The Halls Are Alive
with the Sound of Music
BY IRENE FRANK
In times of stress, the world
reaches out to use with a ca-cophony
of sounds—noisy,
boisterous, aggressive, insulting.
In times of calm, one can hear, if
one listens, the sounds of a world
spinning in perfect equilibrium,
sounds that tell us stories of who
we are, where we are and what we
treasure.
I had been away for many
months and now I see the three
monolithic structures reaching for
the sky and I know I’m home. I
hear the recognizable sounds of
my life.
First there is the thud as the tires
hit the speedbumps. These yellow
hurdles never fail to shake up the
delicate organism of my body. I
often wonder what they could be
doing to the insides of my car.
I hear the whoosh of the revolv-ing
door as felt and rubber meet.
Our doorman, who also serves as
in-house weatherman and chief
psychiatrist, welcomes me back.
His gentle voice is music to my ears.
Pressing the elevator button, I
listen as the gears and cables posi-tion
themselves. One never knows
which door will open first or if the
door will allow passage without
harm to the shoulder. Before the
elevator reaches the lobby level I
hear its music, a shrill, thumping,
heavy metal number screaming its
obscenities in repetitive phrases.
The door opens and a teenager
appears. She is singing along with
her iPhone, swinging a head full of
hair dyed in bands of red, yellow
and green. To be au courant, she
had ripped her jeans up to groin
level. On the back the word “juicy”
laughs at me. The teen thinks she
sees a disparaging look on my
face. She thrusts out her tongue
in a salacious gesture of defiance
and takes her juicy bottom out
of the elevator. She is the grand-daughter
2020
July ¢COURIER My neighbor across the hall is hard
TOWERS of hearing and CNN blasts its news
and opinions 12 hours a day. The
commercials are never-ending
with the music loudest when the
SHORE announcer speaks about the side
effectives of the medicine being
of my neighbor, a quiet,
advertised.
NORTH sweet nonagenarian whose voice
At last I reach my front door.
is like a wounded bird. She sits in
I love the sounds of music in my
a wheelchair and waits each week
hallway, but right now all I want
36 for the arrival of her only visitor,
to hear is “The Sounds of Silence.” her ray of sunshine, her daughter’s
daughter and daughter of today’s
generation.
I enter the elevator and push
“2.” There is a tinkle-bell sound
and a slight shudder as the eleva-tor
hits is mark. I disembark and
watch an aide primping in front of
the hallway mirror. She sways her
more than ample hips and sings
a calypso tune. She wears one
necklace made of wooden beads,
one of silver charms and one of
brass rings. I enjoy the sound of all
the necklaces bumping up against
each other, creating a musical
accompaniment to her voice and
see her delight at being free from
her daily responsibilities. She sees
me watching her and immediately
stops what she is doing. Flashing
me a wide, gold-toothed grin, she
enters the elevator but not before
she turns and says to me, “Go girl.”
I am utterly confused as to why I
feel younger and lighter.
I continue walking to my
apartment. Since it is at the end
of the hallway, I am able to hear
the sounds of music coming from
behind the ill-fitting doors. Frank
Sinatra croons, “Fly Me to the
Moon” behind the first door. A
wave of nostalgia and yearning
come upon me. I remember when
I first heard it.
From behind the next door, I
hear a small child and her grand-mother
singing in the den “The
Eensie Weensie Spider” crept up
the water spout. The next sounds
come from a partially open door
where contractors are renovating
an apartment. The hammering
seems to keep beat with the mari-achi
music blaring from the radio
in the kitchen.
I pass another door and hear a
woman screaming at her helper.
They are arguing about the ingre-dients
needed for a tuna casserole.