Echoes

James Good opened his window on a cold Tuesday morning. The chill slid into his room, riding in on the dull white gray of clouds pasted on the sky. The open window brought in sounds of the city. Uninvited, as always. The drone of an arriving train, honks of traffic, and the incessant clang and bang of construction. What on earth are they always building, James would often wonder. He let the sounds mingle with the thick gloom of his studio flat. The warm and musty interior met with the sharp tang of the city, giving him that oh-so-familiar sense of anxious haste he needed to leave the house.

He set the kettle for coffee number one. Today would be productive, James told himself. Of late he’d been listless. His work was a swamp, with sparse islands of verdant creativity mired deep in the mud of inertia. Today James felt the muck sucking at his feet as he trudged to the toilet.

The kettle rang ready and he poured himself some piss-Jo. Cheap Instant, available at any corner shop. A fine powder that floated in the air as he spooned it into his mug. As for the taste, no difference coming in or going out. No matter, caffeine is caffeine. James remembered the brew of his hometown. A smoky flavour, rich and full like fruit. Back home even the Instant was miles beyond this dreck he’d have to choke down. Memories of home painted daubed his mind with color. He closed his eyes, focusing on the phantom taste.

Downstairs he stepped onto the city street and began his parlay with the city sound. It came in waves. Stacks of sound washed over him. Under everything was the Drone: a deep hum of electro-mechanical operation. The harmony of vehicles, appliances, and machines as they started, stopped, ran, and failed. Above that came the Bustle: shuffling feet, coughs, murmurs, loud conversations, yells and belches. Humanity carved out a respectable piece for itself. Finally, the prima donna: piercing screeches of braking trains, deafening rings of ambulances, and the incessant CLANG CLANG CLANG of buildings never complete. A symphony by entropy.

James moved into the soundscape, paused, inhaled, exhaled, and began his walk to work. The scuff of his loafers on the concrete sunk into the hum of the city.

James Good opened his window on a Wednesday at dawn. The sun on the horizon made the sky a kiln. Low orange light leeched into a light, then deep blue as night hastened away. A whisper of wind snuck into his room, lifting the heavy air. He heard a distant clang, soft by the time it reached his ears. What filled the rest of space was a deep and broad sigh, like the ocean on the shore. The sound of a city still asleep. The sigh permeated everything, and even the buildings seemed to take a deep breath. Stretching and yawning, shaking old bones. The roads were nearly empty. The odd car or two glided past. Their engines hummed quietly, in reverence of the still-sleeping city. James wouldn’t bother with coffee today. In minutes he was outside.

He walked some way down the street, watching the sun move ever higher into the sky. He bought his drink from the shop across the street. The rich aroma filled his nostrils, and the first sip left a slight burn on his tongue. Bittersweet, that’s what they should have called it. A fresh cup of bittersweet to liven you in the morning. Coffee had no feel to it, no flavour. Coffee was the piss you’d drink from a can on a harsh day. Bittersweet was the feeling when your lover leaves the city, and you meet for the last time over a sharp, rich cup of brew.

James sipped his drink on the sidewalk; the cup warmed his hands, the drink warmed his heart. The sun had risen higher now, coming up to eye level as he gazed at it down the street. The long avenue boasted a vista of the sun’s journey across the sky, framed by tall buildings leaping upwards on either side. The road aligned perfectly with the sun’s arc at this time of year. The sun itself gazed down on the street with the look of an old friend, saying “Hellow” come morning, and “Goodbye” come night. They should call this place Sunway, thought James. He didn’t know what they called it.

In his thoughts, James didn’t notice the slow wave rising up around him. The crackles creeping quietly beside him. The players readying their instruments, gripped tight in anticipation. CLANG! There goes the first bell! And suddenly James was back in the city. His ruminations now amputees, he heard the three-tiered cake of the city’s soundscape. He inhaled sharply as he felt the tempo. So quick and scattered, when just before was stillness. Gentle waves now falling spoons.

James looked down at his half-finished coffee. Brown muck swirling in a paper cup. He walked to the nearest garbage bin and tossed it in, giving it a long look as it sat atop the rubbish. Its contents spilled onto the fruits, paper, and cigarettes already piled so high. He turned around and walked to work.