* * * * *
The sound truck woke me up the next morning at 5:30 a.m. I assume it was a sound
truck. I never actually saw it.
I could hear it, though. Playing this damn catchy tune out there on the street. Something
like modern jazz, only with flutes and cymbals and a gong. I had just picked up my cell phone to
dial the cops when it stopped. Somebody else must have called it in before I did.
Riding the subway in to work, I couldn't get that tune out of my head. It had this rhythm to it,
a sort of "Chicka-Ching Ching Badda Bang Ching Ching" thing going. My foot was tapping.
Left-right-middle, left-right-middle, POW! I saw the old guy across me staring at my
Florsheims, but I couldn't stop..Left-right-middle, left-right-middle, POW!
I took the stairs to street level, hopping up them in rhythm. Left-right-Chicka-Ching-left-
right-Badda Bang-POW! It was silly, but I couldn't help it.
Gladys handed me about a half-dozen phone messages as soon as I got inside the door.
That's advertising for you. No rest for the wicked. She tried to say something to me. I had to
strain to hear her. The damn flutes had started in, from that song, on top of the cymbals and the
gong. I finally shook off the music and managed to concentrate on what she was telling me.
I took a seat at my desk and picked up the phone. I looked out at the skyline from my
corner office, forty-second floor. That tune was going through my head again. It was catchy as
hell. I wondered if we could acquire the rights. It would sound great as a back track for the
Mercy perfume line.
* * * * *
Board meeting at 9:00. Bill Macy opened his mouth to speak, and all I could hear was a
gong. Frances Irwin chimed in, and it WAS chimes. Literally. I started sweating really hard and
I got this bad pain in my chest. I was shaking, my hands wet gripping the seat underneath me,
trying not to let on what was happening. As people went around the table, talking, all I heard was
one musical instrument after the other. I was cracking up, man, losing it, sliding down a greasy
ramp toward the looney bin.
I excused myself and headed for the exec washroom to splash some water on my face.
My feet jumped and jived down the hallway Chicka Ching Badda Bang POW Chick Chicka...I
tried to walk normally, but now I was dancing like Fred Astaire and I couldn't control it...
In the bathroom, the music just kept getting louder and louder and louder. Now there was
something new...a saxophone on top, running a wild wailing descant...blowing crazy arpeggios
that ducked in and out of the beat...The gong slams jerked my head back. The flute squeaks
popped out of my fingertips. My guts quavered with the sax as my feet spun on the flooring. So
loud, so damned loud!
I twisted out of the bathroom door, my shirt tail hanging out, my glasses askew, bumping
and bowing and grinding down the hall, like the Tasmanian devil or Cab Calloway on speed,
tapping like Mr. Bojangles caught in a hurricane, my arms flipping and flapping, ready for
takeoff...all the time that music screaming in my head like a jet airplane, flip flap fly, zippa zappa
shoop a doop Chicka Ching Badda Bang POW POW POW POW POW POW!
I saw myself heading for the plate glass window and I tried to stop but it was too late. I heard
Gladys scream and then I busted through, smashing, shattering and plummeted, hurtling down
toward the pavement. The music kept on going, all the way down.
I hit hard, forty-two floors down, my body exploding like an overripe melon.
* * * * *
I was dead, had to be, dead beyond all doubt. Everything was dark and cold.
And yet...
Somehow, from somewhere I heard it. The music, starting up again, getting louder and
louder, wailing, more and more insistent...Then, though I had no more lungs and no mouth left to
scream with, though my body was smashed and scattered over forty square feet of pavement, then
me screaming, somehow:
"GOOD GOD IN HEAVEN, MAKE IT STOP!"
x x x
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