I heard him. I heard her? Who was that mysterious beat boxer? That beat boxer who, every night at midnight holds a concert atop Olin library. That beat boxer who mixes in scratchy sounds, incorporates breathy gasps and awe-inspiring screeches.
For all I know those concerts are just for me, because no one else ever seems to be around. I have even perfectly timed my cigarette breaks from my stacks of books that cloud my vision, my vision that remains cloudy until the fog lifts during that beautiful interval of 12am-12:15.
The chimes that reverberate through the valley of books rouse me from my stupor. I file into the elevator and it de-elevates me. I go down. I jog to the door and tackle it with my shoulder, stumble outside.
My thumb greedily spins the wheel on my lighter and I fill my lungs. As my thin chimney stick ejects a wispy plume, I am carried to the heavens where I am battered by percussive bliss.
Either the fog has lifted or I am merely lifted with it. I can never make out who that beat boxer is.
No comments:
Post a Comment