v. andre

written by rohan srinivasan

I.               PRELUDE — Andre and Charlie

They met in preschool. The story is quite unremarkable. Andre had a Capri-Sun, Charlie didn’t. Andre offered half to Charlie, and they were best friends by the end of the day.

Andre was raised by a single dad in Oakland, Charlie by a single mom in Walnut Creek. They once tried to set up their parents so that they could be stepbrothers. The adults weren’t a match. Andre’s dad hadn’t been with a woman since . . . well, for as long as Andre could remember. His understanding of tacit politeness and hospitality had reduced the longer he remained a bachelor. He didn’t so much as offer Charlie’s mom a glass of water when she came to drop Charlie off for a playdate.

But their lack of chemistry can’t fully be blamed on him. The relationship would never have worked out. Andre’s dad had every intention of staying single for the rest of his life; Charlie’s mom had every intention of marrying again. But this time she was going to get it right. No fuckups. No alcoholics, no compulsive flirts, no lackeys. She needed a man with his life figured out, a man she could leave alone at dinner parties, only to return and find the other guests laughing with him, rather than staring at him with horror and disdain.

Andre’s dad was not that man. He spoke his mind without filtering for his audience. He was sporadic and unpredictable, running to the streets anytime he saw a march happening outside his window. He worked as a freelance music producer in Oakland, enthusiastically taking on clients when he cared about the project. He would play the keyboard at local dive bars whenever he had time off, while Andre hung out behind the counter, playing with his toy piano. In fact, Andre accompanied his dad almost everywhere. He would entertain himself as his dad’s friends cursed, gambled, and smoked a joint or two.

Andre was an extension of his father, more so than his child. A snack-size to the jumbo-version. Which was completely fine with Andre. He preferred following his father around more than giving his father up to others. The few times Andre’s dad had left him alone, Andre had felt a sense of despair and confusion. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He just sat on the carpet, staring at the front door, until his father came back home and lifted him off the floor.

Charlie enjoyed being at Andre’s house much more than his own. Andre’s house was lively: Sade or Luther playing on vinyl, junk food aplenty. Charlie’s house was cold, his playdates closely monitored and organized. Just like the initial juice box, Andre didn’t mind sharing his house. He enjoyed having Charlie over, but Charlie wasn’t able to stay longer than a few hours; his mom would sharply hiss at him if he asked to sleep over. Over the years, Charlie ended up spending quite a bit of time at Andre’s place, and consequently, the boys grew up with common guidance and instruction. They were intertwined, like two flowers whose stems had gotten so thoroughly tangled that neither one could distinguish anymore whose roots belonged to whom. What one disliked, the other also disliked. What one liked, the other also liked. Opinions had to be shared. Learning wasn’t private. Andre’s dad taught them music theory and the basics of the keyboard, and they would play duets with Andre on the high parts, Charlie on the low, and, conversely, Andre on the low parts, Charlie on the high.

Let’s be clear: their relationship wasn’t built on balance. One did not offset the other. Friendship at this early age was about mimicry, not about finding your other half. I haven’t said anything about the boys’ personalities because they had none. Or, rather, their personalities were yet to be pulled out. They didn’t know yet whether they were gentle or assertive, creative or tactical. Andre took after his dad; Charlie took after Andre. Therefore, by association, Charlie also took after Andre’s dad. But the boys did not have the life experience to understand why Andre’s dad behaved the way he did. Andre and Charlie would talk about living together just the two of them, forsaking women, without having ever experienced holding a woman’s body. They would repeat the slogans Andre’s dad would bring home from protests, without ever knowing the harshness of human violence or the injustice of prejudicial control. Passionate beliefs would spew out of their mouths, though their eyes were uncertain and confused.

In spite of their hesitancy, they had each other. Andre and Charlie. And with their friendship came a buddy who would encourage the performance, simulate it too.

When does the sharing have to end? When do humans decide that they want possession over themselves—their thoughts, behavior, and choices? When do they dare to form opinions that are their own or to love something or someone without the validation of another?

Discovering the power of ownership has to be where it starts, realizing that there are parts of your life you want just for yourself. Once you mark your territory and pee around the perimeter of it, you become the ruler of that plot of land, and that authority thrills you like nothing ever has before, reminds you that your skin is yours, your intuition is yours, and your circumstances are yours alone. None of it is interchangeable. None of it ever will be.

Charlie left Andre for private school in sixth grade, commencing the inevitable divergence. Hangouts started off often, then dwindled to a couple times a week, then to once every two weeks, with excuses of homework or extracurricular commitments (mainly on Charlie’s end), preventing them from meeting routinely. While Andre continued to spend most of his time after school writing music and learning jazz piano, Charlie became obsessed with math and robotics. Andre grew his hair out into locs; Charlie buzzed it short. Andre covered his crooked smile in photos; Charlie proudly wore braces. Andre hung out with the band kids; Charlie studied with the academic ones. Andre swore off girls; Charlie dated two over the course of just a few months (well, “dated” as a sixth grader would). While Andre became more and more like his father in terms of looks, hobbies, behavior, and even involuntary tics, Charlie grew further apart from both of them and eventually came to be an alien to Andre.

The next summer, after a year of bewildering distance, the two childhood friends decided to put their budding differences aside and bring back their glory days. Andre’s dad took them on a camping trip to Sequoia National Park, convincing Charlie’s reluctant mom that remote male-on-male bonding was necessary for a growing boy.

At first, the boys were shy on the drive, asking awkward questions or sitting in silence. Andre’s dad caught on and started playing some Stevie Wonder. Soon, the boys were drumming on their laps, singing with open throats, and laughing with each other when the other was off pitch. Stevie helped them forget that most of their days in the past year had been spent apart. He got them to realize that there wasn’t really a time they could remember when they hadn’t known each other. They had been told they’d met in preschool, but for all they knew, their fateful kinship could have begun in the womb, or even before, in a previous life. Count on a few soulful tunes to mend any and all emotional distances.

About halfway through the drive, Charlie began to get motion sick sitting in the back with Andre. Andre’s dad pulled over immediately. He led Charlie to the trees off the highway so that the latter could throw up the burger he’d just eaten. Andre watched from the car as his dad crouched next to Charlie, handing him water, stroking his back with a tenderness that had never been displayed for his own son. Andre’s dad didn’t believe in coddling and caretaking—the most aid Andre had ever received when sick was his father handing him medicine in bed. But this man, with Charlie, was tender and nurturing. He didn’t rush Charlie, even after five minutes had passed since Charlie’s last upheaval. His hand didn’t waver from Charlie’s back even for a second. He hadn’t even looked back to make sure Andre was alright in the car.

Unprecedented jealousy consumed Andre when his dad and Charlie finally made it back to the car and his dad offered the front seat to Charlie. During the second leg of the journey, Andre was sequestered in the back, while his father and Charlie had their own conversations in the front. Andre could only understand snippets of what they were saying with the music playing in the background. Andre tried to move to the middle seat and lean forward to participate in the conversation. Andre’s dad snapped at him, saying he was distracting his driving with unsafe behavior. Andre made a visible pout that went unnoticed and moved back to the window seat, attempting to block out the shared laughs from the front.

The special treatment continued at the campsite. Andre was stuck lugging their bags across the hefty distance from the car to the camp while his father and Charlie set up the tent. Once Andre finished his solitary task, he attempted to join them, but they kept saying that they were almost done and that it would unnecessarily draw the process out to explain to Andre what step they were on. So, Andre just stood foolishly to the side, unsure what to do with himself, watching the two work seamlessly together.

He couldn’t understand why he was suddenly jealous of Charlie. He had never been before, especially in regard to his dad. Before Charlie had moved to private school, Andre had never cared how much time Charlie had spent at his house or how well Charlie and his dad had gotten along. He hadn’t cared if Charlie joined the music lessons or conversations with his father. In fact, most of the alone time he’d had with his father growing up had included Charlie as well. So, what was different now? Why did he feel so angry?

The trees turned golden, then dimmed with the onset of dusk. The three of them huddled around the bonfire, smelling the ancient redwood trees, the damp soil, and the impeccable natural air around them. Andre’s dad pulled out his guitar and sang to the boys in his husky tone. Andre gazed at his father with adoration, watching the brassy orange rays flicker against his dark, dry skin, his quivering jaw, his sunken eyes, the archipelago of moles on his neck.

If he could, Andre would have pushed Charlie into the fire so that this precious moment, this time in isolation, could have remained just between him and his father. This was his dad. Not Charlie’s. His and his alone. And it was Andre’s right to own this relationship. He wanted to keep it for himself, hold on to it like a magician holds on to his tricks, private and in firm control. He didn’t care if it made him selfish or greedy. Nothing mattered in this moment but possession. Why then did it still feel like when Andre wanted ownership the most, the ability to do so was slipping from his grasp? This was his father, but his father wasn’t his. He couldn’t prohibit him from regarding Charlie with affection; he wanted control over someone that was ungovernable.

Andre couldn’t figure out if what he respected about his dad in that moment was his music or his independence. Both seemed to be as intertwined as Charlie and Andre had once been. They shared their existence with one another: music was the physical manifestation of his independence, or so it seemed. Maybe this was what Andre needed instead. To have such complete control over himself that no person or idea could dictate the way he lived. He would decide when and on what terms he would allow others in. His jealousy of Charlie was a sign of weakness and subservience. His dad would never let an emotion as oppressive as envy affect him. He wouldn’t care about possessing another so long as he had full possession over himself.

And so the internal battle begun: Andre wanted to own his father, Andre wanted to be his father, Andre wanted to own his father, Andre wanted to be his father.

II.             BODY — Andre and Nina

N: What are you most afraid of?

A: Way to initiate the pillow talk.

N: Fine. I’ll ask you something else. What are we?

A: Let’s go back to the first question.

N: Hah.

A: What are you most afraid of?

N: I asked first.

A: Which means you already know your answer. Gimme time to think.

N: This isn’t supposed to be a thinking question.

A: Of course this is a thinking question!

N: No. It should be on the tip of your tongue.

A: You mean the same tongue that was eating you out a minute ago?

N: Fuck off.

A: Yeahhh, I don’t think that tongue is thinking about fears right now.

N: Funny.

A: Don’t turn away. I won’t joke.

N: Why is it so hard to have a conversation with you?

A: We talk all the time.

N: I talk to you. You just talk. There’s a difference.

A: I’m lost.

N: Nothing you say is ever meant for me. You could say the same shit to our UPS driver.

A: Maybe I just don’t have anything important to say. I’m a musician, not a writer.

N: I’m not a writer. I still have stuff to say. If you’re alive, you have something you’re afraid of.

A: Then tell me what you’re afraid of. Give me something to go off of.

N: Fine. I’m afraid that I’m trying so hard to be happy with my new life in SF when I’m really just deluding myself. I’m afraid that one day I’m going to wake up and realize how hard I failed and fucking shoot myself.

A: Jesus.

N: That’s the kind of shit I want to hear from you.

A: No way I can top that.

N: Try.

A: Something I’m afraid of . . . something I’m afraid of . . . let’s see. Well, I’m afraid I’ll never be a great musician.

N: Nope. Try again.

A: You can’t reject my answer! It’s my answer!

N: First of all, that’s like the most generic fear of every artist in every book and movie that’s been written. Second, I know you know you’re already great.

A: Woah, there. I’m not that narcissistic.

N: I’m not saying you are. You know you’re good at what you do. You’re confident when you play. Mistakes don’t fuck with you. And you don’t care about being popular.

A: That’s true. Damn, you’re good.

N: So try again.

A: I guess the fear has to be connected to music. That’s the only thing I really care about.

N: Why do you care about music so much?

A: I don’t know. It makes me happy. Doesn’t it make you happy?

N: Yeah, but I don’t feel like devoting my life to it.

A: I’ve never really thought too deeply about it. That’s just the way I was raised. My dad was a musician, too.

N: Did he pressure you?

A: Not really. I just took after him.

N: Where is he now?

A: Dead. Pancreatic cancer.

N: I’m sorry. How long ago?

A: Been a while. It’s a’ight. I don’t want to talk about him.

N: Of course. Sorry for pushing you.

A: You didn’t.

N: My stupid fears question.

A: He was a good man.

N: Yeah?

A: God, in my eyes.

N: That’s sweet.

A: Playing the keyboard in my room makes me feel like I’m a little kid again. Like I’m learning beginner songs with him. Guess it makes me feel like he’s still around.

N: I bet he’d be so proud if he heard you play now. I love listening to you.

A: Maybe. He was much better than me. Not with technique, but with the art. He had something to say. You can’t fake that.

N: I think you’re very creative.

A: Sometimes I wonder if my whole adult life has been an attempt to replicate his. Bring him back and feel like I have some ownership of my memories with him. Maybe I’ve spent so long chasing after his shadow that I don’t really know who I am or what I like. Hah. You wanted my greatest fear, right? There you go.

N: Can I kiss you?

A: Well, well, another round already?

N: I think I may be falling for you.

A: Oh, shit.

N: That bad?

A: Nina . . .

N: Ignore me. I’m still tipsy from the wine.

A: I thought we talked about this. You said you weren’t looking for anything serious.

N: Yeah, I wasn’t.

A: That first time you knocked on my door, you said you wanted to fuck, nothing else. No strings attached.

N: I didn’t ask for this.

A: Nina, I’m not a relationship guy. I’m not programmed that way.

N: Why? Why is it so hard to care about someone? Why can’t anyone just make a fucking commitment anymore?

A: Is this about your ex?

N: Don’t tell me what I’m feeling. You don’t know what I’m feeling.

A: You’re right. I don’t. But I know how I feel. This is nothing personal. I don’t want a relationship with anyone.

N: But I’m not anyone. I live across the hall from you, for fuck’s sake!

A: It was reckless of us to start hooking up. This kinda thing never ends well.

N: I went on a date with a guy last week. He wanted to come back here, but I said no because I wanted to be considerate of you.

A: Nina, I don’t own you.

N: I know you don’t.

A: You should feel free to make any decision you want, including bringing a guy back to your room.

N: You don’t care at all if you know another guy is fucking me five feet away from you?

A: It’s your life.

N: No shit. But I want to explore sharing part of it with you.

A: Being in a relationship is never about sharing.

N: Yeah? Then what is it about?

A: You start to owe time to each other. You compromise yourself. Your goals.

N: Whatever you do in a relationship, you do because you want to. It’s not against your will.

A: I don’t buy it. Even if you make the choice, you do it only because someone else owns a part of your time. After enough time together, they own a part of your life.

N: What are we even talking about right now? Why the hell are we having this theoretical discussion?

A: You’re right. What I’m trying to say is . . . shit . . . I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.

N: I feel like an idiot now. I’m going to go back to my room.

A: Nina . . .

N: It’s alright. We’re chill.

A: Yeah?

N: Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.

A: Okay. Sweet dr—

III.           DE CAPO — Andre and Charlie

Off of Divisadero, right around the corner of Alamo Square Park, is an unassuming dive bar that only its long-time regulars are familiar with. It’s no Page or Madrone’s. The dive-y, rustic feel isn’t intentional or charming. The taped-up door looks uninviting, like it’s supposed to lead into a storage unit or basement. A drunk group of friends on a Divis bar crawl might stumble in, but the older atmosphere and the lack of pop music would soon drive them out. Tourists will occasionally peek in, grab a beer, take a photo of the faded film posters on the wall, and feature it at the very end of an Instagram carousel with pictures of Fisherman’s Wharf and Lombard Street. The regulars are the only ones that respect this spot, understand that the beat-up décor represents age and experience, that the cluttered collection of photos taped in the bathroom symbolize the daring flirtations and drunken debates that cycled in and out each weekend. Of course, every business wants as many customers to grace its doors as possible, but a lack of new faces allows this bar to cater to the ones that actually care about it. The music, the beers on tap, the weekly trivia questions, among other features, can all be fine-tuned to the regulars’ tastes. This bar has realized how much its customers need to let their voices out in a way they can’t at home, devoting a small corner to amateur performers, singers, and comedians. The owners and bartenders don’t care if the singer is off-key. They might playfully heckle them, but they would never tell them to get off the stage to cater to a marketable atmosphere. The bar loves its regulars, and the regulars love it back. The bar has become as involved in their routine as their local coffee shop or laundromat. They plan their evenings around when they expect to be at the bar. They look forward to seeing the other regulars they meet only at the bar.

Andre was one of these folks. He had been for a while, almost as long as he’d lived in the Haight. He’d tested out new music on that amateur stage. He’d won the trivia prize of a free shot more than a handful of times. He’d discussed Middle East politics, deontology, oral sex, Elon Musk, and more within that dimly lit, poorly ventilated room. Which is why, when Dante, the bartender on duty, told him that the bar would be closing down by the end of summer, Andre spit out his beer all over Dante’s apron.

“Shit, man!” said Dante, jumping back.

Andre was coughing, trying to clear his windpipe of the remaining beer. Dante handed him a glass of water, which Andre gulped down.

“Easy, brother. Easy,” said Dante.

“I don’t think I heard you right,” sputtered Andre.

“Out of my control. Owner’s choice.”

“Why?”

“Too expensive to maintain, I guess.”

“Do I need to buy more beers?”

“You buy more than enough.”

“Woah there. Calling me an alcoholic?”

“Calling it like it is.”

“Shit, makes me sad.”

“Your drinking?”

“No, man, the bar closing.”

“Right.”

“How long you known?”

“A while. Suspected for a bit. San Francisco’s changed, dude.”

“You’re telling me.”

“The pandemic fucked us all.”

“I blame tech.”

“City’s unlivable now. Too damn expensive.”

Andre sighed. “When exactly?”

“I’ll let you know. We’re thinking of throwing a big hoorah on the last day. You’ll come?”

“Hell yeah, I’ll come. Are you kidding me?”

“Just checking. You’ll play for us, too?”

“Anything you want.”

“Sweet. Might need some help setting up, too. We’re short-staffed now.”

“Yeah, why you working a Saturday? This ain’t your day.”

“You don’t know about Juan?”

“No, what happened?”

“Bad shit, man. Bad shit.”

“He got fired.”

“That would have honestly been better. It’s his son.”

“Older or younger one?”

“Older. Adrian. He’s in some real deep shit.”

“What’d he do now?”

“Fucked a twelve-year-old girl. Knocked her up, too.”

“Jesus.”

“I told you it was bad shit.”

“So, Juan quit?”

“He might as well have. No one’s heard from him in a couple weeks.”

“Damn. Imma miss that dude. He was funny.”

“The best people always get the most fucked-up kids.”

“A twelve-year-old . . . the fuck.”

“Sick bastard,” muttered Dante, shaking his head. “’Nother round for you?”

“I should pace myself. Meeting someone.”

“My man!”

“Not a date. A friend. Haven’t caught up with him in a bit.”

“That him?” asked Dante, pointing to the door.

Andre swiveled around in his seat, and sure enough, Charlie had just entered, letting in a shower of daylight in to the dark room. Andre squinted and waved at him. Charlie caught his eye and headed toward him. He had grown out a bushy mustache and some slight scruff around his cheeks. Trucker hat, North Face zip-up, and jeans—he was a poster child for San Francisco’s casual fashion.

“’Stache new?” asked Andre, embracing Charlie and patting his back.

“Relatively,” said Charlie, stroking it. “I’m trying it out. What do you think?”

“Looks good, man. Suits your face.”

Charlie grinned, his eyes crinkling with his wide smile. “You look good, too.”

“Oh, this tired old thing?” said Andre, waving off the compliment. “What can I get you?”

“No, no. You don’t have to do that.”

“You’re on my turf. What’ll you have?”

“Thanks, man. Just a Modelo.”

“They have awesome beers on tap. Try something else.”

“Modelo’s good. It’s reliable.”

“Suit yourself.” Andre waved Dante over and pointed to the Modelo bottles locked in the fridge. “What’s new? You still seeing that girl?”

“Yvonne? Yeah, going on almost three years.”

“Damn. Last time I saw you, it was like your fourth or fifth date.”

“Yeah, man. It’s been a minute.” Charlie chuckled, taking his beer from Dante. “I’m surprised you even asked about her. How’d you guess we’d still be going out?”

“Because, man, you’re a serial monogamist.”

“Ouch.”

“Pretty much every girl you go out with, you catch feelings for. And anyone you catch feelings for, you date seriously.”

“Not true.”

“Right before this girl, there was that other chick you saw for two years.”

“Jessica, yeah. But—”

“And then before her, you were with your college girlfriend for fucking forever.”

“Mia. Shit. You’re right. Am I really that bad?”

Andre smiled. “I’m teasing. You’re doing better than me, at least. I’m way too critical.”

“You seeing anyone?”

“You already know the answer.”

“Who knows? Maybe you’ve changed.”

“Well, there was this one—forget it.”

Charlie’s face beamed with excitement. “No way! Spill it!”

“Nothing to say. It didn’t work out.”

“Still, the fact that you would even bring her up. Huge, man. What’s her name?”

“Nin—ah, forget it. Don’t wanna talk about her.”

Charlie hesitated, then clinked his beer with Andre’s. “Well, cheers to progress anyway.”

“Hah.”

“Are you still working in music?”

“Yeah, playing, producing, anywhere I can get a gig. I recently got a second job waiting tables, though.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry.”

“Why sorry?”

“Because . . . well . . . waiting tables.”

“It’s not bad. Tips are kinda fucking great. Don’t need to work a ton of hours to make the rent. Takin’ off some stress from music.”

“Then cheers to that,” said Charlie, clinking his beer again with Andre’s.

“How about you? Work good?”

“I actually just switched companies. I’m at this VC firm now.”

“Yeah? Investing in something cool, I hope.”

“Oh, definitely. A ton of super ambitious AI startups.”

Andre moaned. “Shit, they got you too.”

“Who got me?”

“The system, man. The whole fucking system.”

“Don’t tell me you’re anti-AI.”

“Of course I am! You think I like seeing roads filled with Waymos and whatever the fuck.”

“Let me tell you about some of the stuff I’m working on. It may change your mind.”

Andre held up his hand. “No, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Just listen—”

“No. It’s all bullshit. AI’s taking people’s jobs like it’s nothing.”

“But that’s a huge misconception. AI is just a tool. Like Google Search.”

“I know what I see, Charlie. This bar? It’s closing down because people like you care more about efficiency than human lives.”

Charlie scoffed and took a swig of his beer.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What is it? I know you have something to say.”

“Andre, man, I didn’t come here to get into an argument.”

“Just say what you wanted to say.”

“Trust me, this bar isn’t closing down because of AI.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look at this place. It’s falling apart. Tech can’t be blamed for basic inadequacy.”

Andre was silent and gripped his glass tightly.

“I’ve offended you,” murmured Charlie.

“I thought you’d like this place.”

“I do. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t lie. You think it’s shit.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Maybe not in those words. But more or less, that’s what you meant.”

“I’m sorry.”

Andre rubbed his eyes. “I wonder sometimes, Charlie, why it’s so hard for us to be friends.”

Charlie sighed. “I know what you mean.”

“What happened?”

“We’re just very different people.”

“But, how? We grew up together. Can’t be that hard for us to find something in common.”

“Siblings go through the same thing.”

“Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough.”

“If we’re playing that game, then we’re equally at fault.”

“But I don’t think more time together is going to fix this, though.”

“Neither do I.”

“So, that’s it? We just accept we’re not meant to be friends.”

“You know I have so much love for you,” said Charlie.

“Likewise.”

“Do you, though? It’s hard to tell.”

“Of course I do.”

“The parts I feel like you dislike about me are the ones that are my most authentic. You want us to be on the same page so bad that anytime I say or do something you wouldn’t, you take it as a personal offense.”

“We grew up together.”

“I know.”

“We were inseparable for a while.”

“I remember.”

“You spent as much time with my dad as I did.”

“That’s definitely not true.”

“Maybe, but you did spend a lot of time with him.”

“I guess.”

“So, how can you be so different?”

“I don’t understand.”

Andre looked away. “I feel like I’ve spent so much of my life trying to be exactly like my hero. But you . . . you swing the other way.”

“Andre, he was your dad. Of course you’re going to feel a much stronger connection to him.”

“Still, this shit terrifies me. You found independence. Have I?”

“Don’t you enjoy your life?”

“I think I do. But that girl I was seeing . . . I didn’t go out with her seriously because that’s what my dad would have done. But once it ended, I felt horrible. I didn’t feel like I’d made the right choice.”

“Your dad was a great man, but he definitely didn’t have all the right answers. He could be stubborn.”

“Like me.”

Charlie smiled. “Like you.”

“Who am I, then, if I don’t follow in my dad’s steps?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Sometimes I think there’s too much choice in life.”

Charlie smiled. “But you also have the choice to give up the choice. Go down a path that’s more structured than the one you’re on.”

“No way. That’s giving up ownership over myself. That’s something I’ll never do.”

Charlie shrugged. “I don’t think of it that way. You still have ownership over yourself even if you follow the crowd sometimes.”

“Not in the same capacity.”

“You let your dad have influence over your life. That’s still a form of ownership.”

“He’s my guide, not my boss.”

“If you say so.”

“Meaning what?”

“You gotta figure out what you want, Andre,” said Charlie, chuckling. “What’s gonna make ownership over yourself—let me rephrase—ownership in the very specific way you want worth it?”

“Now that, my friend, is the question of the day.”

“Aren’t you worried that if you never find an answer, you may be stuck searching forever?”

“All the time. All the damn time.”

IV.          CODA — Andre

Look here, put your fingers like this, no not like that, like this, good, good, you’re getting it, don’t be hard on yourself, soon you’ll be playing like Stevie, as long as you’re having fun, you’re having fun, right, good, don’t want to force it, but I want you to love it as much as I do, I don’t know why I love it, I guess I can only understand life through music, think about it like this, here play a C note, yeah, now think about this, someone else is playing that exact same note somewhere in the world, not just someone, whole bunch of folks, at the exact same time you are, they are hearing the same thing you’re hearing, and not just people in the world right now, people across time, Aretha heard that note, Beethoven’s heard that note, shit, even Jesus too, and you know what’s even crazier, every time you play a melody, you remember the other times you sat in front of the keys and played that same melody, and that simple string of notes connects you across your life, shit I’m losing you, okay let me explain it like this, music makes space and time feel smaller, the specific frequency of a note is larger than your life, it’s bigger than any human being will be, it’s always hanging there in the air, whether we hear it or not, I mean, you’ve got all these shitheads fighting wars thinking they know what power is, but they don’t know what power is, they could never know what power is, they don’t understand how tiny they are compared to a simple fucking note, one push of a key, isn’t that crazy, but here’s the funny part, even though that note has all the power in the world, even though it’s bigger than time and history, it doesn’t use that power to control you, it has no need for ownership, when you play that note, the note gives you something in return, you get music, you get beauty, you get feeling, you get a little jig in your bones and tap in your feet, now if humans were given the type of power a note has, they would try to figure out a way to control space and time, am I right, humans can’t be trusted with power, that’s why there are limits to human life, thank God, humans are so concerned with ownership, but music isn’t, so play that note, play that note and really hear it, really listen to what it’s telling you, feel the weight of its power and respect it, take all that it’s giving you with no cost or debt, and anytime you feel like you’re losing trust in the world and feel upset with how shitty humans are or confused by the way others are acting, return here, right here, power isn’t necessarily a bad thing, humans have just turned it into something that needs to be feared, so play the note and listen, can you hear that, Andre, can you hear that?

edited by aaron lelito