July 27, 2009

  • Xanga Teen Writing Contest: x83sheakels

    This entry by x83sheakels was beautifully written, and, as for all the entries I publish here, please go to his site and tell him what you thought

         I walked down the steps into the 96th street station with my cello strapped over my right shoulder. While waiting for the downtown B train, I was approached by an elderly man. “Great”, I thought. “Another man asking me for money.” He was black, his eyes were bloodshot, and I tried not to cringe every time I got a whiff of his alcohol-drenched breath. He was about to speak when he was interrupted by the sound of a train passing through the floor above. I tried to think of ways I could tell him I had no more money. The wrinkles across his face were deep thick etches, like dried up rivers crisscrossing an aged land. He turned to me with his unshaven face. Everything about him was slow and weary except for those eyes. His eyes courageously defied the rest of his features through their youthfulness. They were blue marbles, the shade of a cloudless sky. With his newsboy cap on slightly crooked and his hands in his pocket, he began to sing to me. It was a sad song in a minor key. He sang a song about a wicked messenger, about Eli, and about bad news. His deep voice was weary, but sweet. Sweet enough to make me forget about his bitter breath. His soulful music was legato and his vibrato delicate, but steady. It was the soulful blues, a song of vanishing beauty.
         I closed my eyes as the song came to an end. "Weird ass song, ain't it?" He asked. I replied with a chuckle. "I see you're a musician yourself." His eyes turned to my cello as I nodded. "That instrument you're carrying," he said. "That's a beautiful instrument."
         I gave a playful smile and thanked him. He went on talking, looking straight into my eyes. It made me uncomfortable but I kept on listening. "I'm 72 and I've been a musician for 51 years now," he said. I raised my eyebrows to show that I was impressed. He went on, "I know you're a good musician. I can tell." He paused and  looked away for a second. "You know what you're doing is important. It's important that you keep on making music. Make yourself heard. Never stop." I laughed and told him I wouldn't.
         "Remember," he said. "When life gets you down," he bent his knees to lower himself as he looked at the ground. "Just push yourself back up." He straightened out his legs, stood tall, and looked me in the eye. There was power behind his words. His tired old face, graying hair, and heartrending eyes seemed to tell me that his life had been filled with meaningful experiences. The train came. I smiled and thanked him as we went about our separate ways. As I got on the train his simple message resonated in my mind like the last note of a beautiful sonata I didn’t want to end, “When life gets you down, just push yourself back up.”