teenagers were listening these days.
'Gift for your grand-kid?' the clerk asked.
It was easier to agree than to explain. 'That's right.'
'Heavy metal.'
Eduardo had no idea what the man was talking about.
'Here's a new group that's getting really hot,' the clerk said,
selecting a disc from the display bins. 'Call themselves Wormheart.'
Back at the ranch, after putting away the groceries, Eduardo sat at the
kitchen table to listen to the disc. He installed batteries in the
Discman, inserted the disc, put on the headphones, and pressed the Play
button. The blast of sound nearly burst his eardrums, and he hastily
lowered the volume.
He listened for a minute or so, half convinced he'd been sold a faulty
disc.
But the clarity of the sound argued that he was hearing exactly what
Wormheart had intended to record. He listened for another minute or
two, waiting for the cacophony to become music, before realizing it
apparently was music by the modern definition.
He felt old.
He remembered, as a young man, necking with Margaret to the music of
Benny Goodman, Frank Sinatra, Mel Torme, Tommy Dorsey. Did young
people still neck? Did they know what the word meant? Did they
cuddle? Did they pet? Or did they just get naked and tear at each
other straightaway?
It sure didn't sound like music you'd play as background to
lovemaking.
What it sounded like, to him anyway, was music you'd play as background
to violent homicide, maybe to drown out the victim's screams.
He felt ancient.
Aside from not being able to hear music in the music, he didn't
understand why any group would call itself Wormheart. Groups should
have names like The Four Freshmen, The Andrews Sisters, The Mills
Brothers. He could even handle The Four Tops or James Brown and the
Famous Flames. Loved James Brown. But Wormheart? It brought
disgusting images to mind.
Well, he wasn't hip and didn't try to be. They probably didn't even
use the word 'hip' any more. In fact, he was sure they didn't. He
hadn't a clue as to what word meant 'hip' these days.
Older than the sands of Egypt.
He listened to the music for another minute, then switched it off and
removed the headphones.
Wormheart was exactly what he needed.
By the last day of April, the winter shroud had melted except for
deeper drifts that enjoyed the protection of shadows during a large
part of the day, although even they were dwindling steadily. The
ground was damp but not muddy any longer. Dead brown grass, crushed
and matted from the weight of the vanished snow, covered hills and
fields, within a week, however, a carpet of tender green shoots would
brighten every corner of the now dreary land.
Eduardo's daily walk took him past the east end of the stables and
