Your Here, Then There, Then Back to Here
“Ladies and gentaleman of terminal four, flying on Lufthansa, with the destination of Berlin, Germany, we are now boarding. First class passengers, please come to the gate,” came a thick, Italian voice from the loud speaker.
Ida shot up like bullet, rubbed her eyes, and put her glasses back on. She straitened her back, picked up her bags (a green rolling duffel and a purse), and got ready to go.
By the time they called the economy class, Ida was already standing at the gate, ready to go. She was first in the line, so she gave the woman her ticket and boarded the plane.
As she got comftorble in the not so comftorble plane seats, she took out her iPod and listed to her absolute favorite song, a piano piece by Aldo Cicillini. Ashe listened to this wild song, she found herself saying in her head “I am so lucky to be sitting at the window”. She said this as she looked to the woman sitting in the middle seat, a plump old lady who barely fit in it.
Ida took out her book.
With the first two courses leaving an excellent impression, they started the desert dessert of a cactus themed cream pie. The meal had been very satisfactory, and everything had gone as planned. Mr. Cordelle had brought his wife, and she and Liza were happily talking. Mr. Bombompsky, Mr. Cordelle, and Saki Motto were having a three-way conversation about the major decreases in the stock market. Mr. Bombompsky argued it was another depression, but Mr. Cordelle had faith in America, while Saki Motto didn’t know the half of it, but was just listening in.
After they finished eating, Mr. Bombompsky decided it was time for music.
“Excuse me for moment,” he said to his guests, who were now rubbing their stomachs happily and sipping the fruity dessert wine Liza had brought.
Mr. Bombompsky went to the bookcase. He pressed a button, and behind the wall was the music room, and in the center was his Lithuanian drum set. Along the walls were records, pictures of famous musicians, and instruments hung up. Mr. Bombompsky had a fairly exceptionall house. It was a 3 story brownstone: he lived on two floors and rented out the other. When it came to realistate, Mr. Bombompsky was an expert. He had come into the market at a very good time, and he took advantage of it. He had had a lot of money in his savings account, so he went ahead and bought three brownstones: his home, and two other four story ones. He made good money through these houses, which also lead him into being a writer. He had known that if he didn’t make good money through his books, he would always have a back up. But Mr. Bombompsky had done very well in both carreers. Because of this, he was able to afford many things of quality, and he spent his money well.
Everyone gasped. His “music room” was very new.
“Mr. Bombompsky, I didn’t know you were a famous musician!” Saki Motto exclaimed.
Mr. Bombompsky raised his eyebrows up and down, and smiled. “Okay, everybody. Come on, nothings wrong with splurging! Now let me just take the plates in and we’re going to turn this house into a music hall!”
All his guests, as if on cue, said, “can we help?”
Mr. Bombompsky shrugged, in a way that said you shouldn’t because you’re a guest but why not. They all brought in the dishes.
“Everyone, welcome to the Whirl Pool of Sound!! I thought it was a good name,” he laughed.
“What about your neighbors?” asked Mr. Cordelle, who was very cautious about interruption.
“What about them? I’m sure they’ll love to here some music. Something else to do than sit at there couches all day and listen to those people on CNN.”
They all went inside the room, and each chose an instrument. Mr. Bombompsky sat on the leather stool drumming on his set, or his prize possession, Mr. Cordelle lightly hit a tambourine, his wife shook the shakers, Saki Motto played a japenese song on the hermonica, and Liza strummed a western tune on her guitar, in honor of the Cot’s.
The house was filled with of sound for hours. Mr. Bombompsky didn’t know it then, but his recorder had never been turned off and had recorded the whole evening.
By 11:00 at night, they were still playing. Mr. Bombompsky had brought out a platter of the chocolate chip cookies that Mr. Cordelle brought over.
“Would you like anything to drink?”
“Hu?” Ida looked up to see a stewardess holding a tray of drinks. “Oh. Yes. May I have a hot water?”
“Please,” she replied.
As Ida sipped her hot water with the pulp of the squeezed lemon, she started thinking about how nice it would be when she got home.