Kit Lamb’s Journal—That Time

Hi, Jolly.

I’m going to tell you about the time I called 911 on myself.

Are you ready?

Deep breath.

Maybe put some music on.

Okay…

Mom and Dad were already asleep and I was downstairs in the living room. It’s where we keep all the records. Dad had taught me how to use the record player a few years back and I went down there alone sometimes. A lot, actually.

There was a sweet spot on the volume knob where it got loud enough to feel, but not loud enough so that it would wake them up. I tested this out a bunch. I went up and down the steps a dozen times before I found the spot. Even after I did, I made sure a few more times. The last thing I wanted was one of them to come down and ruin the moment for me. I guess you could say I was meditating. If you wanna use words like that.

So here’s the thing: after a while it became my safe spot, listening to music downstairs alone. Imagine that, Jolly. Some girls sneak out to get wasted and some just want a corner of the round world to themselves. You know…maybe, MAYBE, I was already being chased back then, but I didn’t know it yet. I mean, after all, what was I safe from in my safe spot? What was I fortifying myself against?

Well…it arrived that night.

Have you heard the album Pretty Hate Machine by Nine Inch Nails, Jolly? Don’t make fun of me if everyone’s heard it. I don’t know music like a lot of kids do. I know what feels good and what gets me excited for a game and that’s about it. Some kids at school talk about music like it’s a secret club, right? If you don’t know so-and-so you’re not allowed in. Well, that’s fine. That’s their religion, I guess, just like basketball might be considered mine. But that album…

Dad and Mom never played it for me before, but for whatever reason it stood out that night.

Maybe it’s because the title sounds like a strong wall, right? Like you could build a pretty hate machine and you could sit in the cockpit and drive it all over town, crushing everything in your path. I felt a bit like a pretty hate machine myself that night; all full of beauty and rage and like the two ends of the world were touching. Like I was wrapped up in the whole world, right? You need good music in a place like that. So, I put it on and I sat on the couch and the first song came on and I had to get up and test the volume all over again. I went upstairs and no, you couldn’t hear it up there BUT…it sounded louder than the other albums usually did. I think it’s because I felt it more.

This is the night I realized some songs, some albums, some games, are louder than others. Even if they’re played at the same volume. I mean…I could HEAR the singer’s meaning. Does that make sense? Or, how about this: I could hear how much he meant what he was singing. Some people call it passion, but I think passion can be faked. Some people open their mouths and they sing and it’s amazing whether or not they mean it and other people have to find that lever inside to grip as they sing, to give them the leverage, but if they lose their handle they’ll go mad, they’ll go insane and I heard all that in the man Trent Reznor’s voice that night.