Those damn kids and their damn music. All throughout the night they party and drink, but their music, oh, how they blair there music all night and all day, either out loud or letting it destroy their earbuds. They are going to miss their hearing when they are my age, yes they will! I hear it laying in my bed all night, their bad tasteless music rambling on and on. On my street full of teenagers, I hear their stupid tunes echo down the road. Nothing of the great music. No great swing bands or genuine voices like Frank Sinatra. But the one house to my left, that house has a bright young child. His name is Zander Sork. He is a bright young child, with a good head on his shoulders and doesn't blast that awful music. I have noticed of him for a while but I didn't meet him until about a year ago. He was walking door to door selling butter braids for band class so they could get new music. I invited him in and we talked for hours. We talked about how high school was nowadays, and he played me some of the music on that saxophone of his he was carrying with him. The nice sound of the saxophone vibrated through my dusty house. He was such a good kid, one that the world needed. When he finished I told him about how I always wanted to play in a band, but they wouldn't let me.  He was about to ask why but the chime of the bell struck realization of time into his mind. He rushed home. He said he would visit me sometime and left.

He visited me again and again, and every time he seemed more and more . . . Different. We bonded less and less but I still loved him like my own child. I never had one, my wife died before she bore a child. But Zander began to wear darker clothing,  he had longer and blacker hair, he was arriving home later, and not visiting as much anymore. What I noticed most of all though was his music taste plummeting down. He listened to that awful processed music. I overheard his mother and father on their porch talking about how he doesn't take band anymore. He was turning into one of them. Nothing like what he used to-- Nothing like what we were used to-- no more songs of swing bands and saxophones. Nothing that what I liked. And that hurt my old withering heart. How dare he? He was such a good kid, why did he have to go and . . . change? Maybe if I talked to him-- wait, I have an idea. Later that day, I walked over to his house, prepared. I rang the doorbell and Zander answered. "What do you want?" He remarked, disgustedly. His tight necklace made his veins poke out even more.
"Oh, I just wanted to see how you were doing. How's school?"

"It's fine. Look, I really have to go."
"Why?" I hated being so pushy, but I knew he didn't have an answer. He hesitated then said 
"Bye." That was all that disrespectful child gave me.
"Wait," I said, acting desperate but really full of anger, "I thought you might like this." I handed him a tape I recorded in my youth. "It was my tryout recording for the band. As you know, they didn't accept me but . . . I thought you might like it."

The old Zander squinted through the wrinkled black clothes and took the tape. He had mentioned he had a tape player when he listened to the great old bands so I knew he would play it. That released a little bit of the Zander I knew. He would play it out of sympathy, but it would be too late. I had given it to him. I turned away with tears in my eyes and walked home. It had to be done. You never disrespect your elders like that.

The next day it was all over the news. Headlines said: "Boy Murdered by Unknown Source". They said that Zander Sork was found dead in his room, hands clinging to his ears. His skin was wrinkled and shriveled, his hair was on end. He was curled in a tight ball, almost frozen. They also said it was like happened they had this strange case in 1948 at an elementary school in their band room. 3 student assistants and the band director were found in this same state, they were supposedly listening to audition tapes. The murderer was never found though and neither was the cause.

The police came to my door at 8 AM the next morning, asking if I knew anything. I put on my grouchy old man persona and stared back at them. "Those damn kids and their damn music."