Cacaphony

Lying in my bed.

Novel, face down on my chest.

Eyelids closed, but I'm not really sleeping.

There's a moment of silence.

But just a moment.

I can hear Joann talking on the phone. Her voice always goes up a half a scale when she's talking on the phone as if her phone voice is that of a fourteen year old. It's a lilting voice when she's talking to friends and loved ones, a mousy hesitant voice when its a stranger on the other end of the digital line.

Right on cue, the rumbling monster truck noises begin. RRRRRRRR. Vroooom. Die-cast cars being raced on the kitchen linoleum. Crashes, scrapes, furniture sliding. These are the noises of a boy who knows his mom is on the phone and needs to be louder.

Then, impossibly, Taylor's voice screeches into the hallway. It's blocked by two doors, a living room and two hallways, and yet, and yet. I don't know what he's listening to, but he wants us all to hear his non-harmonic rendition.

Joann's voice begins to get louder as she tells her story.

The monster trucks increase in their violence.

Taylor has invented notes beyond the western 12, beyond the eastern 24, he has single handedly created a musical scale that teeters on the infinite.

"good bye, I love you" she says.

Click.

The throaty four barreled carburetors cough their way down till the last drop of leaded gas has passed through their chambers.

"Mom?"

An idle note hangs in the air until the mad violinist in Taylor's larynx has reached the end of his bow.

All is quiet.

Must be time to get up.