His feet kept the beat. One after the other. One forward. One back. The arms alternated opposite the feet but in sync. The concert played from ear to ear in the hollow tube connecting the two. It propelled each step, sending the vibrations from brain to feet. Feet to brain. He slowed between songs and quickened his pace with the band. He had nowhere to go but everywhere. Equipped with a bag of toilet paper, an analog walkman, and a fresh set of kicks, he walked the length of the concert. From Lakeview to Pilsen. Down Ashland avenue, blending in through every neighborhood as if they were all his home. His nappy mullet covered his tank top and his bangs hung over his eyes. He was a product of the eighties. Still there in spirit. His physical self roaming through time unaware of change. Realities became realities. If life would creep in-he simply hit play and started to walk. It was the only tape he owned. He kept the tape and walkman through it all. It returned him to the place he remembered the best. No fog. No storms. No wind. No rain. No worries. He was there before and longed to return. The concert was his time machine. His unreality. His most vivid dream. His most conscious state. It was all that he wanted and nothing that he could have.
He walked in hopes to reach that place and listened for directions. He turned the world off, if only for a moment. The play button was actually the pause. The music inconsequential. The ritual religious.
