Free Mira Corpora by Jeff Jackson

language.
    I decide to wait for her and duck into the alleyway. I kill time by experimenting with the stencil and spraying the design onto the back of a nearby air conditioning unit. It takes several tries to get it right. I freestyle the last part and underneath write the word “Unseen.” I’m admiring my handiwork when there’s a scuttle of overturning trash and toppling boxes. At first, it sounds like a pack of ravenous rats. But then I realize it’s the perfect solution.
    I walk silently toward the metal dumpster on the balls of my feet. I switch the cassette excitedly from hand to hand. It feels heavier than usual. I recall its potential to open up new vistas and alter the fabric of the recipient’s dreams. And here is someone who truly needs it.
    The fat kid’s head pops over the rim of the dumpster. He must recognize me but the unformed expression on his face doesn’t give anything away. His eyes are mere holes. His blotchy skin is pasty and puffy. His cheeks are full of food that he mechanically continues to chew.
    I hold out the cassette in the palm of my hand. I smile and inch closer, moving with calm deliberation, the way you’d approach a skittish doe, trying not to spook him. The slightest ember of light glints behind his dead eyes. He seems intrigued. “Don’t be scared,” I coax. “This is a gift.”
    I have faith this simple gesture will be understood. The traffic behind me sounds like a guitar being tuned up, a discordant series of notes that’s preparing to resolve into something glorious.
I move a few steps closer. I keep my palm perfectly flat. “It’s a tape,” I say. “It’s for you.”
    He seems to comprehend. He tentatively reaches out his stubby fingers and snatches it from me. He sniffs the edges of the plastic case and kneads it with his hands. Then he removes the cassette and raises its shiny black shell to the sunlight for closer inspection. He stares at it with a sense of wonder, as if he spies another world in there among all that tape. Maybe he’s more like me than I thought. This is how I must have looked when I first received this music. “Thank you,” he says in a slurred voice.
    I remove the walkman from the folds of my sweatshirt. But before I can hand it to him, he pops the cassette into his mouth and cracks it between his teeth. As he begins to chew, bits of unspooled magnetic tape curl between his lips, but somehow he manages to swallow. He pats his stomach. His beaming cheeks form a grin. His shiny eyes well up with tears of gratitude.

    I stand in front of the window, hypnotized. There I am staring back at myself staring at the arrangement of green Gretsch guitar, white drum kit, black enamel bass. The instruments look like they’re floating on top of my body. One reality superimposed over the other. I’m flanked by Markus and Lena who seem to be experiencing the same thing. It’s like a hallucination, or maybe a vision. The three of us must all be thinking something similar but I’m the one who says it, half-whispering the words under my breath because the idea is so potent that anything louder would shatter the glass: “We look like a band.”
    There’s no point entering the store to inquire about prices. The place is so new it hasn’t officially opened for business, but more importantly we’re flat broke. We peel ourselves away from the display window, hijacked by a snarl of conflicting emotions.
My words have clearly initiated something. As we walk back to the squat, we argue about who would play what instrument. Markus immediately claims guitar for himself. Lena shouts drums like she’s calling shotgun. I finger the shell necklace around my throat. “I don’t care,” I say. “As long as I get to sing.” They raise their eyebrows in concert, but I’m pretty sure I could do it.
    When we reach the deteriorating tenement, we