Page 89 of Sing it, Sam

Sam bites his lower lip. Ever so slowly, he raises his arms, his brow wrinkling. I oblige him and lift the fabric over his head.

His skin is somewhat pale, but smooth and lean. A solitary line of dark grey cursive ink hugs his left rib. I drop his shirt and squint. It’s not easy to make out the letters. A treble clef and a zigzag line resembling a heartbeat pattern sit above some words.

“It says ‘when words fail, music speaks’,” Sam says in a quiet voice.

I smooth my finger over the ink. Sam’s body shudders. “I love it,” I whisper.

The unveiling of the tattoo, tells me there’s so much more to know about Sam. Whilst I can appreciate how the saying might resonate with him, I want to know the whos, the whats, the wheres, and the hows of Sam’s life before he was here. I want to know everything.

“Got it the day I turned eighteen,” he says, breaking my train of thought.

I snuggle into his side and turn my body so we’re both facing the water. Sam kicks off his thongs and drapes his arm over my shoulder. We shuffle down to the bank. With each step, we move deeper into the creek. It’s cool, calm, and invigorating.

“Were you wasted when you got it?” I ask as the refreshing water licks at our thighs. Sand from the creek bottom invades the spaces between my toes. “I hear it can sting like nothing else.”

A chuckle rumbles up his throat. “Babe, I wish I was drunk. You repeat this to anyone, I will hunt you down, but it didn’t go well. Passed out from the pain.” Sam lets go of my hand and lowers himself into the water.

“You okay?” I ask.

He leans back on straightened arms and frees his legs, which float out in front of him. “Golden,” he says, and lets out a groan.

I wade out a couple of metres farther, which brings the water up to my chest thanks to the steep drop-off.

“Passed out, huh? I thought you were tough,” I tease.

Sam chuckles and moves to float on his back. “Only on the outside.”

Heart = melting.

For the next while, we talk about our childhoods and stupid stuff we did as kids. I listen intently as Sam talks about owning his first guitar at the age of nine, and how he used to stay in class at school lunchtimes to play in the music room. My chest tightens when he talks about how he strummed until callouses formed on his small hands.

Before long, I fall in love with the nine-year-old version of Sam. If we had gone to the same school, I doubt we would have seen each other. I was too busy with my head buried in books. He was too pre-occupied learning to play guitar.

Floating on his back da Vinci-style, Sam smiles at the sky like it’s an old friend. “You don’t know how good this feels,” Sam says.

“How does it feel?” I ask, ever curious.

“It’s like the water is drawing out the ache in my bones. The tingling seems to fade from my fingers and toes. It’s soothing. Kind of like being cocooned in a soft bubble.”

After a long pause, Sam submerges himself under the water. Seconds go by.

Five … six … seven…

Is he okay?

I reach out my hand into the dark water where small bubbles pop on the surface. My hand is gripped and then Sam emerges, swiping his wet hair back with his free hand. He takes in a deep breath, and takes my other hand, pulling me close to his chest.

“They don’t get it,” he finally says.

I slide my hands to the back of his neck. “Who? And get what exactly?”

The small lines across his forehead deepen. “Kids. People. It might make me sound like an old man, but GBS has changed the way I look at everything. People have their heads buried in their phones. It’s all about who did what on social media, and having the latest technologies and apps to make stupid pics or play Candy Crush until they go cross-eyed. If they looked up from their screens every once in a while, and became walking, talking, and interactive human beings, they’d get it.”

“It’s like that in the city?” Because it certainly isn’t around here. I was never allowed to bring a phone to the table while growing up. Hell, my parents only let me get one when I was eighteen and I could pay for it myself.

“Almost every person you pass has a pair of headphones on, or they’re talking on the phone, or sitting at a café across from their partner, both heads buried in their devices. They fail to realise the simple gift they have to be able to walk, to run. Things can turn in the blink of an eye. They have no appreciation for what they have. Hence, they don’t fuckin’ get it.”

He’s so right.

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