Ill-A-Noise

A Man, a Gummy, and the Growing Suspicion That Everyone Else Got the Script

Photo by Elsa Olofsson on Unsplash

I didn’t feel anything during the movie.

That matters.

Because I took the gummy. Ten milligrams. Which, for me, is less a suggestion and more a contract.

And nothing happened.

Well. Something happened.

A movie. The Devil Wears Prada 2. Loved it!

I think…

Wait…

Maybe nothing happened.

Regardless. Sat there with my wife’s entire female bloodline like a normal person. Calm. Present. Maybe even a little proud of myself.

Thought I beat it.

Then the credits rolled.

I stood up.

And…

There it was.

Not all at once. Just… a lag. Like my legs were buffering.

I made it out of the theater.

And walked directly into a Zumba class.

No.

Not “into.” Through. Past. Around. I don’t know the preposition yet.

But it was there.

On the front porch of the movie theater.

A stage. That’s important. There was a stage.

Music dialed to 11. Instructors with head mics like this was being broadcast somewhere.

So much bass.

And the colors…

Hold on.

The colors need their own space.

Spandex that shouldn’t exist. Zumba-wear. Zumbiforms. Zumbabric stretched past human engineering.

Neon that felt newly discovered.

I’ll never see purple the same way again.

Okay.

They were moving.

All of them. “In sync.”

Sort of.

There were… new ones.

You could see it.

Fresh Zumbas. Zumba-lings. Still learning the steps. Half a beat behind. Turning the wrong way. Counting quietly like they’d just been initiated.

And smiling anyway.

Which made it worse.

Disconcerting.

Because if it’s a performance, someone breaks. Someone laughs.

No one laughed.

Is this a bit?

I remember thinking that very clearly.

Not what is this? But who is this for?

Because it felt produced.

Lights. Stage. Energy. Commitment.

Like I missed the part where I agreed to participate.

Is this like Saturday Night Live?

Is someone about to step out and go, “Alright, we got him”?

Because that would make sense.

An improv troupe would make so much sense.

A wink would make sense.

No one winked.

I made it to the bar.

That felt like safety.

Wife. Mother-in-law. Table. Drink. Half the party lost to the winds of secondary engagements.

Or… So they said…

Normal sounds now.

Country music engineered to offend no one and mean very little. Something about a pick-up truck…

A bartender named Kayla.

Kayla is…

Hold on.

Kayla is important.

Kayla felt written.

Too fast. Too on. Like someone handed her a script that just said “energy” and she took it personally.

She’s pouring a drink. Talking. Moving.

Constant motion.

I’m thinking, “the old theater kid working as a bartender skit.”

I’ve seen this before!

And then —

She pivots.

And proves it.

No warning.

Straight into Hamilton.

Not a hum. Not a joke.

Full commitment.

Lyrics. Cadence. Eye contact like she’s checking if I know my part.

And before I can decide if I do —

“PUERTO RICO!”

At full volume.

Like it matters. Like it always mattered.

No one reacts.

No one even looks up.

And then —

Hard cut.

Music flips.

Different song. Louder.

She’s already in it.

No transition.

No acknowledgment.

Just fully in it.

Like we’ve entered Act Two of something.

No one reacts.

No one.

Is this a bit?

Because now it feels like a bit.

The bar. The Zumba. Kayla.

This feels connected.

My mother-in-law is telling a story.

A restaurant.

She’s describing it like it matters. Like I should remember it. Like I might go there one day and need this information to survive.

I actually think we do want to go.

Steaks.

Fish.

Charred Brussels sprouts.

She’s building it. Course by course. A full menu. A place with weight.

And then —

“They got green beans?”

That came out.

I think.

I don’t remember deciding to say it.

I don’t remember forming it.

It just… arrived.

“They got green beans?”

And everything pauses. Not outwardly. Not visibly. But something pauses.

Did I say that in like a Slingblade voice…?

She looks at me.

“No.”

Just that.

No follow-up. No confusion. No “what?”

Just… no.

Like we both understood the exchange.

Like I asked the question I was supposed to ask.

And she gave the answer she was supposed to give.

Is this a bit?

Because that felt like a bit.

Or —

Worse.

That felt like I said something out loud that was only supposed to be a thought.

I think that was the gummy.

I think the gummy said that.

But did it come out of my mouth?

Or did she just hear it anyway?

And then I hear it again.

The Zumba.

The bass.

Still going.

Through the walls. Under the music. Inside my skull. Hard to place.

A bass line that refuses to be dismissed.

Illinois.

Ill-a-noise.

That’s what it is.

Layers.

Country music. Kayla’s voice. Zumba-beats. Zumba-bass. Zumbasonic residue.

Stacking.

Not blending.

Stacking.

Like someone forgot to mute the other tracks.

A baseball hits the window.

Sharp. Perfect. Timed.

I turn.

Kids outside.

Throwing a ball.

Laughing.

Normal.

Too normal.

Is this a bit?

Because that felt like a cue.

Maybe the bar is the bit.

Maybe Kayla is the bit.

Maybe the Zumba is the bit.

Maybe I’m the bit.

Maybe my wife —

No.

Don’t go there.

But maybe my wife and mother-in-law are in on it.

They’re talking. Drinking. Existing normally.

Too normally.

Is this revenge?

For something I forgot?

Is this a tribute?

To what?

Kayla again.

Now she’s singing something else.

Louder.

Different genre.

No hesitation.

Like she’s flipping channels no one else can see.

Is this a bit?

I can still see them.

Out there.

Still Zumbaing.

Yeah. Zumbaing is a word now. I’m keeping it.

No breaks.

No phones.

No water.

Just movement.

Continuous.

Like they’ve been out there longer than I’ve been aware of them.

Like they’ll still be there when I leave.

Is this a bit?

Or am I still high?

That’s the reasonable question.

I haven’t had 10mg in a while.

I’m a lightweight. I like lightweight. Cheaper.

Efficient.

But this —

This feels bigger than ten milligrams.

I take a sip of my drink.

Look at my wife.

She looks back.

Normal.

Smiles.

Says something.

I don’t catch it.

Because I can still hear it.

The Zumba.

Is this a bit?

I don’t think I’m high.

I think I just stopped filtering.

Rich Kolodziej is a writer, lawyer, musician, and former trial attorney from Chicago, IL. He received his JD from DePaul University College of Law and spent over two decades in the courtroom, earning more than 75 jury verdicts. In 2019, seeking a better work-life balance, he shifted away from daily litigation — freeing up space for a secret musical project with his wife of seven years. Their band has since played Main Stages at Summerfest in Milwaukee, did a set at SXSW in Austin and rocked the Richmond International Film Festival in Virginia, with many stops in between.

If you enjoy my writing and my perspective and you’d like to support the work, you can “buy me a coffee.”