The Sound of Us

The Sound of Us

The sounds were deafening. The lights were blinding. He shielded his eyes, as he stumbled out of the opera-house. There was always something about the journey from the lobby to the square that discombobulated him; it was as if he was stepping from one world to the next.

His fingers blocked the lights’ assault, but the sounds still burrowed into his ears. They were the typical sounds of New York City: sharp horns, rustling pollution, the flutter of a pigeon’s wings, the endless battle of people trying to talk over one another…

It didn’t matter that it was nearing midnight; the city never slept and Lincoln Square was no exception. He shuffled over to the fountain, the gushing geysers muffling the other noises. The mist felt nice, striking the skin that wasn’t covered by the scratchy uniform. He sat on the stone edge, coins digging into his thigh. They had been shoved into his hand by a mortified tourist, whose daughter had thrown-up a NYC hotdog. He had dutifully cleaned the mess, and the next one, and so on. He had once thought that cleaning for the renowned opera-house would be a dream job, certainly more prestigious than cleaning the fast-food kiosk in Penn Station. He should have known: a mess was a mess.

He closed his eyes, listening to the muffled noises of the ruffled city. In a moment, he would have to descend into the depths of the grimy subway, traveling across the many boroughs, until he reached his parents’ cramped apartment. He would be bombarded with questions about his college applications. He wouldn’t know what to say.

For now, he sat on the edge of the fountain, thinking about the dinner that he was going to buy with his unexpected tip. He might even buy a hotdog. He wondered what the singers were eating, tonight. What feasts did the owner of the opera-house consume? Who cooked the meals eaten by the couples who could afford their privately-owned balconies? Those couples shuffled into those balconies, every night, smirking at the golden plaque, on which their surname was engraved. Oh, how they smirked, drunk on their own wealth.

He, too, could have a balcony, if he was willing to forgo a year’s salary. He didn’t understand. Who would spend $20,000, just to sit, together, at an opera-house? Who would be that desperate to listen to music?

Opening his eyes, he reluctantly pulled away from the sanctuary of the fountain. The lights were so blinding that he nearly crashed into her—the teenager with a bright smile and a dull notebook. He went to push past her, only for her to seize his arm. He pulled back with a yell; she didn’t seem to be that bothered. His first instinct was that she was homeless; why else would she be in the square, at this hour? Then again, most homeless teenagers didn’t give people money. She did. She pushed a crumpled dollar into his hand, along with the pencil that had been tucked behind her ear. She then opened her notebook, once black, faded with time. Any grunts of protest were ignored, as he found himself staring at five scrawled words:

What does it sound like?

Confused, he tried to return the dollar, not wanting to be caught up in whatever pyramid-scheme she was surely pitching.

Her smile turned down at the edges and she handed the dollar back. She then pointed to the words, with an expression that would have melted anyone with a heart. He remained cold, chilled by the frigid air, suddenly longing the warmth of that grimy subway.

“Listen,” he said, “I’ve had a really long night.”

She did not listen. Rather, she pointed to the words, causing him to sigh. Pocketing the dollar, pinching the pencil, he scrawled:

LOUD.

She looked as exasperated as he felt, gesturing to the opera-house. His annoyance flaring like the geysers in the fountain, he wrote another word, underlining it, for good measure:

REALLY LOUD.

With a small sigh of her own, she touched her fingers to her chin, shuffling away.

In the murky subway, in the crowded apartment, in the midst of his parents’ nagging, he thought about that girl. It was only when he was about to fall asleep that he sat up, his groan waking the entire neighborhood. It wouldn’t have woken her.

He should have known. He had helped Deaf patrons. He had learned some sign-language; enough to let them know that he would clean up their messes.

This hadn’t been a mess; this had been a conversation.

No, on second thought, it had been a mess.

Perhaps he could turn it into a conversation…

He found her, again.

As he passed from the lobby to the square, he kept his hands at his side, wanting to take in every single light, and the silhouettes that stood against them. He saw her by the fountain, trying to hand the book to various strangers.

She recognized him. She didn’t say anything. It was up to him to start the conversation.

He awkwardly signed three words:

“You” “No” “Hear”

She looked amused, and he wondered if he had said the right thing, the right way. Maybe it was better to just write? She evidently agreed with his thoughts, pushing the battered, black, book into his hands, along with the pencil, and a single dollar. He tried to return the latter, but she insisted. Only when he pocketed it did she point to the notebook. She had rewritten the question, on a new page, a new start:

What does it sound like?

He hesitated before doing his best:

The woman had a really high-pitched voice and sang really fast. The man had a lower pitch, and he sounded really sad. They yelled at each other, a lot.

Does that help?

While still looking amused, there was a definite exasperation, as she thanked him.

It was hours later, in the middle of his mother’s lecture on the importance of an Ivy League admission, that he burst out, “I’m such an idiot!”

The following night, as the last patrons stumbled out of the opera-house, he found her. Her eyes lit up when she saw him; the only lights that weren’t overstimulating.

He politely gestured to the pencil and she handed it over, along with the black notebook, in which he scrawled:

Can I try again? And again? And again?

She gave him a dollar and a question:

What does it sound like?

He wrote:

Today’s opera sounds a lot like the city. It’s kinda overwhelming and it makes you feel out-of-place. It’s like being in a busy crowd and realizing that you can’t understand a single person, and they can’t understand you. The singers weren’t sure whether they hated or loved each other. They had to figure it out, while everyone watched, feeling like they were the third wheel on a bicycle. The singers sang. A lot. But not for the audience. For each other. It sounded like that.

He read through and groaned. “I’m sorry, that doesn’t make any sense—”

She beamed. She understood. They understood.

Every day, he would work, cleaning the hallways and aisles, listening to every note that poured off of the stage. Every evening, he would meet her at the fountain, and they would have a conversation:

What does it sound like?

Have you ever stood on the very edge of a subway platform, watching the light crawl down the tunnel? It gets closer and closer...and suddenly, it’s there! The train! It roars past you, and you feel the wind slap your face, and you get a little unsteady, but you keep standing. That’s what tonight’s opera sounds like.

-

What does it sound like?

It sounds like all of the yellow cabs, on 5th Avenue, honking at once. It sounds like a bunch of angry drivers trying to argue with each other, indignant that they weren’t the ones in the spotlight, wanting to be hailed as the most important driver on the road. Chaos. Complete chaos. And you’re trapped in the backseat.

-

What does it sound like?

It sounds like the deepest part of Central Park—across the bridges and through the tunnels—in the flowery meadows, off the tourist-traveled paths. When you get to that spot, you can’t see any of the buildings. It’s like you’re not even in NYC; like you’re in another world, a better world, a world where you’re understood.

He showed her that part of the park. He showed her that new world. He showed her what it sounded like.

What does it sound like?

It sounds like a lot of people who are very angry and very amused. A very angry set of parents who don’t know why you turned down an Ivy League acceptance. A very amused boss, who is pulled to the side by his very angry boss. “He’s been cleaning this hallway for an hour; he just keeps listening to the music, and taking notes,” says the very angry boss. To which the very amused boss replies: “Yeah, that sounds like him.”

-

What does it sound like?

It sounds like the rain that falls on your face when you’re late to your own wedding. You hurry up the church steps, holding the hem of your wife’s dress, so that it doesn’t get muddy. The guests are all inside, waiting, but you take a moment at the top of those steps, laughing, in the silent rain. It sounds like soaked shoes on a church floor. It sounds like dripping hair at the pew. It sounds like the hug you receive from a mother-in-law, and the flash of your father-in-law’s camera. It sounds like the future.

-

What does it sound like?

It sounds like a funeral and a graduation. It sounds like both, at once, harmonizing and clashing. It sounds like the fall of your stomach, when you realize that your daughter isn’t coming home from war, and the leap of your heart, when you realize that your son is the first one, in the family, to ever attend college. It sounds bad and it sounds good, and it sounds like love, and it sounds like loss, and it sounds like everything in between. I never knew an opera could have that many sounds.

Fifty-four years.

200 black notebooks.

20,000 shows.

A dollar per sound.

The lights were still blinding. The sounds were still deafening. They still felt a little discombobulated every time they stepped from the square to the lobby.

On this particular night, he held her hand and a cane; the latter thumped against the spotless floor. On this particular night, he had traded in his uniform for a suit, which he had worn to graduations, funerals, and weddings. On this particular night, she glowed with happiness, just as she had, for decades. On this particular night, they entered a balcony just for them, with their names engraved on a golden plaque, paid for by the amalgamation of sounds.

They sat side-by-side, using the glow from the surtitle-screen to read the scrawled words in the tattered notebook:

What does it sound like?

He didn’t know. As he rested a gnarled hand on the balcony railing, gazing at the singers, he realized that he could no longer hear the sounds. And so, he wrote:

What does it sound like?

With a smile, she took the notebook, and began to write:

It sounds like first meetings and second meetings. It sounds like powerful subways and gentle conversations. It sounds like the loudest streets and the quietest parks. It sounds like angry parents and amused bosses. It sounds like weddings, funerals, and graduations. It sounds like rain. It sounds like fountains. It sounds like loss. It sounds like love.

It sounds like us.

The Sound of Us