Narrow Streets of Cobblestone
Dedications: Topanga.
Also, thanks to all our reviewers, even if you're appalled by our oddness. We'd also like to give a special shout out to Octobersmoke. Thanks for the awesome reviews and support!
Summary: This story follows KiKi as she undergoes diagnostic testing after her car accident. She can't bear the sound of silence, which allows her to reflect on her alcoholism and perform a social criticism of both the 1960s and her husband.
KiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKiKi
Clunk, clunk, clunk, pound, clunk, clunk, clunk
KiKi lay deathly still, strapped down on the MRI table. She felt the oppressive weight of a lead cloak upon her body, in an effort to prevent her from magnetically attracting the forces of the MRI machine. Though the call button was grasped firmly in her hand, she dared not press it, even though the technician had forgotten to give her headphones. The noise inside the machine was overwhelming, sounding like a vacuum, a hammer, and a blender swirling around her brain.
She had never been in such an uncomfortable position. She could still feel the weird heaviness in her arm from where she had been injected with the contrast fluid. Her nose was nearly touching the top of machine, making her fear that the machine might crumble on top of her. Though she hated the unbearable crashing noises, she also knew that it was better than going back to her silent hospital room and bearing the heavy shame of where her drinking had brought her. Whether she's alone or not in that room, she feels judged, by herself and by her family. Their disappointment is obvious. No words are necessary to know how ashamed they are of what she's become.
Unfortunately, it's now time for KiKi to head back to her silent hospital room.
Hello darkness, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.
As she's wheeled into the room, she sees the morose expression of Sandy Cohen. Sandy Cohen offers a small wave, with an itty-bitty smile, but says nothing to his wife. He adjusts his Armani tie and tries to look as smart as possible. He steps out of the door when a doctor arrives, offering his opinion on the brain's dependence on alcohol. Sandy Cohen nodded smartly as if he understood the references to neurotransmitters and dopamine.
KiKi looked on, from her bed, and scoffed, "Who do you think you are, Sandy Cohen? Mr. Jones? For someone who claims to hate the superior behavior of all these Newport people, you certainly seem to fit in well." KiKi had never felt more alone and more patronized.
Sandy Cohen could read the books, listen to the doctors, and try to talk to KiKi, but he'd never truly understand what she was going through. She had tried to talk to him and explain how she really felt, but there was no way he could ever really know. When it came to this subject, communication was just not possible between them.
You raise up your head Because something is happening here
And you ask, "Is this where it is?"
And somebody points to you and says
"It's his"
And you say, "What's mine?"
And somebody else says, "Where what is?"
And you say, "Oh my God
Am I here all alone?"
But you don't know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?
KiKi felt that the bridge between her and Sandy Cohen was now the size of the gap between a 1960s political activist and a '60s leader who has no way of understanding what's really going on with the people. Though Sandy Cohen knows there's a problem and has known for quite some time, he has no way of truly comprehending that problem. It's absurd to him. KiKi feels completely alone, as if she's walking down a narrow street of hard, cold cobblestone. She feels trapped on this narrow road, forever stuck on this path of decay and regret.
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone,
'Neath the halo of a street lamp,
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence.
Suddenly, KiKi turned on the television, disturbing the sound of silence. A neon light from the television stabbed KiKi right in the eye. She suddenly had a revelation. The vapidity of the television show made KiKi realize that her conversations with Sandy Cohen recently had been just like this show: superficial. They had been talking, but they hadn't truly been communicating.
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dare
Disturb the sound of silence.
KiKi realized the problem now, at least. When Sandy Cohen returned, she attempted to have a conversation with him. But before she had even begun, Sandy Cohen had cut her off, "not now, KiKi. I…I'm just not ready to talk about it yet." But, KiKi was angered, how would not talking about her problems fix anything? Sandy Cohen was a fool to think that silence could solve troubles and tribulations.
"Fools" said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows.
Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you."
But my words like silent raindrops fell,
And echoed
In the wells of silence
Later that night, KiKi was released from the hospital and came back home. She entered the kitchen, spying a bottle of wine. She looked at the alcoholic beverage and felt her willpower breaking. She metaphorically bowed down to the evils of alcoholism and grabbed a glass.
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made.
And the sign flashed out its warning,
In the words that it was forming.
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets
are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls."
And whisper'd in the sounds of silence.
Disclaimers: We do not own either of the songs we used, including both "The Sound of Silence," by Simon and Garfunkel and "Ballad of a Thin Man" by Bob Dylan. We have no rights to KiKi nor to Sandy Cohen. We don't own MRI machinery, but we've had some good times in those. We wish we could own those hot magnetic forces. We don't own any hormones in the brain, hospitals, Armani ties, the 1960s, or the concept of political opposition. We did not invent televisions, but we're certainly among their hugest fans. And please remember, everyone, to avoid the sound of silence!