The boy never heard the sounds of an instrument. The boy never heard the sounds of chatter, never heard music, nor has he ever heard the sound of the wind, blowing across the land, upturning autumn leaves in a huge cacophony of crackling, crunching sound and bright, warm colors. I don't even know if he could hear his own thoughts, or his own voice inside of his head. And I felt bad for him.
We walked the streets of Times Square, New York city. We shoved through the crowds of people, walking down the street in their day-to-day lives. No-one spoke, there was no need to. Sounds were long-gone anyways. No longer was New York filled with the sounds of horns honking, cars accelerating, and the seas of people talking and discussing with each other. I used to hear it. We all did. I looked at the boy holding my hand, and realized he never heard any of it, and I felt bad for him.
No longer were the streets of New York filled with people who would sit on the sidewalk, playing their tunes on their trumpets and trombones in the hopes that someone crossing their path would drop a few coins into their hats. No longer did the religious men and women stand on the corner, waving their bibles around and yelling at people, trying desperately to make them realize the error of their sinful ways. None if it was heard anymore. Sounds were replaced with flashing lights, images, and video. Epic films once filled with character-building dialogue and emotion-rendering musical scores were replaced with action scenes, soundless explosions and the sight of guns going off. And the boy grew up in this day and age. And I felt bad for him.
The idea of sound became, "obsolete" to humans. The idea of sound became "dangerous" to the government. The idea of "sound doesn't sell" entered into people's mind through the ebb and flow of media. Scientists had ideas. The government had them too. Citizens and media further drove those ideas into the ground—into the heads of society. Sound became obsolete, dangerous, and altogether censored and repressed. The boy didn't know why he couldn't hear. As far as he knew, he could never hear, and there was nothing for him to hear. And I felt bad for him.
The wonderful, dulcet tones of a trombone being played on the sidewalk by a man in need of money would never be heard by the boy's ears. The only thing the boy could do was look. Look at the man playing the trombone. Look how he moves the slide up and down, and how it glitters bronze in the sunlight. Look at the man, his cheeks puffed and his lips to the mouthpiece. Look at how he is unshaven, how dirty his hands are from the oil he uses to keep his instrument in tip-top shape. See how he focuses on the task at hand, weaving delicate notes in a pattern that not only is pleasing to the ears, but makes you feel. That feeling, that pattern of notes that is pleasing to the ear, will never be heard by the boy. Instead, we walk past, and the boy stares at the man's futile attempt at trying to produce sound. He looks on as people pay him no mind, refusing to drop coins into his hat like they used to. He watches as he moves the slide up and down, breathing through his nose and exhaling through his tightly pursed lips, trying desperately to produce even the slightest note, to no avail. We walk right by, and the trombone player is a mere passing glance to the boy. And I felt bad for him.
