Glittering Green, Glowing Gold

The last chord rang in the air. Three steel strings, plucked on the fingerboard, bright and keening, silver dissonance. The left hand held the neck of the guitar while the right hand fell gently upon the strings by the bridge. Gentle pressure, gradually increasing, the sound fading, fading, fading, then blending with the silence that filled the room.

Suddenly, a sharp noise, then a rush of sound: applause rang out from the grateful customers in the coffee shop. The musician, eyes closed, smiled gently. He raised his head, tossing his dark brown bangs out of his dark brown eyes as they opened, taking in the cozy room filled two-to-one with patrons. The applause died slowly, the wave of sound morphing into individual sharp pops, then a smattering of soft taps.

The young man at the front of the room laughed once, gently. "Thank you," he said into the sterling-and-sable microphone, its gooseneck stand craning, arcing smoothly toward his mouth. "That was an instrumental called 'Metra Rolling.' I'd like to thank you all for coming out to the Daily Grind on a breezy Friday night. I think I'll close with a number I wrote a couple of years ago, um-" Here he paused a moment, shifted on his stool. "A couple of years ago my father passed away, and... and he was such a wonderful, gentle man, and I've tried to capture that in this song. Thanks once again to the Daily Grind for letting me play tonight, don't forget to tip your lovely barista." He nodded toward the woman, short, black-haired, thirties, behind the counter and smiled. A modest cheer went up for her, she waved it off. "Yeah," the man's baritone timbre intoned, "so, I hope everyone has a wonderful night and gets home safe. This is 'Silver Surf, Golden Glow,' I hope you enjoy it."

The young man's head dropped again, the curtain of his hair falling, hiding the stage that was his eyes. He adjusted his guitar, a blonde Martin, and when he was prepared he rested his fingertips on the strings. No pick, only gentle fingers, drew forth a single, warm chord, fingers shifting on the frets to change one note, then both hands intoning a new chord, deep and major with one tone errant, lending unexpected color. He continued in this manner for some sixty seconds, heed payed to no one else in the room, no one else in the world. A soft chord rang, he breathed deeply, and in a deep voice, the color of the coffee in the cups on the tables and in the hands of the people in the room, he began to sing.

Morning light,

Alighting on the water like a lark,

Harbinger of a new day.

Water, softly humming,

Softly rolling, softly singing,

With ripples, tides and waves

And ebb and flow,

It falls upon the beach,

Silver surf, golden glow.

Noontime sun,

Warming all the people like a song,

Brings them out, no more to hide.

And the waves, their crashing

Blending with their voices

Like a song, a prayer, a chord,

A symphony;

They're reflected in your eyes,

All this you can see.

Here there was an interlude, the man's hands dancing along smooth neck and silver strings. Bursts of color, heard but not seen, filled the room, swirling in the air. There was a rise, a build, a climax, a falling, a drifting, a settling. Again came three familiar chords, deep and warm.

Evening sparkle,

Stars lost but for the ones among

The city lights, the peoples' hearts and minds.

Gentle gold, clinging, slipping from the day

It fades to red and orange and yellow,

Pink and blue;

Fading out beautifully,

Gracefully,

Just like you.

The music slowed, grew softer, the chords less lush.

When I stand,

Watching morning, noon or evening

I feel the heartbeat of the people anchored here.

I close my eyes,

I can feel the planet spinnin',

Never stopping, never will: yeah, this I know;

The light, the water: it's only you.

Silver surf, golden glow.

One last chord, hushed, somber, quickly faded.

The applause was gentle, warm, the audience moved. The man smiled gently, eyes downcast. "Thank you," he almost whispered. He rose from stool, turned for the side door. "Goodnight, Linda," he called as the crowd began to stir, waving toward the counter.

"Goodnight, sugar," Linda called back, "get home safe."

The young man nodded, slung his guitar over his back, neck pointing toward Earth, and opened the door, slipping out quietly.

His ears were met by the ubiquitous, reliable murmur of the Chicago evening. Taxis beeped, buses rumbled, people laughed and shouted, music blared, the El thundered by overhead. He deeply partook in a draught of the April air. His old familiar half-smile alighted on his face once more as he slipped his hands into his pockets and turned right, rounding the corner, heading west on Lake Street, the El track stretching out overhead.

As he walked he could hear the thudding of a club on the corner growing steadily louder. He let his head fall, picking up speed so as to escape without drawing notice from the clientele.

"Hey! Hey, is that a guitar?"

Too late.

She stumbled up to him, black pleather dress cut shamefully low, on the other end leaving little of her ass to the imagination. Much to his own chagrin he felt himself slow, stop, turn. From three feet away he could smell the cheap vodka on her breath. "Hey," she slurred again, "you play the guitar." She rested both hands on his chest. "That's fuckin' sexy."

"Yeah," he said quickly, taking his assailant by the wrists and gently lowering her hands for her, "I just got done playing a gig."

"Wow!" she said, too enthusiastic, bending over so that the neon light from the club sign bathed the bare round of her breast in electric green. "That's... fuckin'... hey, where are you goin'?" She put her hands back on his chest.

"I'm going home," he said, patiently, lowering her hands again. "You probably should too, should I hail you a cab?"

"Nah, s'alright, I'll come with you," she slurred, stumbling backward, then swaying on the spot.

"That's okay," he said warily, "I live on the Dan Ryan, that's a long train ride from here-"

"Hey baby, listen," she mumbled, poking him in the chest, "it'd be a favor for you." She drew closer, her bare skin rubbing along his button-up shirt. "You look like you could use a good fuck," she whispered, none too quietly, then she let loose a piercing giggle.

He backed away quickly, and she stumbled, almost falling. "You've had a little too much," he said, turning. "Be careful."

"Fine, asshole!" she shouted at his retreating back, "go home to your fuckin' boyfriend! You don't know a good thing when you see one!" Then, just as he left earshot, she added, "fuckin' faggot!"

He sighed, increasing his pace again. "No fuckin' way, sweetheart," he whispered to himself. He was just a couple of blocks from his El stop. He walked along, hands in pockets, guitar bouncing gently on his back, eyes downcast. The steel pillars, yellow paint chipped and faded, struts zigzagging up and down, passed him on the left as he walked.

Something hit his shoulder. He looked up, thinking he had bumped into one of the train track's supports. The yellow was the wrong color, though. And that green didn't belong.

The yellow was blonde, golden, shimmering. The green was emerald, deep, glittering. Hair fell in loose ringlets, eyes met his for a brief moment. Voice, high and silken, spoke quickly. "S-sorry."

"No problem," he found himself saying. Then the green was gone, the gold slipped past, and they were walking in opposite directions again.

Somehow he could not register what had just happened. Try as he might his brain could not be coherent long enough to form a sentence. Fair skin, golden hair, green eyes, beauty. That was all.

Then his muddled thoughts instantly became clear. His head snapped around to follow the sharp, short scream. She was gone. Another scream. The alley. Before he was cognizant of it, his feet had taken four hurried steps toward the dark side street. He swallowed, then made the effort conscious.

The girl was in the vicegrip of a large, thick man, pearl-snap shirt open. In one hand he held both her wrists above her head and against the wall. He pinned her to this wall with his body, moving as she struggled. The other hand was clamped over her mouth and nose, stifling her terrified sounds. "Yeah, fight me, bitch," he whispered, "fuckin' fight me, you won't get out, they can't hear you, they can't see you, god what a sexy bitch." He took his hand off of her mouth and began to fondle her breast, his breathing heavy, a rabid dog.

She began to scream, which was silenced by a heavy slap to her face. "You fuckin' scream, you fuckin die, sweetie. You fuckin' got that?" He pulled her hair, a sharp yank; she yelped, but stifled it. "That's better," he grunted. "Now look at this, huh? Take a look at my piece!" He pulled roughly downward with his left hand and she dropped to her knees with a soft cry of pain. Before her face was a throbbing, erect cock. "Take it," he whispered. He moved his hips closer to her face. She turned away, emerald eyes streaming with tears. He grabbed a handful of her golden hair at the back of her head, squeezing tightly. "I said take it!" he yelled, moving her face toward him.

The young man's fist fell fast, hard, connecting with the back of the attacker's head. There was a deep, confused shout, both hands released. The girl tried to scramble to her feet, but a heavy, open hand hit her head, sending it into the brick. She crumpled in a heap.

"What tha fuck?" the attacker bellowed. "The fuck you doin' down here, pretty boy, gonna mess with me? Gon' fuckin mess-!" He charged at the young man, grabbing two fistfulls of his shirt, driving him backward.

The young man dug in, struggling, straining, fighting. He took a swing at the rapist's head, missed, got swung around, slammed into a wall. He felt the wood of his beloved guitar shatter, heard the strings pop. His breath caught in his chest. A punch to the stomach, a fist across the face, he dropped, hearing the wooden shrapnel crunch under his body and tasting his blood. Dazed, he thought he saw the man turn around, approach the unconscious girl, get down on one knee, lift her by her shoulders, position her head with his hands.

A loud bellow filled the alleyway. The young man stood over his attacker, a sharp splinter of what had once been his guitar's neck clutched in his hand, dripping the larger man's blood. He dropped the shard, grabbed the other man's head in both his hands and slammed his temple into the brick wall. He immediately collapsed.

The young man gulped air, hands on hips. Then he saw the girl, golden hair stained with sticky red. He ran to her and knelt. Her chest was moving, round breasts slowly heaving. Flooded with relief, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, hastily punching three numbers. "Yeah," he said, "I'm on Lake Street between Wabash and..." he looked around for a street sign, "Beaubien. Wabash and Beaubien. I've got a... I've got two people here, they're pretty badly hurt. Yes. Yes. No, I'm okay. Okay. Thank you." He hung up.

He sat on the street near the girl, keeping an eye on her heaving chest. From time to time he'd check on the large Fman; he never stirred. In a few minutes he heard sirens rapidly approaching. He emerged from the alleyway to wave and flag them down. Two medics and a police cruiser pulled up and stopped, lights flashing. People from nearby business, bars, restaurants began to gather. There was a flurry of activity. The large man went into one medic, the girl into another.

The young man watched his happen, only half listening to the CPD uniform who was interviewing him.

"I said what's your name, son."

"Parker Herzlich," the young man said hurriedly, "now where-"

"Can you spell that for me?" the officer said calmly, removing a small legal pad and a pen from his shirt pocket.

"H-e-r-z-l-i-c-h," Parker spat. "Where are they taking her?"

"...l-i-c-h," the officer mumbled. "Weird-ass name. Now what happened here tonight, Mr. Hairs-lick?"

Parker sighed. "It's Herzlich," he said, with a sharp "ts" to end the first syllable and soft guttural on the last consonant. "I was walking and I passed the girl and then I heard her scream and I turned around and looked down this alley and that guy was raping her and I fought him off - hey wait!" Parker shouted, waving at the medic that was beginning to pull away, siren flaring back on. "What hospital are they taking her to?"

"You said he was raping her?" the officer said, writing slowly. "She looked clothed to me."

"He was about to, okay," Parker said, growing frustrated, "he was gonna force her to suck his cock, I saw it."

"Look, Mr. Hairs-lick, I'm gonna need you to calm down," the officer said, thrusting his palm toward Parker's chest. "So we've got... attempted rape," he continued, beginning to write again, "assault... okay, looks pretty cut and dried. Thanks for your time, Mr. Hairs-lick." The cop smiled a tight smile, putting his legal pad back into his pocket with his pen and getting back into his cruiser.

"Wait a minute!" Parker yelled, following the officer to his car. "Where are they taking her? I just want to make sure she's okay-"

The cop held up a wait-a-minute finger, talking on his car radio. After an agonizing minute he replaced the radio in its slot on the dashboard. "Can't help you, son," the officer said. He tipped his cap. "Have a nice night." Siren flared on and the cruiser barreled away into the night.

"Wait!" Parker yelled, running into the street. He stopped, spreading his arms in exasperation. "What the fuck?" he bellowed into the night. He then became very aware of the crowd of people still gathered, looking at him. He lowered his arms and walked quickly back into the alley.

Strewn across the alley like autumn leaves were the ruins of his guitar. He knelt to pick up the piece with which he had stabbed his assailant. Slivers of the six silver strings that only minutes ago had sung so soothingly still swirled about the pegs, the broken ends curling into the air. Parker threw it away from him in disgust. He stood, slid his hands into his pockets, then viciously kicked the pile of what was now tinder. "My fuckin' guitar!" he shouted. He stood for a few moments longer, breathing heavily, eyes closed, teeth grinding. Then he turned on his heel.

The rest of the journey was uneventful, or maybe it just seemed that way because of Parker's adamant refusal to meet any person's eye or respond to any sound. He found his way to the Loop, to the Brown Line stop at Lake and State. This train would take him north, away from the Dan Ryan. He climbed the old wooden stairs, swiped his CTA pass, passed through the turnstile, and waited impatiently by the side of the track, tapping his foot. Soon a train came, a great silver thing, which stopped and settled gently and opened its doors to release another crowd of late Friday night revelers. He stepped inside and took a seat in a corner. People packed in around him, even people older and less able-bodied than he, but that night he didn't care, he'd lost his guitar, his only ticket to the part of his livelihood he really loved. This seat was his tonight.

The train rumbled, slid, rocked and bounced along, the crowd around him ebbing and flowing as they stopped and went. The aroma peculiar to the El filled his nose, the sounds of people talking and playing music obnoxiously loudly on their mobile phones melded with the cool male voice that said, over and over, "welcome aboard the CTA Brown Line. Merchandise Mart is next. This is a Brown Line train to Kimball. This is Armitage. Doors open on the right at Armitage. Soliciting and gambling are not permitted aboard CTA vehicles. This is a Brown Line train to Kimball. Welcome aboard the CTA Brown Line. Diversey is next..."

Parker disembarked at Wellington, swiftly descending the stairs to the street level and turning right. He soon took another right turn into an alley, then up to a gate. He keyed it open, ascended 2 flights of rickety wooden stairs, then keyed open his apartment's back door. The sweet April breeze still filtered in through his open window, but it smelled sour to Parker. He entered his bedroom, took off his shirt and tossed it in a corner, lying down on his bed. He cradled his head in his hands, stretching his long, lean, muscular torso. He laid there and fumed, willing himself to fall asleep, muttering to himself. "Fuckin' guitar... the fuck am I gonna do?... that's what I fuckin' get... no good deed goes unpunished..." The Brown Line, barely two hundred feet from his apartment, thundered by. The music of the city. The last thing on Parkers face before he fell asleep, despite the troubles of the evening, was a smile. And, through the darkness and bursts of color, he remembered seeing, for a brief moment, a blaze of gold and a sparkle of green.

Normally Parker liked his morning train ride, but this morning it was just too long. Normally he also would have enjoyed being able to sleep in until 10 to work a 12-to-4 shift, but after he'd woken up at 3 that morning he never got back to sleep for more than an hour. At 7 he gave up and got up, but nothing gave him solace. Not the 3-egg omelet with green onions, mushrooms and fontina cheese that he made himself for breakfast, not his warm shower with the cool morning breeze wafting in the open window that faced the alley, not Facebook, not Twitter, not CNN, not ESPN. Especially not music. Each recording he tried to play only made his hands feel emptier, drew more attention to the now-solitary guitar stand in the corner. Time dragged on.

The train was nearly empty as the Brown Line glided south. The doors opened on the right at Harold Washington Library - La Salle and Van Buren. The people milled about, chatted, hawked roasted peanuts, hailed cabs, played music, swore. Parker walked north 100 feet, west 100, down 20 feet, and onto the Red Line, which bore him south. In 45 minutes, the doors opened on the left at 95th and Dan Ryan. He stepped off the train.

10 minutes' walk west and he arrived at the FedEx warehouse, towering, dirty. A sharp ding as he punched his time card. The smell of cardboard and sweat, the sound of shouts, clanks and machinery, the towers of boxes, resting, an interim on their journey.

The minutes flowed like a dirge, sap in January. Lifting, scanning, conveyor belts, forklift beeps, long rips of tape guns, lifting, scanning... Thoughts, helter-skelter, kept him occupied, distracted from his menial work. Screams, the sharp smell of blood, dialectal slurs, the splintering, the snap of strings, flashes of gold, glimpses of green.

The announcement passed through the waves of workers, and they broke from their tasks. Parker stepped outside, leaned against the wall, hand in pockets. Traffic zoomed by on the Dan Ryan, engines revving, tires zipping, horns honking here and there. Parker closed his eyes and listened. Sounds melded, patterns emerged, a rhythm fleshed itself out...

"Hey," a voice said. Parker started, opened his deep brown eyes. A man, less tall, heavyset, auburn hair, stood next to Parker, cigarette in hand. "You awake?"

"Hey, Ken," Parker murmured, shifting his feet.

"Surly ass," Ken said with a short chuckle. He took a drag, blew it out. The cloud hung, suspended, dispersed. "Rough night?"

"Rougher than most," Parker admitted. He sighed, then said, "can I bum a smoke?"

Ken cocked an eyebrow, full face expressionless behind aviator sunglasses. "Thought you quit."

"A year ago," Parker said.

"Hm," Ken grumbled. "Real rough night." He pulled a half-empty pack, white with green "Marlboro." "Menthols okay?"

"What the fuck," Parker said, reaching out and accepting a smoke. Ken flicked his lighter, a Zippo cut and enameled with the White Sox logo, held it out for Parker. Puff, puff, puff, a steady stream of smoke. Cooling in, cooling out, a gray cloud.