En Fugue

As I was walking past the coffee shop today, I spotted a man sitting outside with his legs crossed, hunched over his lap, one hand holding a cell phone to his ear and the other twirling the curls at his forehead. I nearly waved.

From a distance, I would have sworn it was my brother. In fact, if someone were tasked with sculpting a life-sized monument to my brother, this would be the pose. They wouldn’t need his face. Just a chair, a phone, and one finger tangled in his hair. I should probably call him.

It’s been over a week since we’ve talked. We tend to communicate in bursts. We’ll go weeks without speaking and then spend three consecutive days on the horn like it’s the annual shoe sale at the call center. I used to think the gaps were his fault. Lately, I’ve begun to wonder if they’re mine.

Later today, I decided to go back to the coffee shop for an afternoon pick-me-up. I have a late match this evening and it couldn’t hurt to treat my boss and enjoy an afternoon iced coffee (well, coffee for me. We’ll stop by the vending machine on the way, of course). 

We enjoyed our last walk-and-talk, but he was so guarded. I can’t blame him. Most days, I am the same way. Sometimes it seems better to shut down than to feel, especially when you need to be able to perform or present something within the hour to a group of stakeholders. 

We spoke of small things. We declared intentions of staying in touch, but life will carry us apart and we both know it. Tomorrow I’ll attend his party, but need to spend the bulk of my day off-site for manual labor. 

Speaking of parties, I was invited to a birthday party today. A surprise disco party. I appreciate having people in my life who still throw dance parties in their forties. For a moment I considered making a playlist for it. I haven’t done that in a while. 

Who likes disco anyway?

Well, besides my mother.

On second thought, perhaps that’s enough of an endorsement.

Usually when I want to feel calm, I put on classical music. The other morning I turned on NPR and was immediately ambushed by a dramatic fugue by Johann Sebastian Bach.

Immediate no.

I appreciate a fugue. Being able to dissociate seems useful, but I mean the musical composition.

A fugue is like a musical puzzle. One melody enters. Then another follows it. Then another. Soon they’re all chasing each other around the room, climbing over furniture, knocking over lamps, and somehow, despite every indication to the contrary, arriving at the same destination together.

I can respect that.

But before 9 a.m.?

Absolutely not.

In my old age, I have become one of those cheugy kitchen signs that says "BUT FIRST, COFFEE" in curly script above a drawing of a cat with an attitude problem. I am not prepared for a musical argument involving multiple independent voices and several centuries of German determination.

And then there is the harpsichord.

I suppose I have nothing against the harpsichord. It has never personally wronged me. In fact, we’ve scarcely interacted at all. But have you ever met someone whose favorite instrument was the harpsichord?

No.

Because those people do not exist. Or perhaps they know enough to remain hidden, revealing themselves only under very specific conditions.

Ope! I just heard thunder… what are the odds this iced coffee will have been in vain?