'rat-a-tat! bum bum. rat-a-tat! bum bum,' said the fingers. 'ra-tatatata ra-tatata ra-tatatata tat! bum bum. tttttttt-tap! bum bum.' They drummed mercilessly on the sturdy, wooden arm rest, 'drummle, drummle, drummle, slap!'
"Tonio,here." 'drummle,' "Here." 'drummle, drummle' "Antonio!"
Another hand enveloped the fingers; stilling them, silencing them, crushing them.
"Antonio, here is your lunch," the hand disappeared, and a paper bag was thrust into the fingers; they gripped it tightly. "Don't lose it. Shitoshi will be here soon. I have to go to work." A pair of soft lips kissed the face. The face? Oh yes, there is a face, isn't there? Sometimes Antonio forgot about the face. Sometimes Antonio forgot about the heart beating in his narrow chest, the bones supporting his spindly body, the legs, sitting like motionless homuncuil, ready and awaiting orders from his brain. Sometimes Antonio would wander too deep into his venerable maze of rhythm, 'eighth note, quarter note, eighth note, half rest! eighth note, quarter note, eighth note, half rest!' and forget everything but the beat; the tattoo, cadence, pulsing undulation, throbbing palpitation, surging, swelling, vibration.
The eyes, evenly placed above the nose, slightly below the slim dark eyebrows, opened. She was still there. A blur of hazel hair, and pale skin; a pair of crimson lips suspended in the middle, smiling, moving.
"I love you Antonio," she was saying. The lips closed, pressing together, waiting.
"I love you too, mom." The blur of hair nodded, and then was gone. The front door squeaked open, and slammed shut behind her. The eyes slammed shut too, blocking out the painful flourescent light, the painful blurs of his kitchen, the painful world around him. Silence reigned.
'rat-a-tat. Thump! Thump!' a third hand pounded on the front door. Antonio waited. If Shitoshi was at the door he would be able to finish the secret code. Then, rapidly, 'rat-a-tat. Thump! Thump! rat-a-tat. Thump!' and "Antonio we can't be late!" It was Shitoshi.
Antonio stood up, both hands on the table top. Two steps to the counter, three steps left to the bread box, and a fourth to the end of the counter. Turn right. Six steps to the front door. He walked slowly, stretching out his left hand for the door knob. "Hey man!" a voice called from the yard.
The soles of Shitoshi's cloth shoes scuffed along the pavement, and he took Antonio's hand in his, leading him to the car; leading him to highly polished linoleum floors, and cold cement walls, to catcalls and hollers, jostling and shoving, so many hands and arms and legs, so many blurred faces, grinning, grimacing, sending neuro-typical signals like countless surgeon fish in a confusing, rippling shoal. The fingers drummeled nervously on the leather seat of Shitoshi's new cee'd. 'new school, new school, new school, thirty-second, thirty-second, thirty-second' Starting a new school as a junior wasn't exactly Antonio's idea of a rip-roaring good time.
Shitoshi switched on the radio, and Pink Floyd seeped into the air, mingling with the new car smell, wrapping Antonio in a blanket of soft familiarity. 'We don't need no education. We don't need no thought control....' Chill air whistled past the windows, reminding Antonio of the icy fluorescent lights that belonged to every state-funded school. Then he remembered his lunch, slipping from his fingers, the rough paper crinkling harshly, thumping dully, wetly, to the floor. Oh well, the stomach wasn't hungry today anyways...
-To be continued