He was nine, and it was a Yamaha.

Christmas Day his Dad set up the bulky stand, and he held his breath as he plugged it in for the first time. He tentatively pressed a key, and the sharp sound it emitted both startled and thrilled him. His Dad switched the sound off “Brass” and told him to try again. This time, it was sweet, almost soft; why would anyone want a bike when they could have this? He smiled, giddily, as his Dad placed a large hand on his back.

“Merry Christmas Darryl,” He smelled like burning leaves and Old Spice. “this is a gift that you can do anything with.”

**********

The first song he learned to play by heart was Axel F, the theme from his Dad’s favorite movie, Beverly Hills Cop. He would put on his hooded sweatshirt, pushing the sleeves up to his elbows. He loved to play the song over and over, his feet dancing around on the floor in time with the synthesized beat. Every night at dinner, he would insist his parents call him Axel; his mother would smile and silently serve him more meatloaf while his father laughed. After dinner, his Dad would insist that “Axel” join him on the court for a little basketball.

“Because not all ladies will respond to your smooth fingers, son,” He never missed a basket. “you gotta learn to anticipate those who like athletes.”

**********

A couple years later, his Dad doesn’t come home one day late in December. He plays Axel F at the funeral, while his mother smiles and he hears laughter, somewhere. That night he puts his synthesizer away in the back of his closet. He makes sure his mother only calls him Darryl.

**********

He’s a senior in high school and Jamie’s been with him for a month. Sitting on the floor of his room one afternoon, she sees it in his closet, pulls it out. Before he can find his voice, she sets it straight, plugs it in. Playing again goes easier than he thought it would, and the look in her eyes and hand on his knee make it easier still. He doesn’t play what his fingers ache to, makes up a song about her eyes.

He finds the stand in the back of the garage the next day.

**********

He plays at open mic nights, dragging it around town in his passenger seat, sometimes moving it to make room for an extra passenger. (Usually making room for an extra passenger.) He could play basketball for hours in front of a crowd of women, but one well-played love song and a smooth smile, and he’s set for a month.

**********

The karaoke machine doesn’t work and he’s there to save the day. Everyone’s having fun; the break room comes alive. He’s slightly disappointed when they find the cord, and spends the rest of the party drinking and watching as Roy finds a moment to give a gift to Pam. He dragged him around to three different stores before he found the right sketchbook, the kind he thought he remembered her using before. He doesn’t want to tell Roy, but he’s already thrown away his best man speech, thinks Pam looks better now than she ever did in the past few years. He’ll have to take him out to the next open mic night, help him to move on.

He’s slightly drunk and the office is nearly empty by the time he’s back in the break room, packing up his stuff; he finds himself pressing a finger to a button on top, and the familiar beat surrounds him. He sits down as Axel F flows out, not noticing that Michael is standing in the doorway, grinning.

“Darrrrrryl! I’m gonna have to start calling you Axel! Axel Murphy!” He walks away, hysterically laughing. Strangely, it doesn’t hurt. It feels like Christmas.

He laughs to himself as he wraps up the power cord. It would be Mike to say something. He decides he doesn’t mind that Mike will call him Axel for the foreseeable future. The thought of it actually makes him double over for a moment, the giddy feeling he hasn’t felt since he was a kid. Mike.

Dinkin’ Flicka.