Jake isn't going to stop until something worthwhile happens—a broken window, a decent-sized dent in the door—if it all goes well he'll wind up nursing a busted collarbone and some bloody teeth. He's employing greasy, billiards-ball-sized snowballs for ammunition, rifling off each throw with a crisp snap of the elbow. The centrifugal force slams blood down into his fingertips, causing an eerie stinging sensation. The target, an Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, is maneuvering to park across the street. Kevin—Kevin Stevenson, the man known in some circles for uttering the words: "Why should I wear my seatbelt? If I was driving, and I was about to get in an accident, I'd just reach down and put it on really quick"—stands at Jake's side. He's holding a battery operated record player above his head, and Cat Stevens' "Here Comes My Baby" is playing softly. Jake wants one of his projectiles to strike the side-view mirror on the Oldsmobile and cause it to explode with a wild sound, wants the chrome and glass to evaporate visibly in the headlights of passing cars. He pauses for a moment, and waits for the stinging in his fingers to subside before scouring the ground for more ammunition.
The best thing about portable record players—besides being partially aqua blue and partially transparent, in this particular case—is that the sound itself is portable. Kevin holds the tiny machine (a gift from Kyle and Claudette, the neighbors upstairs) with both hands just above his head, and that's where "Here Comes My Baby" is hovering in a milky grey veil of sound. Just think: Kevin could be sitting on the 14, after work, and there would be Cat, or maybe even Curtis Mayfield, resting on his lap, whispering to the back half of the bus. I'd recommend purchasing such an amazing little contraption, and placing it on the bottom shelf of the fridge, on the side of the bed, or on the landing that leads to the apartment. It will work wonders. Trust me. As Kevin steps back in reaction to Jake's flailing, so does Cat, and the piano and horns and the handsome little sound from the record as it spins around and around. Blue tinged snowflakes gather on top of the record, and on Jake's shoulders.
If you're like me, you may be thinking of the aforementioned snowflakes—the troublesome ones—and how they like to clog the delicate grooves of the record, occasionally causing Cat to stumble. That's great, it really is. No one is having that thought. No one. It needs to be manifested somewhere. The world needs original thinkers like us. And while we're at it—I also like how the record player makes your presence bigger. People can hear you before you round the corner! You're more than the space provided to you behind the driver's seat in Hyde's old Honda. You fill up the entire car—and if the windows are rolled down you spill out into the street. We sure as hell can't tell Jake this—but Kevin Stevenson is twenty feet tall right now. He is a monster of sound.
Troublesome snowflakes aside, we need to keep this thing moving along. Jake is presently lighting a cigarette, cupping his hand around a burning match. The woman has succeeded in parking her car and is now stuck, waiting for traffic to recede, so she can cross the street. Its important to note the street has a subtle glow to it. You have to be out at the right time of day, and your mind has to be in just the right spot to notice, but it's worth it. It gives the street, the pavement, warmth it rarely takes on. Jake is sure that once the woman crosses the street that she's bound to say "you're not the best shot, are you?" or something along the lines of "I never liked that car anyway" and perhaps even throw a snowball or two at her own car. Jake has a way with people—this town has a way with people. He is just drunk enough to start thinking about the revolver again. It's in the drawer in his bathroom. The other day he wiped it down with a hand towel as he leaned against the old built-in vanity between the tub and windowsill. There are only four bullets in it.
There was a time when he and some friends took slingshots and shot marbles into Laurelhurst one night. Jeremy had a giant canister hidden away in the attic, and they took turns stepping out onto the balcony and shooting the little spherical missiles into the starless sky, and then sat, in a quiet huddle, listening for the inevitable dull thud as it struck the side of a house, or the keen impact of the marble as it bounced off the hood of a late model Mercedes sedan or the windshield of a Volvo wagon. Jake wants to put those four bullets to use, wants to blast them out the window, and then sit Indian style on the floor and listen for their impact, sharp and deadly.
Like a coward, Jake casually turns his back when the woman—legs for days, black heels, a small clutch tucked under her arm—makes her way across the street. The legendary Kevin Stevenson stops hoisting the record player above his head, and uses a free hand to pull his shirt down to cover his stomach, white and cushy. The song has come to an end, and Cat's "The Wind" begins to play, but Kevin pulls the needle off the record and gently sets the arm in its cradle. Traffic continues to jam up Killingsworth. There is the constant sound of cars, and the even more constant sound of the tires churning up the water glazing the street, locking it away in their disgusting wheel wells forever. The only thing more noticeable, more piercing, is the sound of the woman's heels on the parking lot. There is the nape of her neck, and the angle of her waist as it makes its way, ever so beautifully, to her chest. Her expression is both persuasive and indifferent. Without a word she makes her way into the bar. She won't mention Jake or his antics to her friends upon sitting down.
Jake looks at Kevin with raised eyebrows, and slowly exhales the last drag of his cigarette.
"C'mon," he says. "I say we jump in that car of yours and see where it takes us."
"That seems fair," Kevin says. He places the Cat Stevens record in an old plastic produce bag, and pulls the small, translucent blue cover to the record player out of his backpack, and snaps it in to place.
There is the soft digital glow of the gauges when Kevin turns on the lights in the car. Reds, oranges, and yellows illuminate the dash. It would be something, Kevin thinks, maneuvering the car out of the parking lot, if these little reds, oranges, and yellows would flicker like actual flames. But they don't. There are worse things.
After a few cigarettes worth of aimless wandering, and a brief visit to a half dozen traffic signals, they end up where they began the evening: Jake's place, three blocks from the bar. Kevin retrieves the record player from the backseat while Jake lights another cigarette.
"What's a guy gotta do to get someone to play "The Wind" around here?" Jake says. He lightly taps a rectangular pack of matches against the dash.
"Nothing," Kevin says. "Nothing at all."
Check out Nathan Lee Smith's web page at NathanLeeSmith.com.