The Music In My Head

I listened to my unbearably torn Saddle shoes click on the sidewalk. Click. Click. Click.

A crimson morning sky, bleeding with the promise of a new day, showered above my head. I hummed to myself, a spontaneous rhythm I didn’t necessarily know. And then as if someone had whispered gently into my ear, I heard the lyrics. Words and notes sewn together on music score in my mind. Abruptly, I stopped myself and dug through my old worn leather purse. Paper. I needed paper, and a pen. I always seemed to carry both somewhere on my person.

This will do. I said to myself as I found a napkin in my purse.

Turning to the brick wall to the left of me, I held the paper onto it’s red exterior. I jostled down everything that came to me. The corners of my mouth creased into a smile, for I knew this song was something special. Falling out of reality for the moment, my ears yearned for the sound of a soft piano carrying the tempo of this piece. Then beautiful strings would blend in with maybe even a soft flute in the chorus. I felt it all in my body as if it were ink written over my skin.

I blinked the vision away and turned my wrist to check the time.

4:40 am.

“Damnit.” I grumbled to myself, picking up the pace as I turned the corner of Makerstreet. The old bus top sat in front of me by a few feet. Its warped roof dripped last night's rain from its rusted holes, and an older woman standing beneath it kept trying to move out of its falling path.

I moved my large tote bag and trench coat, the one my mother had given me nearly twenty years before, to my left arm to give my right some time to feel unconfined.

“Morning Ethel.” I smiled at the women as I stepped beneath the broken bus stop. The older woman smiled slowly at me from behind her aged wrinkles. Her eyes always seemed to share a deep genuine appreciation for life and its people. She nodded to the sunrise.

“Quite a beautiful morning, ain’t it?” I looked up as the dark clouds of the night began to drearily fade away.

“I guess so.” I was not someone who ever truly appreciated the early morning hours. But like most of us in Lincolnton, North Caroline, we grew used to it. We had to. Here, you either risk your sanity by working a 16 hour shift, or you risk unemployment and starvation. I had seen too many families vanish from such conditions. It was a gamble, all or nothing.

“How’s little Maebaline?” Ethel brought me back to the moment.

“She’s growing taller everyday. But…” I forced the crease of a smile. “She’s good.” My little girl, only six years old, was born into this world May 15th, 1956. Her emerald eyes and freckled cheeks kept me going most days. She was the reason I worked as hard as I did. To give her the best life I could give. In the evenings after my long days of work and her mornings of drawings and subtractions, we could be found sitting in our one room flat and singing out tunes till she fell asleep in my arms. Maebaline was as passionate for music as her mother.

A slow hum of an engine made its way down the empty street, stirring me out of my thoughts. It carried a green paint with a yellow rim, as it stopped in front of us. A whooshing sound echoed the streets as the doors swung open. I motioned for Ethel to go up the steep stairs first. As she did, I dug through my purse to find 10 cents. I nodded to Tom, the usual driver of my 4:50 AM route, and slipped the cents into the small box next to his seat.

“You’re good to go, Nancy.” Tom gave a quick nod in my direction before putting the gear into drive, which forced the giant automobile we were in to jolt quite harshly before moving forward. A few other faces appeared within the bus, whom I knew only from our day to day encounters and nothing more. We were all here for the same reason. To work towards a better tomorrow. My tomorrow, was simply a dream of being a songwriter. I was 25 now, and the chances of something as significant as that happening in a place like Lincolnton were nonexistent. I sat by the window, and let my mind wander. For the few minutes I had, I would allow myself to dream. I closed my eyes, my head pressed against the fingerprinted glass. Colors of green and light blue danced through my imagination. I could hear the acoustic guitar, with waves of an ocean pulling me in like a warm embrace. My voice, laughing for the first time in months. My Maebaline, running alongside me, as we splashed in the gentle waves. Smiling. I was smiling. The abrupt stop of the bus forced my hazel eyes open.

“Mainstreet!” Tom yelled over his shoulder. I nodded to Ethel on my way down the aisle.

“Thank’s Tommy.” I stepped off the bus and onto the sidewalk, my legs already aching for a rest. Around the corner and to the right was where I had worked for the past six years, Sunrise Diner. It’s yellow in cursive wording on the sign out front, staring at me like an old nemesis. I’d either grow wings here and fly away, or I’d spend my life working here till the day I died. I sighed and stepped inside the front door.

The next 9 hours slowly slipped by in what felt like an eternity. I wiped down tables, sprayed windows, cleaned and polished silverware, and served greasy food… all with a forced smile. It was 2 o’clock in the afternoon and the diner was eerily quiet. My co-workers, Amy and Jenna, had left for their late lunch break. While our manager Dan, sat in his office in the back. The hot afternoon sun pierced through the windows, warming my hands as I cleaned off the counter with a damp rag. Then, without warning or an introduction, the music began in my head again. I was exhausted, alone, and had could find no reason not to sing the lyrics out in a quiet voice.

The next 9 hours slowly slipped by in what felt like an eternity. I wiped down tables, sprayed windows, cleaned and polished silverware, and served greasy food… all with a forced smile. It was 2 o’clock in the afternoon and the diner was eerily quiet. My co-workers, Amy and Jenna, had left for their late lunch break. While our manager Dan, sat in his office in the back. This repetitive routine of a job, the impatient regulars, the long hours that kept me barely awake enough to stay alert. This was supposed to be America, the great land of opportunity. Where was my opportunity? Where was my chance to be heard in a place like this? The hot afternoon sun pierced through the windows, warming my hands as I cleaned off the counter with a damp rag. Then, without warning or an introduction, the music began in my head again. I was exhausted, alone, and could find no reason not to sing the lyrics out in a quiet voice.

Can I just have hope,

without the doubt?

The atmospheric echo of the empty diner captured my notes perfectly. I closed my eyes, leaning against the counter in complete surrender to this feeling overtaking me.

That we might fall

before the sun goes down

Can I just fly

without the fall?

Sunlight fell upon my face as I sang out the last lyrics that ran through my mind.

Can I just have love

above it all?

I sighed to myself and opened my eyelids slowly. Something moved in the corner of the room, catching my attention. A woman stood up and stared at me. She had a gentle expression on her face but my eyes darted to the counter in embarrassment.

“What song is that?” She asked, stepping closer and taking a seat on one of the red bar stools. I noticed her feminine business attire, long straightened hair that fell to her back. I wiped the rag over some spilled salt.

“It’s mine. I mean I…” I hoped my cheeks weren’t turning as red as they felt. “I wrote it.” She searched my face kindly, and then laid her hands gently on the surface of the counter.

“What’s your name?”

“Ella.” My quiet voice answered.

“Ella, do you write a lot of songs like this one?” Needing something to do with my hands, I reorganized the ketchup bottles.

“Every day.”

“And what do you do with these songs after you write them?” I was confused by her words.

“I.. I sing them with my daughter.” Her smile lightened and she reached into her purse, her red nails digging through what sounded like paper. She pulled out a business card.

“My name is Nancy Rhodes. I work at the CPTN radio station in Nashville.” I’d never been to Tennessee before, but I’d been told that the music recorded there was unlike anywhere else in the states. “We work with a variety of different musicians on the side, as well as songwriters. And I’ve heard everything from Bluegrass, Jazz, Folk, Country and even an opera once when in New York.” She shook her head and laughed.

“And in all that time, I’ve never heard someone's voice sound so angelic as yours.”

I could hear my heart beating louder. Was this a dream? Has someone truly said these things about my voice? About my writing?

“I don’t know what to say.” I laughed shyly, my head bowed in appreciation.

“You don’t have to say anything. I wasn’t even supposed to be in Lincolnton, but my flight has been delayed till tomorrow and, well… I am truly glad that it was.”

A small fire was beginning to burn within me, an opportunity. Maybe this was the country of spontaneous connections. Of coincidental flight cancellations that cause entire lives to be changed and dreams to be chased like never before.

“Please reach out and call the station. I can’t tell you how touched I am by hearing you.” She tapped the business card once on the counter, then stood up from her stool.

“Thank you.” My voice sounded strange, excited. I felt excited for something.

Nancy held the long door handle and turned to me.

“Call. You never know what awaits you if you never take the chance.” And with that piece of advice, she left the diner. I watched her walk past the windows and out of sight like a dream.

I covered my mouth with my hands in disbelief. Could this really be happening?

That night, holding my little Maebaline close in my arms, and sitting in our small flat in Lincolnton, North Carolina, I made a promise to myself. I was going to call the radio station the next morning. And I did.