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Well. That wasn’t a sight you saw every day.
Jove wasn’t sure what it was that drew his eyes off the tuning pegs; he should have minded his business, headed straight to the backstage door and slipped inside before he could get stopped for autographs. But once he had focused his gaze on the little family, he was intrigued enough to keep watching, even as his feet stopped and his fingers continued to tune his guitar.
All sorts of parent-child combinations could be seen in the milling crowds, so that wasn’t what made them sore thumbs at the festival. In fact, their appearances clashed less with the surrounding attendees and more with one another. Dad, with his office attire, just managed to look casual enough to fit in the present crowd by having a couple collar buttons loose; meanwhile, Mom seemed as comfortable around the resident hippies as she could without distinctly looking like one herself.
As for their boys— must have been their boys, they looked too similar to be anything but— the differences were starker between eldest and youngest. For a boy no older than twelve, the elder was austerely handsome, and seemed to take more physical cues from his father. They must have brought him to the festival directly from some stuffy private school, if the blue tie and black loafers were any indication. Alternately, the chubby-cheeked younger was clad in a shirt he had yet to grow into and sneakers spattered by fresh mud. His blond hair was chopped and unruly— understandably, because Jove couldn’t imagine how the toddler would look with an old-fashioned plait like his sibling’s— sticking out in any number of directions despite his mother’s best attempts to conquer the strands whilst she walked with him on her hip.
Jove wanted to watch the little one— the way he tried to wriggle away from his mother’s fingers, observing the bustling world of movement and music around him— but he couldn’t help getting distracted by the elder son’s sudden stop. It seemed that his father’s hand, laid against his chest, was holding him in place.
“Stop complaining, Kris.” Jove could only just hear the words from further along the path. It must have been quite the escalating conversation if their voices weren’t trampled by the din of the crowd… or Jove hadn’t been as deafened by today’s performances as he thought. The father’s reprimand looked more exasperated than it did disciplinary, but his tone still made the point. “We’ll be heading home soon, but until then, I don’t want to hear another word out of you.”
The boy’s shoulders were square. Was that posture, or defiance? He replied in an even tone that seemed at odds with his immature timbre. “If I keep talking, will you finally ground me?”
Scowling, his father pulled him aside towards a concessions tent, almost directly across from the corner where Jove stood. The man shot a look at his wife; she seemed to be distancing herself, all too aware of what was about to happen, for which he took his opportunity to lay the scolding on heavily.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re bored or don’t like the music or whatever, got it? When you’re old enough to drive, then you can make the decisions.”
“But you didn’t have to pick me up from school! I could’ve ridden home on the transit,” his son protested coolly.
“Yeah, because I’d be dad of the year if I let my nine year old go through downtown Seattle on his own!”
“I don’t want a dad of the year! I just want to go home. I don’t like it here!”
The subtle lines of the man’s tendons were tightening as he held the boy by the arms. “We are here,” he punctuated, his pitch falling until Jove was struggling to pick up each word, “because this is the first day your mother has had out of the hospital in weeks, and the last thing I want to see is someone making my wife feel like a piece of garbage just because you can’t spend two damn hours doing something she enjoys. So you will shut up, and you will treat your mom with respect. All right?”
Eyes unmoving, the boy stayed silent, staring boldly at his father.
Now, Jove knew not to butt in, because it would qualify as a total intrusion on his part. It wasn’t exactly kosher to go walking in on a private family discussion just because it was being held in public. However, butting in and being a little controversial were two of the vices he’d been born with. He wasn’t a therapist, and he didn’t have any great or noble intentions of dissolving the tension between parent and child; but he saw the distress of the quietly observing mother, more painful to watch than the argument itself, and knew he wanted to help. He was a performer: it was his job to let the world forget their troubles for a song or two. Who said he had to be on stage to do that?
So, as the father prepared to confront his rebellious son once more, Jove strummed a few impromptu chords and cut against the festival traffic.
“Looks like someone ain’t havin’ no fun!” His words, pulled out of the air on a creative whim, contrasted the guitar in a loosely cobbled melody. “Tell me how I can fix that, and we’ll get it done.”
Jove thought that they hadn’t even noticed him sidle beside them, despite the attention he garnered from passers-by, but he caught the father risking a stare from the corner of his eye.
The musician grinned, leaning towards the boy. “Don’t be shy, just tell me why that long, long face?”
He waited for the result. But what he was sure would be reaction turned out being the ultimate rejection— the kid didn’t even bat a single eyelash his way, wholly ignoring the effort. Meanwhile, the father tensed his jaw, taking one hand off of the boy’s arm and turning towards Jove, who was sufficiently convinced that he was about to take a few knuckles to the face. He found that it was not to be, thankfully; yet he still held his breath as the man started to speak.
“He’ll be okay,” was the civil reply. To give the man credit, he was confident enough in his actions to forgo any faked smiles of encouragement. “He’s just stubborn. His misery’s his own fault.”
“Is it now?” Jove shook his head kindly, still trying to coax some miniscule thread of recognition from the sullen boy. He shifted his guitar, crouching down to grade-schooler level. “Can I help out, my man?”
Suddenly, all the petulance a pair of stone blue eyes could hold was trained on him. “No one asked you,” hit his ears with a deliberate clip.
“Kristoph!” For the first time since Jove started observing them, the boy’s confidence wilted, his defiant shoulders pulling back in fear. Dully, the man amended for his son’s rashness with an apologetic grimace. “He knows better than to run his mouth.” A few muscles in his face shifted, after which Jove realized that he too was in the center of this fellow’s displeasure. “I can take care of this myself, thanks.”
Weakly, Jove chuckled, sliding a hand underneath his hat. “Of course. I didn’t mean to intrude on anything personal.” Justice, you big liar. “Can I just— ask one little question?” He braced an elbow on his knee, challenging both the nine year old’s ire and the father’s patience. “Kristoph, right? What’s the one big thing about this fest’ that you don’t like?”
Prompt in reply, Kristoph’s arms folded defensively. His chest puffed out with a gesture of dominance that no child had any business performing. “Everything.”
“Everything? Come on, now, just pick one.”
The boy didn’t blink. “Why should I if I hate it all? The music is sub-par, the grounds are muddy, the people are obnoxious, and the food is totally inedible.” Jove laughed well and loud. The little spoilsport was caught off guard, trying to hide his confusion with a frown. “I didn’t say anything funny, did I?”
It was less of a genuine question and more of a demand for compliance; unfortunately for Kristoph, Jove Justice didn’t take orders from any stubborn or verbose ankle-biters.
“Well, you sure are one of the most honest kids I’ve ever met.” Genially, the musician made another push. He was determined to break this boy out of that negative outlook, one way or another. “Hey, maybe you could give me some straight advice. I’ve been thinking about a new record that’s all old blues songs, but it’s one-hundred-percent acoustic guitar and my sorry excuse for a voice. What do you think?”
That seemed like it could be a step in the right direction. Kristoph was still peeved, but he pursed his lips tightly and answered upon a moment of consideration, “I think if you had any potential as a musician, you wouldn’t be playing here.” He looked like he relished in Jove’s mock grimace.
“Oh, shot through the heart, kid!” He thumped his fist against his chest. “So, what’s music to you?”
Kristoph’s father sighed, no longer willing to lend Jove the time of day. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t encourage him like this. He’s given us enough lip.”
“Wait! I...” It seemed that Jove’s questioning had already hooked the boy beyond repair. He set his jaw with determination, leaning away from his father’s hand. “Good music is polished. It isn’t played for a noisy crowd in the middle of a park. It’s not about food and souvenirs and how loud and crazy you can get, it’s about the skill of the musician.”
What an old soul for a small, squeaky-voiced child. Jove sniffed out a genial laugh. “Is that so? Okay, so I’m guessing you like orchestra, then?”
“He plays the violin.”
Jove’s eyes fell on Kristoph’s mother, who was struggling to keep her fidgety younger son in her arms. It seemed she wanted to salvage what time they had left at the festival and make it good, enough to break her pensive silence in the face of her husband’s irritation. She smiled tightly, eyes settling on Kristoph.
“He’s very proud of his playing. Just, well, he’s got his opinions about instruments.”
“Oh, a violin maestro? Impressive! Hey, if you know a little something about strings, maybe you could teach me how to play my guitar better and get me to a fancier venue.”
Turns out, Kristoph could pick up on the patronizing in Jove’s tone. Ouch! Could a glare get any nastier?
“Violins are totally different from guitars, but I bet I could still play better than you. For one, you’re disrespecting your guitar by letting it touch the dirt.”
Jove raised an eyebrow, tugging on his shoulder strap. “What, this old thing? She’s been through a lot worse than a little bit o’ grime, kiddo.” He hefted the guitar forward and heard a hearty, discordant plung! rise from the strings about the same time as Kristoph’s mother blurted “Klavier!”
He blinked over at the stunned toddler who had appeared unannounced by his side. Captivated by the way his nosy little fingers could make such a distinct interruption, the little one rubbed his hand against his arm.
Jove laughed. “Whoa there, little rockstar!”
The musician worried that the boys’ father was inching his way towards a coronary, what with his face turning redder by the moment, as he finally let Kristoph go in favor of scooping up the little one.
“Klavier,” he scolded, “you’ve got to stay by Mommy. Don’t touch things.”
Poor Klavier’s crystal blue eyes were bulging with shame. He tried to wriggle out of his father’s arms, but the man proved to be a much sturdier captor than his wife.
Well, time for Jove to make things right again. If he could at least make Kristoph talk, he could make this one laugh for sure.
Standing straight, he took a step closer. “Klavier, huh? Like, piano? Sprecken ze Deutch?”
The boy giggled softly, hiding his face in his father’s shoulder. His older brother, of course, had something to say about it.
“That would be sprechen sie Deutsch,” he corrected tartly. “And no, he doesn’t.”
“Oh, I see, thank you. D’you like music too, Klavier?”
Klavier glanced out and swung his legs slightly, to his father’s chagrin. The man quickly set him down to avoid mud on his tan slacks. Clearly, the toddler appreciated the freedom, but after touching down on the grass he stuck close to his father, only daring to look at Jove shyly from what short distance there was between them.
“He loves to sing along with his brother’s violin,” their mother replied on his behalf. “Don’t you, Klavi? We like it when Kris plays, hm?”
Finally, the boy peeped, “Yeah,” softly.
Jove grinned. “You’ve got fans, Kristoph? Boy, you really do have me beat.” (To that— or, perhaps, in spite of the friendly condescension— Kristoph sniffed with pride.) Slipping one hand underneath his guitar strap, he removed his instrument, once again crouching towards the earth. He laid the guitar across his knees, strategically wrapping his fingers onto the frets. “Klavier, c’mere. You want to try playing this?”
Klavier eyed him curiously, glancing up and over at his parents as Mom nodded and Dad’s lips quirked ambiguously, before tottering forward a step at a time. With a steady reach, his hand brushed once again against the guitar’s strings, plucking them individually. Not quite what Jove had in mind, but then again, this was less harsh to the ears than the first time the boy had thought to engage the instrument.
“Hey, look at that!” he cheered. “You’re learning already!”
“That’s not learning.” Distracted by a few more vibrations against his fingertips, Jove looked up to see Kristoph with his arms folded again. Either the kid was really fond of being contrary at all hours, or he wasn’t pleased to see his little brother get all the attention. “That’s just a two year old making silly sounds. Besides, he’s too young. That guitar’s as big as him!”
But it seemed that Klavier disagreed. Happily, he cooed, “I wearning, Kwis!”
“No, Klavi, you’re just playing!”
“Exactly.” Doing his best to bite back a laugh, Jove switched chords, letting the younger boy strum out a chaotic tune that could almost be mistaken for Piano Man. “That’s what we call it, right? Playing an instrument?” He chose to ignore Kristoph’s puckered frown. “Everybody’s got to start somewhere. Who knows? You two could start a music revolution when you’re older. Klav and Kris— the world’s greatest classical rock fusion duo!”
“No.” There was that self-assured sniff again. “I’m going to be a defense lawyer.”
Jove lost the concentration for his chords, letting Klavier go back to making a total ruckus. “A law— huh. You know what, now that you say it, I can see why.” Sturdy convictions, shamelessness, poise to put all the world’s royalty to shame— they sure sounded like helpful qualities. Still, Jove had to wonder how the boy’s aspirations weren’t a little grander. “What about you, Klavier?” he asked over the guitar’s clamor. “You gonna be a lawyer?”
That little mop of blond swayed with Klavier’s emphatic shake of the head. “I don’ wanna be a defrense wawy’r.”
“So, what do you want to be?”
“Ummm…” The boy blinked, then smiled. “Dunno.”
As Jove began to laugh, the band warming up for the next set onstage disrupted his thoughts. “Think about picking up the guitar,” he rushed before his voice could be drowned out. He glanced up at the boys’ parents. “You’ve got some sharp kids, folks. They’re gonna go far some day. Ah, hot damn,” he exclaimed as the group behind him introduced themselves, “I’m up next. Time flies! You guys going to stick around to hear some of my sub-par music?”
Kristoph was not amused by his wink, but the boy seemed open to the suggestion. Klavier, meanwhile, nodded vigorously before the grown-ups could say otherwise.
They didn’t object. “I think we can spare some extra time,” agreed their mother. To her husband, caution knit to his brows, she softly assured, “I’ll be fine. I just need to sit down.” Then again, to Jove and her youngest, “It’s the least we can do for the guitar lesson, huh, Klavi?”
The little one bit his lip conspiratorially, but realized he’d have to let go of the muddy old guitar for the afternoon to go forward. He nodded again to his mother’s words, pointing to the instrument and commanding Jove, “You pway it.”
“Ha ha! I’ll do just that, Rockstar, or my name’s not Jangly Justice!”
Klavier giggled. Kristoph lifted an eyebrow.
“Jangly Justice?” bleated the elder. “Who came up with that name?”
Jove squared his shoulders proudly, standing. “I did, Future Maestro Lawyer! I got to go, ‘kay? You boys be good, stick with your parents, all right?” Inclining his head towards Kristoph, he sported a cheeky grin. “I’m going to make sure you have fun if it takes all night. No, really!” he bragged. “My music is gonna go and change your life!”
Kristoph’s reply was a poorly disguised eye-rolling. “As if.”
Well. Now Jove was really motivated.
Once the last note faded from the speakers and the sun began to drift away in a trail of bleeding light, the crowd dispersed for a fifteen minute intermission before the next performer took to the stage with a little barstool and a well-loved guitar. He tipped his black pork-pie hat with his gloved hand and dazzled the on-lookers with a smile that could light up the galaxy.
“Hello, Seattle!” He pulled the mic stand closer. “My name is Jangly Justice and I’ll be the bum on stage for the next fifteen minutes. Hey, before we start, I just want to dedicate this set to two friends of mine, Violin and Piano, the coolest kids at the fest’. I promised them they’d have fun tonight, and if I can help it, I think the rest of us will too! Am I right?”
Cheers dispersed into the night sky, not the least of which came from a little boy with rebel hair and a dazzling future.