Kiss From a Rose

“The sound of the sea, the curve of a horizon, wind in leaves, the cry of a bird leave manifold impression in us.” - Claude Debussy

The sun caressed the sweet contours of that Oregon that was slowly waking up, coming alive with voices and sounds, with that magical bustle called “life”.

A clock radio sounded in that small suburb of Portland, its incessant alarm sounded so abruptly that it overwhelmed the verses of the song that passed on the favorite frequency of young Alex, who dozed off and snorted the button to stop that morning torture.

“My body feels young but my mind is very old

So what do you say?”

He sang the Oasis song, finally clearly, on that clock radio that could cheer the thought of the young man, still visibly asleep, rubbing his eyes with an almost childlike manner. She ran a hand over her slightly curled hair, rebellious perhaps like her soul, sighed and placed her hands on her amber eyes to protect them from those morning rays, all too bright for the humid and sadly rainy Portland.

“And if I can leave this spirit                               

I’ll find me a hole and I’ll live in it”

Alex vocalized with his voice still mixed by sleep together with Oasis, whom he admired so much and loved to listen to, gave him such an intense charge and at the same time healed his soul. He carried a walkman in his small red canvas backpack, his trusted friend, if not his only salvation when he wanted to keep the annoying buzzes of the outside world out of his ears, plugging them with the songs of Oasis or Nirvana always ready to spin on the tape, and also to save the umpteenth day of their listener.

He finally stood up and looked towards the window to the right of his bed, a small semi-rectangular porthole, from which, like every morning, he felt the need to peek to see those who were already awake and gave shape to that place he loved and hated so much.

That Portland of his that between one cloud and another was filled with music and colors, with protest signs and voices so strong, undaunted, ready to destroy any prejudice or enemy, but while place of his that perhaps was not home, because it did not make him feel welcome, was a tangle of old closed minds that swarmed with hatred.

He shifted his eyes and mind from a fisherman patiently adjusting his net, to a couple, running hand in hand under that loving “sunbath”, so rare that it could seem like a miracle. He narrowed his eyes as the song began to fade away, silently humming every remaining part of the verse in his head.

“Good morning Portland!” This is how the regular speaker of the morning schedule of the “Good Mood Station”.

“We just listened to Half the World Away by Oasis, I hope you enjoyed it under this beautiful morning sun! But we don’t stop there! Let’s load up on positivity and vitamin c with the next song!”

The new song began to play and Alex took a piece of paper and a pen to take with him as he made his way to his small, but modest, kitchen. He grabbed some milk and cereal, put them in a cup without looking, holding the pen in his mouth and the paper, in his free hand, in which he would write down some ideas for the outline of his program, although he always ended up improvising most of the time.

The young man in his early twenties worked in a community radio, West Hills Radio, near downtown Portland, he didn’t earn much and in itself the control room and studio were not great, but he had that “Vintage” being despite the fact that every wall was filled with stickers and posters of the icons of the late eighties and the successes of past years. At the beginning it was chaotic to be both at the console and manage the moments of speech, due to the little space available it was impossible to be two at the direction of a program, it seemed as if the radio pushed him to do everything by himself inside that small soundproof hole, in which the only beings were Alex’s voice that resounded in the headphones and the music that enveloped him.

He continued to eat his cereal while scribbling on a sheet of paper titles of songs he had saved in his repertoire at W.H., an old acronym used by early radio hosts, which he liked to remember from time to time.

In his musical selections he had a wide range of songs from ’91, according to him the pinnacle year for music production, this opinion of his, however, was not lacking in disputes in the workplace, in which his 3 colleagues mocked Alex for his “Retro” choices, pushing him to open up to the music of the new millennium, which was still 4 years away.

But he was fine with those songs, his selections, he liked them and he had created his slice of afternoon listeners, from Tuesday to Friday at 4 pm until 6 pm, he received a few calls during the episodes in which he ended up talking about musical tastes, Alex’s excellent choices and even some compliments for his quiet voice that kept company with lovers of indie rock and nascent grunge.

He decided to put Nirvana at the beginning of the setlist, and then continue with some lesser-known songs and then he would decide during the episode, he never planned anything in detail because he preferred to let himself be carried away.

That “living” of his without making plans was dictated by his fear of getting lost in the details and ending up showing that the Alex of the radio did not exist, he did not like to interact with others or be sarcastic, in reality he was just a young boy whose heart boiled with doubts and was increasingly wracked by the loneliness that enveloped him,he was alone against all that weight that he kept hidden inside himself, that he could not express and understand. It was easier to improvise that “not being” of his, not thinking about it too much, but instinctively creating that personality that he would have really liked to have.

He put on his headphones, closed the door with a loud thud and quickly went down the stairs, with his disinterested manner, he arrived at the door of that small building where he lived,

He scanned the old entrance, while he felt his pockets in search of the keys. The mass of wood so sturdy as to make you notice the age, which from the streaks indicated almost fifty years, looked at that young chestnut who restlessly realized that he could not go back into the house and could not unlock that damned and broken door that needed the key even from the inside.

He began to turn his hands inside his backpack full of pins, patches and pendants, so many that it created a certain ticking sound for which he was also known on the radio, even from the windows of the second floor of the station they could hear him when he approached

“HEY! There’s that scrap metal of Alex underneath” the voice of colleagues could be heard finishing the program that preceded Alex’s on the daily lineup.

The eldest of them, Matthew, looked out the window, grinning with his cigarette in his mouth and a beer in his hand.

“Come on raise your ass Davis!” he always exclaimed in that mocking tone of his, while from below he saw the young man’s hand rise in a beautiful middle finger, smiling heartily each time.

He searched for the keys for at least ten minutes, finding nothing but Walkman cassettes and a myriad of crumpled papers. He put his hands to his hair sighing dryly, looking hopelessly at the clock that marked only 40 minutes before the start of the episode.

“Christ, I’m a fucking clumsy...”

He repeated himself annoyed with himself while at each step he checked his pockets, snorting without hope of being able to enter his apartment and leave the building.

“What shall I say to the landlord? I pulled down the lock with a clumsy gesture, not because I’m an asshole!”

The monologue in his head continued, his conscience venting everything he would never say out loud.

As he sat on the steps of the staircase he saw the door open, he jumped up and ran quickly towards that old and heavy piece of wood to avoid closing it.

“Oh! Alex? You made me take a shot! You jumped up like a spring-loaded puppet.”

Sarah, Alex’s neighbor, said giggling, holding close to the paper bag full of a multitude of vegetables she was dropping in fright.

Alex quickly apologized, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment and quickly dismissed her and then quickly ran out.

“Sarah, excuse me! I have to run!”

Alex exclaimed before the door closed, as he saw his neighbor nodding and giggling.

He was sorry to have dismissed her in that way, but Sarah, with her straw blonde hair and those small wrinkles of hers, which began to paint on her face, was full of anecdotes and chats to tell that Alex appreciated listening to once he returned from the radio; However, in that situation he had to find the fastest method to retrieve his keys and run like a madman to get to the radio in time for the program.

He looked around and looking at the fire escapes he had an idea.

“I’m a moron...” He thought mentally, sighing and taking a deep breath

“Okay, I’ll try”

he said to himself, starting to run towards the florist Sally, his friend from high school and often his savior. He ran 200 meters and looked at nothing but his Casio which was only 20 minutes into the episode.

First of all I would like to apologize in case there are any writing or grammatical errors, but English is not my native language -_-

I hope that despite this you will enjoy this first chapter!                                                                    

I wrote it a while ago, but I forgot it in my phone notes, and remembered it when I heard about the Oasis reunion, lol!

I was thinking of publishing it in Italian too  (let me know if anyone is interested).

I hope you will give Kiss From a Rose a lot of love ^-^