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On a good sound system there are a few tense seconds after the needle arm lands until it reaches the first cut. Silence (except for the vibrating of the room). Then, one learns to appreciate the peal of volume.

Mom always thought it was the backdoor slamming. It became a ritual everyday after school. She never caught on.

My room was above the kitchen. My sound system was 60 amps per channel I'd paid for by working weekends at Grinley's Hardware. She hated old Grinley for that, just like she hated walking up those steps to my room. It was the noise.

You see, she had this emotional condition—a by-product of too many afternoon soap operas. She was often jumpy. She was often close to tears. And that look on her face every time she blew in:   "Why does it have to be so loud?" She'd stride into that classic pose I'd seen in a dozen old movies—hands on the hips, one foot pointed out:   "Can't you listen like other people your age?"

I wanted to know who these people were. Where they lived. I wanted to know what it was that had brought them to submission so young. But she could never tell me that. She could never offer up the proof. So after a while I gave up. I just kept dancing when she came in the room.

I loved to repeat her phrases: "What do I think I'm doing?" She was a temptress begging for rude behavior:   "It's just a new variation on the Hoochie-Koo, Ma."

She could never learn where the volume knob was.

For a long time I had the impression that I'd really found something. It was so customary and assuring, yet I knew the laws and the ludicrous tales of the fate awaiting a boy like me. But the power had been captured and remained enormous. It felt good.