(reproduced here in the format of the original column as published in People Papers August 2024 edition)
“The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color.”
-Natalie Babbitt, Tuck Everlasting
August, for me, has always been a month for music. Maybe it’s the summertime-jam time vibes from those days of my youth making mixed tapes, (alright CDs, I’m not that old) playlists anyway for the car rides down the shore or cruising around town in my old convertible. This month’s crumbs are a little different, but I think you’ll like them all the same. First, I’ve included my poem, “Musicians” as a dedication to my former teacher and band director, Mr. Karl Megules, who is still making music every single day. Probably the coolest jazz man around and there’s nothing better than cool in the month of August. Then, there’s the story, “Rush Hour.” It’s an absurdist look at the speed of life and how easily we can lose sight of our priorities. Stay frosty and enjoy the ride! -Ryan
Rush Hour
By D. Ryan Lafferty
It would have been Doomsday if not for the congestion at 9:15 on a bright Monday morning in northern New Jersey. Brake lights for miles on end burned in furious rage, bringing every single lane to a grinding halt. Just another day for the countless commuters wringing their watches, and hearts pounding in the sides of their heads, waiting. None of them knew that this was the scheduled day of reckoning, that Jim’s retirement was far closer than it appeared just this morning when he dragged himself out of bed and rushed through his shower, bickering his way to the door as his wife punctuated their goodbyes with a perfect slam the neighbors could hear down the block. He didn’t even have time for his bagel or coffee. What’s the hold up?! He bangs his fist on the steering wheel, swearing under his breath as his stomach gnaws in emptiness soured with stress. He turns up the chattering news on 1010WINS waiting for traffic and transit on the ones.
Jim was just one of thousands in the throng; hot headed, overworked and burdened beyond belief, just trying to make it into the office. According to the snarky reporter, it seems that some strange rider, some lunatic, was mowed down by an administrative assistant, emailing her boss and apologizing for running late, again. She’d only taken her eyes off the road for a second, she said, but now her car was totaled and the phone shattered and scattered across the piled up rubble spanning the highway. Some looney on horseback rolled the dice in a sea of speeding steel and asphalt and lost. Worst of all, he was riding in the left lane. He didn’t stand a chance.
It wasn’t always like this. When we first saved the date, times were simpler. Things had been so much easier back in the Bronze Age, no engines, only horse, buggy, maybe the odd chariot or elephant every now and then. But now, forget about it! 90 miles an hour and half of the drivers aren’t even looking. Self-propelled missiles with internal combustion engines, screaming toward destiny or at least a cubicle somewhere where they won’t stand out too much. We’ve got bills to pay and schedules to keep. There’s no time for the end of days. We’re way too busy and already running behind. What could a rational and sane person have to fear beyond this? Is there anything more harrowing, more dangerous than Route 80 traffic during rush hour? What possible torment could Dante ever imagine that doesn’t already exist here?
In related news, a second rider was detained in Newark International Airport and escorted quietly into a back room by the TSA. Apparently he had some explaining to do getting through the checkpoints at the gate. As anyone can tell you, there’s just no rushing this process and the appointed hour was drawing nearer every second. This minor inconvenience was turning out to be a major delay. Time always seems to somehow slow down when one is stuck in the airport. It’s almost as if it isn’t passing at all. Despite his protestations, this rider waits under the fluorescent tubes in a stark and barren gray-toned room. A modern take on purgatory almost as drab as those cubicles to which the aforementioned faithful were currently enroute. Stuck in between, he can only watch and wait as the hands of the clock in the corner tick steadily away.
Would you believe a third horseman was spotted around the same time, at least what was left of him after being creamed by a semi on the southern part of the Garden State Parkway. Squashed like a fat bug on a pickup truck windshield on some late August evening.
Death would have followed with them, but he was mugged using mass transit. In critical condition and on life support in the intensive care unit. The doctors say that it’s serious. It’s pretty touch and go at the moment and he might not make it through another day.
Musicians
Ever aware of the passing of time, they’re counting out each phrase.
They read the world through beat and rhyme, in syncopated ways.
Their hearts pump out the dum-dum-dah-do of the driving bass guitar,
and the piano chords, they harmonize with the redhead at the bar.
Those pedals pound under a standing grand,
as notes slide from those chunky velvet keys,
the choir belts a soulful song that could bring the faithless to their knees.
The rhythmic drummers pound the sound out deftly in the wings,
as a rousing loud crescendo lifts those lowly weeping strings.
The hollow drone of the big brass horns so somber and alone,
with space to hide whole worlds inside composed of pitch and solid tone.
It’s a tidal wall of music,
of vibrato never strained,
the melody rests and rises before the ultimate refrain.
The romping notes go marchin’ in right down that slick trombone,
and it dances round that high-hat just to drive that funky rhythm home.
For musicians it’s all timing, raw emotion right or wrong.
When the leader snaps his fingers, all is music, all is song.
By D. Ryan Lafferty
Dr. D. Ryan Lafferty is a local Bordentown poet, writer, and the author-illustrator of children’s books. To see more of his writing, visit www.dryanlafferty.com.
Literary Crumbs: Poems & Short Stories to Savor by D. Ryan Lafferty 