Kick It One More Time

ONE.

There’s something magical about October. It sweeps into Boston on one giant gust, causing calendar pages to flutter as it filters down back roads, a crisp breeze laced with bonfires, baked apples, and slightly burnt pumpkin seeds. Leaves change from green to yellow to brown overnight. They release their grips on gnarled branches and float-tumble-fall to the ground, scuttle-stepping across pavement like fast-walking crabs. Toothy-grinned jack-o-lanterns suddenly occupy doorsteps; silky spider webs stretch between posts of wrought iron rails while plastic arachnids cling to their satiny threads. For no apparent reason, children crave the chalky texture of candy corn.

Sebastian Porter, holding a cup of coffee with one hand and a guitar case with the other, inhales a great gulp of the chilled air, filling his lungs. He isn’t thinking about Halloween; his thoughts are not on witches or ghouls or vampires with glow-in-the-dark fangs. It is nine o’clock in the morning on the first of October and he still has nearly thirty-one days before he’ll be expected to come up with a costume of some sort. Whatever he opts for will be simple and not the least bit embarrassing. His roommate will be disappointed (as usual), but dressing up has never been Sebastian’s thing. Not since high school has he donned ridiculous face paint and garb, and only then did he agree to it because of a girl. He’d allowed her to make him up as a clown with oversized shoes and an absurdly large nose; he’d reluctantly donned a leopard-print toga and had his hair teased to resemble Tarzan. He’d even neglected to put up a fight when she’d handed him a pair of taupe-colored footed pajamas, complete with a homemade yarn-rimmed hood to serve as the unruly mane. He hadn’t complained when she’d shaded his face with hues of orange or drawn whiskers on his cheeks and an upside-down triangle on his nose, because it had been his duty to portray the Cowardly Lion that year. “And I’ll be the Scarecrow, and Bert can go as the Tin Man,” she’d rationalized. “It’ll be fun!”

Bert, not surprisingly, hadn’t minded that his costume of spray- painted cardboard had prevented him from sitting down. He hadn’t been at all bothered by the fact that his hands and face had been smeared with silver. Halloween was always his favorite holiday; it still is.

They’d been in high school that year—had in fact probably been too old to go trick-or-treating—but all three had meandered through the neighborhood and collected candy in a basket that should have been carried by Dorothy. “She couldn’t make it this year,” Bert had explained to anyone who asked. “She’s home with Toto. He came down with a bad case of kennel cough.”

Now, remembering the trio of Wizard of Oz characters, Sebastian is torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to forget the memory all together. The first option is easier; the second option is probably for the best. 

He takes a quick swig of coffee and saunters to the crosswalk, obeying the red hand as it warns him to linger safely on the curb. A taxi speeds past, its tailpipe coughing grey exhaust as the driver transports his suit-clad passenger to an early-morning business meeting. There are other vehicles on the road too, of course, but for a workday smack-dab in the middle of the week, traffic isn’t especially heavy. Sebastian could probably jaywalk and make it to the brownstone on the other side of the street without so much as quickening his pace, but he’s not in a rush and he can’t see taking the risk. The last thing he wants is a ticket. It’s tricky enough making ends meet with a part-time job tending bar and another part-time job teaching kids how to play guitar. He doesn’t need to take a chunk of that money and hand it over to the city of Boston. He needs to take both paychecks and put them toward his rent.

Looking back on it, a degree in songwriting possibly wasn’t the best decision. Sebastian had loved his college experience, had loved the musical classes that Berklee offered… but what he does not love is paying back his student loans and living from one check to the next. He could have moved home, of course, to occupy his childhood bedroom with its walls painted blue, once again living under his father’s roof in that small town in South Central Pennsylvania. Sure, money would have been saved because rent would have been minimal, if not completely nonexistent, but what would Sebastian have done there? The streets of Lake Caywood may be lined with artsy shops that exude creativity, but he can’t recall a single person earning a living on songs. So Sebastian has stayed in Boston, and Bert has stayed too, and they’ve each managed to secure jobs that keep them mostly in the restaurant world rather than that universe composed of quick tempos, overlapping melodies, and abrupt staccato.

The duo does make it a point to jam fairly frequently, whether in their apartment or on stage at open mic nights hosted by local pubs and coffeehouses, but the amount of time devoted to music is far less today than what it once was. Non-paying gigs do absolutely nothing to bring in extra cash, and while the boys are basically guaranteed a fun- filled practice session, their finances are harmed rather than helped when they open their wallets to pay for amber lagers or whipped cream-topped mochas.  

Sebastian sighs, momentarily dreaming of money trees, and then he observes the illuminated silhouette of a jaunty pedestrian, giving the go-ahead to step into the crosswalk. Right foot first, left foot second, guitar swinging at his side. He doesn’t hear a squeal of brakes because there isn’t one; he doesn’t hear the shout of alarm as a father realizes his sixteen-year-old daughter, behind the wheel for one of the first times, has pressed her foot against the wrong pedal. Sebastian remains oblivious to all of this. He is only aware of the crushing pain in his left side, and the sickening crunch that his body makes as it hits the hood of the car, and the soft splat of caffeinated liquid splashing against the asphalt. He experiences what it must feel like to skydive— to tumble freely through the air. He sees the white-on-black line of the crosswalk’s border zooming closer and closer, sees the bumps in the macadam and a yellowed cigarette butt that’s been tossed from an open car window, and although he attempts to raise an arm—to shield himself against the impact—his reflexes aren’t fast enough.

Sebastian Porter lands heavily, in the middle of the street, with a solid thud.

And then there is only darkness.