Music is a Balm

Josh balanced a crushing weight on his forehead. He could hardly peel his eyes from the pavement. One fist clutched a threadbare flannel wrapped at his chest while the other dragged along a brick wall, keeping him upright. Just a few more blocks, his scorching brain reassured his aching legs. Whenever he looked up, the blocks stretched longer. On the horizon he could see the neon lights of the pharmacy. He trudged closer, one foot in front of the other.

His hand grazed the dark wooden panels of a storefront and Josh stumbled, shoulder colliding with a glass door. He rested his head against the cold windowpane, eyes closed, soothing his fevered brow. A faint vibration rattled the glass against his temple. Cracking an eye open, Josh peered through the window's condensation. A cracked oxblood leather armchair sat across the threshold, its studded wingback waiting like an embrace. Josh craned his neck toward the street, too weak to lift his head. All that walking and the pharmacy was still leagues away. He would rest here and accept comfort from this alluring armchair. Groping for the doorknob, he tumbled into the shop.

There was no tinkle of a bell to greet him. Instead, the door flew open and Josh’s ears were assaulted by a shout of THUNDER, a kick drum, and an unrelenting guitar lick. He staggered to the armchair and surrendered to its grasp. Scrubbing his swollen eyes, he squinted at his surroundings. The armchair was accompanied by a small table, but there were no other seats in the shop. Every available surface was covered in alchemical supplies: shelves, countertops, display tables heaped with jars, bowls, sample spoons and cloth bags. Josh’s vision swam as he took in the kaleidoscope of colors. He was sure the mysterious herbs and powders in each canister were particularly pungent. Or, else they would be, if he could breathe through his nose.

A cough seized him and he curled deeper into the leather seat. When it passed, he noticed a man waiting behind the counter, studying him. Josh’s heart raced, then slowed at the ethereal presence: a loose shirt cut low to expose aging tattoos across his chest with rows of beads and feathers dangling from his neck and ears. The man’s fingers flicked through a box bursting with cardboard envelopes while his eyes unceasingly searched Josh’s face. Finding what he was looking for, the man stretched his wide mouth into a crooked grin, a gold tooth glinting in the lamplight. Dust clouded from the envelope he’d selected, but he blew it away with an efficient puff of breath. He slid a vinyl LP from the sleeve, dropped it onto a turntable, and placed the pin somewhere in the center. The speakers filled with a nimble guitar intro and a multi-voice harmony begging Pleaaaaaaaase.

“What can I do for you today?” the man asked in a syrupy smooth voice, unexpected under his gristly exterior. Josh pushed himself out of the chair and shuffled weakly to the counter. The man’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his long, graying hair. “The Keys?” he said, staring at Josh’s chest. “Alright, we’ll pop that on next.”

Puzzled, Josh looked down at the snot-streaked cuffs of his flannel. He’d forgotten he was wearing The Black Keys concert tee underneath, a show he’d seen in his relative youth. “What is this place?” he rasped, his sore throat strident in comparison with the man’s velvet tenor.

“We’re a tea shop of sorts,” the man, apparently a barista, replied. He slid a mortar and pestle between them, the heavy stone scraping splinters off the wooden counter. “You look like you could use a pick-me-up.” Josh blew his nose in acknowledgement.

The barista strode through the shop, hand-tooled boots rapping beneath acid wash denim. Beads and cords slid on his wrists as he selected and rejected a half-dozen ingredients. To Josh’s eye, none of the jars were labeled, but the contents were seemingly transparent to the barista. He arranged each vessel next to the mortar, singing along to the record as he worked to amalgamate the ingredients.

Sick as a dog

What’s your story?

Sick as a dog

Cat got your tongue?

Josh barked, half-laugh and half-cough. The barista wielded the pestle in time to the chord progression. He deftly crushed the bouquet of dried flowers and brightly colored carapaces into a saffron-hued powder. Sweeping the contents into a waiting cloth bag, he deposited it into a steaming iron kettle. Josh breathed deeply and immediately felt the pressure in his head lift.

“Oh yeah.” The barista fished around below the counter and produced a vintage moonshine jug. He eased the cork from the bottle and dipped a spoon into it, slowly pulling up a dark, sticky substance. Winking, he produced a heavily scratched lighter from the pocket of his jeans and began to heat the spoon over an open flame. The substance thinned and slithered into a waiting stone mug, smooth as treacle. Finally, the barista poured the fully brewed tea and slid the mug across the counter.

Josh gaped at the cup before him, nose streaming. “Oh that’s—” he began, sniffing. “You didn’t need to—I’ll be fine with a black tea. Lemon, if you have it.”

The record scratched. The barista frowned, shadows gathering in the grooves of his face.

“If you’re sure. The customer is always right, after all,” he sighed. He thunked down a second cup, rattling the first. A newer, dust free record replaced Aerosmith and the barista busied himself in a nearby cabinet. As the synthesized melody to Fever by The Black Keys filled the tea shop, he returned with a box of individually packaged teabags. He unwrapped the tea bag with a flourish, dropped it into the mug, and poured hot water.

“I’ve got a lemon around here somewhere. You better take a seat.”

Josh obeyed, shuffling back to the armchair. It was best not to upset the old man wearing eyeliner.

As promised, the man returned with a tray bearing both cups. A thinly sliced lemon floated in the second.

“Just in case you change your mind,” the barista nodded to the first cup, steam rolling invitingly off the rim. Josh selected the second.

While Josh sipped, the barista bustled around the shop. He paused now and then to feed the record player, swivel his hips, or play a little air guitar. Josh watched, trying to decide why the barista seemed so familiar to him. Despite the man’s advanced age, he carried an improbable vitality.

It could be a fever induced hallucination, but the tea should be helping with that. Peering into the cup, Josh’s heart sank with the dregs swirling near the bottom. Inhaling deeply, he could still feel the congestion rattling in his chest. He wasn’t strong enough to make it to the pharmacy.

The scent of that first mug was tempting, though. Josh was shocked that he could smell the individual notes in the drink; eucalyptus and maybe juniper berries. He sniffed the second cup experimentally but he couldn't pick up any of its flavor profile.

Josh selected the first cup and brought it to his lips. One sip couldn’t hurt. If the barista was any indication, maybe it would help. That guy could have been ninety years old with the energy of a twenty-something. He let the impossibly hot liquid slip down his throat and closed his eyes, savoring it.

A rushing noise flooded his senses, like thousands of voices screaming and stamping their feet. The congestion in his sinuses receded. His ears popped and crackled like he was descending in a jet.

He sipped again and a fire roared in his throat. Each breath burned like he’d been shouting for hours. Anxious to quell the feeling, he downed the rest of the tea. Behind his eyelids he could see flashes of light, flares of color. Then, his breathing slowed and the dry spots in his throat diminished.

Josh leapt to his feet, blinking. There were no lights, no screaming crowds. As far as he could tell, he hadn’t spoken a word. The dusty teashop remained unchanged save the soundtrack, now Bon Jovi’s Bad Medicine. He exhaled, stunned. His lungs were clear, and the congestion was gone. He didn’t have a thermometer on him, but he’d bet his fever was cured, too. The barista approached and offered to take the tray.

“What was in that tea?” Josh asked nervously, remembering the mysterious brown liquid.

“Molasses,” the barista shrugged. “It helps cover the bitterness of the eucalyptus and take the edge off the valerian.”

Josh laughed a deep belly laugh, fully oxygenated. “Well, anyway, thank you. I never caught your name, by the way.”

“Oh, it’s Steven.” They shook hands and Josh felt the guitar calluses on the older man’s fingers. He left the store with a spring in his step.