Reluctantly Learning

Wake Up
His whole frame cringed with the blaring of the bells next to his door. Swiftly, he drug his feet out of the covers and with only two steps had the alarm off. Only two more landed him back, face up on his bed, his feet dangling off of the edge in the cold air. He knew that if he just whisked his feet under the covers he'd be both warm and asleep again. But he resisted the temptation.

Glancing towards the table by his bed, a number of un-opened letters lie in wait, each a mark of disappointment. Letters from people who were worried, who cared, who wanted to know he wasn't dead. He cursed himself, the horrible person he was. Holding his legs in the chill momentarily, he finally rolled his hips and lurched his body up into a sitting position. Today he would make it different, today would be the first day of being a good son, a good friend, a good person in general. He always told himself such things when the sun wasn't quite enough to heat the day and he felt like warm blood in his system might make a difference.

By the time on the clock, his worthless mantras had stolen too much time. He rushed into the shower, shedding some clothes as he went, managing to grab a towel from the cabinet on his way. He glanced in the mirror, waiting for the water to heat up. He jumped and made a full turn before coming back to examining his aged, pale, mismanaged face. His hair was well below his shoulders, he knew that from his daily routine of pulling it back into a ponytail, but his beard was quite forgotten. Long and only vaguely the same length, it grew in a manner that would eventually get in the way of eating. That realization brought up a new problem, he still needed food before he left. His mind quickly spewed past his looks and on to a more pressing issue, when had he last eaten. The hollow throbbing clenching in his abdomen might have said days.

Throwing on a tank top and a loose John Taylor t-shirt, he jerked up his old pair of faded jeans, threaded and buckled his belt. Reminding him self, again, to punch a new hole in the leather. He heard the door slam and bags dropping in the kitchen. Slipping his wallet into his back pocket, he left the room with curiosity.

"Hey Sam, long time no see." He greeted his roommate, leaning against the corner.

"Hey, didn't know if I'd catch you." His roommate smiled, putting milk in the refrigerator, "I got off early today, thought we needed food." He rolled up the plastic bag and started to place yogurts on the shelf, "Rent's due soon."

"Oh yeah," Armand pulled out his wallet and thumbed through his last week's tips, "Here's $350," he placed it on the table, "I don't really want to get mugged anyways." He joked.

"Man, you need a hobby. What do you do with all that cash?"

"Student loans." he thumbed through the bags, hastily setting items on shelves and in cabinets.

"Have you looked for a job?"

"I have two, why would I want another?" Armand
picked out some lunch meat from a plastic sack and some bread from the counter. “I would stay and help, but I'm a touch late as it is.”

“That's fine.” he rolled up some plastic bags,
“When's your next day off?”

"I don't know the meaning of what you ask.” He smiled, shaking his head. He shrugged, “Maybe Labor Day, or Thanksgiving, or Christmas, but I doubt it.” His matter of fact tone never trailing into a grumble.

“I don' t know why you're wasting time like this.” Sam shook his head disapprovingly.

“What?” He turned on the defensive, “I'm making good money, paying off my debts; I'll be completely loan free by the end of the year.” he offered his excuse with some enthusiasm.

“Yeah well, maybe you should be making the bog bucks like other sound producers. Then you could quit the zombie shifts and get some sun."

“I wouldn't be making that good of money, and I burn easily.” he made up his excuse.

“You mad some damn fine money back in the day.”

"Yeah, for an 12 year-old." Armand chuckled, “People have to buy your records if you want to make money, and that means you have to make records. I was just a special guest, buzz word for album covers. No one even knows who I am or anything about me. I don't even play anymore.”

“Why don't you go edit sound for some label, produce some of those music friends you have?"

"Friends? I have friends outside of this house?" Armand laughed, “I sent out a few resumes when I graduated, but I haven't heard back from them.”

"Well, then what was that letter from EMI, and the one from RCA?" He asked.

"What letters?"

"You didn't open you letters? I put them on your night stand weeks ago."

"I guess not." Armand shrugged, bitting into his dry ham sandwich.

“You're not going to go check?” Sam asked.

“No,” Armand opened the door, “I'm going to go to work. I'm late.”

"Your mom, dad, and Professor Danielson called for you. And your boss called."Sam reported quickly.

"Which boss?"

"Roy."

"What did he want?" Armand chewed.

"Something about closing."

"I close every night." Sam shrugged to his questioning look.

"And Jen sent you an invitation." Sam said cautiously.

"Really?" Armand stopped chewing, “To what?”

“A party, you should go.”

“I'll look at it later.” He shut the door after himself.

Work
5:00 PM and his daily walk was underway. Living so close to work was both a relief and a burden. Being so close made him easy to call on his days off, and since Steve quit, he hadn't had any.
“When was it that Steve ran off with the hooker?” He pondered, shuffling his feet and avoiding eye contact with the beggars. “Nine, weeks?” His mind would answer, slipping past the ache into memories. “After 4 weeks, shouldn't you say months?” He'd question again. “Saying six weeks is shorter than a month and a half.”

His thoughts would progress through the plethora of meaningless thoughts he relied on for his mental stability.

The back door had a chime on it that always seemed pointless when he walked in, but a god-send when the night got busy. They didn't chime in any pleasant way, more like a devils' tri-tone pinching away at the back of your neck in between the beatings of the tubes on the metal. Today he slammed them still before walking away. He slipped out of his jacked and hung it on the coat rack outside of the boss's office, and wiped his shoes clean of the outside world. Lemon scents were being filtered into the air by a row of slicers. He walked behind them, and carefully washed his hands and forearms before joining them.

"Hello Sarena." He smiled, taking the last cutting board to her left.

"Hey Matt, how are you." She asked.

"I'm alive."

"Are you okay?" She looked at him oddly.

"Yeah, I'm fine." he smiled nervously.

"Sleeping alright?"

"Never enough, but normal, yeah." he wedged out the citrus.

"Something on your mind?" She hinted.

"It would be a waste if there wasn't something there.” He said sarcastically.

"You're sure nothings bothering you?”

"Do you want something to be wrong?" He tossed his lemons in to the bin.

"Just checking,” She giggled a little, “You just look like hell and I was hoping there would be a reason." she smiled broadly.

"Excuse me?" He smiled back and joked, “I, I am a work of art.”

"No, honey, you look horrible." She poked him with her elbow, "In fact, I was just talking with Stacy. We think you should cut your hair, and get rid of the rat's nest on your face. It will help us all out with tips."

"Ah," He exaggerated his tone, "It's always the same thing with you." He dumped his lemons in the bin for emphasis, "Always going on and on about how you want more tips. I think a boob job will get it done quicker than me getting a hair cut."

"But Matt,” she wined, “you looked so much better when you first started. You looked like an older Armand Matthews." wined the turned waitress.
He was taken aback a little with shock, "Oh, and who's that? Some royal prince of England plastered in your teeny-bopper magazines?" He teased her, feeling a slight constricting of his chest.
"He's a musician, or was, I guess he died in an accident, or was paralyzed, or something. A savant."

He swallowed hard, both relieved and emotionally pained by the description, "Savant? A musical savant? Savants do math.” He said hastily, “Don't you mean some member of 98 streets or something? Your definition of music is so loose." He tried to keep joking, but found it hard to keep the same tone.

"It's not just math, he was an autistic guitarist. My composition professor told me about him.” She countered, “You wouldn't know him, it takes someone with culture, class, and a keen knowledge of the inner workings of music."

"Culture, I have culture. And I sure as hell know music.” he tried to keep his frustrations at bay, reminding himself that she was being playful, “Should you forget that I am a highly trained sound producer." He mustered a broad smile.

"Then why aren't you producing?" Her demeanor matching his roommate's disappointment. She turned and grabbed a bucket of bleach water.
Armand grabbed the second bucket and followed after her into the main dance area, "Who's to keep you in jokes if I wasn't here?" They started to mop down the small tables on the sides of the room. "I won't be here forever, you know."

"You graduated over a year ago." Her head cocked slightly to the side, "You work every night. You never know what's up with your roommates. The only time you see them is when they come in here. Come to think of it, you haven't dated anyone in over a year."

"That's not even what we're talking about!" He laughed, “And you need to work on your transitions.”

"You haven't been on a single date. What do you do?”

“I've been on a few dates.”

“How many?” she stated with disbelief.

“I don't know a few, it's not important.” he snapped a little, “I'm not looking for a relationship, no shame in that. It's not like I have time for one anyways." he followed up, “Is this a coordinated plan of attack, or just a happy coincidence?”

“I don't know what you mean.” He shook his head, mouthing never mind. "Boy, you let me and Stacy have a day with you, we'll set you up with some girlfriends, get you some clothes, get a hair cut, teach you about good music."

"I think I'll pass on your day of horrors."

"It'll be fun." She smiled. They continued to tease each other as they bounced from table to table. “We'll follow it up with interview practice and resumes.”

"Hey Matt!"His boss called from behind the bar just as they were finishing with the tables closest to the small, seldom used stage. "Come back here a second, I want to talk with you."

"Uh oh..." Sarena quipped as Armand walked back to the back, dropping off the bucket under the bar before entering the back office.

"What's up Roy?"

"Take a seat, Matt." He offered the chair across from him. "I talked with one of your roommates earlier, this morning, but I guess you weren't up when I called."

"Yeah, some of us can't go 36 hours without sleep.” he smiled, “I got the message as I was heading out." Armand sat in the strangely soft chair, "Something about closing. If you want me to train someone again, I'm cool with that."

"No, not that kind of closing. We're having a hard time competing with some of the other bars, and we're about due for another re-vamp, so I'm going to be closing the bar for a few weeks."

"What?"

"I'm bringing in a contractor, we're going to make this a 24 hour joint. No more 12 hours of operation. We'll be a cafe in the morning, close around 8 and re-open an hour later as full bar and club till 1. I've got this great design that will let us lift the furniture up to the ceiling and keep it up there during the night and lower it back down for the morning."

"That's 21 hours max.” Armand corrected, “That is an interesting idea, but what am I suppose to do if you close the bar for two weeks?"

"Well, actually, we're going to be closed for three weeks, apparently there's still asbestos in the walls. I don't want that to be a bad thing." He tried to cut off Armand's objections, "You haven't taken a day off for months. You need a vacation anyways. I'll be giving everyone a little bit of a bonus to tide them over and hopefully retain them to the end of the break. You should really use this time to relax, collect your thoughts."

"Who's not relaxed?"

"You're a good kid, and you've got a good head on your shoulders but, you seem way too unhappy."

"What makes you think I'm unhappy?"

"You look like shit, you work too hard, you have no ambition. You're not the same person I hired four years ago." Roy stated bluntly.

"Hasn't anyone ever heard of natural hair styling?" Armand defended the shallowest of the remarks.

"When you first started here, you were making plans, you had a direction and this was just a means to the ends. And somewhere in the middle you stopped talking about the future, you've just been in a pattern,” he said, watching how Armand's eyes rolled and glanced away, "And while I understand that you're trying to keep things a secret, you have talent, a talent you shouldn't waste."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I was at the GFA, with my girlfriend at the time, she was a professor at UCLA, back about 7 or 8 years ago. Seem to remember someone remarkable coming to her attention. I didn't think it was you, at first, you're very well adjusted."

"In that case, I appreciate the digression." He stated, ignoring the last comment.

"Take this time to get your life back on a track that'll make you happy. Even if it's not playing music, use your degree. There's a purpose in hiring college kids and it's not so they can graduate and stick around." He smiled, "Doors are open, go make some drinks."

"Yes sir." Armand said, moping a little, walking slowly out to the bar to greet the first few customers.

Mixing, sloshing, pouring, dropping ice cubes, finding olives in a jar, squeezing lemons, washing hands, flirting for tips, taking napkins from far too drunk girls, and making correct change for the stingy bastards who don't tip, Armand breezed through the night without much of a thought beyond not falling or breaking a glass. He finished ushering out the last few and mopped up the tables quickly with a bleached towel before delivering the register to Roy and collecting his tips from the group pile.

He emptied his pocket of napkins into the trash and pulled on his jacket. The night was cool and brisk for his five minute walk down the street to Broadway and another bar for the after hours pay check.

He couldn't help himself but think. Three weeks without his main paycheck, his primary escape from thought. What would he do? He tried to fill his head with thoughts about taking walks, or working out, or dating, but the sting of the disappointment he heard in Roy's voice clogged his planning. Another person he's let down. What could he do to make it up to him, while he still could? His mind shot to the unopened letters on his night stand and the possible jobs held within.

The bars were strikingly different, although on many occasions he would be confronted with the same faces an hour's more drunk. Armand had no where near the same relationship with the run down, mutilated glamor of After Hours as he did with Roy's place a few blocks over. He hated the early mornings, the smell, the vomit, the dangerously explosive mix of college partiers on an all night binge, and the professional alcoholics drowning sorrows and memories in a bottle of their favorite poison. On the best of nights, things are smooth, not too drunk, and Armand can leave with the sun and the first round of coffee to march back up the street, home for the day. His roommates honked their horns as they headed out to their offices, passing him just as he passed through the lighted intersection before their block.

Armand climbed the stairs to the house and unlocked the door. He flipped through the pile of mail on the kitchen table, this time making note of more than just if it was his bank's logo. Combined with the pile from his bedroom table there were ten letters from family, 45 letters from solicitors, and 15 letters from record companies and musicians. 5 letters were from her, and 6 postcards from over a year and a half ago, from all around Europe from when she left him. He completed her stack with the invitation.

He scratched his chin, and rubbed his hands in his hair before leaning back on his bed and finding an exhausted sleep.

Only two hours went by before his eyes first flickered open. He slipped off his pants, kicking them to the floor, and tugged his shirt off. He rolled over, clutching his pillow finding a better position. He turned away from the pile of letters, staring at the window instead. The sun was peaking through from behind his heavy curtains. He shut his eyes and pretended he was sleeping. Pretending his thoughts were dreams.

He was sitting on a stage, across from a middle aged man with a guitar. His hands were dripping with sweat. He wiped his palms and shook his hands before preparing his finger tips on the strings. He didn't watch anything, he just closed his eyes and moved his hands and felt the swirling of the sound envelope his spine. Goosebumps went up his arms and his neck was prickled with a chill. The final note resonated and his breath sighed out; his eyes clenched to hold onto the feeling, but it was gone and he was relaxed and his eyes were open looking at the middle aged man tapping his fingers against his lips and nodding with a smile.

He failed to keep his eyes shut, they flickered open and he stared at the ceiling. He rubbed the back of his left hand with his fingertips, feeling the smooth of the back and the relative rough of his callouses. He twisted onto his side, pressing his hands still between his bent knees. His back shuddered and he relaxed, again, into the mattress and shut his eyes. Eighty-eight keys, the whirl of sound, he swayed in his seat, and another memory sprang up behind his eyes, faining another dream.