A Love Song for Grover
He read somewhere that the didgeridoo alleviates sleep apnea. He was pretty sure one of those giant music stores would have one so they went on Sunday morning.
“It’s the circular breathing,” the article proclaimed. “It teaches your body to breathe continuously, ceaselessly, and the apnea disappears.”
The music store is one of those huge, loud warehouse chains, and it has tiny doors. They open into the drum section because the drummer is always the sexiest. There are at least five plumber’s cracks competing beats and a ginger haired boy next to the cymbal.
In an adjacent space the guitars lean like high-end hookers, boldly sticking their necks out at each man walking by. As they walk past their boldly painted bodies she absentmindedly whistles “Foxy Lady” and he smiles.
Wooden beads unceremoniously mark off the cavernous room that holds the djembes and the bongos. “I bet they’re in here” he whispers and pulls her toward the scent of patchouli. There are many hollowed out woodwinds, but no didgeridoo.
All the way in the back of the store is the stuff people actually buy. New g-strings for guitars, drum sticks, wooden recorders for elementary school kids. Behind the counter and slumped in a corner under a mop of hair the color of vacuum cleaner dust sits a stoned clerk.
“Excuse me, sir? Your website said you have didgeridoos?”
“We have one.” The clerk reaches out his arm and it just appears. For a moment he is more than a failed musician in a dead end job who smokes weed in the storeroom and plays air guitar to his invisible screaming fans. That moment he is a shaman. What they were seeking was here all along, within arms reach but unseen.
He hands it over. “But it has a big crack in it.”
They laugh and they cannot stop.
They laugh until they collapse into each other, exhausted and sore from the laughing.
They laugh until they cannot breathe.
That night they sleep in silence.