The churn of the bus wheels against the offended pavement made my stomach ripple. The vibrations and rocking motion moved me in a way most unnatural. My cheerless companions took it in with ease but I could do nothing but quiver. When the stop came, I did all I could to not run down the steps onto the awaiting sidewalk.

Every morning I made this ride to work; every afternoon I made it home. In, out; left, right; up, down; flip, flop. The rhythm was dreadful, the pace draining to my soul.

I worked in a small shop in a big city, both distinctive in all their conformity. The bee-dee-beep of the register’s monotonous tones sang to me every minute of my workday. I wasn’t a seller, I was a cashier. As such, I was the barrier to what people wanted. I didn’t make the merchandise, I didn’t own it, I didn’t smile at seeing it go. Bee-dee-beep was my life.

Lunch break was my time of peace/shore leave/vacation/numbness. Luckily (I say that now only because of what happened since; then I saw it as part of the inevitable pattern of my life), the shop I worked at sat across the street from a small oasis of green in the black and gray ocean of my home.

Every day at precisely 12:05, I took my ham sandwich (wrapped in its plastic bag further encased in an unobscure brown paper sack) across the street to sit on a bench facing away from the storefront. On the day in question, I came to find My Spot taken by a woman and her two banes of existence, a boy and a girl.

Her exhausted face couldn’t beat the sour look I gave the trio. A moment of guilty pleasure swept over my skin as I glared at the young girl and turned her smile upside down.

I walked by without slowing and searched for my usual alternative: two benches on the other side of the oasis facing each other. Anger brewed as I walked on by the occupied seats. Where am I to sit now? I asked myself and finally stopped and took a deep breath.

The gurgle of the fountain turned my head and I saw it through the small copse of trees on the far side of the oasis. Shifting my lunch to the other arm, I marched determined to the fountain.

For all its cement beauty, I ignored the fountain and the buildings that stood in its backdrop. Finding the first available bench seat, I plopped down heavily and rudely interrupted my companion’s serenity. Again, another wash of guilty pleasure came to me as the anonymous man grunted and turned his head back to stare ahead. My one-track stomach ordered me to commence feeding and I obeyed with silent agreement.

Before chewing halfway through my first bite, the man (obviously getting me back) spoke: "You think he’s crazy?"

My eyes turned slowly to the offensive man whose raised brows looked at me questioningly. He expected some sort of response, so clueless, I said "What?" curtly.

Without missing a beat, he nodded towards the fountain. As I turned my head, I saw what he meant: standing on the edge of the fountain facing the street was a man in a black trench coat waving a thin tree branch back and forth at the buildings beyond.

Legato

I slowly gnawed away at my sandwich as I watched the apparently crazy man. His trench coat gyrated as he gesticulated, slicing the thin branch in even gestures: up, down, left, right, up, down, etc. His wavy brown hair bounced with his nodding head. Every so often, he pointed with his empty left hand and muttered something.

While he mostly faced away from me, the side of his face would sometimes turn my way so I could see his high cheekbones. He was smiling.

"Must be practicing or something," my bench mate said.

I uttered a non-committal grunt and licked the dab of mayonnaise from my finger. As I watched, the man with the branch began to quicken, his whole body dancing to some silent beat. Finally, with a flourish, he raised his arms in a grand gesture and brought them straight down with great intensity, his neck arching in the air like a turtle stretching out its tired head.

The man’s shoulders collapsed and I could tell he was breathing heavily. I crumpled up my paper bag and threw it in the nearby trashcan as I walked back to work.

Ritardano

After returning to my register, the image of the man with the tree branch stuck in my mind. Was he practicing for a concert? Was he a maestro? Was he nuts?

Before long, the drone of work deadened my mind. By the time I came to, I was sitting on the couch of my apartment not remembering how I arrived.

The smell of dog saturated the air. Rowlf, my shaggy mutt, lay at my feet gathering their warmth. His brown eyes gazed at mine with utter devotion, his metronome tail set to an easy rhythm.

I sat on the couch refusing to move. I knew exactly what would happen if I did: I would stand up, go to the kitchen, go through the motions of washing dishes, fix food for me and Rowlf; I would sit at the kitchen table looking through the TV screen, and when I found myself in darkness, I would walk to bed and continue the sleep that differed from my waking hours only by my eyes being closed.

I knew this because every evening of my life was the same. If you videotaped my actions from Sunday through Saturday and switched them around, you would never distinguish them.

Part of me rebelled against the perpetual rerun of my life. When did I fall in such a rut? How long was it since I went out and saw the sun recede behind the skyscrapers of my home? I couldn’t remember.

I recognized the struggle within. It, too, began every evening around six o'clock. It would last fifteen minutes, then I would stand up, go to the kitchen, go through the motions of...

A sigh escaped my lungs: right on cue.

14:57

14:58

14:59

I stood up and walked to the kitchen.

Allegro

Awake. Bus. Work. Lunch.

I stuffed my sandwich (wrapped in its plastic bag further encased in an unobscure brown paper sack) under my arm and crossed the street to the oasis. As I approached my usual bench, I saw it unoccupied. I stood there a moment and stared. I almost believed I could see the impression I made in its faded green wood over the years. My Spot seemed to outline the contours of my body. A chill went up my spine as I thought of it and soon I walked back towards the fountain.

I was partly sorry to see the crazy maestro standing again on the edge of the fountain. I don't know why. Perhaps that psychic sense in me we all have knew that something was about to change in my life...and was afraid.

This time I sat off to the side of the crazy maestro and studied his profile. His big nose canopied a broad smile that reached from cheekbone to cheekbone. Wisps of wavy brown-gray hair hung over his closed eyes and swayed back and forth with the movement of his head. Inside his black trench coat, he wore a faded gray t-shirt and green jumper pants, his feet adorned with hemp sandals. Waving his tree branch around, he looked more than out of place in the city.

I gazed intently at him as I absently ate my sandwich. The crazy maestro’s arms alternated between flowing, waving motions and jerking, abrupt flourishes. I became mesmerized by his movements and wished to know what piece of music he conducted.

And then, as the day before, he ended in a flourish and his shoulders sagged in exhaustion. Realizing his concert had ended, I swallowed my last bite and crumpled up the brown bag.

"What did you think?"

I looked up and saw the crazy maestro standing on the ground now beside the fountain, facing me with a broad grin.

Scherzo

"Well?" he asked. "How was it?"

I looked at him dubiously. I suddenly felt ashamed, staring at him like an oddity in a zoo.

His belly shook with a hearty laugh. "Come now," he said, "I know you were watching; I had it in mind all along. Knew exactly what you were doing before you did it."

When I didn’t answer he moved his sandaled feet closer, one hand in his pocket, the other still holding the tree branch at his side. "You came here yesterday," he said.

"How did you know that?" I asked sharply. "I was sitting behind you."

This time he gave an opened mouth laugh that shined in his eyes. "So, you can speak after all!"

A bit of annoyance grew inside me. "What was it you were doing?" I said.

The crazy maestro, smile broad, plopped down next to me. "What was what?"

Exasperated, I stuck out my arms and whirled them around quickly. "That-shit you were doing with your hands."

"Oh, that." He giggled. "Just a little thing I do to keep things going smoothly."

"You talk in riddles." Convinced that this crazy maestro really was nuts, I stood.

"No, don’t go," he said. "You haven’t heard the music yet."

I looked sourly down on his smiling face. "I don’t want to hear your music," I said.

A look of sorrow washed away his smile. "Then how do you ever expect to get out of the rut and into the groove?"

Something in the man’s words hit me, hit me hard. Partly scared and partly wearied, I jerkily moved my legs toward work.

Adagio

That night, I spooned the mashed potatoes from a freeze-dried mix. Rowlf crunched away at his equally boring meal.

I looked through the swirling pixels of the television screen and couldn’t get my mind off the crazy maestro. He spoke around what he wanted to say. Why? Was he afraid I would think him crazy? Too late for that.

Out of the rut and into the groove. That’s what he said. I was in a rut; I admitted that to myself many times. How did he know?

I feeling of determination came over me quick. Before I knew it, I had a leash with Rowlf in one hand and the doorknob in the other. It was time to get out of the rut.

Espressione

The cool night air filled my lungs with energy. Something in the way I walked told Rowlf we weren’t on a bathroom run. Or, perhaps it was because I took no scooper. His tongue hung out as he danced around me like a sprite, careful not to tangle me up on his leash.

It was a long while since I walked outside to go no place in particular. A kind of excitement welled up inside me. Passersby with distant faces looked on mine and wondered at my smile. I must do this more often, I told myself.

I walked around for perhaps an hour before coming to an intersection where I saw someone familiar. The crazy maestro stood on the top of a low wall across the street, looking in my direction. We stared at each other across the way and Rowlf began tugging at me as people began following the instructions of the lighted sign.

I didn’t take my eyes away as we walked towards him, slaloming through on-comers. He still held the branch in his hand, beating it steadily against his leg. Soon, I stood before him.

"What are you doing here?" I asked in an accusing tone.

"May I not stand here?" he answered. The smile in his eyes didn’t touch his lips.

"You’re really beginning to freak me out, maestro," I said.

A burst of laughter exploded from his mouth. Its loudness embarrassed me and I looked shyly at the people walking past us. Suddenly, he jumped down from the wall and had his hand at my shoulder egging me to walk along with him. Apprehensive but feeling safe with everyone around me, I pulled at the leash for Rowlf to follow.

"Maestro, eh?" he said, the amusement still in his voice. "A maestro of men perhaps. But my friends call me Elijah. Tell me, why are you out and about tonight?"

"May I not walk around?" I said sarcastically.

"Heh-heh, now don’t be defensive; I’m merely curious."

I shrugged my shoulders. "I was tired of being in a rut like you said. Doing the same thing every day in the exact order."

"Ah, I unfortunately know exactly what you mean. Look around you," he said and held out his hand and swept it in front us. We stopped on the sidewalk and I peered around at the lights, sounds, and people of the city. "There are many people stuck in a rut like yourself, my friend, although you’re an extreme case I’m sure. They get into the rhythm and can’t get themselves out. They’re slaves to the beat."

"Is that necessarily a bad thing?" I asked assertively.

Elijah’s brow wrinkled up. "No, no, of course not,

that’s part of the beauty of it all. You gotta get into the rhythm but you can’t let it take hold of you. You gotta take hold of it."

"You’re speaking in riddles again." I began walking and he followed.

"You’re not listening." He sighed heavily. "You asked me today what I was doing; well, I’m going to tell you."

"I thought you were practicing conducting music," I said.

His high cheekbones raised up as his bright teeth shone shined through his smile. "I was conducting music. More than that: I was making it."

Gusto

"I don’t understand," I said meekly.

"Things don’t have to happen for a reason for there to be beauty," Elijah said. "It’s not the things, that happen but how they happen where there’s purpose. There’s a music in the universe that most people never see-"

"But you do."

He chuckled. "Yes, I do. Things you take for random have rhythm. A sneeze here, a knock there; a swirling patch of dust, a feather floating on a stream. They can all come together to make music if you just listen."

We stood on another street corner now, surrounded by the constant flow of people on the sidewalks and cars etching their way down the lanes. Elijah set one arm across the back of my shoulders and pointed the branch with the other. "Look," he said. "See how the feet move of that young couple there? Now watch the door ahead of them and the green car just coming down the street."

I watched suspiciously as he began moving his branch back and forth in an easy tempo. At first I didn’t see it. But then, something happened. The couple’s legs began to move to the rhythm of Elijah’s strokes in the air. Then, the door in front of them opened;
                  a squeak;
                              a jingle;
    and the green car’s horn honked and
                                                     snorted out a put.

My heart began to race. "How did you do that?" I asked in a disturbed voice.

"I didn’t make anything happen," Elijah said. "I merely put the things that were going to happen in tune with one another."

I closed my open mouth in disbelief. "In tune? That’s imposs--I mean, what does that even mean, in tune?"

Elijah smiled warmly and drew himself up. "You know exactly what I mean," he said. "You’ve seen it all along, you’ve just ignored the music. You’ve been living your life enslaved to the rhythm. And yet you’ve been on the very cusp of reaching out your hand and taking the beat by the tail. Oh, people like us are a rare breed, my friend. Rare indeed."

"People like us?" I was more confused than ever.

Somehow, Elijah managed a look of pleasure and sorrow on his face. He began to back away from me into the crowd. "Listen, I tell you. Hear the forever music around you and you will be a maker of harmony."

I watched dumbfounded as the crazy maestro disappeared in the throng.

Accelerando

Awake.

Elijah’s words echoed through my mind all during the night. I struggled to define him as insane or sagacious.

Forever music, he said. How could there be music in the universe? And yet I couldn’t deny what I witnessed.

I waited for my morning bus to my cheerless occupation and wondered at Elijah. The door opened and I once again took in the familiarity of my ritual. Sandwich in hand, I boarded the crowded bus and stood in the center aisle, one hand resting on the bar above.

I closed my eyes and for a moment I decided to take Elijah seriously. When I opened my eyes, I studied the people around me. At first, I noticed nothing out of the ordinary about my daily companions. As time passed, though, I began to see movements and sounds around me take on a cadence.

                A woman lifted her hand to her face followed
                                a beat later by the
                blinking of her little girl’s eyes
                                which led into the short
                rustle of someone’s newspaper, the
                swish of a man’s corduroy pants, the
                sway of the bus, the
                twist of a boy’s head to see some cars
                                  one
                                  two
                rush by in a triplet of whooshing air.

I closed my eyes hard and my heart pounded. I tried to convince myself I wasn’t crazy, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

When my feet hit the sidewalk at my stop, I ran. Not just because what had happened, but because, distantly, I began to hear the sounds of instruments.

Crescendo

All through the morning, I became frightened for my sanity. The bee-dee-beeps, coughs, clops of shoes, squeaking doors, voices and rustles...everything ebbed and flowed in rhythms and counter-rhythms. I tried to ignore the choir of chaos but it cried out to be put in sync.

And every time I closed my eyes, the rising sounds of instruments cascaded into my ears.

Fresh air hit my lungs and the shouts of my angry supervisor flowed into the other sights and sounds around me. My feet pounded across the pavement to the oasis. Elijah had to be there to help me! Or else I would go mad!

And music continued resonating in my mind.

I reached the fountain out of breath, fruitlessly covering my ears with my hands. "Elijah!" I cried. "Elijah, help me!"

But he wasn’t there. The cacophony of rhythms and sounds, and above all the unharmonious music filled my eyes and ears-

And suddenly, it was gone.

As I peered all around me, everything seemed to be back to normal. But as I turned to the fountain to the place where Elijah stood before, my eyes were caught by what I saw: a long, slim branch sat alone on the low wall of the fountain.

Slowly, I paced my steps to the fountain’s edge and stooped low. The wood of the bark felt dusty as I turned it in my fingers. I sat on the stone fountain rim, branch in hand, and let out a deep breath. What was I to do? I looked to the sky, and my life was changed forever.

Above the street before me, a red maple leaf glided through the air, twisting on its still wings. The sound of a whispering whistle broke the silence of the world as it dangled above the rushing cars below it. Cautiously, I pointed the branch towards the leaf. With small movements, I traced out the pattern of motion I remembered Elijah doing with his slim stick: up, down, left, right.

At first, nothing happened. Then, to my astonishment, the little leaf mimicked my movements, wafting in smooth rhythm. The whistling sound began to rise and fall with each change of direction, and without warning a second leaf joined the first; then a third, then a fourth!

Amazement spread across my face but I continued to move the branch steadily

                    up                  up              The            up                  up
               left     right     left     right      leaves     left     right     left     right
                  down            down          danced       down             down

and whistled together in jarring tones, but somehow I was able to pull the soft whistles into harmony without much trouble.

As I looked past the leaves, I noticed a small flock of birds resting on the edge of a nearby building. Those birds are about to fly, I said to myself disbelievingly. How can I know th-the birds flew from the building, the flapping wings percussing together as I quickly included them in the music of the leaves.

Without another thought, I jumped up onto the edge of the fountain and turned towards the backdrop of the city. In front of me lay my tapestry and I stretched out my arms.

Sforzando

Elijah’s voice.

It’s not the things that happen...

I closed my eyes.

...but how they happen...

I let out a deep breath and opened my eyes.

With one fluid motion, I brought my arms down hard. At once, all the cars on the street moved forward together and the blare of a score of trumpets sounded a crisp note. As the sound tapered off, the cars slowly stopped.

A beat. My arms swung out. Strings echoed a note one whole step higher than the last as the clouds glided above, and slowly came to rest.

Silence.

A beat. I thrusted my arms above me, bringing with it, a half-step up, a resounding of various woodwinds as the traffic lights yellowed.

Stillness.

Beat. Another whole step up, strings and brass rung out together, lights changed red and cars rushed by, and I held it there a little longer this time.

Quiet.

Beat. Beat. Beat. An explosion of sound burst all around me, and the world unpaused back to normal, two steps up and every instrument I could imagine storming in unison.

I cannot describe the exhilaration I felt as my heart drummed a tempo in my chest. I sucked in air in tune to my heart. I was just getting started.

Pointing with the branch, another set of leaves that would have blown aimlessly about began to play tweetering flutes as they slowly fell to the ground. I swished the branch to and fro, bringing in the pulsing drums of pedestrian feet. Across the street from the façade of a building, two middle-aged women hung out their heads three stories up and four windows apart, their mouths calling out in French horns to one another. All around me, music sang in perfect harmonies and the true sounds of the world blended in with its music.

My shoulders sagged in exhaustion. The world returned to its former dissonant self, and I smiled.

People like us are a rare breed. Elijah’s words, and understanding now came easy. The world is filled with music. I knew all along, but complacency and fear of change produced deaf ears.

Just listen, I tell you. Follow the groove, slip into the melody and take hold of the rhythm of creation.

Forever. Music.