A look at the many complicated lives in a city, with Regina Spektor’s song “Eet”
It’s like forgetting the words to your favorite song.
You can’t believe it; you were always singing along.
It was so easy and the words so sweet.
You can’t remember; you try to feel the beat.
Vacant eyes stare out a window fogged by grit and grime. A woman’s hand rests on her stomach, rubbing circles in cotton fabric. She hums softly to herself, a melody of old that has yet to age. She sways to the dulcet tones, lips turned up. One salty bead is the first of many, leaving a roadmap on beige flesh. The woman opens her mouth to sing, but chokes on a sob, lyrics forgotten. She squeezes her eyes shut and clenches cotton fabric between her fingers as she sucks in shaky breaths.
Then she sees it: cold, white walls, and flashing, lifeless metal that keeps one alive. The beeping of each monitor matches each breath, each beat of the heart, her life around her. The women come and go, squeezing her hand and whispering words of comfort, with no lasting effect. She sees men in matching white that shatter hearts the way car accidents shatter the bones they mend. The wail that leaves her is the same the heart-breakers in white had heard not long ago.
It is followed by one of a much higher pitch. The woman jerks, head snapping back to the room the sound came from. She rips the blanket off and stumbles to the back room, painted pale pink. The small room holds a large wicker cradle, pressed against the far wall. She quickly wipes the remaining tears from her eyes, letting them stain her sleeve. She jumps as another wail echoes around the room before she hurries to the cradle’s side.
She peers down into the cradle, where there rests a baby, swaddled in a blanket. The woman smiles softly, tender coos slipping from supple lips. She pours warm words into waiting ears. She brushes her fingers over the baby’s doughy forehead then down to its hand. Small fingers curl around the giant’s, chestnut and alabaster together.
You spend half of your life trying to fall behind.
You’re using your headphones to drown out your mind.
It was so easy and the words so sweet.
You can’t remember; you try to move your feet.
The boy can’t leave the room fast enough, feet pounding on cheap, shag carpet. A door slams shut and shaky hands grasp at the lock, slick fingers fumbling until it turns. The shouts are loud, so loud, and all he can do is topple onto his bed, a pillow over his ears and a mattress over his mouth. The shouts still come through, as loud as before. A woman screams angry, hateful words in her shrill, frightened voice, and man’s deep, gruff voice booms back. A loud bang follows, a fist hitting the wall.
A sea of red fire pounds through his veins at the cry that follows. Fists clench and breaths turn short. All he sees is that face, with its strong jaw, sweaty bulging cheeks, and red tint. He imagines what he could do to the face. He sees the strong jaw go slack, the sweat shine like ice, and the red tint turn blue.
The boy’s eyes scan desperately, searching for any relief, any escape from the seemingly endless torment surrounding him. His gaze locks on a pair of bulky headphones, attached to an ancient CD player. He grabs them off his nightstand, slips them over his head, presses play, and suddenly, lonely guitar riffs and heartbroken lyrics blared in his ears. Finally, he can’t hear it: he can’t hear their screams, their shouts, her cries of pain. Deaf to the world.
The boy falls back on his bed, staring at the tiled ceiling. Salty beads tumble from his eyes, staining already filthy bed sheets. Memories of another time fill his head. The shrill voice is sweet, singing the same lyrics that play in his ears as she plunges her arms into elbow deep water. The smell of dish soap and grease fill the room, while the boy, a foot shorter, sits at the table. He hops off his chair and runs over to the woman, who takes the time to dry her arms before pulling the boy close and kissing the crown of his head. Just them. Alone. Alone, but happy.
He doesn’t hear the bang this time, but the room shakes and a picture frame is knocked off the wall, more than glass shattering when it hits the ground. He throws himself from the bed. CD player in his pocket, lock undone, and he’s out the door. He doesn’t see them. He’s glad. From the shabby apartment he runs, with no intention of looking back until the day turns cold.
Someone’s deciding whether or not to steal.
He opens a window just to feel the chill.
He hears that outside a small boy just started to cry
‘Cause it’s his turn, but his brother won’t let him try.
The door closes slowly, eerily loud in the unfamiliar silence. A young man stands in the entryway, slow and shaky breaths ghosting from his mouth. With a gulp, he pushes forward, stumbling across ragged carpeting. He stops at the window, staring at glaring lights on the freeway. The man grips the window tight and jerks it open, the wooden frame cracking with the force.
A cool breeze, tainted with diesel fumes, bursts into the room. The man gasps and chokes, hunching forward as one who has given up. Goose bumps rise along his arms, hills littering the milky surface. Sobbing with resignation, he opens his eyes, lacking the fire of life. He places his palms, cool with sweat, onto the windowsill, and climbs. His knees shake, making his whole frame tremble, and his heart beat sounds in his ears. With quick, labored breathing, he shuts his eyes and leans forward…
A cry reaches his pounding ears.
“You promised!”
He opens his eyes, blurrily scanning the asphalt below. He sees a young boy, with tan arms and a blue baseball cap. “You said that I could play next!”
“Shut up, I’m still playing,” an older boy in a red baseball cap replies, giving the younger a rough shove backward, “God, you’re so annoying,” he complains, gripping a basketball and stalking away from the younger.
“But you said I could play!” The blue-capped boy cried, sitting down on the hard, black rock. The boy wrapped his arms around his knees, rocking back and forth, “You promised.” It seemed the red-capped boy had gone, leaving the blue to cry alone.
The man stares down from his window, to the spot directly below, just beside the boy. He shakes his head, and his trembling hands and legs push him back into the cramped apartment. He steps down, slipping to the floor and clenching his eyes shut. After a few deep, yet shaky breaths, he opens his eyes. It was then that he spotted a blip of orange in the corner of his eye. Looking up, he stares at the shiny new basketball, and still trembling, retrieves it, heading out the door and down the stairs.
It’s like forgetting the words to your favorite song.
You can’t believe it; you were always singing along.
It was so easy and the words so sweet.
You can’t remember; you try to move your feet.
It was so easy and the words so sweet.
You can’t remember; you try to feel the beat…
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