making it up...

Name... o.k. we'll go with Thomas.. Williams,
why... because I got to, mister...
The sound was something like a goose choking, or wildly wielding the melody to Peter and the wolf. The kid who lived next door to Thomas Williams reminded him of himself at that age: annoying, loud, and pithy. The clarinet is not something to be practiced outdoors, nor is the trumpet, but there the two sat, like Miles Davis and Benny Goodman. The neighbors walking dogs and strolling children would cringe as their feet moved into a frenzied pace, just long enough to escape the distorted jazz. It was like John Coltrane's "Ascension," but without the brilliance. But for the child and Thomas, it wasn't about making good music. No. It was about making a noise, a collaborative noise, that would cause others to stand up and take notice, or notice enough to move faster, but, nonetheless, take notice. Each had their own deep-seeded reasons. I'm sure Freud would say it was something to do with sex, others would blame the mothers, and others would say...well, they would say something, that is what shrinks are paid to do.