I Can't Snap

There I am, cast aside, tears rolling silently down my cheeks as I make a futile attempt to clog my ears with my furiously gnarled fists, doing anything to stop the flow of that damn noise. It sounds like someone is clicking their tongue, if I let my psyche distort enough. This is comforting sometimes, and there have been instances where I almost feel so comforted by the prospect that I almost start joining in, start clicking my tongue with my peers; just another one of the guys, doing one of those cool things we can all do.

Bullshit.

I can lie to myself all I want, but it always comes crashing down eventually. They aren't clapping. They aren't clicking their tongue. They aren't carrying a tape recorder and external amplifier on which they recorded the sounds of lots of people snapping. They're snapping.

I don't know how the hell they do it. I've watched it a hundred thousand million times, and the mystery is never any closer to being solved. I mirror their motions, I study their technique... I follow their each intricate twitch, I bring my fingers together, I push off just as gracefully as they do.

Two distinct noises ricochet off each other in the air.

Snap.


Fftt.


That second sound is perhaps less universally recognized than the one preceding it. That is for good reason. That second sound belonged to the hand of someone who can't snap. That sound was the embarrassing tone induced by feeble, uncoordinated fingers sliding off each other and releasing no sound but the one created by the friction of their oily fingertips. That second sound belongs to me.

 I can't snap along to the music. I can't follow an extra good idea or point with a little extra oomph through a snap of my fingers. I can't emulate acapella numbers from West Side Story with all my friends. These are things I will never experience. This is the life of a boy who cannot snap.