I woke up next morning feeling remarkably alert. Consciousness seemed to emerge as a continuation of my dream, rather than the usual alarm-blaring crisis. I rolled to the side of my bed and checked the digital clock on my bedside table - 6:40. I sighed in relief and sank back into my pillow. I've got plenty of time. I should try for a few more minutes of sleep, I thought, flopping onto my right side. However, after trying to close my eyes only to have them fling back open, I ripped off the covers and leapt out of bed. Being August, the sun had already crested the horizon, and the window blind at the foot of my bed glowed with promise of a sublime eastern sky. I walked over to the window and flung open the blinds. I had to squint slightly, but there was the sun, sitting as an ornate orange sphere framed between the trunks of two parallel pines, piercing though the branches and filling my being with contentment. After a tremendous yawn and a satisfying sneeze, I made my way over to the dresser, peered into the top drawer, and selected the pair of briefs which appeared to have the least holes in them. Then, hopping around on one foot, I inserted one leg the then other before pulling them up to my waist. Looking back over the dresser, something, a person or a face, caught my eye.
The face belonged to myself. My hair was the longest and lightest it had ever been, framing my face like the mane of a lion, obscuring all of my ears except for the little balls of my earlobes. My face was deeply tanned and my cheeks were dusted with freckles. A button of a nose sat above a open mouth full of adolescent teeth with gaps between them. The only article of clothes I wore, a pair of beige shorts, were without a belt and hung low, showing the elastic waistband of my underwear. I was dangling from an overhead branch, revealing a hairless, pale pair of armpits. The lines of my ribcage showed from the beneath the skin of my sides. My feet were bare and covered in dirt; bruises and scrapes trailed up from them and along my shins, but my smile gave no sign of noticing. It was not a cheesy or a wide smile, but instead a relaxed one; one which managed to captured the natural, effortless essence of childhood joy. My eyes, which gazed directly into the camera and therefore directly at me, were profoundly green and intense, made wild by the mess of hair around them. I looked like a feral creature - an inquisitive lion cub with the promise of, come age, becoming a fearsome predator. For a sublime instant I became him; I felt the touch of a warm summer breeze caress my cheek, I heard the sound of leaves borne by the wind mingle with a distant chiming of bells, I felt my heart thump in my chest and the stretch of my arms above my head, I felt the mystery of the world.
Following a sudden and intense compulsion, I hurriedly set the photograph back down on the dresser. I felt as if, just by looking at the photograph any longer, it would burn up - turn to ash and take with it the memory it held. I was twelve in the photograph, existing in a state which was chaotic yet calm, hysterical yet care-free, in total oblivion to the impending maelstrom of puberty and the existential thoughts which came with it. I was now seventeen, I realized with a start, and would never in my life be twelve again.
The photograph remained in the front of my mind as I rummaged around in my dresser, looking for a shirt to wear. The tree I hung from was a great big pine which sat overlooking the valley of camp; below me would have spread the strawberry fields (always producing a divine smell), the stables (my favorite horse had always been Blackjack, a tremendous black stallion whom I would visit daily and give sugar cubes to, and with whom I shared a deep, wordless connection), the cluster of cabins (cabins were Ancient-Greece mythology themed, and campers were sorted into cabins based on their 'godly parent'; everyone, of course, was jealous of the older campers who got to be members of the 'big three' cabins: Zeus, Poseidon (which I was in) and Hades), the canoe lake (where I had nearly … nearly … had my first kiss with Rachel Dare, at the time a fellow camper (she got to be the camp 'oracle')), the woods (at the end of every week the woods were the theater for an epic hundred-acre simulated battle called war games, complete with wooden swords, war paint, dulled arrows, the lot). Perched atop the hill opposite the pine tree would sit the big house, just down the hill from it the dining pavilion, and just down from that the climbing wall. That was the view I would see every time I entered camp, and, looking over my shoulder one last time, every time I left.
Though it was still early August and I had only been gone from camp for two weeks now, it felt eons away. That was the mystery of camp. During the summer it consumed all of reality; while there, it seemed the outside world didn't exist. At camp all thoughts were engaged solely to the exquisite present moment and nothing else, nothing but the smell of strawberries, the glittering surface of the canoe lake, and the mellow strumming of a guitar around the campfire. During the rest of the year, camp seemed to sink into the hills, gone until its glorious June renaissance. I pulled an orange camp shirt out from the bottom of the drawer, making a mess of the neatly folded shirts above it. CHB read in black letters on the front. I pulled it over my head and tugged the bottom down to my waist.
Suddenly inspired, I walked back over to my bedside table and picked up the beaded necklace which sat on it. I pulled the necklace over my head, catching the musty scent of leather. I could feel the leather cord tug at the back of my neck and the weight of the beads dangling against my chest. I reached up and cupped the beads in my palm, bringing them closer to my face to study. Each bead commemorated a summer spent at camp, strung chronologically from my right collar to my left. The very left bead (to an observer the very right bead) marked the passage of the first summer I was a counselor. It marked a transition; no longer was I the feral, long haired boy hanging from the tree, devoid of any responsibility. I was a counselor now, and with that came the need for courage, maturity, and leadership - I brought a hand up pick my nose, tugging a satisfyingly long booger from my nostril before flicking it across the room. Courageous and mature, that's me.
After another eye-watering yawn and yet another voluminous sneeze, my stomach began to rumble. Deciding to put on pants later, I made my way out my room and towards the narrow flight of stairs which led down to the kitchen. However, nearing the top of the stairs, I caught my reflection in a mirror at the end of the hallway. My hair was apocalyptic. The hair on the right side of my head was completely flattened from being mashed by the pillow, while the hair on the left side of my head had remarkably organized itself into a single, massive cowlick. I jostled the flattened hair and tried to press down the cowlick, but when I removed my hands no progress had been made. I sighed and stepped closer to the mirror. Sparse stubble lingered above my upper lip, under my chin, and below by ears. My nostrils appeared to have grown wider. My adam's apple protruded further. My eyebrows had grown thicker. My jaw had grown angular and my cheeks less round. It seemed that the child in the photograph was all but gone, gone except in the eyes. In those, his essence shone with a defiant roar, unwilling to be extinguished, straining to break free. I ran my hands through my hair and started down the stairs.
Sunlight poured into the kitchen through the window above the sink, painting the farther half of the countertop and a portion of the wall behind it a soft orange. A Cardinal's call came from outside - dooo-weet ... dooo-weet … dooo-weet … dweet-dweet-dweet-dweet-dweet …... dooo-weet ... dooo-weet … dooo-weet … dweet-dweet-dweet-dweet-dweet. I opened the refrigerator door and the Cardinal's song mixed with the low-pitched hum of the freezer. There were no eggs, no leftovers, and no yogurt. In the back of the fridge a three-day old salmon steak covered in plastic wrap sat soggily on a plate. I closed the door with a grimace. I opened the pantry and, to my delight, found a cereal container. I grabbed the box from the cupboard, shook it like a rattle, and discerned it to be half-full and probably not too stale. I pulled the cereal box down from the shelf, and something caught my eye. A small plastic bottle sat where it had been obscured by the cereal box. The bottle was entirely blue, and about the size and shape of an eyedropper. I recognized it immediately, and at once the memories came flooding in: my mom and I were gathered around the kitchen table at our old house. She wore an apron covered in yellow and purple flowers and dark green house slippers. My feet dangled two feet off the ground as I sat on one of the stools, knife and fork in hand. I watched from across the room as my mom stirred the pancake batter, taking the blue bottle and squeezing one-two-three-four drops of blue food dye into the mixture, stirring it up, then pouring it into the skillet. She would drop it, steaming hot, on my plate, and I would devour it before the next pancake would even make it into the pan. We repeated this process until I was as bloated as a toad and my teeth were a sickening blue and syrup was smeared all around my lips and chin.
Putting blue dye into foods had started as a method to get me to eat certain things. I wouldn't touch cottage cheese, for example, unless my mother assured me it was actually lumpy blue alien brains. I wouldn't eat pork unless it came from a sapphire sow, and I wouldn't eat eggs unless they came from a cobalt chicken. Mom would purchase blue food dye in bulk and store it in the cupboard, just within reach if I stood atop the radiator on the old kitchen floor. I'd grown out of my blue food phase around middle school, back when we lived at the old house. Apparently this bottle had made the move into our new apartment. I smiled to myself and took the bottle into my hand…..
My mouth was already a hideous black-blue after only a few bites of cereal. My mother pointed this out to me as she shuffled lethargically into the kitchen in her morning gown and slippers, hair a tangled mess.
"Feeling nostalgic?" She asked, sliding onto a stool across the counter, cupping a wide mug of coffee between her hands.
"Yeah … not quite as good as I remembered it." I said, giving her a wide-mouthed blue grimace. "It kinda tastes like playdough."
She laughed, "I didn't even know we had any of that stuff left."
"Neither did I. I found it in the pantry behind the cereal box and thought 'what the heck'."
"Apparently." She said, pausing to sip her coffee. "Open your mouth again I want to see."
I opened my mouth wide and she leaned in across the counter, lightly holding my lower jaw open with her hand and craning her neck to peer into my mouth.
"Your teeth are appalling Percy, you have to brush all of the blue out of your mouth before you leave this morning."
"Hmph," I grunted in reply.
"And kill that perv stache while you're at it. There's shaving cream in the bathroom cabinet."
I gave her a wide-eyed stare but she was busy unfolding a newspaper and splaying it out across the counter. I huffed and dropped my head back towards my cereal bowl. I discretely felt my upper lip with the back of my hand, it was coarse and bristly, as was my chin.
"Oh my gosh." She remarked suddenly, staring at the newspaper..
"What? What is it?" I chirped, half-chewing a bite of cereal.
She rotated the newspaper on the counter so it faced me. She pointed to a column on the back side of the front page, a small, four-paragraph expose piece under wide picture. A four-member band played on a hard-wood stage in what looked to be some sort of music club. There was a drummer, bassist, and two guitarists, all dressed in ostentatious floral shirts, khaki shorts, and what looked to be whigs.
"Why are they dressed so hideously?" I asked, looking up at my mother, who gave me a steely glance in return.
"Never mind that Percy, did you see who it was?" She asked, insisting that I look again.
I looked back over the photo with newfound interest, letting my spoon rest in my cereal bowl. What is she talking about? Who am I supposed t- …. Oh. "Oh!" I exclaimed, nearly spewing blue liquid across the table. The guitarist on the right, sporting a ghastly pineapple yellow button-up, was none other than Mr. Blofis. I swallowed the bite in the mouth without chewing and spoke at an obnoxious volume, "That's! That's! That's….gah shoot thats … "
"Mr. Bl-."
"Mr Blofis!" I roared, interrupting my mom, "That's who it is! Oh my god he looks ridiculous!"
"I don't think it's ridiculous, it's all part of hi-"
"You don't think it's ridiculous? Look at his wig! It looks like a taxidermied muskrat!" I speed, interrupting my mom again.
My mom let out a small laugh before responding, "I'll give you that, the wig is hideous, but it's all part of his band's ensemble."
"Which is what?"
"Surf Music. They're a surf band, Percy. Khaki shorts, bright floral shirts, bleached hair, tattered sandals, the lot."
"I didn't even notice the tattered sandals." I said, bringing another blue spoonful to my mouth.
I saw a flash from the corner of my eye. My mom had brought the coffee mug up to her mouth and the ceramic passed through a sun beam."I agree with you that the presentation is a bit tacky. But make no mistake Percy, they are serious musicians."
"Really."
"Yes Percy. Have you ever heard of the Aquaholics?"
Gah! That was it!, I realized with a start, remembering the poster above Mr. Blofis' desk. "They're the Aquaholics!?" I said incredulously, mostly to myself
"Mmmhhmm," Sally responded, taking a sip from her mug as the ceramic flashed in the yellow sunlight. "They're pretty well known around here. I can tell you recognize the name."
"Yeah, I've heard it before…" I said, the energy of the conversation suddenly tapering off. My mom went back to studying the newspaper while I sat in silence, pondering this new development. "I guess -" I began, my mom looking up from her newspaper, "I guess I don't know what to make of Mr. Blofis". I concluded, letting out a heavy sigh, staring at a trapezoidal panel of yellow sunlight on the opposite wall, at the same time nothing at all. My mom's coffee mug made a soft thud as she set it down on the counter, gently disturbing my attention.
"He is a very interesting man." She said, perceptibly immobile and staring absent mindedly just as I was. Silence reigned. My cereal was finished. I delivered my bowl to the sink and turned the faucet on; a laminar stream of water collided with the dark blue milk in the bottom of the bowl. The blue became more and more faded as the water rose until there was hardly any blue at all, at which point I turned the bowl over, dumping the gurgling contents into the sink basin, and set the bowl aside. The cardinal's song came from the window. I turned my head and looked at the green reading on the stove-top clock - 7:05. Still plenty of time. I traversed the kitchen as my mother sat in silence and made my way back up the narrow stairs to the study which was my bedroom …
The choice I faced of which pair of pants to wear flummoxed me so much that I flung myself on my bed in exasperation. As my head landed on the bed my eyes found the ceiling and my mind found its way back to the photograph - I hung from the great pine overlooking the valley, a gust of wind playing the chimes and causing the leaves to rustle. Just as soon I was at the climbing gym, where objects of all colors and shapes dotted the walls. Again just as soon I was in Mr. Blofis classroom, talking of polar bears, surf music, and hydroponic gardens. An extemporaneous impulse drove me to sit up. The sun had risen even more and sunlight reflected off of the guitar which sat in the corner of the room - a celestial beckoning to which I relented.
It was two years and a month ago when the head counselor of the Apollo cabin told me I had musician's fingers. He was charming and I was a sucker for compliments so we sat down with his guitar on one of the amphitheater benches. My fingers, after all, were long and slender and G C and D came without too much straining. Three chords was all he showed me that day, G C, and D - 1, 4 and 5 respectively, so by the end of the summer, songs by Steve Miller, Van Morrison, John Prine, and Bob Dylan became easy, mindless repetitions of a single pattern - 1, 4, and 5. Then I learned E minor and the world of music opened up. With four chords - just four - I conquered the Beatles, Eagles, Tom Petty, and all the god awful millennial songs like "Hey Soul Sister" and the infamously heinous "I'm Yours". My fingers surged ahead as my voice struggled to keep up, hampered by puberty and poor technique. Summer ended so my mom bought me a guitar to play during the school year, sacrificing her dreamt-of soaking bath tub. She threatened that I would have to raise enough money to buy her a bathtub myself, id I didn't practice the thing every day, so I did.
I sat on my bed as sunlight poured in, E changed to F# minor changed to G# minor, which descended back down to F# minor, and back to E. I picked up the haunting vocal line on the fifth scale degree as the progression restarted.
Crossroads -
Seem to come and go -
Ye-ah
The Gypsy flies
From coast to coast -
The alphabetical building line started - A Bm C#m D E F#m G#m - a tough series of bar chords made harder by my lounging position.
Knowing many loving none -
Bearing sorrow having fun -
"Fun" had always been a difficult pitch to hit, landing on the 7th scale degree of E.
But back home he'll always run -
B rang out triumphantly, strong yet agonizing for resolution.
To Sweet Melissa -
My voice landed soothly on the 10th as the progression found its way home, to E. I let the chord ring out for several moments, suddenly disinterested with continuing. Fitting, I thought, The chords find their way home just as the lyrics do. I pondered this for a prolonged instant, and just as soon I thought of my mom wearing her apron covered in yellow and purple flowers, I thought of her dark green house slippers and the smell of pancakes and the one-two-three-four drops of blue dye landing in the batter. Home, I thought, coming to an indecipherable realization, where is home? My hands found their way subconsciously to Am as I pondered. This, in turn, drove my thoughts away from the question of home to the lyrics of House of the Rising Sun. After that came John Prine, after Prine came Dylan, then McCartney, then - 7:27!? 7:27 read irrevocably in rigid red numbers on the digital clock on my bedside table. 33 minutes until school started and here I sat, unshaven, unwashed, with a guitar in my lap, and no pants. On cue my mother's voice sounded from downstairs,
"You almost ready Percy?"
"Dah.. Yeah." I called back down, scrambling off of my bed, hurriedly depositing my guitar on its stand. I ran my hands anxiously through my mangled hair and sighed. The sun shone brightly now, and I had to squint to look out the window. The Cardinal's call came from outside. I was going to be late, I decided, and fell back onto my bed.