Joy

Brandon Figliolino

Joy

            I’m one of those young millennial guys—I won’t use the word “hip” because it’s completely subjective—who always has a set of headphones shoved into the canals of his ears. No, I don’t have Dr. Dre’s Beats, or whatever they’re called, and my earbuds are cheap ones I purchased at Target. Still, those ratty earbuds and I are inseparable. They—and my phone, of course—link me to beautiful music.

Who could ask for anything more?

Yup, I’m one of those kids who walks around the grocery store listening to today’s hits. I go for walks, allowing my mind to wander while soft, upbeat melodies pulse through my ears. When I’m on my bicycle, exciting rhythms push me to go one more mile; though I only keep one headphone in, for safety. Whether it’s while I’m cleaning, cooking, or just loafing around, checking out the latest blunders in politics, music is on my mind. I bop my head, tap my foot, and, if really compelled, I’ll belt out a stanza or two, even though I am no Taylor Swift or Justin Bieber, or whomever you think is the greatest singer. Of all time.

A few weeks ago, in a scramble to get to my bus on time, I forgot to pull my earbuds from their spot in my previous days’ pants.

Whoops.

I hopped off the bus, waving goodbye to the driver. I walked to the corner of the street. Rummaging through my messenger bag, and my pockets, I realized my mistake. I’d have to go the day without them. Somehow, I’d manage.

A regional bus drove up the street, its engine getting louder as it neared, an unpleasant crescendo. The bus approached the corner and turned into the transit station. Its brakes squealed, a high-pitched solo over the purr of other buses’ idling engines.

The crosswalk indicated it was safe to proceed.

Across the street, the noise of the busses diminished and was replaced by silence. It was seven-thirty; the baristas at the coffeehouse weren’t quite ready to open, and the pub and elegant restaurant that flanked it had many more hours until they unlocked their doors. All I could hear was the sounds of my shoes, tapping the brick sidewalk at a steady beat.

I approached Pearl Street Mall, a pedestrian promenade with extravagant flora, trees, and unique storefronts. While I didn’t hear the sounds of traffic or busses, I did hear some things. Quiet things, like birds chirping when they zipped from one tree to another. The wheels of the recycling can a custodian pushed across the promenade. Bristles on a broom brushing against the bricks in front of an antique store. Briefly, an argument between two men over the stupidity of a presidential candidate.

All these little sounds created a beautiful morning melody.

There was a jogger who passed me. He must’ve been running hard; I could hear his labored breathing when he hurried past. He had headphones pressed into his ears. They bumped against his bare chest with every footfall. Within a few seconds, he was gone, as was the custodian. The sweeping ceased, and the argument ended with both parties walking away.

There was a brief pause, and then, a new sound began. Glancing to my right, I saw an older man with a violin. He wore a fedora on his head, and his bright yellow shirt and jean shorts would help decipher him in a crowd, I’m sure. His closed instrument case laid on a park bench; he had no sheet music or stand.

Passing him, I smiled and gave him a nod. He reciprocated with a toothy grin, the violin tucked under his chin. He continued playing. His bow touched the strings, creating a slow and scratchy noise. It sounded like he missed a flat or two. The tune sounded familiar, but I couldn’t name it.

             I reached my office door. I could still hear the man playing across the street, his song echoing off the buildings surrounding him. It was then I recognized it.

            “Joy to the World.”

            Why would a man play Christmas carols in July? I thought. That’s so odd! Glancing back, I looked at the man, who seemed to be struggling with remembering the final few measures of the song, and gave a slight shrug and smile before heading to my cubical.

            The next morning, the violinist was gone, but day after that, he was back in his spot. The violin case remained closed, and he wore his signature yellow shirt and fedora. That day’s song was “Happy Birthday.”

That one he had mastered.

He continued to play twice a week, and one day, he had a partner. A traveling performer with a scraggly brown beard had seen him playing. They shook hands and exchanged a few words. I stopped at the corner and removed my earbuds to listen.

 The violinist invited the young man to play; he happily obliged. The traveler dropped his duffle and removed a tambourine before sitting down on the edge of the bench. The violinist counted to four and began playing.

Together, the odd pair made music. Their smiles were as boisterous as the song they played, and by the end of it—I had no idea which song they played, or if it they were just making up a song on the spot—they were laughing. I realized my face was beaming, just like theirs. I waved and told them they did a nice job before continuing to the office.

            That day, I mentioned the violinist to my coworker.

            “Have you seen him? He’s really happy when he plays,” I said.

            “Do you know his story?” my coworker asked.

            I shook my head.

            “I’ve talked to him before. Really nice guy. He comes out here to practice. He plays for twenty minutes or so, and then he packs up and leaves. Doesn’t want money or anything; just likes getting to play for an audience.”

            “That is awesome,” I told him. “I wouldn’t be brave enough to go out on the Mall and play for people.”

            It’s true. I’ve played the viola since I was in elementary school, but I’m far from an exceptional violist. During school, I struggled to learn notes and keep pace, and playing in third position terrified me. When it came time for solos, I became timid, especially when they were ones where I had to make up a melody on the spot. In a crowd, I’d play loud and proud; if I missed a note, I didn’t care. Get me to play by myself, though, and I went from being a decent player to one that was bad; the fear, blended with panic created a symphony of bad thoughts in my head that hindered my ability to play.  

I knew I wasn’t great at playing the viola, and I was well aware that I’d never make a career out of playing my instrument. But I was okay with that. Like the violinist on Pearl Street, I just enjoyed getting to play music.

I still do.

            My viola sits on my bookshelf most of the time. It makes an appearance twice a year; once in the summer and once in the winter, when I play with a community orchestra. It’s a steep learning curve for me most times, but the feeling of playing those difficult songs, from start-to-finish, in front of my friends and family, is an invigorating feeling, one of complete and utter joy. The orchestra is supportive, and non-competitive, so I can be free to try my best, and not worry about getting kicked out for playing a wrong note. I don’t play often, and I don’t think I have more time to devote to improving my abilities than what I currently possess. That’s okay. Playing the viola is hard.

That doesn’t stop me from loving it.

            Most of the time, you’ll find me with headphones stuffed into my ears. Except in the mornings on my walk from the transit station to the office, and in the evenings on the walk back to the transit station—which presents a variety of new and different sounds that often contrast the sounds heard in the morning. Yes, I love when music fills my life. Not only do I enjoy listening to it, I find pleasure in playing it. But sometimes, it’s nice to keep the headphones in a pant pocket, and experience the sounds of one’s surroundings; there tends to be joy in that, too. 

© Brandon Figliolino