I stand at the lowest level of the parking garage and yell, once, loud as I can, then listen for the echoes.  They come back rich and full, and they roll for what seems like forever, tapering off slowly into a whisper.  Good, I think, this is exactly right.  I wait for a moment, to see if anyone comes, but it’s 3 in the morning and I don’t think it’s likely.

In my right hand I carry a hammer, which is a poor tool for breaking into cars, but that’s okay because I don’t intend to break in.  Carefully I look around and select the expensive cars, the Mercedes, the Lexuses.  I spot a cluster of them over in one corner and I go stand by them.  This is the last moment of silence, and I close my eyes and stand stock-still to savor it, a stupid little smirk lurking around the corners of my mouth.

When I bring the hammer down on the driver’s-side window of the closest car, it erupts into sound.  In a moment the alarm’s panicked squeal fills the entire garage, racing its own echos across metal and glass and rebounding off of concrete only to find another wall, another window.  I move on to the next car and help it find its voice too, and now the sirens overlap, phasing in and out of sync, just slightly off-tune with each other.  Down the row, one car after another, each one with its own sound, its own expression of pain and sadness, fear and anger.  When I am done the waves of sound wash over and through me.  I am an eddy in their torrent.  I lay on the rough concrete floor of the garage with my hands behind my head, close my eyes and just listen.  This is a concert, and they are playing only for me.