As his body went numb, his mind became less rigid in thought and memories began floating past his consciousness, quickening in pace till his head was spinning with them. Music he’d written or played or listened to mixed together in some fantastic symphony of internal sound. The loudest notes were those of the electric bass. That was his instrument. He was an incredible bass player, capable of intensifying the deep sounds into a string of fervent tones that could easily stand alone. He never tried to do solos though. Thomas knew that the bass, like its name, was the foundation of the song. It needed to support and give meaning to all the giddy wanderings of the other sounds in the group. He could identify with the drums though. His thoughts shifted over to his mother. He’d never known her properly because she had died when he was two. The images of her few photos were always trapped in his mind, just like she was in the photos. He’d often gaze at the pictures wishing she were in his world instead of in that world of gardens, marriage, relatives, and lakes. Thomas didn’t know why such a lovely woman had married someone like his father. The insults and threats pounded on Thomas’s brain like fists. "Thomas, you’re not my son, you’re too much of a wimp." "Boy, if that mug of yours got any uglier, I’d have to send you to the pound!" "You’ll never be anything but a gravestone." And that was when he was in a good-spirited mood. After his father had been drinking, the words would solidify into pure hatred. His father, named Frederick after his great grandfather, was a wreck of a man. He had emigrated from Ireland and met Thomas’ mother, Claire, in Detroit. They had fallen in love and married, but after Claire’s sudden death Frederick became a heavy drinker. The welfare checks could hardly support him and his two boys. Fits of depression racked his soul every time he remembered Claire, which was every day. The only solution was to forget, and the only way to forget was alcohol. However, Thomas had caught his father unawares a few times. Fred would be sitting absolutely still in his frayed brown armchair drinking Guinness, his favourite, with the afternoon sun filtering onto his body through the gauzy curtains and dust in the room. Thomas would stand silently at the doorway with a look of angelic acceptance on his countenance. His father often began singing at these times, and it was always the same sad song he must have learnt back in Ireland. There were only a few words sung very sweetly, it went something like "Jesus’ blood never failed me yet, never failed me yet, ‘tis my fate I know, though he loved me so." Thomas thought his father had a nice voice when he sang that song. It was through these small discoveries that Thomas learned to love his father because Frederick never made it an automatic love, it had to be cultivated. Thomas envied his older brother, William, who had moved out of their rundown house in Roseville, Michigan to Flint to work in a car factory. Working in a factory was the last thing Thomas could ever see himself doing, but at least William was through living in the family’s dusty house with their broken father. He had escaped.
Then there was the band. His best friend Lee had been the lead vocals and guitar. Lee never quite understood Thomas, no one really did. Staring at Thomas, Lee would say, "Thomas, you’re making the song sound depressing with that chord. The lyrics are about going on a road trip, not dying. Okay?" Thomas would look at the ground and slowly raise his eyes to meet Lee’s, with eyelids half closed. "Alright, Lee. I think I know what you’re looking for." Then he would play it perfectly. "Now why didn’t you just play that before, Thom, it sounds so much better." Thomas didn’t think so, but it didn’t matter, it wasn’t his song. After practice, Thomas would carefully pack up his bass and carry it home on his back. The local girls always watched him when he went by. To them, he was dark and mysterious. His face was just like the male models in their teen magazines, except his had an irresistible edginess about it. Some days, he’d glance over at them. These were the moments they cherished. His deep black eyes were like liquid and, in the girls’ estimation, they were the most beautiful eyes they’d ever seen. The girls would stare at him till he was out of sight, his gliding, secretive gait like a ghost in their mind’s eye. Thomas had no clue about any of these goings-on, though. He never thought of himself the way the girls did. He hardly knew they existed. If he had, the last thing he would imagine is that they were all in rapture of him. He felt very dull and uninspired to himself; not someone that people would like to get to know, so he didn't let anyone. He never tried to befriend others. Lee was just an accident. They had become friends at a concert two years before. Lee was in the mosh pit being as energetic as ever, jumping the highest and screaming the loudest. A large man was getting fed up with Lee and rudely pushed him. It was probably a harder push than the man had intended because Lee went flying to the outskirts of the crowd and landed on the side of his head, cutting his earlobe on a piece of broken glass. Thomas had been concentrating on the music while standing completely alone. He was the only one to notice Lee’s dive into the sun dried grass. Thomas walked over and knelt down to help Lee who was dizzy and in quite a bit of pain. The large man was nodding to the music, oblivious to the result of his callous action. Lee was the most affable person Thomas had ever met and it didn’t take much for Lee to coax him into a friendship. As it turned out, the two lived in the same neighbourhood, so when Lee told Thomas that he wanted him in a garage band Thomas accepted out of friendship and curiosity. Now Thomas was starting to evolve rapidly as a musician. The band was good, but Thomas played at a naturally high level that his band mates would probably never reach. He began to feel the need to escape everything, like his brother before him. Not only the band and the house and his father, but his life. Thomas wanted a different life and decided that he had no choice but to take the risks that scared him to the core.
It was a glaringly bright morning. The sun hit the snow outside Thomas' bedroom window and glowed in through his eyelids. He opened his eyes wide and stared at his hand, which was lying right in front of his face. This wasn't like the other days; this was a day worth waking up for. He pulled his left leg to the edge of the bed and let it fall to the floor. Slowly, he raised his torso so that he was sitting up with his right leg stretched out in front of him. Looking at the blue sky, he felt something that he hadn't experienced in a long time. The feeling was hope. Thomas walked unsteadily into the kitchen to get something to eat. He wasn't used to the feeling in his stomach, it wasn't hunger. It felt like he was about to audition for the Red Hot Chili Peppers to take Flea's place, it was that intense. He had decided last night that today was the day he would escape. He knew where he was going to go, New York City. Isn't that where all the great musicians were? Thomas had this vision in his head that propelled his urge to go to New York. He imagined accidentally meeting someone in a struggling band who would be looking for someone just like him. When they heard him play, they'd be so impressed, he'd be accepted into the band right away. He also wanted to get into the brilliant music scene in New York, hanging out at open mic nights and sitting on red velvet couches in artists' cafes. He would become a part of the underground subculture of indie musicians. After a few years of the indie experience, his magic band would break into mainstream successes and they would become famous and tour the world.
Thomas packed his clothes quickly, he didn't have very many. He opened the top drawer of his white dresser and pulled out a small wad of bills. Thomas had been saving money for this since he was a boy. He had been planning to run away for a long time. Counting it up, he found he only had about $500. "That's enough." Thomas said to himself. He picked up his backpack and bass, flipped his black hair off his brow, and walked out of the house. His father was at one of his washout friend's houses that day. Whenever he was visiting someone, he didn't come back for hours, sometimes days. He knew his father wouldn't even perceive that he was permanently gone for a couple of days, and by then, it wouldn't matter. When he reached the end of the front walkway, Thomas paused and turned to face his house from the sidewalk. As far as Thomas was concerned, that was the last time he'd ever see it. He went to the bus station and bought the cheapest ticket he could get to New York. It was a very long trip and he was leaving at three o'clock that afternoon. He'd be greeting the city's skyline at dawn. Looking around nervously for any familiar faces, Thomas took a seat on the flimsy bench. He didn't want to see anyone he knew, it could ruin his escape. At last the New York Bound bus pulled into the terminal and Thomas stood up with his belongings, ready to leave. Getting onto the bus made his feet feel like they were made of air. He ambled to the back row and sat next to the window. When the bus finally began pulling out of the station minutes later, Thomas' chest felt like it was hollow and there was yellow light bursting inside. If someone had sat down next to him at that moment and he had had to say something, they would have surely been blinded when he opened his mouth because the light would be freed and come streaming out.
The night passed with streetlights, road signs, and darkness. Thomas was lying back in his seat with his head leaning on the glass. He lazily followed the objects with his eyes as they passed by. Around four in the morning, the sky started transforming from blackness to grey. Everything outside the bus was grey for what seemed like forever. Thomas hadn't slept at all the entire ride. Suddenly, he caught sight of the New York City skyline. The sun had been almost at the horizon, but now its edge rose above it and made the Chrysler Building shine. Thomas was in love with the city. This was where he belonged, where he should have been born. What a different life he would have had so far. 'I'm here now.' Thomas thought to himself, breathing out with a sentiment of liberation.
It had been an hour since Thomas had gotten off the bus. He was walking towards a cheap motel which a stranger had directed him to. He turned the corner and there it was, Motel Manhattan. It was four stories high and made of dilapidated red brick. All the windows were small and old, the once-white painted window frames were chipped so much they were almost entirely down to the original wood. He walked up to the front door with an uneasy expression on his face. He'd never checked into a motel in his life. The man sitting behind the worn-out counter looked like he had been up playing cards all night. Thomas blinked at him and mumbled, "I'd like a single bedroom please." "What!" The man bellowed back in a hoarse voice. "You gotta' speak up, boy. These ears don't work so well." "A single bed, sir, a room." Thomas managed to say it with a bit of confidence thrown in. "Oh, ok. How long you want that for?" the man asked. Thomas looked at his running shoes. They were worn-out like the counter in front of him. He hadn't considered the time issue yet. 'Once I'm in New York everything'll be fine. I just have to get there.' He had thought to himself. Now he was here. "Well, boy? It's $40 a night and you gotta' pay in advance." "Just th-three nights for now, sir." Thomas stuttered. After paying $120 plus tax, the man went into a back room, fumbled around a bit, and came back with the key to room 225. When he opened the door to his room, a musty smell mixed with lemon-lime wafted out at him. He went in and threw his stuff on the bed. He immediately ran into the bathroom, he had been holding for a long time. After, he quickly inspected the tiny beige room. Opening the blinds, he saw that he had a reasonably good view of the street. It was a pretty seedy part of Manhattan. He walked over to the bed and knocked his backpack onto the floor. He had left his bass leaning against the wall. The lumpiness of the mattress didn't affect Thomas at all because he fell asleep almost instantly, exhausted from lack of sleep.
Thomas woke up in the early evening. He decided he'd better start on his New York City "discoveries". Feeling he had to dress somewhat appropriately for this, he pulled on his black T-shirt, his pair of distressed blue jeans, and his brown corduroy jacket. He stepped in front of the cracked mirror in the bathroom and looked himself over. He gave his longish black hair a final brush with his fingers and left, making sure to lock the door. It was 8:45 on a Friday night and people were already walking along the sidewalk and driving by on their way to the clubs. All the activity delighted Thomas, who was very oblivious to the raised eyebrows he was receiving from most of the single females who passed him. He got on the subway and travelled for half an hour. Eventually, Thomas ended up in chic SoHo. While sauntering down one of the busy streets with his hands shoved in his front pockets, he caught sight of a sign that read 'Yola Bar - Open Mic Nights every Friday at 9'. "Oh, that's lucky!" Thomas exclaimed under his breath. He realized he was a bit late, but it didn't make any difference really. Inside was a rather high-ceilinged room with a white candle at each café-sized table. Running along one wall was a long cushioned bench fitted with deep red fabric. The stage was small and raised to thigh-level from the ground, it had small white Christmas lights hanging in an arch. The girl onstage at the moment was very fascinating to Thomas. She had especially long auburn hair in one thick braid and she wore a light blue dress with skin-toned stocking and Mary Jane shoes. She was singing and playing an alternative folk rock song and her voice reminded Thomas of Fiona Apple. Thomas walked up to the front, staring at her, being careful not to knock into anyone. He sat down on the red bench and leaned back. Many people in the audience were socializing or drinking or zoning out. Only one looked rapt with attention. The girl sighted Thomas gazing at her in the corner. She looked at him with a slight smirk on her face while she sang. A half-hour later, her set was done. She said "Thank you" to the applause of perhaps a quarter of the room. She stepped off the stage, and to Thomas' horror, came towards him. "Hi." She said with her hand outstretched to shake. Thomas looked at her like a deer caught in headlights for a few seconds and finally was able to utter, "Hello." She laughed, gave up on the handshake, and sat down next to him, placing her guitar beside her on the bench. "My name is Angela." The girl said with a smile on her face. Thomas stared at her red lipstick covered lips for a moment. "I'm Thomas." He replied. "Are you from around here?" Angela asked. "Oh no, no." Thomas said, "I'm from this small stupid town in Michigan. Actually, I just got here today." "Really!" she said. "Welcome to New York, then. You know what? I think that I'll have to show you around." Thomas bit his lower lip. "I'm not some crazy New Yorker, I won't do anything to you." Angela joked. Thomas almost rolled his eyes, Angela being dangerous had been the last thing he was worried about. "That would be nice. Thank you for offering." he said while looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Angela grinned, surprised that such a good-looking guy was so shy. "Where are you staying?" she asked, "How about we meet up tomorrow afternoon, are you free?" "Um, I'm free everyday, so that's great. I'm at the Motel Manhattan." Angela laughed and told him they should meet at the coffee shop that was across from the Yola Bar the next day at 3 o'clock. "I have to get going now. Sorry, Thomas. But I am really happy we met. You'll have to tell me all about yourself tomorrow." She winked and stood up. "Goodnight." Thomas said. He sat alone for a while after Angela had left. He got up to leave and realized that he hadn't even bought anything from the bar and no waiter had come to serve him. While going out the door, he paused for a minute to look at a tack board with a bunch of bills posted all over it in a big glob of paper. He searched the numerous ads looking for musicians, scanning for the word 'bass'. One bright orange paper caught his eye. It announced that a band he had heard of was looking for a bassist who had a professional playing ability, "NO amateurs!", it stated. The audition was tomorrow, January 12th, at one in the afternoon. Thomas ripped the paper off the wall and jammed it into his jacket pocket.
The next morning, Thomas was up early. He went to the diner down the street from the motel and ate bacon and eggs for breakfast. When he got back to his room, it was noon. The audition location was in Greenwich Village. Thomas tuned, cleaned, and checked over his bass, then put it carefully in the case. He didn't want anything to go wrong during the audition. On his way out, Thomas asked the man behind the counter how to get to Greenwich Village and the man gave him what seemed to be good directions. Thomas got on the subway and stood with his bass on his back. He got off at the station the man had told him to. When he got outside, he looked around with squinted eyes. This didn't look like the right place. Everything was really rundown and there was a car with a flat tire and no windshield parked a few feet away. The anxious Irish boy walked a few blocks looking for Fernwood Street. All the street names were alphabet letters, though. Thomas began breathing heavily as he went down Avenue C. This wasn't the right place. "That idiotic man was wrong." Thomas whispered to himself. Just then, a little old lady passed by him. He stopped and turned towards her. "Miss. Miss, I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm really lost right now." The old woman looked up at him. "Where are you trying to get to?" she asked kindly with a Puerto Rican accent. "Fernwood Street in Greenwich Village." Thomas said hopefully. "Oh my, you certainly have gone out of your way, minio." She then proceeded to tell him that he must get back on the subway and go back the way he had come. The rest of the way didn't sound too complicated, though he'd have to find Fernwood on his own because it was a small street and the old woman had never heard of it. After thanking the lady, Thomas turned down a wide alley that appeared to be a shortcut to the subway. Suddenly, he felt a firm hand clamp down on his right shoulder. He spun around to see a muscular man in a black windbreaker. The man had a stern look on his face, but more terrifying for Thomas was that he was holding a gun. "Gimme' that guitar." the man said, raising his chin and motioning with the gun. Thomas blinked quickly and turned his head to the left. "Now!" the thief shouted. Thomas flinched and swiftly took his bass from his back. He held it out to the thief who yanked it away and sprinted from of the alley. Thomas was a statue, time disappeared. Eventually, tears came to his eyes and flowed down his cheeks. He began walking towards the subway, feeling the loss of his instrument in the lightness of having no weight on his back anymore.
He sat on the subway with his eyes half closed and his lips pushed together in an expression of true defeat. The song "Yesterday" by The Beatles played over and over in his head. He began rocking back and forth faintly to the words. Later on, he rose from his seat and got off. He didn't know where he was, but he didn't care. Walking on an unknown street, Thomas felt more hate for New York than he had ever experienced in his life. Disoriented, Thomas staggered along, block after block, with his arms folded over his chest. It began to shift from afternoon to evening and then to night. Thomas didn't have any physical senses now. He had no hunger, no cold, no pain but that in his head and heart. It began to snow and Thomas watched the world framed by his black eyelashes with water droplets melting on them. Thomas had been walking for blocks and was unable to hold in the warmth of his small body with his cold arms any longer. He ducked into an alley that was just a degree milder. He saw a box and quickly flattened it out to use as a seat. Crouched there, Thomas lost consciousness of his surroundings, which hadn't been of much interest to him anyway. He took consolation from memories of Roseville. Soon after he didn't feel anything at all.
The sun was all alone in a clear sky on Sunday morning in New York City. Angela was walking to work. She loved living in SoHo; it had been her dream to move there when she was a little girl. She was looking around her and feeling good about life. Sure, that jerk from the Yola Bar had stood her up yesterday, she didn't mind. He'd seemed really sweet and innocent, though. But what of it, there were plenty of fish in the sea. At that moment, her eye wandered into the little alley across the street. She saw a homeless man sitting with his back against the brick wall, but he looked so still, like he was dead. She walked over and was shocked to see it was the guy Thomas she had just been thinking of. His chin was pointed towards the sky and his skin was so pale in colour, with blotches of blue and purple. He was motionless and Angela was afraid he might be dead. She wondered what had happened to him. Bending down, Angela began shaking Thomas, calling his name. All of a sudden, he gasped and looked up at her. Angela's eyes were shining vivid gold in the morning light.
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