Pink Floyd

Pink Floyd

Ethan smuggled The Wall to his room in his shirt. His parents never would have allowed us to listen to it. Listening to Rock Music was the equivalent to huffing Pledge rags. Hell, his mom complained when he put too much mustard on his ham sandwich.

“You just can’t say ‘No’, can you, Ethan?” She’d shake her head.

Ethan would give her the finger as she walked away.

Ethan was 11 years old. He was the best speller in our class. He knew the multiplication table too, even the 12's. We were in 5th grade.

I knew Ethan was bad, but I thought I could save him. For instance, he was a terrible football player. If he could learn to catch the football then he would be a better person. He would be redeemed. But every Sunday he would drop the ball and then pick it up and kick it. It was a NERF football and required soft hands to catch. Ethan had hands like a clock.

“My friend did acid and listened to Floyd,” said Ethan as he tossed aside “Mozart’s Best” and put the record on the turntable.

“Acid?”

“Acid. Then he got laid.”

I nodded my head gravely.

“Here we go,” I thought. “I’m about to take acid.”

I started to sweat. My life was over.

Ethan put the needle on the record and nothing happened. 5 seconds. 10 seconds. Very faint accordion. Ethan turned the volume up. 15 seconds. More volume.

“Just static,” I shrugged. “Forget it. Let’s play Whiffle Ball.”

Like a tiger springing on its prey, the music blasted from the speakers at 20 seconds exactly. Electric guitar. Organ. Drums. Cymbals. A slow march into hell. A decent from a pure world into a land of sin.

“So ya, thought ya, might like to go to the show,” sang a sinister Roger Waters like a carnival clown who lures children to a strip club.

I was terrified. My heart pounded in my chest. Ethan’s mother burst into the room.

“I knew it!” she screamed. “Ethan!”

She took the record off the turntable. Ethan tried to hide the record jacket. Ethan’s mom looked at me.

“Oggy, I’m going to call your father. Go home.”

“I didn’t know,” I stammered. “I didn’t want it. He made me.”

I plunged out of the room, fled the house as the argument began.

“It’s mine,” yelled Ethan through his tears. “You can’t.”

“It isn’t music. This is not music. This is trash!”

I twisted my ankle on the way home so I hopped the rest of the way. My father used a pair of tweezers to pull a pebble out of my knee.

“Don’t be such a baby,” mocked my brother. “You’re a stupid baby. Waaaaah!”

The next Sunday I sat on a park bench and watched my friends play football. My ankle still hurt. Ethan caught a ball and spiked it in celebration. I hated him. I hated him so much.