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Copyright 2002 by Rod Harden All rights reserved |
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Life doesn't have a soundtrack. I guess that's obvious, but sometimes it
seems as if people try to give it one. They carry their CD- or MP3-players
everywhere. They rock to blaring music at professional sporting events.
They stroll along the Vegas strip to music piped out from every corner.
But none of these is really a soundtrack; it's mere background music. What I'm talking about are those special themes, the ones that signal, foreshadow, portend. The motifs that accompany characters or declare events significant. Wouldn't life be easier with a soundtrack? Of course, not all of life's moments would benefit from musical cues. I doubt a real life "shower scene" would be any more horrific accompanied by shrieking, dissonant violins. And I suspect sharks get by just fine without ominous basses and cellos following them around everywhere. And those pratfalls we all take on occasion... Would we really find them any more amusing with the snide laughter of a wah-wah-muted trumpet in the background? Still... There are moments. Like today, standing here, waiting for the elevator in the lobby of the building where I work. I'm determined to break the ice with the new woman. She arrives early, like I do, and gets off on seven, while I continue to eight. I know her name, Cindy, but have only exchanged a smile and a nod so far. My throat is dry, and I worry about hyperventilating. It's nerve-wracking, perched on the brink of the unknown. This must be how test pilots feel as they prepare to set off into the stratosphere, to be propelled by the massive thrust of an untried rocket, ready to soar to the heavens, or die in a smoldering heap on the ground. Of course, my circumstance is somewhat less dramatic than that, but a little foreshadowing music would still be nice right about now. Perhaps it would be the lush swell of strings, hinting at romance coming my way. Cindy would arrive just as the elevator door opens. The music follows us in. We're alone. We push our respective floor buttons, step back, and, just as our eyes meet, the music crescendos. Her smile is warm and genuine. I speak, my voice resonant and full of confidence. "Hi, I'm Ralph." "Cindy." "Pleased to meet you, Cindy. But enough small talk. I think you're fabulous. Please, join me for dinner." "Oh, Ralph! I thought you'd never ask. Of course." I pick her up at eight. She's smashing in her genuine Versace, with its plunging neckline and hint of thigh. I escort her to my chauffeured Bentley. She clings to my arm. During dinner, I dazzle her with my wit and charm. Her puppy-dog eyes never falter in their adoration. "Where did the evening go?" she asks on the drive home. "Does it have to end?" "Of course not, my love. For us, tonight is forever." The soundtrack violins pick up the love theme again as I carry her into my bedroom. Our clothing melts away. I hold her perfect, round breasts in my hand and weep with joy. She traces the muscles of my chest, murmuring something about a "Greek god" and "chiseled granite." We fall into the bed. My manhood pierces her womanhood. French Horns spur along my bold yet gentle thrusts. Together, we climb to the very gates of heaven. If such a night is to be my fate, I'd want the appropriate music to go along with it. I stare at the closed elevator door, straining to hear something. Anything. Life's Soundtrack
But perhaps the soundtrack for today wouldn't be strings anyway. Maybe I'm
about to find, not romance, but raw animal lust. It's a sultry saxophone
that sets the mood. A deep, throaty, tenor sax, full of breath and
wantonness.
When Cindy arrives this time, we enter the elevator as before, finding
ourselves alone again.
I'm about to say, "Hi, I'm Ralph," when the car jerks to a stop between
floors. All I get out is, "Hi, I'm R-"
She looks at me, startled. The desperate situation strips away her
inhibitions. She unpins her hair, shaking it out, letting it cascade about
her shoulders.
"What do names matter," she hisses, "if we're about to die anyway?"
She steps close to me, loosens my tie and rips open my shirt. Her red
nails claw at my pecs. I grab her mane and yank her head back. Our mouths
seek each other in an urgent orgy of mutual-devouring.
Hands clasp and tear. Silk rips, cotton shreds. Tatters of our civilized
selves lay scattered on the floor. I lift her and she wraps her legs
around my waist. We growl and snort like beasts. Pressing her against the
wall, I grind myself into her, impaling her. Cock. Cunt. Fuck!
And in the background, trombones slip in, sliding up long sensuous chords,
as the sax wails ever higher.
But wait.
I suddenly realize the characters in a movie don't hear the soundtrack.
The aural cues are for the audience alone. Maybe, I think, looking around
the lobby, there really is a soundtrack to life, but we can't hear it.
Maybe there's an audience somewhere, in another dimension, watching,
listening.
Silently, I implore my ghostly viewers, do you hear violins, or
saxophones?
Then, Cindy actually arrives. The elevator door opens. We go in, just the
two of us. No more fantasies. This is it. This is reality.
We push our buttons. I mentally rehearse my next line. -Hi, I'm Ralph.- I
smile. She smiles back. It's the warm, genuine smile of our first take.
Confidence percolates through my entire being. I open my mouth to speak.
"Hi, rhyme Alph," I proclaim.
-Sigh.-
Somewhere, in that other dimension, a wah-wah-muted trumpet laughs. I'm
just glad I can't hear it.
Life's Soundtrack |