze the edge of a cymbal in a resounding crash before being tackled to the ground.
Time blurred in Eddie’s eyes; in one moment, he was soaring through clouds of ecstasy, and in the next, he was being escorted across the restaurant in the direction of the door. He rubbed his hip, which was now sore and irritated, as he looked in all directions around the room, and he noticed a high-pitched laughter ringing around him. After a moment, he realized it was his own laugh, loose from booze yet weak from the joy he now felt. The Thought was gone; it was no longer a thorn pricking at his heel. No matter how many pairs of eyes he peered into as he was led to the street, the Thought did not pierce his brain like so many times before. He could now stare into the glances and the stares with no hesitation, with no fear.
Eddie felt the harsh breeze of the evening ruffle through his hair. Smoothing it down with a heavy hand, he turned and surveyed the wondrous blinking of lights that surrounding him again. New York, New York, a hell of a town…he looked down the long, narrow street to his left. “Isn’t the Bronx that way?” he thought to himself. He turned to his right. “The Battery is somewhere thataway.” Which way was up? And where was that hole in the ground?
The woman from the train, or rather the stage, stood gazing at him from the corner of his eye. As he turned to face her, a plume of smoke flowed upward and wisped around her head, an ethereal blue angel among drab concrete staves. The chestnut hues in her eyes had faded to a dull gray, and her mouth was drawn tightly around her cigarette. As he staggered his way past her, she flashed him a small, brief grin. He nearly stopped in wonder; the look on her face told him that she knew. She knew his thoughts, his life, his being, his struggle with distraction, and being one. He turned his head and kept walking, but the pit of his stomach kept directing his mind to that single fact: she knew. She knew that he had escaped the distraction, and she hadn’t found it yet. But in that smile of hers, there was no malice, no jealousy. It was a simple, “You made it out.”
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