Zombie with a Boom Box

I started listening to techno music again, sort of by accident. My nineteen year old brother listens to thumping music all of the time as he practices his glowing stick/baton twirling act in order to impress the ladies at Mormon raves. This act of swirling glow sticks has its novelty, but I mostly hate the noise that accompanies it.

This was not always the case; when I was in high school I developed a taste for electronic music after hearing Moby's Play. After a bit of exploration I realized my interest in this genre was narrow and now, in my old age, I have more or less sworn it off. That doesn't mean I can avoid hearing it. On the contrary, the walls of my parents house tremble daily from his pounding bass and in my rage I can't help but brandish my cane and shake it at the whippersnapper.

Yesterday something awful happened, something unspeakably painful. After a 2 am apocalypse, I got up early and had a grueling work day, then a rehearsal, followed by a stint of painting into the night with only a boom box to keep me company. With no other option but the radio or an unlabeled disc from the car, I fed the machine sitting among cans of paint and brought it to life. The speakers walloped my ears with noise. Alone with the once intolerable cacophony, I lay on the ground and slid the black mass of plastic onto my chest. Breathing slowly, my brain flat-lined. On a day that I thought my heart might stop beating, gratitude for a pacemaker filled my chest.