The Debut

Jasmine held a massive cup of coffee in one hand and a bowl of freshly cut mango in the other. Cherishing the view from her bedroom window she spoke excitedly to the horizon of puffy clouds, "Fixed it just the way we like: French roast, a spoonful of honey, dark chocolate, and hold up—cinnamon sprinkles on top!" Jasmine sucked her teeth while pondering the thought, "What are we going to read today?"
She could see the Hudson River from every window in their fourth floor walk-up. Turning her head to the right and looking slightly downward Jasmine apologized, “Oh T-Bones, I am shamefully a better door than a window. Please, let me make it up to you," which she did by sliding the zoomorphic cello case about three feet to the left which gifted the giddy caribou a generous view of the GW bridge.
"There you go," Jasmine said while settling into a velvet armchair with a matching jade ottoman, a gooseneck lamp, headphones, a laptop, and an endless pile of textbooks and novels.
Jasmine took a lingering sip of her brew before solemnly addressing the big-eyed ‘bou, "We are grateful for this day," followed by a gentle knock on the door.
She lived in the apartment with her father, Miles.
"Good morning, Jay. How's breakfast?"
"It's magic, Papa, where's your face?!"
Miles opened the door a few inches and said, "It's right here sweetheart, loving you, every single day," which was typically chased by a dramatic closing of the door so he could make it to the corner store by 7am to deliver the checks. However, today was an anomaly of introspection for Miles which diluted his sense of urgency. Plus it was Friday, and the atmosphere was invariably laid-back at the super mercado on Broadway and 156th, because Miles—was El Jefe. He was also an ardent thespian, so he wouldn't dream of abandoning his beloved theatrics. Therefore, prior to his must-see disappearing act, Miles allowed himself to linger on Jay's contented smile and the way her confident hands cradled the sacred chalice as she savored the spice. He contemplated the sailboat just beyond her window and was taken by the billowing sheers that tickled the smiling eyes of the hopeful deer, who was affectionately known as: Teema, or T-Bones, or simply, T. Miles concluded the scene in breathtaking slo-mo before asking a muffled question from behind the closed door, "Will I see you later, Jaz?"
"7pm, daddy. Is it barbecue night?"
"Does a bear poop in the woods, my darling?"
She laughed. It was idiom week in apartment 4F.
"Call me if you need anything," Miles said while walking to the kitchen to retrieve his backpack.
Jasmine was sixteen and homeschooled. She aced all the standardized tests and received glowing evaluations from dozens of certified teachers. Although she graduated in the spring, Jasmine never considered a life without books.
"Ok T, it's time to get our learn on, because tonight, we bring her home," Jasmine said while pensively admiring the enthusiastic caribou, splendid in rainbow hues, with a pair of pillowy hoofs in perpetual hug mode perched below a flirty set of googly eyes that shimmered beneath golden antlers.
Tucked inside her festive exterior was Teema’s quintessence: a blemished cello made from Koyama spruce and birdseye maple that once belonged to Jasmine's mom, who left the earth one year ago today.

~

"Play that funky music, Miles," Tito said while standing behind the plexiglass and peeking at his watch: 7am, straight up. "Like clockwork, Jefe."
"Greetings my cousin. How's it?" Miles asked, charmed by the sounds of John Coltrane as he entered a tidy office to remove the paychecks from his backpack. "In a sentimental mood, I see."
"You got that right," Tito replied and paused. "I was just thinking about Fatima."
"Me too," Miles said as he handed Tito his check. "Sure you don't want a direct deposit?"
"I'm smooth talking that teller up the block, give me a minute," Tito grinned. "Speaking of, what can I bring for tonight's memorial?"
"Besides your boyfriend?"
Tito crossed his fingers and puckered his lips.
"Nothing," Miles said. "But would you mind grilling the veggie burgers and the corn, spicy like you do?"
"It would be an honor."

~

Jasmine employed a fairly loose schedule in regard to her study regimen; for the most part, she worked from 7am until 3pm. Afterward, she and Teema would walk around the neighborhood and spread the love in various and sundry ways. Today they decided to gather up their friends (which was a name Jasmine gave to the books she read) and slow-roll to the free sidewalk library on Riverside Drive. T would ride piggyback with her eyes peeled on Jay's rearview as they jointly lamented saying goodbye to their faithful companions. Thankfully they discovered a separation ritual that involved an elaborate series of bon voyages and a litany of final hugs, not to mention the cherry on top: While they were there, Jasmine would scour the little library with the hope of unearthing another fortune cookie.
"Found one!" she declared.
Although Jay never read a book she didn't respect, she preferred the ones that had sentences underlined by a familiar hand, where the lines were delicate and the maker favored a graphite nib.
"Listen to this," Jasmine said to Teema. "'She held the smoky quartz in the palm of her hand and gently closed her eyes.' This is a book about the healing arts. We need that in our lives!"
T agreed while contemplating the traffic along the West Side Highway as Jay thumbed through the rest of the gemstone primer and was pleased to find a symphony of fastidious underlines.
Pointing her finger to the heavens Jasmine exclaimed, "Praises beautiful musketeer, we appreciate you!" and slid the cookie into her brown paper bag. "T-Bones, are you thinking what I'm thinking? Yes we should walk down to the river! Yes we should put out that tip jar! Yes mama gots to get paid! Are you ready?"
T-Bones was ready. T-Bones was always ready. 

~

Edna was hiding in the bushes as she watched Jasmine and the reindeer express their long goodbyes at the elfin library. She remained cloaked until the pair bounced joyfully down 155th and were clearly out of view.
Edna met Fatima five years ago at the corner store. She enjoyed having a cup of coffee at midnight and Fatima worked the late shift. Whenever Edna came into the store wearing one of her vintage dresses, Fatima insisted on making a fresh pot. While the coffee brewed, Edna sat at her favorite café table and read to Fatima from one of the books she had stashed in her handbag. When Fatima heard something that spoke to her subconscious or made her forget about malaise, she would say, "That one, sis," which triggered Edna to retrieve a humble straightedge from her pocketbook. Sis wouldn't make another sound until every word was perfectly underlined by her freshly sharpened number two pencil.

~

"Would you look at that," Miles said as he stocked the shelves with iced tea. "It's five o'clock and the square is already filling up. And the drum circle is beginning to form."
"She inspired us all, Miles. The way Fatima played her cello was … I can’t explain it. And here I am, the president of that prestigious music school down the block. Yikes,” Priscilla laughed. “What do I owe ya?"
"It’s on the house," Miles gestured while looking skyward.
"Bless you, Miles. I'll be back at, what, seven? Is that when Jaz makes her debut?"
"So she said, we'll see. I think she's down by the river busking for books. I'll save you a seat."
"Cheers," Priscilla said while twisting the cap off her kombucha and exiting the bodega.
Miles watched Priscilla through the storefront window as she walked over to the square to give a squeeze to Ahmad, who was Miles' brother and also the assistant manager of the super mercado. Ahmad played the djembe and was a regular in the circle.
There was a faint smell of nag champa in the air. 

~

Jasmine pulled a cigar box out of her bag and rested it on the cobblestones in front of the park bench and tossed a few singles into the till before embracing Teema’s soul. The caribou stood close to her so they could feel each other’s energy along with the subtle chi of the third member of the trio: the Hudson River. Jasmine was fascinated by triplets.
Before she played a single note, a familiar face dropped a five dollar bill into the tip jar. “Hey now! I’m jogging to the lighthouse. I hope you’re still here when I get back. No pressure.” She giggled and continued, “Can you believe how gorgeous it is?” and without waiting for a reply, she ran like the wind.
“Gratitude, Roxy!” Jay shouted.
“Love is in the air,” were the last words Jasmine said to the trinity before closing her eyes and trancing out to a prolonged requiem that she traced in her mind using the bow and her fingertips to express a myriad of triangle shaped sounds that were evoked by the underlined words she remembered from the Trigonometry for Beginners book they discovered in the diminutive library three weeks ago: Today we are going to measure volume, pitch, and timbre with sines and cosines. Doesn't that sound—fun?! This perfectly underlined sentence simultaneously reminded Jay about the joy of homophones and a snippet of movie dialogue: If it's me reading the signs, which made so much sense to her as she visualized the colors, shapes, and words of every sign she remembered along Route 66 while road-tripping across the USA in a convertible Rambler with Fatima steady behind the wheel.
Jasmine played for an hour without stopping. When she opened her eyes, a crowd of over one hundred people had surrounded the trio and were clapping in rhythmic threes.
The cigar box overflowed. Mama gots paid.

~

Edna decided on a wide brimmed straw hat, a pair of outrageously huge apricot sunglasses, a floor-length black cotton dress, a thick sterling silver and turquoise necklace, and a pair of burgundy open-toed sandals. This was her autumnal look and she felt fabulous as she stood on the outskirts of the packed square watching Jasmine and the reindeer approach the drum circle.
"Uncle Ahmad, play us a beat!" Jay declared while curtsying to the collective who were surrounded by a mob of ecstatic dancers and entire families blissful on their yoga mats nibbling barbecue and sweet cobs of corn.
Edna listened to the slow rhythm of the conga while Jaz approached a faded wooden chair beneath a London plane tree on the edge of the square. Edna walked around the dancers to get a better look at Jasmine as she gracefully lifted Teema's spirit from the cello case and rested her against the tree.
"Jay, you hungry?!" Miles called from across the square.
"Like a nanny goat, Papa!" she replied while running to give Miles a hug.

~    

Fatima watched her husband and daughter embrace. She was thankful to be under the shade tree again, enlivened by the compassionate Washington Heights community. And isn't that Edna? she asked herself. Oh sister, you look radiant! Fatima watched her old confidante approaching Miles and Jay. In all those years Edna had never met Miles. Fatima suspected that her well dressed collaborator would peek through the window before coming in to see her, and if Miles was working, Edna would return the next night.
"Can I make you a plate my dear?" Miles asked Edna.
"I would be delighted."
Edna turned toward Jay and nonchalantly introduced herself, "Hello, my name is Edna,” while peering into Jasmine’s eyes for the first time.
Jay gave her a spirited hug followed by a sincere, "Cool shades."
"Sweet Jasmine, you are a breath of fresh air," Edna said knowingly.
Jay curiously cocked her head and asked, "Have we?" She had never met this lady before but there was … something about her energy.
"No, we've never met," Edna clarified while reaching for Jasmine’s hands. "You remind me of your mother."
"Oh yeah," Jay said without letting go. "How so?"
Edna told her everything. After she finished, Jasmine leaped to give her a kiss. They laughed together before Jay walked reverently toward the chair beneath the tree and sat down. Jasmine worshipped every face in the square while holding me in her arms. The drum circle was silent as the crowd chanted a series of three sustained Oms. When the final Om morphed into the sound of a passing bus, Jaz began to play.

⌘

The Collaboration

"I can't go any further, I'm done," he announced on wobbly legs that were quickly succumbing to the gravity of his overstuffed backpack. Like a severed marionette, Malcolm crumbled to the ground in slow motion while cursing the summer storm, "The indignity!" He lay motionless on the damp forest floor comforted by the scent of pine as he looked skyward, extending his tongue to catch a bit of rain, hypnotized by a swarm of mosquitoes contemplating his fate.

She turned around to observe Malcolm at 'I can't go any further' while searching for a peanut butter chocolate bar buried deep in the pocket of her cargo shorts, because she knew his performance would take a minute. Tiffany believed the end of Act II should sizzle with a dramatic ambiguity that aroused the audience, sending them scampering to the loo during the interval, anxious to savor the climactic denouement of Act III from the red velvet comforts of the orchestra section. Alas, she was the last one standing in this theatre of mud, all alone in the cheap seats accompanied only by the actor (her husband), who had obviously surrendered his motivation. She figured this was her cue, so she spoke from the heart, "Seriously? We're like 15 minutes away."

"How dare you."

"Just an hour ago, we were right down there,” she gestured with an open palm towards a placid field nestled in the folds of a hillside. “In the meadow, yes? Which is where we staged the theatrical ending of Act I, do you recall?”

“Perhaps.”

“I remember it clearly, my love. The first act was written, and rightfully so, performed, with aplomb. Well done.”

“You’re too kind.”

“However, this …” (wagging her finger at his immobile pile of tragic mess) “second act is simply: redundant. You insist on rehashing your despair. Tell me how. Tell me how we’ve progressed the narrative from Act I to Act II, my darling? Or should I say, how dare us, for being idle and superfluous."

“Touché.”

Tiffany paused with a playful smile while taking a significant bite out of her travel snack. "Why would an audience gleefully dash to the restroom if there was nothing fresh to look forward to in Act III?”

“Possibly for a smoke, or?”

“Honestly, I think everyone is in their car right now, Malcolm. They walked blindly past the amenities and they’re heading home; a determined beeline straight to the liquor cabinet, shuffling about in their house slippers, searching for that—Miles Davis. Because you know why? We’ve bored their sweet twinkies off, hun. Now get your ass up, we’ve got work to do."

Epilogue

They arrived at their cabin in the woods fifteen minutes later, on budget, and on schedule. After removing their backpacks and making a cozy fire, Tiffany and Malcolm reviewed the particulars of their two-person play which was calendared for an autumn premiere at the Aretha Franklin Theatre on Broadway. They shared a kettle of chamomile and lavender made with organic herbs from their humble garden in Brooklyn.

⌘

The Ballad of Sun and Moon

Cherry is the smallest rock in the bunch, but it helps that she is always sitting on top of Watermelon, who is arguably the largest member of the family when you consider length, width, height, weight and smoothness. Watermelon is smooth, and everyone is cool with him being the extravagant gem, because diversity is hip to this freshly knit ensemble.

Yes, as of today, they officially—started a band! The whimsical group of singer-songwriters hasn't settled on a moniker just yet because they are hyperfocused on their earthly docket, and naturally, all the pertinent issues are decided by a cosmic feat and an enthusiastic show of hands, or in the case of the metallic outliers, a flaunting of infinity fingers that express their oft knotty positions. “In due time,” is a favorite mantra of the assemblage, who despite their illusion of stasis, love a good frolic, so it is not unusual to see the Gang of Twelve (currently in the running for: Best Band Name Thus Far) sporting natty pairs of well worn Dr. Martens when duty calls, unanimous in their delight for proper foot care as they zigzag around the globe, celebrating their fetish-of-the-day along the endless elevations of Gaia.

Despite this luxury of total freedom, the band prefers to be chauffeured by Sun and Moon, who live at the tippy top of creation, with a fabulous view, and coincidentally—just got married! Forever linked on April, 8th, the one-love newlyweds tickle themselves with symbolism, so the matrimonial date was predestined with April being the fourth month of the Gregorian, and four times two (Moon and Sun) equals eight, and the year, two thousand twenty four, was enchantingly two plus (or times) two equals four, and if that wasn't enough juju, Aries was the first sign in the zodiac.

Alas, not everything was auspicious to Sun and Moon. If you were introduced to them at a party, the couple would invariably let you know that it was perfectly acceptable to refer to them as Moon and Sun, or, Sun and Moon. "Mix it up, have fun!" they would say, in unison. However, it was widely understood that when speaking about them publicly, they insisted on being presented as a pair. But they weren't sticklers about this bit of kink, nor would they call you out if you neglected the courtesy, instead, you would be schooled in a more subtle way. The way of the village. A way that did not require their presence.

Moon and Sun passionately trusted the band to educate and enlighten. To spread the word. Or was it a feeling? This tangible vs. ethereal discussion was topical and also on their global short-list. The idea of whether it needed to be said, and if so, by whom? They were a lovingly thoughtful friend circle so they respectfully put a pin in it. Nevertheless, if a neighbor innocently said, "Sun, when will the burgers be ready?" There would be a hush, nearly inconceivable, merely lasting a second, and then, Cherry would tip-toe with a mild sense of urgency towards the wafting mojo in the room—which was you. You were the mojo. That certain someone who unexpectedly, or unknowingly, or perhaps through sheer laziness, was divinely repentant. And you felt it, immediately. The second it came out of your mouth. Why you even finished the sentence was mind boggling. Were you that hungry? And Cherry would look you in the eye, because she could, because she was sitting on top of Watermelon, and she would whisper with that disconcerting Yoda tenderness, "Sun and Moon," which was chased by a fleeting scent of magnolia, and then again, alternatively, "Moon and Sun," suspended in air, holding you in her lingering gaze until the words were inked upon your tongue.

The nascent collective worked as a unit. They were rock. They were metal. They were united in song, with perfect pitch, the epitome of Om.

⌘