The door looked closed, but it wasn’t shut tight, the latch hadn’t clicked. I turned the handle to clear the latch before easing the door open. The stereo was on in a back room, muffled, something Southern, turned up. No one seemed home. I walked down the hallway of doors. I pushed the back room door open and the three guitar attack hit me square in the face. A relentless backbeat was driving the air around the room finally blowing the billowed curtains out the open window. It’s a long drop in the salty air, a scarf and a sock on the rocks below. Scattered glass from a whiskey bottle. Someone left in a hurry, the hard way. I reached over to turn the sounds up if I could, but it was already there. I slumped down on a pile of clothes, grabbed the half empty bottle, rolled my eyes back and sunk into my thoughts. Familiar nameless faces paraded by with little more than glances. The free ringing slide guitars lifted me up, the pulsing bass pushed me out. I fell with the cascading percussion and landed with the crash of cymbals. I hit the rocks and rolled into a groove. And it was alright. Explaining away the past, a mindless voice repeated itself from the window. I picked myself up and walked in the new direction. I was not the first and I am not the last.
-Steven Squire, written in transit
