lxxxii

“I play the harmonica. The only way I can play is if I get my car going really fast, and stick it out the window.”

-Steven Wright

            Checking the mail is the most adventurous part of my day. I’m always seem to be running late for class at the moment when I realize that I’m only a two-minute-sprint away from my post office box. So, of course, hyperventilating as I climb up the last stone step, I am always hopeful for something in the mail.

            Today is no different. Astronomy 111 starts in three minutes halfway across campus but I am running as fast as my rarely-exercised legs can take me, towards the opposite direction, each footfall equaling a silent prayer for a package or a letter or even a magazine. But, today, I got a harmonica.

            I’m not the most musically-adept person. While I used to play violin and can arguably work my fingers around a guitar neck, it takes me countless hours to reach a level of musical perfection that I can feel good about. And, since these aforementioned “countless hours” are instead normally spent on Facebook or watching reruns, musicality in my life is rarely achieved.

            This harmonica, though, is a completely different story. I haven’t been able to stop learning and perfecting with every harsh exhale, filling my empty dorm with the abrasive, somehow lyrical chords of a Bruce Springsteen or Bob Dylan or Beatles jangle (favorite word ever.) It’s become my release, my musical hyperventilation that washes all my stress away with the sometimes-grating sounds of “Piano Man.”

            I hope the people next door don’t mind, separated only by our thin plaster walls and, if they’re smart, some earplugs. I'm not too good, yet.