He stood behind the sound board, his mind a million miles away.
So many thoughts tumbled through his consciousness, like so many remote-controlled airplanes piloted by caffeinated investment bankers. Most of the thoughts were about his job. Tour was great, with its fantastic pay and work he actually enjoyed doing every day. At the same time tour took him literally and figuratively thousands of miles away from the people here that he liked. He had become a relational drifter. The guy who occasionally appeared behind the sound board.
Not that he didn’t like sitting behind the sound board. The routine was familiar, comfortable. Sitting with everyone else was still a little strange. In his three years at Point of Grace, he had never sat with the congregation. He was always running sound, doing video, or putting out some technological fire elsewhere in the building. He was somebody who always needed to be doing something, and tech team was the perfect place to indulge his distaste of inaction.
It was winter, though you would hardly know it. Outside it was cool, but not the bitter cold he had lived twenty-two years through back home. He had always liked winter. Each season had a particular smell, and the smell of winter was one of decomposing leaves and the fresh snap of frost. The bursts in the violet air. He liked the sound of winter, too, especially at night in the snow – a quiet, almost reverent hush as families huddled inside, presumably drinking hot cocoa or doing other seasonally-appropriate activities away from the cold. Snow didn’t happen often in Nashville. Which was probably good, because Nashvillians loose their heads when it snows. The lack of a municipal vehicle fleet designed to control the road conditions during snow made matters worse. There were no snowmen for miles around. Snowmen, when built in the south, will instinctively migrate north to a more suitable climate, causing trouble for drivers when they attempt to cross the highways.
Christmas was quickly on its jolly (holly) way. The stores were already playing crappy selections of Christmas music, placing large stickers proclaiming slashed prices and mega-sales on their merchandise. Finances were going to be tight this year. Before this month, he had never been worried about finances. Things had always been reasonably cozy – there was never an abundance of cash. But first Thanksgiving and then Christmas. Things were squeezing a little too tight for comfort. Going home for Christmas was probably not going to happen this time around.
At the front of the room, Gary wrapped up the service. Walkout music was played, cables and microphones were put away. Plans to play Rock Band with friends were made. He referred to Story as “Fairy Tale” when she referred to him as “Mister Craig”, causing her to wrinkle her nose in a mock scowl. (He disliked the honorific.)
Endings rarely write themselves. They struggle against being written, clinging for dear life to the keyboard like barnacles to a ship’s hull. Like a certain technician in a cruel and unforgiving industry. December, not April, was the cruelest month, with its long stretches of nothing but shop work and holidays to cut into paychecks and gray, depressing skies. Luckily, eons prior, Pandora had let Elpis out the jar, ensuring that the man behind the sound board could hold on for a little while longer.
Exit, stage left.
Sparks