Rebellion of the Soul

Chapter 9: With Undivided Attention

As my vision of the morning in front of me began to clear, I watched a droplet of rain trickle quietly down the pane of my window. Its molecules beginning to evaporate into the air along with the passing storm of yesterday, I flopped onto my side, the black cardigan I wore clung thread by thread to the undershirt and brought warmth back into my once lifeless body.

Power in my brain gradually flickered to life, causing twitches along my splayed legs and arms. The abnormal levels of subconscious noise that builds up in the night steadily disappeared under the plane of toleration.

Time slowly reentered my thoughts as I scooped my phone from my pocket and noted the time. 8:40 AM. My eyelids creaked, barely even adjusting enough to read it all correctly.  Much like it was rare for me to see that set numbers on my phone.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, accidentally causing them to collide with the unexpecting bass guitar that was reclined against the side of my bed just a moment before. All I could muster was a sigh as it came clattering to the cluttered floor. My knees creaked with morning fatigue as I knelt to inspect the bass for any damage. Twisting the neck of the vintage instrument, I noticed the signature on the back side. Fine lines etched on the black sheen with a contrasting bright white, the marks of the permanent pen smoothly carried me to a time in the simpler past.

~~~

Freeing the lock from the latch my father entered into the separate and inhuman room; an alternate dimension littered with errant clothing and countless unclean and unemptied glasses. This room juxtaposed my spotless family home in Narita, a day before my ephemeral stay at Seitoku University. Once he'd peered into my room to confirm I was there, he swooped in to greet me. I threw enough of a glance at him to both confirm his entry and spot what he was wearing. He was dressed in his airport attendant uniform, however the edges were creased and the material matted from a long day at work.  

Per the usual, I remained unfazed. It was like an unwritten family ritual by that point; the sparse times he came to visit were days he would reveal to us an anecdote or on less often occasion an item left unclaimed at the airport.

Although this time, his face seemed to disclose a stronger sense of self-esteem. He was much more sure of himself this time, and since I hadn't heard him talking to my mother on the way to my room, I could only guess whatever he had brought was intended for me. As he took his arm out from behind the door, enclosed in his spindly and pale fingers, held almost like a child, was the most beautiful instrument I had ever seen.

I inspected the piece with curiosity, more than I had felt in years. All the while he came to kneel at my front, his socks making a familiar scuff on the carpet. My memory of the conversation remains fuzzy, but he pointed out the unknown signature carefully carved into the neck. He mentioned that the team at the airport were unable to match the signature to any on known databases, making the chances of returning it to the original owner much harder. The signature wasn't the only notable unique aspect of the guitar though. It was lavishly painted a striking shade of electric purple: something I learned wasn't an original production colour for the 4003.

His warm smile was indistinct and unreadable as always. Teetering on his ageing bones to hand me the instrument, I could feel a sense of fatherly guardianship emanate from not only himself but also from the heart of the wood and metal he was passing over to me. Without a doubt it was an expensive and rare piece, father's unwillingness to just leave it in the care of the airport officials was respectable.

Managing a gentle attempt at a distant smile, I didn't give my father affection. But after so many years I gave him something he had been searching for from me: appreciation. As much as old habits die hard, sometimes you have no choice but to submit to the infrequent chink in your emotional armour, no matter how tough you may think it is.