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August 16, 2014 - ALANNA

“People suck. And I hate them.” There, I said it. I’d much rather spend my days around animals. All day long. In many ways, they seem to be much more rational than us humans. But this is not the story of why I think people are disappointing. It is rather a story that started with a ransom note. The ending? I still don’t know how it will end.

It started on a hot mid August afternoon. The streets were deserted, everything was still, the leaves up in the trees weren’t rustling, and even the otherwise noisy squirrels were nowhere to be found. There were no kids feeding the ducks at the pond. It could have been described as lifeless, very much like a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie. It was an eerie sight. In retrospect, I should have stayed home. Someone else might have seen it as a sign of what was about to happen, but I had been waiting for this book reading for a while and dismissed all the warnings, crossing the park as if in a hurry, instead of breathing in deeply, taking nature in, like I usually did.

As I walked past the cafe on 57th Street, I saw him, playing guitar inside, strands of his black hair falling over his shut eyes. His voice carried so much emotion, it mesmerized me. I stared into the cafe, unable to move, and before the song was finished, I had walked in and sat at the table closest to him, as if a force stronger than myself had called the shots. I looked around, but he didn’t seem to hypnotize anyone else like he did me. I was only half listening, but there was a deep melancholy to everything he sang. Not that I cared what the content was. I would have followed him to the end of the world, even if had been singing about mass murder. “CAN I TAKE YOUR ORDER?” I wasn’t ready to come back to Earth, but the waitress’ disgruntled voice, brought me back in a rather abrupt manner. “I’m sorry. Nonfat latte, please”, I said distracted, without looking at the waitress, wondering for how long she stood next to me, asking if I wanted to order anything, before losing her patience.

Before I sank back into the music, my cell phone vibrated. It was Bobby, saying he was going to the baseball court, a few blocks from the apartment. “Good for him. Maybe some fresh air would do him some good”, I thought, while smiling. My brother and I had moved here only three weeks ago, so he could go to art school; he truly had a gift. When I was forced to grow up, I gave up on my goals, and decided, he wouldn’t go through the same ordeal. We only had each other, and didn’t know anyone in the neighborhood. The start of the semester was still a week and a half away. I already hated my boss at the bookstore, and Bobby seemed to miss his friends, to the point that he rarely ever talk to me anymore. Had this been a mistake? Should we have stayed back home? Did Bobby question any of my decisions? And more importantly, did he resent me? Would we get back to normal? I shook my doubts away, preventing myself from causing a scene. Last time I cried in public, I vowed never to do it again, and I meant it. Nothing like a few tears to make everyone suggest we go back to therapy, or grief counseling, or something. But no one knew us here. I wouldn’t open the door to find Mrs. Brown standing there, with a casserole in her hands, and a worried frown in her face. I guess that also meant, we wouldn’t be going back to Dr. Price on Tuesdays and Thursdays, at 3:00 p.m. I have to say, that part was a relief. I have never been good at sharing my feelings and let’s face it, having to pay someone to listen to you, really sucks. My friends didn’t know what to say or do, when I started talking about our parents, and I cannot say I blamed them, but it made us drift apart. Facebook updates show me pictures of their offices, their husbands, their babies…

This next song was about his home, I think. Up until that moment, I thought there was no way anyone could describe their childhood house with such detail: the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg coming from the kitchen, while his grandmother baked, and the “he will have to pay for this!” or “I will always love you” coming from the TV she insisted of having on, even if she wasn’t really watching it; the faint smell of cigarette on his mother’s clothing, and the look of despair when she sat in the porch for hours, staring into nothing; the exact color of the sky on the day they took his father away; the perfect row of hyacinths in the garden; and the unpaved road that “I could see through the rearview mirror” with so much detail. I envied that feeling: having a home to want to go back to. The sense of belonging somewhere. Could I remember the house we grew up in, that well? I closed my eyes, trying to remember anything. Slowly, a faint, smoke-like cloud filled my mind’s eyes. For a split second, I saw Mom in the front porch swing, back when we were happy, reading Bobby’s favorite short story, while he climbed on the railing, pretending to be a monkey. He was a cute toddler, his blonde, always messy hair dancing with the wind. Soon, that image was replaced with the fire, flames consuming the possibility of being a happy family, and my childhood memories, all at once. I wiped away a tear, looking around, to see if anyone had seen me. “That is what makes music so powerful. I was singing about leaving home to become a musician, and here you are crying. I am Ryan, can I sit here?”. I nodded slowly, hoping there was a way to gracefully wipe away my tears, and maybe check if my eyes looked normal or a shade of crimson. There was not much I could do, seeing that he had noticed I was crying. He stared at me for a second, before asking: “You okay?” So much for not having people recommending therapy. He’d probably eave now “Here you go. Take my therapist’s card, so you can go see him sometime.” “Y-Yes, I’m okay”, I stammered, trying to compose myself. “I was just trying to remember the house I grew up in, but some bad memories came to mind”, I said, before I had realized I was talking to a complete stranger. This was a breakthrough Mr. Price would have been proud of. When the ransom note came, I thought it was joke. A bad one, but still a joke. If it had come to my door, I would’ve paid much more attention to it. I didn’t make it home until the next day. Things were looking up for me, now to see if Bobby had made any friends. I can make his favorite for breakfast: blueberry pancakes with strawberry sauce. The door was closed, but unlocked and panicking, I called his name over and over, as I ran around the empty apartment. Filled with despair, I immediately knew, the joke was on me. He was not gonna answer my desperate cries, nor my phone calls because somebody had taken him. But who could have done something se despicable? Who did I hurt? And more importantly, what the fuck should I do now? I guess, first of all, see if his kidnapper answers my phone call.

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