02-05-2008, 12:48 PM
Snow continued to fall, and consequently, so did Ben’s mood. The continuous crackle against his only window with a good view shifted the figures walking on the sidewalk stories below. His fingernail etched letters into his paper absentmindedly, as he tried to make sense of the nonsense outside. The sun hadn’t shone for three days, and with Christmas a mere half-week away, there seemed no hope of happiness and contentment for this one.
The news anchors made their transitional, extra-time-between-segment comments on the darkness, meteorologists made vague estimates as to when the clouds would lift, and one of the faceless doctorate degrees listed a few useless blurbs on the effects of Sunlight Deprivation Syndrome. All of that was well and good for the masses, who took their emotions and information just as they did their TV dinners: processed and measured out into manageable portions. For Ben, however, the television was little more than white noise, attempting to soften the blow of a diseased, floundering society. The world needed something, and mainstream America was offering no such deal. To hell with society.
The numbness hung in the air, coating Ben’s brain and keeping him from writing any lines. It was a dull sort of day; even his ceiling fixtures were dimmed. Two of the three had burnt out three days ago, and the third light was barely hanging on, it seemed. He needed to buy a few bulbs, but he usually put off trips to the store as much as possible, and as long as he had one light left, he could get by.
Besides, it was Friday night. Open mic. Ben checked the clock, grabbed his jacket and shoes, and left for the coffeehouse.
The sidewalk and roads were nasty with an oily slush mix that clung to his shoes. Bits of mud found their ways into the mini-puddles on the walkway, making it a staining venture. Despite how he oriented his steps, stains found their way onto his trousers’ cuffs. Annoying, but only a small matter of superficiality. They were still trouser cuffs, and they still functioned just as fine as they had before, marking where the pant leg stopped and the shoe started. An important distinction, to be sure.
The sidewalk offered to lead him to any number of storefronts, but he was, as always, out for a purpose, and he found it nestled between the remains of a broken streetlight and what used to be an astronomy specialty store. The doorway was tiny and unremarkable, and led into a tiny, carpeted hallway that stretched on for roughly a dozen yards before descending into an oasis of coffee and smoke and life. To the left, a bar that looked as though it had recovered from alcoholism; nothing but beans now. To the right, a series of tables and chairs with plenty of rhyme and no reason behind their placement. In between, an open space, and at the far end of this space stood a short stage with a few sets of cymbal-less drums and bongos. He was a bit early yet, and so the stage was quiet, but soon the gentle buzz of conversation would give way to a single voice declaring and reveling in its own individuality. And so, the beat of life would go on.
Tonight was not his night. Ben had found himself increasingly critical of the poetry he produced, despite the many hours his pen hovered above a perfect tabula rasa, eager to launch out in a bold new direction: towards the page. He had begun going to mosque again, and that seemed to help somewhat, but there still were no tangible results. He was one of the few outside of the cyclic numbness of social life, and one of the many with writer’s block. Ben, however, was not upset. He was beyond such petty ventures as egoism. After all, there were others who thought as he did, and as long as someone was writing, art was not yet lost.
Fred, the owner of the coffeehouse, was a quirky sort of individual, and thus, perfectly suited to the job. Every few days he would make some sort of a frivolous change to the coffeehouse just to maintain a spirit of dynamism. Usually they were short-lived, only meant to shake things up a bit and allow them to resettle before shaking them up again with something new. One of his recent long-term ideas, however, involved lighting, and had been in place for a number of weeks. Each table had a lamp either sitting on top of it, or anchored nearby on the wall, but Fred had removed the bulbs from all of them. He offered them for free at the bar, as long as people turned them back in once the night was over. Ben never took one. He imagined the coffeehouse was quite dark without any lamps, but there were always a few people who grabbed bulbs, so that there was always a bit of light. As long as other people bothered, he wouldn’t need to.
Ben did need coffee, however. He walked up to the lineless register and waited for the inevitable question.
“Bulb?”
“Not today.”
“You should. It’s a blast.”
“I’ve heard. Grande mocha latte?”
Fred shrugged and went in the back, whipping up java and grumbling to himself in his non-malicious way. Before too long, all of the parts were in place, and a cup of caffeine was placed on the counter.
“$3.10.”
Ben paid with a smile resembling a wink, grabbed his latte, and made for a dimmed table near the back. For all of Fred’s quirkiness, he was social and smart, two perfect attributes for a small business owner. The light idea was a huge hit, drawing sharp lines in a playful contest. Some simply didn’t care, but many chose one side or the other, and clung to it each visit. Ben was one such person. As with every visit, Ben’s table was dimmed, and remained so throughout the night.
After twenty minutes of sipping and thinking, his latte was halved, and the stage was being prepped. A microphone was its sole embellishment, but Fred often spent a few extra minutes creating geometric shapes with the cord, and thus, performances were slightly delayed. There was an odd jerkiness in his movements, however; the cording assumed no art tonight. Fred merely placed the microphone on the stage, made sure all the connections were true, and left to check the sound equipment.
‘He’s up to something,’ Ben decided.
A few minutes later, Fred stepped onto the stage with two surge protectors and plugged them into a nearby outlet. When this was done, he then scanned the audience. There were at least fifty strong tonight; a busy night in any season. Nevertheless, everyone was called to attention quite quickly.
“It’s about time we’ll be getting started,” Fred intoned. “We have a guest tonight who, though you might disagree, has demanded he be introduced as an artist.” A playful grin danced across Fred’s face, which only served to pique Ben’s curiosity further.
“All I ask,” Fred concluded, “is that you listen with courtesy, and an open mind. Enjoy the rhythm and rhymes of Ghost.”
A short black boy no older than thirteen shuffled past Ben’s table, with seven or eight lamps cradled in his arms, one on top of another. With a small bit of fumbling, he stepped onto the stage, to the deathly silence of the crowd. For the next minute, Ghost plugged in each lamp, and set them up in a semi-circle around himself, bathing the stage in light. With this done, Ghost watched the crowd expectantly, his hands on his hips. “A’ight, I got three for ya’. And y’gonna listen, cuz they’re good, and you need t’hear ‘em.”
If it were possible, the room would have gotten quieter. There wasn’t a single actual racist in the building, but Ben knew exactly what everyone was thinking. The ghetto has no business in the coffeehouse, let alone on stage.
“Small little black boy, coffeehouse. Don’t mix. ‘Wha’ the HELL he doin’ on stage?’ I’ll tell you. I’m an artist. I don’t have a laptop, or a nice house, or food every night, but I am human, and I feel just as you do. Freddy a friend of mine, and he ask me to come down here and do poetry. Said it’d be good for you. But I can’t do no rap in a dark place like this. I got lamps up here. Now you all can see me.”
The next ten minutes were a haze. A few of the regulars got up and left, shaking their head in artistic disgust, but Ben remained, dumbfounded. Rap was not a genre Ben subscribed to, considering the typical subject matter, but Ghost sang about life and death and love and hate and poverty and determination. Every ounce of it was irretrievably grounded in the life of the ghetto, a place Ben was anything but familiar with. And yet, here was life displayed with all of its richness and complexity, coming from the mouth of a horribly underfed twelve-year-old boy. And on his song went, of loveliness and sadness and the shaping of people, as lamp by lamp was extinguished, until finally it ended with every one shut off.
“What do you think?”
Ben shook his head. “Where did you find him?”
“Church. I do a bit of volunteer janitorial work on the gym there, and its open-doors during my shift. Ghost comes in, asking if for the pantry. I show it to him, but he doesn’t want it without paying. No, he says, I’ll rap for you. And he did.”
Ben listened as best he could to Freddy, but the second song took priority. The young child wove a tale of the world as-is, of realized art, and cyclic despair. As Ghost took a short, conveniently-placed break, Freddy continued.
“Ben, I own a coffeehouse. I see all sorts of characters come and go, and I have learned through the years that we are not in this alone. There are people who feel just as we feel. You’re an artist, a world I do not personally step foot in. But I provide you coffee. You see?”
“You’re an entrepreneur,” Ben noted.
“And you get paid for your art. Sometimes. Point is, we all are human, and we have things to learn. And Ghost, he’s-”
“An artist,” Ben interrupted.
Freddy smiled. They both watched as Ghost wrapped up his session over the next fifteen minutes, predicting a self-obsessed world of misled narcissists; an incredible vocabulary for a child so young. A speechless crowd offered stumbled applause. Freddy clapped the loudest. When the young boy stepped off the stage, Freddy leaned in.
“Now what, Ebenezer?”
Ben looked at Freddy without a clue how to respond. Taking this in stride, Freddy continued.
“Days are split into parts. Morning and evening. The time when clouds send rain and snow. The time when children go to school and couples kiss. And the time when people change. When clouds break, and light shines. It’s that part of the day right now.”
Freddy pulled a light bulb from his coat and offered it to Ben. “So I ask you. Now what?”
Ben stared at his hand, deep in thought. Then, without a word, he grabbed the bulb and twisted it into the lamp, allowing light to illuminate the table.
And, after a short resolution, Ben Scrooge rose, thanked Freddy for the coffee and a life changing experience, and walked out into the sunniest day he could remember.
The news anchors made their transitional, extra-time-between-segment comments on the darkness, meteorologists made vague estimates as to when the clouds would lift, and one of the faceless doctorate degrees listed a few useless blurbs on the effects of Sunlight Deprivation Syndrome. All of that was well and good for the masses, who took their emotions and information just as they did their TV dinners: processed and measured out into manageable portions. For Ben, however, the television was little more than white noise, attempting to soften the blow of a diseased, floundering society. The world needed something, and mainstream America was offering no such deal. To hell with society.
The numbness hung in the air, coating Ben’s brain and keeping him from writing any lines. It was a dull sort of day; even his ceiling fixtures were dimmed. Two of the three had burnt out three days ago, and the third light was barely hanging on, it seemed. He needed to buy a few bulbs, but he usually put off trips to the store as much as possible, and as long as he had one light left, he could get by.
Besides, it was Friday night. Open mic. Ben checked the clock, grabbed his jacket and shoes, and left for the coffeehouse.
The sidewalk and roads were nasty with an oily slush mix that clung to his shoes. Bits of mud found their ways into the mini-puddles on the walkway, making it a staining venture. Despite how he oriented his steps, stains found their way onto his trousers’ cuffs. Annoying, but only a small matter of superficiality. They were still trouser cuffs, and they still functioned just as fine as they had before, marking where the pant leg stopped and the shoe started. An important distinction, to be sure.
The sidewalk offered to lead him to any number of storefronts, but he was, as always, out for a purpose, and he found it nestled between the remains of a broken streetlight and what used to be an astronomy specialty store. The doorway was tiny and unremarkable, and led into a tiny, carpeted hallway that stretched on for roughly a dozen yards before descending into an oasis of coffee and smoke and life. To the left, a bar that looked as though it had recovered from alcoholism; nothing but beans now. To the right, a series of tables and chairs with plenty of rhyme and no reason behind their placement. In between, an open space, and at the far end of this space stood a short stage with a few sets of cymbal-less drums and bongos. He was a bit early yet, and so the stage was quiet, but soon the gentle buzz of conversation would give way to a single voice declaring and reveling in its own individuality. And so, the beat of life would go on.
Tonight was not his night. Ben had found himself increasingly critical of the poetry he produced, despite the many hours his pen hovered above a perfect tabula rasa, eager to launch out in a bold new direction: towards the page. He had begun going to mosque again, and that seemed to help somewhat, but there still were no tangible results. He was one of the few outside of the cyclic numbness of social life, and one of the many with writer’s block. Ben, however, was not upset. He was beyond such petty ventures as egoism. After all, there were others who thought as he did, and as long as someone was writing, art was not yet lost.
Fred, the owner of the coffeehouse, was a quirky sort of individual, and thus, perfectly suited to the job. Every few days he would make some sort of a frivolous change to the coffeehouse just to maintain a spirit of dynamism. Usually they were short-lived, only meant to shake things up a bit and allow them to resettle before shaking them up again with something new. One of his recent long-term ideas, however, involved lighting, and had been in place for a number of weeks. Each table had a lamp either sitting on top of it, or anchored nearby on the wall, but Fred had removed the bulbs from all of them. He offered them for free at the bar, as long as people turned them back in once the night was over. Ben never took one. He imagined the coffeehouse was quite dark without any lamps, but there were always a few people who grabbed bulbs, so that there was always a bit of light. As long as other people bothered, he wouldn’t need to.
Ben did need coffee, however. He walked up to the lineless register and waited for the inevitable question.
“Bulb?”
“Not today.”
“You should. It’s a blast.”
“I’ve heard. Grande mocha latte?”
Fred shrugged and went in the back, whipping up java and grumbling to himself in his non-malicious way. Before too long, all of the parts were in place, and a cup of caffeine was placed on the counter.
“$3.10.”
Ben paid with a smile resembling a wink, grabbed his latte, and made for a dimmed table near the back. For all of Fred’s quirkiness, he was social and smart, two perfect attributes for a small business owner. The light idea was a huge hit, drawing sharp lines in a playful contest. Some simply didn’t care, but many chose one side or the other, and clung to it each visit. Ben was one such person. As with every visit, Ben’s table was dimmed, and remained so throughout the night.
After twenty minutes of sipping and thinking, his latte was halved, and the stage was being prepped. A microphone was its sole embellishment, but Fred often spent a few extra minutes creating geometric shapes with the cord, and thus, performances were slightly delayed. There was an odd jerkiness in his movements, however; the cording assumed no art tonight. Fred merely placed the microphone on the stage, made sure all the connections were true, and left to check the sound equipment.
‘He’s up to something,’ Ben decided.
A few minutes later, Fred stepped onto the stage with two surge protectors and plugged them into a nearby outlet. When this was done, he then scanned the audience. There were at least fifty strong tonight; a busy night in any season. Nevertheless, everyone was called to attention quite quickly.
“It’s about time we’ll be getting started,” Fred intoned. “We have a guest tonight who, though you might disagree, has demanded he be introduced as an artist.” A playful grin danced across Fred’s face, which only served to pique Ben’s curiosity further.
“All I ask,” Fred concluded, “is that you listen with courtesy, and an open mind. Enjoy the rhythm and rhymes of Ghost.”
A short black boy no older than thirteen shuffled past Ben’s table, with seven or eight lamps cradled in his arms, one on top of another. With a small bit of fumbling, he stepped onto the stage, to the deathly silence of the crowd. For the next minute, Ghost plugged in each lamp, and set them up in a semi-circle around himself, bathing the stage in light. With this done, Ghost watched the crowd expectantly, his hands on his hips. “A’ight, I got three for ya’. And y’gonna listen, cuz they’re good, and you need t’hear ‘em.”
If it were possible, the room would have gotten quieter. There wasn’t a single actual racist in the building, but Ben knew exactly what everyone was thinking. The ghetto has no business in the coffeehouse, let alone on stage.
“Small little black boy, coffeehouse. Don’t mix. ‘Wha’ the HELL he doin’ on stage?’ I’ll tell you. I’m an artist. I don’t have a laptop, or a nice house, or food every night, but I am human, and I feel just as you do. Freddy a friend of mine, and he ask me to come down here and do poetry. Said it’d be good for you. But I can’t do no rap in a dark place like this. I got lamps up here. Now you all can see me.”
The next ten minutes were a haze. A few of the regulars got up and left, shaking their head in artistic disgust, but Ben remained, dumbfounded. Rap was not a genre Ben subscribed to, considering the typical subject matter, but Ghost sang about life and death and love and hate and poverty and determination. Every ounce of it was irretrievably grounded in the life of the ghetto, a place Ben was anything but familiar with. And yet, here was life displayed with all of its richness and complexity, coming from the mouth of a horribly underfed twelve-year-old boy. And on his song went, of loveliness and sadness and the shaping of people, as lamp by lamp was extinguished, until finally it ended with every one shut off.
“What do you think?”
Ben shook his head. “Where did you find him?”
“Church. I do a bit of volunteer janitorial work on the gym there, and its open-doors during my shift. Ghost comes in, asking if for the pantry. I show it to him, but he doesn’t want it without paying. No, he says, I’ll rap for you. And he did.”
Ben listened as best he could to Freddy, but the second song took priority. The young child wove a tale of the world as-is, of realized art, and cyclic despair. As Ghost took a short, conveniently-placed break, Freddy continued.
“Ben, I own a coffeehouse. I see all sorts of characters come and go, and I have learned through the years that we are not in this alone. There are people who feel just as we feel. You’re an artist, a world I do not personally step foot in. But I provide you coffee. You see?”
“You’re an entrepreneur,” Ben noted.
“And you get paid for your art. Sometimes. Point is, we all are human, and we have things to learn. And Ghost, he’s-”
“An artist,” Ben interrupted.
Freddy smiled. They both watched as Ghost wrapped up his session over the next fifteen minutes, predicting a self-obsessed world of misled narcissists; an incredible vocabulary for a child so young. A speechless crowd offered stumbled applause. Freddy clapped the loudest. When the young boy stepped off the stage, Freddy leaned in.
“Now what, Ebenezer?”
Ben looked at Freddy without a clue how to respond. Taking this in stride, Freddy continued.
“Days are split into parts. Morning and evening. The time when clouds send rain and snow. The time when children go to school and couples kiss. And the time when people change. When clouds break, and light shines. It’s that part of the day right now.”
Freddy pulled a light bulb from his coat and offered it to Ben. “So I ask you. Now what?”
Ben stared at his hand, deep in thought. Then, without a word, he grabbed the bulb and twisted it into the lamp, allowing light to illuminate the table.
And, after a short resolution, Ben Scrooge rose, thanked Freddy for the coffee and a life changing experience, and walked out into the sunniest day he could remember.