Harmonica Man: Part I & II

Hot air blows from his mouth down the metallic reed and music comes out the other end. He’s sitting on a wooden bench next to his friend who plucks guitar strings. A group of us surround a fire.

I’m on the other side, bundled up in an old Mexican blanket I found in the trunk of my car, half my ass falling through the dilapidated rubber strips of a stolen lounge pool chair.

There’s another guy next me, uncomfortably close, trying to squeak even closer. I try sliding away but my right ass cheek is so stuck there’s no way to do it subtly. I wish I didn’t feel like I had to be polite about that. I wish more than anything Harmonica Man were next to me instead.

He looks up at me from across the circle, catching my eye and I avert my gaze—nervous I said my wish out loud. With the instrument pinched between his lips he saunters over, motioning to the available space at the end of the chair.

Without hesitation, I shove the guy on my right over so there’s more room for Harmonica Man to join. I lift my blanket over us both to create a sense of separation. A gust of uncharacteristically cool air for a warm September night hits the back of my knees.

I kick my boots up over the edge of the fire for warmth. As I do, a breath of dust swirls up to the night sky where the stars look like billions of eyes watching what comes next. His arm brushes against mine, but his eyes stay shut. Soulful tunes sail from the apparatus, the proximity of the sound reverberating from my left eardrum to the tip of my toes. I’m such a sucker for the blues. I inch closer, allowing more of my side body to delicately graze his.

On my right I feel a nudge as I’m the next recipient of a bottle of whiskey being passed around the fire. Obligingly, I take a swig, the cheap liquor burning as it goes down. I pass it on. Harmonica Man lifts the rim to his soft lips, looking at me while he does.

Our faces drift closer. I smell the stench of burning rubber and feel a wave of tremendous heat on the soles of my feet. I look down to see my boots melting over the fire. Shit—my boots are melting over the fucking fire! I yank them out and rub the soles in the dirt. Embarrassed, wide-eyed, I look back at him. His lips meet mine. I taste whiskey and music and feel hot air travel down my throat and sink to the bottom of my stomach. We pull away, our lips breaking apart slowly, sticky from the drink.

He lifts the harmonica back to his lips and plays on.

Part Two

We don’t speak because after three days there isn’t much left to say.

It is just before dawn on I-10W. A faded orange glow rimmed in cerulean stains the horizon. The rest of the sky is black like our coffee and the coffee is warm like the seat heaters. He drives. I play music.

Despite the dark, I can see a smile stretch across his face at the sound of the blues. His voice breaks through the static air between us. He asks me to retrieve his harmonica from his backpack. Surprised at his suggestion after days of pleading with him to play, I unbuckle my seatbelt and stretch back into the folds of brown leather. I unzip his backpack and dip my hand in the open pocket, feeling for a rectangle of cool metal.

“It’s in a sock,” he advises.

A new texture to search for. I find it instantly, pulling it over the carseat while slipping back into my own. My dress gets bunched up in the process, exposing my left thigh.

I hand him his harmonica. He keeps one hand on the wheel, licks his lips then blows through the reed cacophonously until matching the song’s pitch.

I lean my neck against the headrest and look out. Beams of street lights along the highway flash abrasively against my swollen eyes. Beyond is the ugliest stretch of desert I move mountains to avoid, but somehow always find myself in again.

I close my eyes so it goes away. This way I hear the music better.

For a moment, the sound of music makes things feel alright. But I know this feeling is a lie and this lie makes me angry so I open my eyes and look at him with a hard look because in the darkness he cannot see.

Now the music sounds stretched thin like two people pulling a memory too far in different directions, trying to turn it into something it isn’t, never was, never can be. I don’t know it yet but there is a virus in the back of my throat and bruises inside my body. He put them there and things will be complicated soon.

He feels my gaze and he lowers the instrument to graze my thigh with the back of his hand. His skin is so dry it feels as though his knuckles might break and bleed. The roughness agitates me. I pull my dress down so it goes away.

He lifts the harmonica back to his lips and plays on.

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