Bunny Claws: The Moment

So I was hurrying down Driggs, trying desperately to be only my usual twenty-five minutes late for work, when I heard it.  It was a sound unlike anything I’d ever heard before—a hollow, aching synth against a tinny drum loop.  I looked around for the source of the infectious sound, and there was Chai.  He was a lanky, baby-faced goon, staring intently at the black and whites of his miniature Casio keyboard, which was supported by an amazing DIY keyboard stand strapped to his torso.  I slowed my gait, and paused.  I knew what was happening.  He was the one. 

I stopped dead in front of him, tuning out all of the other city sounds that were trying to pollute my ears and prevent this moment from happening.  When Chai didn’t look up from his work to acknowledge that he now had an audience, I was only even more convinced that he was the one that I had been waiting for.  I cleared my throat to break through his intense concentration.  He didn’t look up at me.  I tried a different approach.  “Cool Casio,” I said, nonchalantly.  He didn’t look up.  “What are you running that thing on, D-cell’s?“  No response.  I pulled out my iPhone, checking to see how much time I had left before I went from normal-late to scathing-glance late.  For a moment, I thought that I should really get going, because I knew that when I got to work Shasta was going to passive-aggressively say, “Oh, you’re here,” or some other obnoxious catch-phrase.  I needed to make a move.  In one swift motion, I slammed my hands down on Chai’s keyboard, creating a dissonant anti-chord that sounded like the kind of dreck the Hipsters were making in 2004.  His eyes shot up and locked with mine.  “Whoa,” said Chai.  He didn’t know it at the time, but I did.  We were going to be huge.