Title: Fingerprints On Glass
Many a year was I stretched upon the sea
The waves would wash my tears: the wind, my memory.
It was the music, live rather then the recorded songs drifting from store doors, which drew me there. I found the repeated chorus the musician was practicing soothing. Not unlike what I would have heard as a child. It came from one of the apartments over many of the shops, so I enjoyed looking at the antiques beneath the open window my curiosity had located. Felt eyes upon me by an older man inside the store, who gave a questioning but inviting smile. Rather then miss the music above me gave a polite hint of a smile and shake of the head to the man. The man would give good-natured looks at me for the next hour as I stood there. Even from the third floor the tune carried strongly to the street.
College students, artists, elderly shopkeepers and visitors waiting between buses were mingling with casual ease. I kept my free hand in my pockets by habit instead of fear of pickpockets. The feel of paper against jeans and fingers a balm to any trepidation. Pictures inside the folded letter, money bills, small scraps of notes...
Faded duffel-bag held by the strings over one shoulder was carried always even here. It blended among the worn/repaired backpacks of the students well enough. So did I for that matter.
Gypsy boy. Carney. Who stepped off a bus with so little in the bag to call his own.
The violin strings eventually stilled. Since I had lost myself in the sound it felt as abrupt as light in a dark room. For a moment I reeled without moving. Brought back from the memories the music and antiques had brought forth. Had to blink green eyes more then a few times, to the concern of the shopkeeper who started approaching the door. Almost, almost, habit started to make me prepare to leave before the older man got there. Before the growl or shout threatened to attract authority: sometimes waving fists, other times a broom or bat to add their point across. Learning phrases in other languages me and his brothers could later use when cornered by less then friendly people...
"You alright?" a man's voice asked as the door swung open a few feet to his left. Reflex had me nod a 'yes' even as my eyes focused on the worried face of the shopkeeper. A slight uplift at the corner of the mouth to thank him for asking. I have always preferred few words, both to not betray (by accent or slang) my upbringing and to think things through. So with that small smile I turned to continue down the street of stores.
"Alright. If you're sure. Coming to a stop, half facing back over my shoulder as the man continued. "I just hate to see a rare young man falling down from heatstroke or such."
Rare? "Heatstroke?"
The older man looked at his torso so my own eyes traveled down. Nothing strange was spilt on the green turtleneck: no lint, none of the bagel crumbs lingered. After a thought I realized how the comment fit. Without cover under a clear sky sun for hours should not be done in a warm sweater.
"I had not noticed," I admitted slowly with a straight face that caused the man to gaff in humor. It was the same sound as the youngest brother sometimes did.
"Kids today. Well, why don't you come inside and touch what you've been eying for awhile?" The reminder made my eyes slid past the man to once more look at the store window with concealed regret. There were the picture frames, wooden chairs, trunks, cases of toys/knives/tools, and figurines scattered nicely within. Enticing people to seek some hidden treasures just out of casual sight. Rather then hurt the man's feeling by explaining it was the music that had kept me there I simply admitted, "I can only look."
A sympathetic look gentled the man's expression further. An unwelcome byproduct from the implied 'poor teen' statement I endured patiently. After all it was better then hostility. Rather then further discomfort my new acquaintance I turned fully and joined the man, who opened and proceeded through his shop door. There was a short hall beside the door that lead into a tight hall. A further glance before I too entered the store showed a staircase with a mail-slot shelf.
--------
I wandered the isles with slow deliberation to take in everything on all sides of my path. Admiring the knives (most rusty but salvageable). Smiling at the various dancing figurines tucked between tools and toys upon the shelves. Between customers the man would join me; trying to coax small talk he answered in brief words.
"Not a talker," the man observed without censor even as he would reach over to handle the smaller items studied too long. It was amusing to see how much the older man enjoyed showing his collection of goods off even to a nearly silent youth without the money to buy. Pointing out stories of certain objects, histories and trivia with a prompt candor to many of the items. Many he bought in garage sales during his life so one would think he didn't have much detail about it, but he researched and asked around until he had something about it.
Conner Dalas apparently had traveled the world while working before marrying to an artist. A local lady who was mildly famous in this hometown. They had been running this store for the last four years together (his love) and a small gallery (her love). Not having children they tended to 'adopt' struggling college students. In exchange of free boarding above on the third floor they lent a hand for errands occasionally.
The art gallery was on the second floor, having a wide staircase-porch on the side of the building. I had thought it a small cafe from all the casual groupings chatting on the porch with its chairs and tables. Conner encouraged me into visiting it until I finally made a promising remark about doing so.
I preferred things of history to other creativity, but saw no reason not to give it a look later.
-----
By the end of the day I found myself meeting Mrs. Dalas, discussing my temporary tenancy on the third floor. They were talking between themselves (since I watched in bewildered amusement)while she was locking up the gallery, giving last minute cleaning to tables and clicking off lights with routine ease. If nothing else I was attending dinner with them. Conner had told me that they, "might as well eat while deciding."
Mrs. Dalas was acting as the 'practical/skeptical/need-to-be-convinced' side. Her husband playfully coaxed her in apparent humor she shared despite her expression. Bribing kissing finally winning her over before they had reached their apartment door.
Over wonderful roast beef I gleaned was leftover from yesterday I found myself opening up to the couple. Mrs. Dalas (Andrea, always Andrea. No formality here) acted much as my older sister would. Perhaps that was why I didn't fight Conner's mild manipulation into staying longer then my intended few days. Or it might have been the chance to meet the musician since they'd be sharing the non-bedroom areas such as the bathroom. One of two current tenants.
"One's here on a scholarship," Andrea answered to my inquiry. "He tends to be reading all the time. Why, I've been amazed at the subjects he finds. Just two days ago he was learning the language of flowers since he'd finished the book on Japanese police tactics." I had blinked at the different topics I couldn't fathom how they related. An interesting individual.
"The other is trying to find his own way. Hasn't figured out what he wants to be yet: perfectly natural. Sweet boy too. Always smiling," she said with a sly grin of her own between bites. Her hazel gaze was framed by laugh line crinkles which she used to weigh my ...what I didn't know, but she seemed to approve. A curious glance at the duffel-bag lain between my hiking boots under the table when they settled in their seats. So like the looks older sister would give me when her brothers brought their gear to breakfast that I found a slight smile stayed despite the prying questions the two were asking.
No, I wasn't going to school.
Three brothers, one sister. I did not know where they were.
The family traveled and I had gotten separated from them over a year ago.
I found myself explaining how I had grown up, along with my family, on the entertainer circuit oversea. Seeing the scenes as I described the crowds surrounded the acts: the scent of food vendors mingled with straw and sweat. How everyone moved in cramped caravans that contained both homes and equipment. The hours a day everyone practiced their acrobatics between home schooling and shows. And of course the music played to draw customers, set the mood and impromptu-celebrations backstage to mark moments in life.
I just failed to mention specifics. No names or people given save in abstract: nothing concrete to really track them down. No need for these kind folks to stumble blindly where outsiders were held in wary regard.
"Another musician, huh?" Conner half-stated half-asked. "Then you should get along with Quatre if Wufei doesn't throw those large, heavy, thick books at you. Says it should 'flow' and not 'cough'. Whatever that means. What do you play anyway?"
"Flute."
From there the conversation went to music. Favorite artists, songs, instruments. Conner was more a fan of drums and bass then anything although he liked most styles if it wasn't opera. Occasionally Andrea mentioned 'I was recommended' and 'maybe you know the artist of' but seemed content to remain to the side of the subject.
----
Not wishing to wake or disturb my future room-mates I insisted I was fine for the night. That I could be back tomorrow morning. I simple neglected to where or how.
----
The silent joy of stretching muscles without worrying of what others saw always refreshed me. There is a tension that has nothing to do with nervousness when performing for crowds. When I prepare everything slides away. I did not want to lose my one haven in my travels, so every night I began the routine stretches.
Ankles
Wrists
Elbows
Knees
Back
Shoulders
Neck
Stomach
Sides
Fingers
Then I would fold until my chest rested against my knees, hold it, the shift slightly as knees barely bent. Gravity slowly gained strength as I leaned forward. Shoulder would hit the ground as I rolled. Coming to a standing position, holding it, then bending my back to arch until I could jump my legs back in front of me. Somersaults blended with back-flips and cartwheels: then doing them repeatedly as quickly as I could before attempting to stop at a stand still.
The turtleneck was stuffed in my duffel bag and water from a public fountain drunk. My brothers often told me that during Practice I glowed happiness with only a small smile. Since I now knew the dimensions of my area I could close my eyes.
Sense the two pairs of arms interlocked behind my back where my brothers made a hurdle. Neither would move no matter the inches between them and where I back-flipped over them. Sometimes my knee brushed their bangs in passing. Waiting, arms high in victory as the crowd claps, for the few moments it took them to set up. Younger brother hopped to hand-stand on his older twin, their fingers clasped, as the older twin held him aloft and I bowed to the side and away.
While they continued other displays of strength and balance I joined my elder sister on the high wire.
That night I chose a bike rack to use. A great difference from the rope, but I walked the metal bar with ease enough. Each proceeding foot tested before setting down as I closed my eyes again. Since it was hardly a long length I practiced the fake wobble used to tease the crowd, the baby stepping backward and forward, bending down to straddle in 'rest' before maneuvering to stand again.
There is no slack in the metal as I knew when truly up high. It nearly ruined the memory moment I was creating for myself. For over three hours I practiced every stretch and combination I could recall on that bike rack and ground before slowly winding down. Cooling down muscles with flexible poses held for minutes.
The water fountain both re-hydrated me and splashed upon my skin in a poor man's shower. Hands rubbed down arms, chest and neck: first to rub out any dirt and then to push the water off. My turtleneck was left off to better air itself. Thankful for the warm night I sat upon the curb, duffle between my feet, and practiced the flute in soft tones. Ceased to watch the soft glow of false dawn and don my turtleneck as the world (oh so slowly) came to life.
Connor was surprised to find me standing by his mailbox at 6:30 where I was watching the people nearby.