Finding the Pure Note

As Loud as My Heart

We hit a dirt road, and it becomes clear at this moment that this trip was going to be anything but ordinary. A large sign looms towards us, but Fletcher covers my eyes. His touch is... disarming, at first. I almost wince. For a moment, I'm ripped back to right before all this shit went down, when we were everything. I lean into his touch. Giggling, I fight with his hands, and he starts laughing, and it's... It's always like this with us. Our lives, a series of partings, but no matter the distance, we always return like no time has passed. Fuck, it's been only a couple weeks and it feels like so much longer. Maybe not enough to shatter everything. I'm getting the dizzying realisation that no amount of lifetimes will do that.

"Tell me," Chelsea exclaims, sounding jittery. "what gives your life purpose, Clay?"

Is this a trick question?

"Um... Dunno."

Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror and she shakes her head.

"Try a bit harder."

Life lately has been forgetting about that shit. Just mind-numbing pills, vodka and tequila fountains and the pounding beats blasting out the rest of the shit on my mind. I danced all the same 'cause...

"Okay..." I say, licking my lips, more certain now. "Well, music I guess."

"Mhm. And how has music factored into your life this past month?"

I feel my stomach sink. Apart from the pounding of club songs, I kind of gave up on my future music career. Too fucking dead to the world when I wasn't lost in some chemical escape to even listen to the songs that used to matter. Cancelled the last four jobs for Graham. Easy thrills, riding a wave of ecstasy long enough to make everything else stop mattering.

"Not much," I mumble, looking out at a row of trees, focusing on anything but her piercing eyes.

"Well, my spaghetti-limbed friend, we're fixing that. Right now."

Chelsea couldn't hide our destination for much longer. Tents and cars sprawled out before us like a city, and people strolled about in hundreds. Thousands even. I could just make out large stage setups littered among the tents, and a trailing sign proudly announced our destination.

"A music festival...." I breathe, winding down the window and gripping the frame with buzzing fingers. "No way...."

After following a signalling man is a florescent green jacket, we circle the place a few times before we find a parking spot—years away from the venue of course. When I step out of the car, it's almost with reverie, though I know that sensation will come soon enough.

I feel Chelsea and Fletcher at my side, and I follow them towards the distant sounds of electric guitars and earth-shattering stereos. I think this is gonna be fun. The kind of wave I can ride.

*****

They have to hold me back, but I like to think I didn't act completely bonkers. I was distracted by the sparkling lights, roaring flames and just the sheer variety of people around me. Mohawks and neon dyes; piercings in the weirdest of places, shawls and sometimes little to no clothes—I saw a naked man, and instantly I'm reminded of dad's story, but this guy was being chased by security—and even just people like us, wide grins the measure of their faces, eyes alight with wonder. Like mine.

Stalls are set up with guitar parts: nuts, frets, strap pins, pickups, capstans, tuning machines, and just anything you need for any instrument. They sold phony guitars and such which claimed to be signed by guitar legends. I was glad to actually have the real deal, but even so, I picked them up, stroking their bases, tuning them when they needed it, playing a few notes and fending off eager salesman who tried to compliment me and tell me how much I needed this Charvel Pro-Mod, etc. etc., how greatly I'd regret not getting John Paul Jones' signature and just going overboard to try and get a sale.