The Minstrel’s Prayer
Conner Shade pulled his zip-up jacket tighter around him, wishing he’d worn something warmer. Chicago’s December air did little to make the world seem like a brighter place.
Conner finally reached the house he was looking for, one that seemed to mirror the quaint cottage-like homes around it. He walked up to the front door and carefully placed a letter on the door step, praying the wind wouldn’t blow strong enough to propel the pieces of paper to somewhere other the porch of the women he loved.
Walking away, he hoped that Jacey would read his words and understand.
Jacey Helms woke up the next morning and checked her email as she drank her black coffee. An email from one Chanson Reed, no one she’d ever heard of, asked her to check under the mat on her porch.
Normally, Jacey would’ve left the house immediately and gone to the office to run a background check on Chanson Reed. The poor man would’ve found Jacey, an experienced private investigator, conducting searches of his bank accounts and social networking sites. She would’ve found if he was some sort of stalker or pervert and waited for further contact.
But something about this felt different. Chanson Reed was an unfamiliar name, but it was identifiable somehow, as though he was a long-lost friend.
Jacey checked under the mat on her porch to find her name on an envelope, written in a well-known, sloppy script. She considered throwing the letter away, expecting it was just another plea from her ex-boyfriend. Something about it, like Chanson Reed, was special.
Inside were several sheets of lined paper covered, front and back, in the cramped handwriting she recognized as being Conner’s.
Anger welled inside of her that he would even dare to communicate after everything, but here he was, writing letters like he’d written her songs. Oh, Conner could write, sure, but share emotion? Talk? No and no.
She knew that it would be better for her still-breaking heart if she just tore the letter to pieces. But, guessing she was some kind of masochist, she began to read.
Jacey,
I doubt you know how long I’ve been singing for you. Five years, really.
I played by the subway entrance every day with my case out, waiting for tips from the passerby.
The tips started coming less and less and less. My music was getting old, and I wasn’t writing anything new. I was losing hope, losing it fast. It was December, and my heart was frozen, unfeeling and impassionate.
But Jacey, then you happened. From what I know now, I gather that you passed me everyday because you’d moved offices. But five years ago, God had sent you, an angel, to walk past me.
That song about the girl with deep blue eyes and dark red hair? The one that gave life new meaning? The most beautiful girl ever? That’s you, Jay.
I tried so hard to catch your eye for that first year. I got more bold, more daring, in the way I arranged chords and random parts. Sometimes, all of Chicago seemed to be asleep, but you kept me awake. I wrote you song upon song for many three a.m.’s.
That first year was pretty rocky. You seemed so far away from whatever crappy apartment I was living in. Sometimes, I’d convince myself that none of it was real or true, that we weren’t meant to be. Then I’d see you’re smile and know that I was just kidding myself if I thought you weren’t my destiny.
Sometimes, you were fairly disdainful. The beggar on the street, right? The guy who never applied himself in school and ended up playing on the street to pay the bills? I got pretty used to that. I got a 33 on my ACT and graduated with a 4.243 GPA, number 12 of my graduating high school class. But the hours of school aren’t for all of us. And if I had resigned myself to the miserable put forth by others, I never would’ve seen your beautiful face, would I?
It was November of the first year when you snapped at me. Told me to shut up. I guess I was smart enough to observe from the mascara lines on your cheeks that you’d had a crappy morning, coupled with the broken heal on your shoe.
I could’ve shut up, been meek like I was nearly every other day of my life. But something told me I had to be audacious. I played Daniel Powder’s “Bad Day.” Honestly, I thought you were about to chunk your thermos of coffee at me. But you cracked a smile and let out a short, but sincere laugh. Truth be told, I’ll never write music as beautiful as that simple smile and small laugh.
That windy, cold, November day, I played and sang almost all day, just so I could see you when you came home.
I introduced myself, but I wasn’t the bold guy who played “Bad Day.’ I was simply Conner, shy and soft-spoken. I worried time and time again that Simply Conner wouldn’t be good enough for you. Jay, you cast away all those fears and insecurities when you told me your name. You apologized for that morning and told me how good my music was.
After that day, you always stopped to at least say hello. Sometimes we’d talk long enough that you’d glance at your watch and realize you were late for work.
Honestly, our second year passed without many events. I wrote you music. You listened, entirely oblivious as to who the enchanting girl who’d put me under a spell was.
However, I learned a lot during our second year. I learned you’re classy. You wear expensive designer clothes. You believe in etiquette. Gees, you even like classical. But the secret is that you like more acoustic artists like Andrew Belle and Jon Foreman, with the occasional indulgence of Andrew Bird. You love cheeseburgers and hotdogs, but you want people to believe that you’re entirely satisfied with your caviar. Your favorite book is Pride and Prejudice, and you’ve read at least eighteen times. Your favorite color is purple, but black is yor preference when it comes to clothes. Your parents are divorced and have been since you were about six or seven. You have a brother and a sister, who you rarely see because of your work schedule. You have a cat, which is often the only thing that brings you back to your apartment from work. You look like you’re about five-six, but you’re actually about four inches shorter; you just love heals. You love Bagel Bites, and I may or may not have searched through your trash to find that out.
I’m joking. However, I would prefer it if you didn’t ask how I know that.
I learned a lot about myself as well. I’m an unemployed, vegan, music-playing, rock-and-metal-loving, shy, fairly unemotional hipster.
I’m not your type. But our third year taught me that that doesn't actually matter.
On January seventeenth, you asked me to go to a dinner at some Asian restaurant for your birthday. One dinner led to a date. One date led to another date. Another date led to meet the parents. Meet the parents led to meet the whole family. Meet the whole family led to Easter with Gran and Gramps in Pennsylvania. And so on and so forth.
I don’t think I’d ever known what it’s like to be truly happy before I was with you. I smiled while I played at that same subway entrance. I sang more of sunshine and rainbows and less of rain darkness. I wrote songs that made people stop and listen.
I wrote songs that made one business executive at Whirlwind Records stop and listen. I had a tryout set up on the spot, but I can’t find it in me to take credit, especially when I think about how you inspired me to sing the song that got me a record deal.
Our fourth year was very different. I was making money. While I was playing in a park, some random hipster told me he liked the post modernistic qualities of my music. (I told him I’m not a post modernist, and he seemed somewhat subdued after that.) Slowly, but surely, I was rising the ranks of fame.
I think you felt as though you would become obsolete, like the time we went out to eat, and someone asked for my autograph. I wish, how I wish, I had told you that you would never, ever be outdone. But, as always, I kept my mouth shut and didn’t bother to tell you how much you do mean to me.
But at least we were still happy, despite some tense moments and close calls.
Our fifth year, this past year, has been the strangest of all. I have fans. I have random teenaged girls who tell me they would like me to father their children. I have people shake my hand and tell me how great I am.
But none of that matters! Because this whole year I've been losing you!
Three months ago, you told me it was over and done after some random girl told you I had cheated on you with her. She’s just some girl I label as a stalker and creep. She matters about as much as a ham sandwich. Remember, I’m a vegan.
But you, Jacey, you’re everything to me. I hear my songs on the radio, but I don’t care because they’re only ever for you anyways! Every verse, ever chorus is cry and plead for you to look and see that you’re the only I could ever want. But even music doesn't matter to me because you’re not listening.
I know I don’t communicate well. I block you out when I should let you in. I’m passive aggressive. I spend more time with my guitar than you. I don’t fight or argue, but maybe if I had fought, I’d still have you.
Jay, I’m willing to try for you. I read Pride and Prejudice for you. I bought a suit for you. I explored new key signatures for you. I used to hate Vivaldi and Beethoven, but now I can’t stop listening to classical. I became a better person because of you.
I wanna fight, as long as it’s with you. Please, just call me, and we can scream until my throat’s so sore I can’t sing for a month.
Don’t let this be over, I'm begging you. I wanna write songs for you until I've lost my dexterity and can’t play guitar. And then I wanna keep writing for you.
You were my angel that day five years ago. I want you to be my angel forever.
Conner
Jacey puts the letter on her dining room table and wipes tears off her face. She picks up her cell phone, dialing a well-known number.
After several rings, he answers up. “Hello?”
“Conner?”
What Jacey hears is the closest thing to a squeal she’s ever heard from Conner. “Oh my gosh, Jacey, I’m so sorry! You’ve gotta believe me, girl, I need you! Don’t—”
“Conner,” she interrupts. “One question.”
“Yeah?” He is noticeably more dejected, like a kicked puppy.
“How did you know I like Bagel Bites so much?”
His response consists of a somewhat nervous laugh, but Jacey knows that, as he said in his letter, his laugh is more beautiful than any music he, even he, could ever write.
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