by Shawn Moriarty

This song has claws. It grabs me. The singer's voice throws a wedge in my heart. It spreads like a fungus. It stings like a bee. The Tune rings in my ears: the insistent doos, the sighing dahs, the plodding bass, the ferocious guitar. My body has become a host for this infectious ditty. I have become the victim of a hostile takeover.

It hurts.

My head bobs and weaves. My feet tap the floor. I can't wipe this grin from my face. It's like that first fuck; the lingering effects ooze from every pore. Everyone around me can tell. They give me raised eyebrows and devious "what have you been up to?" expressions. If only they could hear the song. If only I could wire them into my brain.

Oh, but I can.

Oh, and I will.

I must spread the love. If I don't, this song just might kill me. It must be featured prominently on a cassette. I must pass it to another. But to whom shall I send the sweet sounds?

There's Rich, but he's sure to have heard it. He will be unimpressed.

There's Jon, but he's a sentimental chap. I don't want to make him cry.

There's Grant, but I haven't seen him since he borrowed five dollars. He's no good.

There's Tracey, but she's a girl. Can I make a mix tape for a girl?

Is there really no one? Am I alone in this world? Am I doomed to hear this song on a permanent loop until I am fried beyond recognition? Will I ever stop shaking?

The phone is ringing. Am I in any state to pick it up? What if it's a telemarketer? How dare he interrupt me? But it's just some guy trying to make a living. He doesn't need my bile. What if it's my mother calling to tell me that a family member just died? I hope not...but maybe that would get the song out of my head. Wait. Did I just wish someone would die so I could stop thinking about a song? I really should learn to turn the ringer off when I'm in a state. Shawn, just pick up the phone. NOW.

"Are you serious?"

"No. No, I'm not."

He was right. Everything is better. I was anticipating cosmic synchronicity. I waited for the sparkling a cappella intro to the ‘song I have made my own’ to come streaming through the earpiece, enhanced with layers of warm, fuzzy phone static. Instead, the song he sends me is a snarling new-wave confection. It doesn’t blow me away or anything. It’s all punk posturing with no real bite. In my head, I start to make blanket generalizations about kids today and their callous and irreverent co-opting of the past. I don’t say this aloud. I’m just happy that he shared. Pete is my soul brother, haunted by the music. The fact that the song itself is second-rate is all more reason why he needs a tape. He needs to be haunted by my song. It is about time we made an analog commitment.