The Rocking Chair

When you rode the elevator to the second floor of the Old Vine Street Apartments, George’s room was directly in front of you. His door looked brand new, with no signs of any knocking, and the peephole was dusted over. His apartment was simple, with a bed in the corner, and a rocking chair only a foot away. There was always the squeak of his rocking chair through out the day, because that was George’s life: rocking, back and forth from the time he got up until the time he lifted his body slowly and fell into his bed to sleep.

His second floor neighbors were gentle people, hardly ever disturbing George. There was a student, who hardly made any noise because of his constant study, and a waitress who worked full time, and mainly stayed at her boyfriend’s house. George was never bothered by a knock on his door, or the sound of the elevator buzzing. It was the tenant above him that was the bother.

A boy named Will lived above George. Every so often Will would climb down the fire escape steps and spy on George through his window. He stared at George with pity, watching his knees gently push his aging body back and forth, back and forth, with a numb face and pathetic posture. Will became disgusted with George after weeks of watching him day in and day out rocking. He knew that he had more potential, but did not care to support George. Instead, he climbed back into his apartment and stomped his feet on the ground yelling, “You’re pathetic old man, ya hear, pathetic!”

At least once a day, Will would stomp with a degrading remark. George did not pay much attention to it at first, but slowly after weeks of stomping and degradation, he sank lower into his seat, and scrunched his face waiting for more insults.

Will treated George as a game and the more he played, the more harsh he became. He stopped yelling at George in the safety of his apartment, but would instead climb down to Georges window. He crept down the fire escape often, noticing George slouching more each day. He saw George’s complacent face slowly sink into a frown and his hands slowly tighten to the chairs edge. He took advantage of these observations and would include them in his wretched proclamations, “Your worthless old man, can’t even hold yourself up straight. I bet you lived a miserable life. Why don’t you just give up? Huh? Just do it give up! Where’s your wife? And your children? Oh I bet you lost those too because you are nothing but a tragic sack of bones!” He was right. George did have a wife and kids, and George loved them dearly. It was himself that he did not always love, and sooner than later, his family deserted him alone to drown in his sadness. So George sat, terrified refusing to move. He felt safe wallowing back and forth all day. He did not have to face his sadness, his despair, his loneliness. He only sat, and rocked, back and forth, until he lied in his small bed, and fell asleep, never dreaming, and never snoring.

A young woman lived below George. She was a beautiful woman named Lily, with tremendous strength and integrity. She worked in a kindergarten and would come home early to cook herself a wonderful dinner, and practice playing the cello. There were numerous times that George fell asleep to her cello, and they were the limited times that George felt consoled. More so, it was the limited times that George felt anything.

She had raised herself. Her Mom passed away too young for her to remember, and her Dad worked construction during the day and spent his nights at the bar. The only relationship she had with her father were the nights that he arrived home before she put herself to bed, and he demanded a cooked meal (hence her wonderful cooking skills). She never went to school. Her father wouldn’t send her, so she spent most her days in the public library where she learned to read. She started in the children section, and moved from shelf to shelf, until there were no more. Once she ran out of books in the children section, she moved to the next section, and shelf by shelf, made her way through the entire Dewey decimal system.

George secretly was in love with her. He had never seen her, but the smell of her fettuccini alfredo, with its perfect balance of creamy Parmigiano-Reggiano and hints of citrus, or her egg drop soup, with steaming peppered broth awaiting its egg, snuck through the jam in his windows and rolled through his nostrils, settling in his heart. The sound of her soft cello rose from Georges floor boards and inspired him to make the one movement he made every day: the step to his bed. George didn’t think too much, and his feelings were diminished like smelly cigarette butts, but the sound of Lily’s door opening in her return from school made a little ember spark in George’s heart.

One afternoon when Lily returned home she heard some rattling outside of her window. She noticed the railing of the fire escape shaking and then heard a young voice yell and stomp. She could not make out the words shouted, but the tone was far from friendly, so she opened her window and looked up. Will saw her as she pushed her head through her window, and in a quick reaction, he leaped up the latter to his window, and hastily climbed back into his apartment. Lily was curious. She was unsure what sparked his fear of her and what made him leap quickly back to the third floor and into his window. She climbed out to investigate, and quickly climbed upward to the second floor, where she had spotted the boy stomping and yelling. Once her feet reached the top rung she saw George, and George was rocking, with a frown on his face and a deep slouch. It was a somber sight, and her stomach ached with the pain of sympathy. She knew what she had heard only moments ago. It was the boy screaming insults at this poor man, and leaving him in sorrow. She did not want to be seen by this lonely man, so she descended back down the latter, and into her apartment to prepare a meal alone.

She made a curried chicken, and once she had eaten and cleaned the dishes, she retreated to her bedroom to practice her cello. She slid her bow softly over the taut strings letting tones chime and sing softly throughout her apartment. She wrote all of her music, but never repeated a song. She simply let her fingers move freely along the neck, and trusted the tones they would choose. Her relationship to the melody was beautiful, and she allowed it to develop freely, but it was always delicate and enjoyable.

As she played, she noticed a soft muffled tapping keeping tempo above her head. She didn’t pay much attention to it at first, allowing it to mold into the tones as if it were supposed to be there, but quickly she realized that that tapping was coming from the poor old man living above her. She stopped playing, almost embarrassed, and after a few lonely taps, the tempo stopped. So she started again, and after a couple of measures, the tapping continued, back on tempo. She allowed the tempo to speed up and down, testing the old man’s musical ability, but he stayed with her like a metronome. Her embarrassment molded into excitement, and she continued playing, but gave more and more room for the tapping.

George hardly noticed his foot tapping. He was too preoccupied in his sad thoughts. He had been thinking of his family more often, and anytime he tried to escape the thoughts, the little boy above him would remind him of his sorrow with an obnoxious, insulting outburst. Slowly though, the thought of his wives warmth and his child’s smile seeped out of his brain, and he noticed his foot moving up and down. It was then he heard the cello, and his tapping became more enthusiastic. He loved the cello, especially when Lily played. It reminded him of his childhood, the days where he ran through the fields of fox tails to catch frogs in the swamp, or the times he trapped fire flies in jars and used them as a night light. He remembered his mother, and the smell of her frying bacon in the morning. He remembered the sound of his father flipping through a newspaper, drinking coffee and the smell of his pipe tobacco stuck in the walls long after his death. He remembered being unconsciously happy. He remembered his innocence and the joy of movement. But then the cello stopped, and he was alone, rocking back and forth in silence.

The next day, when Lily came home from work, she heard Will, stomping and yelling again. She ran to the window, and leaped onto the fire escape without him noticing. As she stood, she heard him aggressively shout, “I am sick of looking at you, you disgraceful coward! Will you please just give up? There is nothing here for you old man. Nothing but that stupid rocking chair!”

“Enough!” Lily shouted, sending Will to the ground in shock. Lily leaped to the top of the latter, grabbing Will’s legs, as he tried to escape. He struggled, and squirmed, but his undeveloped muscles were not strong enough to escape Lily’s grasp. She pulled Will down the latter to her landing, where he laid helpless, and pinned to the ground, shaking. Lily pulled Will’s face closer to her own, but he avoided her piercing eyes. She leaned in closer and boldly whispered, “You are wrong about this man. He is no coward. He is the unnamable: the potential in all. He is all that you are not! He is the heart only searching for blood to ooze into him and allow him to pump full and healthy, and once that heart pumps you will have no place, no identity! Leave now!” And he did. He sprang up the latter, and into his window, slamming it shut.

Lily climbed back into her window, and into the kitchen to cook her dinner. She ate slowly, in silence. When she had finished eating, she left the dishes in the sink, and rushed to her room, to play her cello. As she imagined, shortly after she started, she heard the soft tapping start, and keep tempo. She played along softly, paying more attention to the tapping than her fingers, and without thought, she stopped playing, and carried her cello and bow to the window.

George, tapped anxiously. He hoped to feel the intriguing sensations of his childhood once again. He wanted to feel his toes moving freely, but the music stopped too soon, and with the music, he stopped rocking. He sat and stared at his blank, dull apartment, and noticed the white walls, with no photographs, or paintings. He noticed his kitchen with hardly any food, or ware. He noticed his empty mailbox, occupied by a daddy long legged spider, intricately building its home. He noticed the silence that had replaced the constant squeak of his chair, and he began to drown in it. He let it overtake him, starting with his ears, than moving to his eyes, as the whiteness of the walls seeped into him, taking away the soft gleam of the street lights, which glowed through his closed window. The white faded to black, and George felt himself leaving his body on the rocking chair, empty and alone, in silence.

George felt the silence and darkness seep into his soul, crushing him. He felt the enormous pain of darkness, and the ache of no sound, but he did not resist. He had no trouble orienting himself in that pain, but felt it curiously, letting it do what it pleased. Slowly the blackness began to speak to him and he recognized its voice. It was Will, tormenting his deepest bones. The chatter filled the silence with blades ripping Georges soul to scraps. George was engulfed in the noise of this violent shredding, and felt himself dying. He wondered if Will’s voice would be the last sound he would hear, but slowly, in courageous hostility, George started to ignore Will’s voice, only paying attention to the deep pain of darkness. He felt the darkness inside of him creeping, but he allowed it to creep. He was lost in this shadow with no fear, so he whispered to himself, “ I am no longer afraid.”

There was a soft tone, which seeped into his declaration, and it rang minimally as an echo. George noticed this tone, and focused in on it hearing it slowly develop into a melody. He recognized its sound, and gave it painful attention, and the silence slowly left him clawing to hold on. But George stripped the silence away, and listened intently as its melody birthed. His pain slowly evaporated, as a gentle light crept towards him, opening his eyes. He was back in his apartment, on his rocking chair, eyes fixed on his now opened window. It was there he saw her, shining in the fluorescent light, gently sliding her bow across tightened strings. He was modestly enamored by her presence, and sat peacefully listening to her charming music. He smiled, feeling the muscles in his cheek strain, and he knew it was his time. It was his time to move, so he firmly placed his feet on the ground and lifted himself off the chair, straightening his back with his stance. He stood there for a moment being serenaded, and with a sliding scale, he slowly walked past his bed and toward the window, finally reaching it. He climbed to the landing of the fire escape, and stood up, facing Lily and her cello.