IC: Dorian (Ga-Koro)
"Ga-Koro, to me! To me! The Skakdi has murdered our Turaga!"
Deep in the recesses of my thoracic cavity, something began to tremble, like a dog, alone in a kennel: Grokk. Homeboy had done his job after all, and now he was gone. Another friend down, and I didn't even kill this one. The fact that I had to clarify that I didn't kill him was a sad testament to how the last forty years had gone for me, and when you got past all the outer layers, all the nitty gritty karmic injustice stuff I'd done over the course of my life, one concept stood out, one single cause that had created so many succeeding effects that had destroyed so many lives: Kynaera.
And, in that moment, I didn't care. I didn't care that I was couped up in a back alleyway only about ten minutes away from the Valkyr that had nearly ended my life and destroyed my ability to sunbathe on the Ga-Wahi beaches just mere months ago. I didn't care that Turaga Vakama wasn't dead, or that I'd walked away from my mission, and probably ended my life in the process for absolutely no reason. I didn't even care that the music stopped all at once, replaced by screams and calls to action as the Arete mobilized their forces to look for the murderer of the fair Turaga.
Cheech Marin was right. I had to go for it.
All of a sudden, it's late adolescence for me again and I'm sitting at a piano in a literally packed but spiritually lonely Ko-Koro businessman's lounge. Business transactions, old men doing shots, my father animatedly chatting up a girl who definitely does not look anything like my mom, and here I am at the piano, writing a sonata on the fly for all these old soulless men to hear and take note of. Maybe I can illicit something, some form of response, something to show that you can have money and power and looks and the whole world going for you and you can still have a soul, something to show that you actually want to contribute to your fellow man's well-being. Maybe if I can just play harder...
All of a sudden, out of nowhere, blindsided: a cutie, shy but sweet looking, wearing these dorky hipster mask attachments over her eyes, about my age, maybe a couple years younger, leans over my shoulder, gives a small smile, starts playing a more tempered, realistic melody in contrast to the soaring idealism flying from my fingers. Scoot over, Dor, be a gentleman: now the cutie has room to sit and play, and together, we create a piece that about five years later I would publish and become famous for.
That passage, my first taste of fame, I published it under Ky's name and never saw a cent of profit.
Anyway, this girl is totally adorkable, and after we're done playing she stands up to walk away. Something catches in my throat: emotion. My heart's still stirring from the way she played, the way she looked at me, and deep somewhere in the back of my head I can feel that my life is changing right around me, that I could either try and go for it or I could watch my dad do shots with this girl who's maybe half his age and looks more like she could be my older sister or cousin than a mistress.
Hey. Wait. What's your name?
My voice still caught in my throat the same way after forty years, after so many lifestyle changes, as I brushed one thumb against Ky's lips, cutting off her rambling. A piece of adolescence, salvaged from the depths after so long: a reminder of who I was, and what I still could be. Down the road a bit, I could hear the waitress from the lemonade stand screaming, Cy asking what was going on and where was Juan Pablo with his beer and his girlfriend. If I listened hard, I could almost hear the sound of Grokk's ego barreling through the streets and back alleys like a giant gorilla, charging through the concrete jungle. A reminder of what I was now, and what I could still become.
Cheech Marin was right. I had to go for it.
I pulled Kynaera into a kiss, absolving her of everything that had ever happened to me, all the pain and agony and blood and tears that had poured from my body in her name and image, holding her by the waist gently and trying to pretend that I hadn't seen the dampness in her eyes, couldn't predict that she was on the verge of crying, trying to act like I wasn't on the verge of losing control of my tear ducts either. At last, the Forty Years Nightmare felt over to me, and I felt Awake, and I felt alive, and I was with Ky again.
For a second, something blossomed in the depths of my thoracic cavity, in happiness and sheer relief instead of sadness and a slight fear this time, and this time I could pinpoint exactly what it was: a heart.
Edited by Tyler Durden, Dec 31 2012 - 06:30 PM.