|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
| Did you ever hear that story about the lovers on Mars?
Well, the choice to spend a month on mars together was his idea. Palms sweating under the invisible weight of trepidation, he asked her if she wanted to spend a month with him there. Just a month, just the two of us, he promised. Why yes, of course, she replied. He looked at her, an unbelieving smile tempting the tips of his lips.
Really?
Really.
I didn't think you'd want to spend an entire month with only me around.
Well, I didn't think you'd want me to be around you for an entire month.
They smiled at each other.
Then they were there. And for the first few days, their gazes smiled in silent acknowledgment of the situation's precious nature. They took pictures to backgrounds of monolith red mountains and sent them back home.
But after the first week or so their communications grew despondent. Their relationship weakened as they found less to talk about and even less in the other's dialogue that they considered interesting. The silences between them grew tense, accumulating hostilities and resentments like encroaching molds. Eventually they stayed in separate rooms, she forlornly messaging her friends back home, pining the delay of her return, he immersing himself in the irresponsibility of a fantasy- numbed existence.
And when they returned to earth they never spoke to each other again and their thoughts of that month were tinged with an embarrassed regret.
Am I here on a specter's words, chasing an eyelash in the wind? I need to face the fact that I'm just another silent footnote scrounging meagerly at the bottom of a page. That's what happens even to the giants of the world. They die and the world sums the ethos of their existence within the span of just a few sentences. Tragedies become monuments and homes welcome new people all the time. Who am I to think that I could escape that? I'm a ghost. I'm a fucking ghost that deludes itself into a world of tangibility. Did I even remember it correctly? What if I'm wrong?
Did you ever hear that story about the lovers on Mars?
At first it was odd. The waters between them were lukewarm, their hearts so used to isolation that the idea of entwined souls required the very strongest that trust had to offer.
But as it happened being solely on the company of a lover had a remarkable effect on these two. They acquired a level of comfort, an ability to tell the other anything and everything. They lived an existence devoid of trouble. Relaxed and unfettered, they grew closer than they ever had with any other person.
One day, sitting side by side with their hands held tight as they watched the barren Mars landscape, they talked of love. She asked him a question.
Do you believe in soul mates?
He turned to her and smiled. He saw her open, honest face and hoped that his eyes weren't flecked with the stains of lies.
I'm beginning to.
They snuggled closer, and were content.
I shouldn't be here. These maudlin motivations are making me the fool. Blind, I clutched at the leash of heart strings that lead me here. What manner of an idiot am I? Tell me truly. Am I the fool that makes his home among decrepit ruins? A foolish romantic wielding a knight's blade, or some other damned anachronistic novelty, amongst a sea of rifles?
Damn the heart that mends the slowest. It does itself no service but embarrassment and prolonged suffering.
Did you ever hear that story about the lovers on Mars?
It goes without saying that the higher you fly the harder you fall. The tightrope walker knows this. The rock climb knows this. But the careful lover knows this best.
The best of dreams know no easy awakenings, just as Eden knew no easy departure.
You've changed. You're different. You're not the same man you were on Mars.
How am I different? I feel the same. Yes I have problems, but I'm dealing with them. I still love you the same.
You aren't. We fight all the time now. I'm just not happy with you.
The man looked into her eyes and all he saw were dreams of red dust and blissful absolution.
Maybe sometime after all this it'll work out. Maybe someday we'll know each other the way we were on Mars.
And years later, I'm here.
Do you still remember me? Does it, do I matter any more?
Bleach clean linoleum tiles and the aroma of sweet synthetic grass. Is it wrong that I'm back here, that I'm waiting?
Or am I alone in this? Am I alone in being here, and I alone in my thoughts of you?
I don't want it to be that way. I'm here.
Please tell me I won't be the only one.
Where are you?
| | |
| Just this last summer I spent a week in Tibet.
This was my parents graduation gift to me, a senior trip to the other side of the world. Their reason for sending me to China can be explained by my steady neglect of my heritage over the past few years; I barely knew Chinese, didn't maintain contact with my relatives and in truth, didn't really care for either.
The plan was to stay in the holy city of Lhasa for a few days, then drive an entire day to get to Rikaze, the second largest city in Tibet. Lastly, we would embark upon a 2 day car trip to the base camp of Mt. Everest.
I didn't much enjoy the first few days of the trip. Not that the city isn't magnificent, but sadly it's a tarnished magnificence. Ever since the invasion of the Chinese Tibet has become steadily modernized. Where I imagine that 50 years ago Lhasa may have existed in the pristine state of a forbidden relic, in which power lines were unheard of and the sight of the Dalai Lama driving about in an imported automobile was deemed a rare pleasure, the modern Lhasa has its vaunted Potola Palace wearily watching over the turmoil of city streets, fast food joints and designer clothing stores.
Modernization had turned Lhasa from an isolated wonder of the world into a tourist spot. Tourists with cameras and little understanding of the culture trooped in and out of the ageless halls of the monasteries, arriving in a holy city that some pilgrims walked for years to reach but for the modern tourist requires only an opulent wallet and assorted paperwork from the Chinese government.
We walked in and out of monasteries while the monks prayed and fixed our gazes to the ground as various merchants sought to entice us with cheap factory made wares in bits of broken English.
The Chinese military presence was very heavy. Soldiers bearing assault weapons stood watch on crowded street corners, and every few minutes a police convoy would roll down the street. Ostensibly, the presence was there to deter any possibility of insurrection from the Tibetan natives. But we are talking about a people so peaceful that they wouldn't dare hurt insects for the fear that those insects might be the reincarnations of their ancestors.
The military presence wasn't so much a practicality as it was a reminder of who was in charge. And the aspects that made Tibetan culture so idiosyncratic and colorful were now being prostituted on the mainstream market for a mere pittance.
That wasn't the Tibet I chose to take away with me. The Tibet that now consumes my mind is a vast, untamed land with sights that completely eradicate any common perception of the extent of nature's prowess. It's a land with a sky so blue you'd think it hailed from the pages of a comic book, of stretches of land so desolate and empty you'd be the only one even thinking for miles.
This is the part of Tibet that is home to the Himalayas, and more importantly, Mount Everest.
Imagine the largest, most gentle sloping brown hills stretching on and on into the horizon. Then, imagine in the distance a dark, foreboding mountain range stretching across the entirety of that horizon like the Chesire cat's taunting smile. Imagine those mountains capped with snow, and those that aren't capped with the smoothest, silkiest looking clouds you've ever seen. Imagine all this sitting under the clearest blue sky, comic and poignant, because this is the closest you'll ever get to heaven in the outdoors in this lifetime.
Now here's where your imagination comes in. Do you still have those hills in your mind? Those giant, sloped, turgid monsters of eternity?
Well I want you imagine all the people of the world standing on those hills. Everybody, from every country, that draws a breath at this current moment. Imagine for just a second, for the sake of this idealistic dream, that by some stretch of plausibility they could all be transported onto the slopes leading to the Himalayas for just a moment.
Of course they would all be confused. Everybody would look about and wonder, why are we here? I was just sitting at my desk. I was just arguing with my wife. I was just asleep, I was about to take my life. But in my mind, they'd stop talking when they see the Himalayas.
If, for just that moment, all the people in the world could see what I saw, would they forget the things that made them bad? The petty squabbles and senseless self doubts, would all that be cast off for just the moment? I do. I want to believe that what I saw had that power. And I know it does. There was this feeling of being incredibly small and humbled. Just the way it all looked with the clouds hovering above like muses plying the torpid earth, lingering in a sky so clear and blue you'd think you were staring straight into the past, into a celestial Eden... it's something I've been trying to capture for the last few paragraphs. And it's something I definitely won't forget for the rest of my life. | | |
| Redemption of HMS Goliath
By Frank Gao
Fragments of Alden's memory play like the blips and squeals of a broken record as he stumbles about the endless piped corridors of Her Majesty's Ship Goliath.
Like a scratched surface his recollections are marred by the dark reality of his current situation. Lost about the ship he was meant to lead to victory, Alden rushes about tightening nuts and bolts, occasionally venting his frustration on a pipe with his wrench. He opens his eyes and sees a cramped hallway obscured by a steady flow of steam erupting from whistling pipe valves. Looking down, he sees the tools that would have been useful in anyone else's hands. Dabbing at his perspiring forehead with a rag, he lets the wrench in his other hand fall to the ground as he sags against the wall.
He closes his eyes against the embrace of the steam and shakes his head, weighted by the impotence of his endeavors to fix the ship. Its many bells and whistles, its leviathan depths, the pipes that lead this way and that, all twist themselves into a maliciously foreign language. He sinks his head into his arms and sits there, numb to the gentle dip and sway of the ship as its bowels filled with the most minute trickle of water that would eventually sink it to the ocean depths.
He falls asleep amidst the fumes, just some lonely man wasting away aboard the great HMS Goliath. It staggers over the arching waves steadily accruing inches of water that will bring it to the bottom of the sea.
Alden dreams of a sword, a blade as straight as only a fantasy would have it with a hilt of gold and inset jewels. He holds it above his head, reverent in all its promise and potential. He feels that he can face the world with the sword in his hand, that he can strike free the chains that behind him and escape his obligation to see the dying ship through on its doomed course.
But as he looks about him he could feel the sword falling from his grasp. Panic wells in his chest as he watches it descend into dark, dark waters. As Alden looks on the blade bends and whips through the inconsistent screen of the water's churning surface; a whisper of gold and it's gone forever, run off into a world of blackness that reduces even the most courageous hands to dumb, shaking paws.
In his desperation Alden dives after the sword. Fear strikes its first haunting strings as the unrelenting waters surround him and he realizes he cannot see, but he swims on. He needs the sword. He can destroy every failure, every shortcoming and weakness if only he has the blade in his grasp.
Alden sees the tiniest glimmer of sunshine in the depths and he swims harder, the tips of his fingers clawing further and further ahead of him, scraping the cool water beneath and behind him as he goes. He swims but doubt and fear begin to fester within the depths of his heart. They leak out tendrils of cold steel and shock his nerves. He loses his focus and beings to panic. The desperation that got him this far wanes and disappears. He looks up and realizes that he can no longer see the surface. Fully galvanized by fear, he kicks and flails his way back upward.
He breaks the surface gasping for air. Above him, the sky warps itself into shades of black and blue. Treading water, Alden stares down into the enigmatic depths. Despair's black raven wings fold over him as he realizes that the sword, and all that it could have done for him, are gone.
HMS Goliath sits in the vast expanse of the shifting blue of an ocean canvas, a single gray smudge amongst miles of shifting waters. Boughs of smoke billow from its rent crevasses to dirty the prim blue of the sky.
Alden wakes up. The steam is gone and the halls are empty save for the sound of trickling water finding its way into the ship. He gets to his feet and stretches. Looking around, he goes off into the depths of the ship once more.
An hour later he emerges on the surface of HMS Goliath. An unassuming sheet of light blue stretches across the sky. This is his ceiling and the walls are at the ends of the earth.
On the floor of the ship there is a limp form, a single white, feathered wing protruding from its back. It is an adult male wearing only tattered pants of faded blue. The wing attached to his back is a pure white color, its feathers ruffled at tangent angles. It spans the length of a small lifeboat.
Alden walks over and gently shakes the man on his shoulder. Receiving no response, he flips the winged man on his stomach. Angry, bloody scars run the entire course of the right side of the winged man's back. Bits of hollow bone stick out in crimson spars. Nuances of feather and split flesh are evident along the laceration like scars in some gruesome constellation. Along the man's skin are granulated white specks of salt.
Alden folds the man's wing to the side. He gets up and walks away. Moments later, he's back with a first aid box. He first swabs the wound with alcohol wipes, snipping off protruding bits of hollowed bone with surgeon's scissors. He tends to the disfigured flesh with very precise stitches that run the entire length of the man's back torso. All throughout the process the winged man twitches and occasionally groans, but he does not wake up.
As the sun finds its place in the center of the sky, Alden finishes his work. Sitting back against steel wall he surveys the ocean, the sky and his patient.
At the back of the ship a loose grommet clangs against the side of the ship's flagpole. Alden watches the tattered remains of the flag he's too lazy to take down. Its ragged orphan ends whip and slither in the wind, as empty and fruitless a gesture as a the outstretched fingers of a man dying in an empty room.
The winged man wakes up with a groan. His right arm shoots to his back, causing his entire body to convulse. Suddenly, his teeth are clenched as if he's trying to muffle his staccato grunts. His breaths take in air like sharp retreats as Alden helps him ease out of his position. The winged man looks up at Alden.
“Hello, Captain.” he says.
“Call me Alden. How're you feeling?” Alden replies.
The winged man grimaces. “Feel like there's a damned arrow down my back. Where's the medic? He should check up on this,”
Alden appears by the winged man's side, a hand on his shoulder, refusing any attempts to stand up. “He left with the rest of them. Sit down. You're going to rupture your stitches.”
The winged man cranes his head and gazes about at the ocean's endless planes.
“Sir, where are we exactly?”
The captain eyes him.
“We're in uncharted waters. I cast the ship off in what I assumed was the best direction to escape the battle,” he tells the winged man.
There is a moment of silence as the winged man simultaneously shifts his weight onto his elbow as he tries to quantify his memories with these new developments. He casts an eye at the smoke emerging from the ship's interior and the wreckage on its deck.
“We lost,” the winged man says. Alden nods.
“What happened to your wing?” the captain asks.
“They hit my wing when I came in sight of the ship. I swam aboard and crawled my way up before I fainted,”
Alden's eyes meet the winged man's and they stare at each other for a split second before the he breaks the silence.
“So it would be safe to say that they know where we are?”
“Yeah,” the winged man concedes with a pained smile. “All my fault, really. My apologies, sir.”
“Don't worry about it. It's best if you stay in one spot for the time being. We need to get you comfortable. I'll get you some bedding.”
“Hey,” the winged man calls out as Alden beings to walk away. “Get me my flute, will you? It's on top of the box by the foot on my hammock.”
The captain nods and walks off into the ship. When he returns he hands the winged man his flute and starts arranging a makeshift bed on the deck. As Alden tucks the corners of the sheets beneath the pillow, the winged man brings the flute to his lips.
The first muted notes struggle out like an infant doe's awkward first steps. They slouch and slump to the fettered, fumbling fingers of their creator. But as the fingers loosen up so does the flute's sound. A melancholy dirge finds its way across the open water. The captains pauses with a pillow in his hands. He looks up at the cloudless sky and for a second a certain wistful longing steals across his face, mending stress lines and bringing life to his eyes as it goes. But just as quickly as it comes it passes, and his expression darkens.
“Not to your liking, sir?” asks the winged man. Alden sighs.
“It's not the way you play it. I just don't like flutes. The way I was taught how to play the flute robbed me of my ability to enjoy it. But please carry on if you wish. You are very good.”
The winged man laughs and rests the flute on his knees.
“The way I see it, the situation is so shot and hopeless that we've nothing much else to do, sir.”
Alden shoots a glance in the winged man's direction. He opens his mouth with the intention of saying something caustic, but stops himself. He gives a soft cough, sets down the sheets and takes a seat against the wall opposite from the winged man. He chews his bottom lip as he lifts a hand to his mouth, pausing with his index finger a mere hair's breadth from his teeth.
“This ship is dying,” he starts. “I've been trying to save it, but it's sinking as we speak. You think I don't dread being blown to bits? All we have left is one bloody flare. Out here in the middle of nowhere and the rest of the fleet at the bottom of the sea or the bellies of sharks; you're right the situation is damned bloody hopeless.”
“Well if it's any consolation sir, this is a very fine stitching job you did me.” says the winged man, running a finger along the ridges formed over his scar.
“Heh. Thanks.” replies the captain.
“I wasn't aware they taught you to treat wounded in the naval academy, sir.” says the winged man.
“Oh no. I had to go to a different school for that.”
“Which school, sir?”
“Medical school.” Alden says.
“A doctor? If that's what you went to school for then why are you commanding this ship, sir?”
“Ironic, isn't it? I wouldn't be here if it weren't for my father. My two older brothers were killed so he had me take their place. So they put me on this cursed contraption with no knowledge of how to lead it into battle. And now look at it.”
“Why didn't you argue, sir?”
Alden chuckls, a sound that reeks of a sardonic bitterness.
“You should meet my father. Sure, he's a fine old chap when he's got a glass of champagne in one hand and my mum's hand in his other. But put him in a room with no doors or windows and his eyes fringe on a craze. If he doesn't think you've lived up to his family name he'll take a switch to your legs.”
He looks at the metal deck, thumbing the smooth dome of an embedded bolt as he continues.
“I tried to run away from him once. Got about fifty feet out. Then I felt his fist in my back and the next thing I knew, I was staring through a jungle of grass. He hauled me up by the shoulders and threw me back in the car. Left my toy, my wooden sword in the grass, see that's the thing, I don't get why I had it with me. Did I think it would save me if I managed to run away? I cried the entire way back. Funny thing about crying. If you laugh the world will join you. If you cry, you cry alone.”
Alden tilts his head slightly as he gives an angled grin.
“And here's where that leaves me. I'm the bloody hunchback of her majesty's ship Goliath.”
The winged man nods. They sit in silence for a few minutes.
“So... where do people like you come from exactly?” asks Alden.
“Oh you mean people with these, sir?” the winged man gestures at his feathers. “We're raised in a colony by ocean. I have a mother and a father, much like yourself. When we got old enough they begin to teach us how to fly, and more importantly, how to scout. Eventually we get assigned to a ship.”
“Hm. Funny how I never asked that of you before. What's it like, flying up there? Does it ever get old?”
“It's an entirely different world, sir, at least about the clouds. Kind of like how there's an entire world underneath the surface of the ocean. I never get sick of clouds, sir. And it's a beautiful view. I don't think anything looks ugly from the sky.”
The mellowing hue of the sky teases of a setting sun. Alden gets up to find food for dinner.
The winged man spends a few long minutes staring off above the shoulder of one of the ship's cannons into the horizon. Once more he picks up his flute, polishes the mouthpiece and beings to play.
Later that night, Alden and the winged man are jerked awake as the ship careens to the side. The winged man yells as the motion sends pain lancing through his wound.
Alden rushes to the ships railing. He watches, dumbstruck, as a great beast rises out of the sea, showering the entire deck in water. The beast's head dives back into the water, bringing its lengthy serpentine body to bear. It seemed to Alden and the winged man as if a section of the night sky had animated itself and was now moving before their eyes.
The two men's eyes meet for a split second.
“I do reckon we're done for, sir!” roared the winged man over the roar of the beast's splashing.
Alden yells as the ship suddenly lurches to the side. He latches onto a doorknob and hangs on.
“This ship cannot endure much more!” he cries over the ensuing roar of a gargantuan splash.
But as soon as he speaks the catastrophe ends, and the men are left stumbling over a level deck. Both the Alden and the winged man peer over the edge of the ship to see the beast sidling up beside the boat with all the gentle care of a mother.
Alden stares at the beast for a split second before turning about and making off towards the stairwell leading down into the ship.
“Sir!” yells the winged man at Alden's retreating figure. “Sir, where are you going?”
“To get that damned thing off my ship!” Alden roars back as he descends the staircase.
As Alden ventures closer to the ship's control room he becomes aware that the winged man is following him. He enters the room and turns around to see the winged man, out of breath, enter behind him.
“Don't hurt it, sir,” the words choke themselves out like a dying man's last cries for help. “It's not hurting us.”
Alden considers him for a moment. His fingers hover over the switch that starts the ship's propellers.
“If I don't hurt it then what am I to do?” Alden inquires quietly.
“You can shoot off our flare,” the winged man offers.
“Which will alert the enemy. Which will get us killed.”
“You have a point there, sir. But I feel that we're going to get caught eventually anyway. We're hardly moving as it is.” says the winged man.
Alden turns his head back and rests his hand on the lever. He sighs as he takes his hand away and begins to search for the button to deploy the ship's flare.
“And above all, do no harm.” he says.
Nightfall descends, and the HMS Goliath sighs a final weary cloud of smog into the air like a man taking one last drag on his cigarette before letting the night lull him to sleep.
The two men sit side to side against a railing. Before them a stack of shredded maps burns steadily. The fresh ink bubbles and sears into the parchment. The flames wax blue and orange as they burn.
The last smoking tendrils of the flare fired earlier that day drift downwards like a fiery rain.
“How's your back?” asks the captain.
“Doing better, sir. I've been able to do some exercises. Not too bad. Could be worse.”
Alden nods, and they're silent for a bit. The winged man then clears his throat.
“So I've decided, sir, that I'm jumping ship.”
“Oh?” says the captain.
“Yes, sir. And I'm wondering if you can get rid of my other wing for me. It's useless now.”
“I think I can do that.” Alden tells the winged man.
“So will you be going with me, sir?”
“I don't think so. There's nowhere for me to go. I'll stay with this ship until the end.” he smiles caustically, patting the ship's steel surface.
The winged man stares at Alden for a few long seconds before turning his gaze back to the fire. They sit in silence for a few moments before Alden decides to speak.
“Well you've got something on your mind. Go ahead and say it.”
“I honestly think you're being ridiculous, sir.”
“No. I'm only doing what my job entails.” replies Alden.
“A job you didn't choose? That's good and bold and chivalrous but damn it to hell. I've lived,” says the winged man as he shifts his body to face Alden directly. “On this ship my entire life. I was born to it. And I've seen many a captain and crew switch off through the years, but never so foolish a man as yourself. Beg pardon, sir.”
The flames play like tombstone tributes in the Alden's eyes. He snorts, then speaks.
“That's the thing, you see. You've lived here your entire life. What do you know of the world of men? You don't get it. I can't go back. There's shame on my soul and a reluctance in my mind. I can't face my father,” Alden looks off into the night sky. For a brief moment, he is silent. “There's an old adage I read a while back. It goes, those who can no longer afford to live with dignity must die with dignity. Well, so be it.” he finishes.
The winged man tugs his wing into a more comfortable position before he replies.
“So I might not know that much. All I've known is books, crew mates, and the Goliath. I guess I'm not as learned so my words won't amount to much. But do you really feel an allegiance to what was decided without your consent, sir? I've always thought a man should finish what he starts. But I don't believe the same applies to what's forced onto him.”
Alden sighs.
“You don't get it. Part of me wanted this to work. There's the story of my grandfather that's always been with me. His army was in full retreat. They were losing. My grandfather rallied the cavalry and charged into the enemy. He planned on dying that day. And as a result, his men got away safely.”
Alden reaches out, grabbing the rail and pulling himself a little further away from the fire.
“The enemy paid him their highest respect. They strapped him so he'd remain upright on his horse. Placed two copper coins in his mouth. That's the way his men found him when they came back. It was glorious,” Alden's eyes narrow as he glares into the fire.
“If I had a story like that, everything would be better. My father would accept me. I wouldn't be here,” his voice rises. He grabs at the folds of his coat. “I wouldn't be involved with this entire forsaken mess.”
“I can't believe I'm hearing this. You're stranded on a sinking ship in the middle of nowhere and you want the world's pity? Wake up, sir. If you weren't good enough for yourself before decorationt hen you'll never be good enough with it.”
Alden starts to speak, but the winged man cuts him off.
“No sir, I'm not listening to this.” He gets up and takes on last glance at the dying fire, and then at his captain's face.
“So how does it feel, sir, to be a puppet? That's what you are, sir, and your strings stretch the entire ocean. You probably don't scratch your nose until your dear old pa tells you.”
The next day, the winged man hits the water, and for a moment oxygen erupts from his mouth in bubbles as the newly wrought scar on his back convulses in agony.
He breaks the surface of the water, fighting the waves with lopsided strokes.
Striking off, his arms plunge methodically ahead as he moves away from HMS Goliath stroke by stroke, wave by wave. Alden stands on the ships deck, hands folded behind his back as he stares into the cannons of the approaching ship, a knot forming in his stomach as he whispers into the wind.
“Men, I call you here today because on this day we must fight. We must take lives and possibly give our own for the sake of her majesty the queen.” His voice is but a whisper, a teardrop lost amidst a storm.
“We stand upon the best ship in the fleet, the HMS Goliath.”
His eyes and hands shrug with the nervous palpitations of anxious energy that surge through his body as he struggles to stay calm in the face of his imminent Armageddon. He tries to talk again but he can hardly hear himself but for the wind. He coughs and raises his voice.
“I call you here with only one thing to ask you. That someday, that someday in the future should you look back and choose one day, one day to regret and wish that you'd fought and lived differently... let it not be this day.”
His lip quivers as the wind dulls to the soft lisp of a knife against cloth. In the distance the enemy ship draws closer with each passing second. Without any further hesitation he rushes to the edge of the ship, dragging his his cloak and hat off as he runs. Mounting the rail, he dives into the sea.
The enemy ship's salvo collides into the side of the ship, a stone cast from a sling, crushing the temple of the mighty HMS Goliath. The ship groans, gasping volumes of stale air as it begins to sink into the depths of the ocean. Alden opens his eyes and sees nothing but darkness. For a while he stays submerged, hearing the roar of HMS Goliath as its pieces crashed down all around him.
He kicks up to the surface. Treading water, he looks about and sees the enemy ship in the distance, but he can't see the winged man any longer. He hesitates before drawing breath and plunging into the water.
The world continues its negligent ruminations, unaware of a single man kicking off, swimming away from the steadily descending wreckage of HMS Goliath.
| | |
| The Fugue
By Frank Gao
It is Friday Fight Night in Rose Square.
They circle each other like wolves baring their round, padded fangs that they hold close to their chins and chests. Eyes are locked, jaws clenched. Bright light and sweat dance in solos and pairs in their eyes. Each man has a pride, a hunger, a creed to satiate that night. Dreams and fears sequestered behind the iron wall of hollow bravado, tenuously waiting to surge through and make contact as glove meets chin, as fist crushes rib.
A faceless crowd looks on, its raucous cheers encouraging collision, rewarding gritted teeth against quick, sharp jabs to exposed flesh. Yellow slips flash and flicker throughout the darkness of the room, their rabidly attentive owners blessing and cursing their decisions as the two men in the ring trade blows. To the average spectator the men are no different from one another save a pair of loose fitting shorts, one blue, one black. Two manes dark brown hair, two chiseled faces, one pair fit torsos, two sets straining lungs. One pair souls set on domination, hardwired with violence and satisfactory sadism.
A group of young men sit near the ring's edge, booing loudly at clever maneuvering and indecorously cheering hard punches to the face and midriff. But it was all something they'd seen before, all replay and rewind. A punch to the face is only exhilarating if it causes the head to whip back, a punch to the belly rewarding only in the instance that it brings a man to his knees. The boys want something new, something fresh and nasty like the cracking bones or the spurting blood. Older, more patient members of the audience look on with calm expectation as the younger generation clamors for the instant gratification of brutal, uninhibited violence. They wanted the thrill of a defense breaking punch, for incarnadine splotches to slop about the ring and make it slick and treacherous, perfect for more injury, for one man to reign over the other, smashing elbow and fist into his cringing foe's face until the latter lays draped on the ground, drowning in a pool of his own blood.
Perhaps they would have been satisfied with a loaf of bread, jug of wine and a fight to the death as their ancestors might have eons ago. But they are well satisfied when the black shorts boxer perpetrates a breach in etiquette by grappling his opponent with a bear hug, bringing his knees crashing into his completely unsuspecting adversary's thigh, leaving the man winded and hobbling backwards.
The black shorted boxer leans back for a short reprieve. Then, with a quick smile and the plangent cheers of the young wolves behind him baying for blood, he confidently strides forward and deals his reeling opponent a truculent blow to the unprotected side of his face.
He sits at a desk bathed in wan light, the only protest against an otherwise dark room. His fountain pen lays in the unfocused clutch of his hand, its reservoir emptying in useless droplets of ink on a paper that hardly reflects how long he has been sitting there, staring through the hazy veil of light into unfathomable darkness, hoping to see a glimmer of inspiration, shining before him like a lone evening star. For he's hardly written more than:
“The saddest thing in the world is a three legged dog. It struggles on, limping on its lonely back leg, unsure of why it cannot chase its butterflies or automobiles as it used to. If there's any indication that we live in a world that neglects all notions of fairness...”
And so he ponders, his last sentence a lonely orphan seeking to make futile acquaintances out of the pooling puddle of ink that grows steadily larger with every passing moment. He sighs, easing the pent up pressure in his chest for a mere few seconds before it seeps back in, pushing against his heart and ribs. This is what they mean when they talk of a heavy heart, he surmises. He considered adding it to his current piece but thought better of the notion, being unable to relate the two in any conceivable form.
He props his forearm on the table, resting his elbow on the surface while he holds his aching head in his hand. His gaze draws across the silent monitor across the room, quietly contemplating him from its lofty position on the shelf. Unwelcome recollections stir in his mind, and he remembers his foolish trust and the inevitable betrayal by his trustees...
Fool he had been as he sat at the typewriter, delightedly tapping as he transferred his handwritten drafts into typed copies, sending them to respected friends, readily awaiting satisfied replies and useful critiques. The surprise he had felt when he saw his work, the very heart and soul he had captured and put on paper, published under a different name. The horror, the futile pleading and raving, those bastard judges that had let the perpetrator get away with it. Now they were gone from him forever, he their heartbroken father and they his kidnapped children. And so he sits in a state of stagnation, his pen budging no further than his growing sense of misanthropic hopelessness, thoughts whirling around in an infinite carousel of madness, its incandescent extravagance winking against the pull of the darkness like lonely stars in the night sky, like diamonds hidden amongst folds of black felt.
The ring was a lot smaller than it had been in the old days, the boxer decided as he stared at the constellation drips of blood on the canvas floor. They make everything smaller these days, more dense, more bang for the buck. People have shorter attention spans that needed smaller soccer, hockey, basketball and boxing arenas. Put the players closer together and everything becomes a blur of spontaneity, less drawn out gridlock and awkward stalemate. There was none of the satisfaction that suspense offered, but instead instantaneous action. Put the boxers closer to each other, give them little space to maneuver or escape, and the fights get more brutal and bloody. Like a city with its cramped quarters, its multitudinous web of rude gestures, curse words and honking horns. He's still in mid thought as his opponent bears down on him, tossing him roughly against the cage walls. He collapsed at the feet of the wall, fingers scrabbling around the chain link threads as the black shorts boxer mercilessly pummels his exposed back.
As he sinks down once more, unable to summon the heat of the moment energy required for a quick revival, the crowd raves its sickening joy at the spectacle, and through the glare of the bright lights and mingled blood and sweat he sees a few of the audience's purists getting up to leave, shaking their heads and crumpling up their yellow slips to slip into forgetful pockets or waste baskets. He lays there, the referee's shouted numbers plinking against his subconscious like pea shot against a brick wall. What am I doing, he asks himself. I can take this sorry little bastard. Give him all I got, knees, elbows, and maybe a good head butt. Wipe that bastard of a smirk off his face, give his girl something to wince about when she sees him.
He surges upwards in between the raining blows to grapple his opponent away from the cage walls. They part for a slight respite as the bell ends the round. Just as quickly as it seemed to begin the break ends. The blue shorts boxer stands there, his left arm hanging low and subdued as he stood on bent legs, staring straight into his opponent's cold, spiteful eyes. You have an agenda to keep, thought the boxer. Don't forget why you're here, don't forget why you accepted this man's offer on the street. You need the money for what you wanna do, so just lie down. Take a hit. Be a goddamn possum.
But by some tangent string of pride he doesn't follow through on his plan. Instead, he slowly raises his fists to hover over his chin. He clenches his teeth and begins to lunge a foot left, a few inches right, steadily moving towards his opponent. The black shorts boxer surveys him with amusement and malice as he moves forward to meet the blue shorts boxer.
There are lights on all four sides of the boxer. They each cast a weak shadow, compass points stretching out in their respective directions. Like quarter peels of an orange, the shadows peel back to reveal the naked, lonely man with his dying honor, one of the last of his kind, a gallant knight upon a lonely steed wearing his gently melting armor.
A gladiator stands before his fate surrounded by a crowd stuffed on bread and inebriated on wine, glutted on split flesh and drunk of bloody violence, his faceless enemy advancing, the lion on his shield glaring at the fighter with a vengeful fury, the mace in his foe's other hand twitching left to right as the spiked ball on the end of its chain swings in menacing ellipticals, whirling against the wind as it seeks to maim flesh and crush bone.
And so the slaughter begins anew.
The writer can't stop thinking about it, can't lay the hatchet into its long awaiting grave and start anew. He is obsessed with the years and mental eons of work that now stand under an undeserving banner. It's heartbreaking, infuriating, grossly unjust and so extremely incongruent to everything that he has believed in. He can hardly breathe but for the emotions, like caustic, sharp bile pumping up his throat to fuel the bitter flames of his mind.
He remembers the advice that she gave him, to always place his trust in people, that the immortal human spirit would always win out in the end. She's Hollywood's goddamn parrot, all mattresses breaking falls, no realism or consigned fate at all. No evil ever goes unpunished and no good ever escapes without some gross amount of consolation.
But what now, he mentally raves as he spits at every iota of memory that is left of her. I trust people, I can't bloody help it. I help people all I can, but an outstretched hand is just asking to be stepped on nowadays. People like me can't do anything but be polite and selfless while the world rolls right over us.
Inherent good of the human spirit, he laughs to himself. As if anything were constant in this world that adores the fickle malice of its inhabitants and its casualty-inducing roller coaster twists. Do you really think this inherent good will always be ours? Even with bombs that can erase a million souls, third ears in your phone and third eyes in your living room, uniformity and cursed efficiency governing the rhythm by which our listlessly beating hearts play, do you think this human spirit of yours will last? I think it's a privilege. And I think we're giving up that privilege as I write.
He pulls out a fresh sheet of paper, caught in the web of his tormented fury as he angrily writes as his first sentence, This one's for the optimists.
The blue shorts boxer lies on the ground, hands protesting feebly against the stark contours of his opponent's face as punches whip into his ribs and head.
The gladiator lies writhing on the ground as his opponent reigns over him, whipping the cruelly spiked ball of the mace into his flesh, the blows becoming more potent and damaging as the crowd's tempo crescendo and maintains volume.
The boxer loses consciousness at some point of the barrage, his body slumping to the floor, lifeless and destroyed amidst the bass roar of a crowd ready for another round.
The gladiator dies amidst warm, dank sand saturated with the dark hue of his own blood, his audience having already forgotten him as they waited attentively for the next victim, banging cups and collecting bets as they impatiently scream for more.
Fifteen minutes and thirty dollars later the boxer staggers out onto a street slick with rain water, muddled reflections glinting dully off its uneven surface.
He stumbles over the curb and walks off towards the nearest phone booth. It is a cold night; he gently hugs his aching sides as he settles into a phone booth, inserting a few coins and dialing the number by heart.
Hello mother, he breathes into the receiver, his intake of air ragged from his aching ribs and fatigued heart.
Why hello son. Isn't this a pleasant surprise. How are you? Is there anything wrong. Oh, you sound so bad. How is the city treating you, dear?
It's fine, it's fine, he wheezed. I just made myself a bit of money. Going to go and see a concert. You know, the one from all the posters I used to have on my wall. Been waiting for it a while.
That's good to hear, but you should be saving your money. Buy a car, maybe a house for a sweetheart one day? You have one now? It's been a long time, hasn't my handsome boy found himself a nice girl?
No mother... I haven't met a girl in a while.
They're all the same, the writer bitterly penned his thoughts. I look at all of them and all I can see is HER. The same smile, the same stupid little things coming out of her mouth. It's god awful, the people I meet these days. All I see when I look at a pretty face is another thing I can't bring myself to trust. But I trust them anyways.
Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that... but a good boy like you does deserve a sweet young lady to cling to his arm! You just keep doing what you like and save a good amount of money so when you meet that special someone you'll be set!
Yeah, I'm doing that. I save my checks like you tell me. Half of each one. It's slow going though.
You know what I'd love to do all day? I want to just get away and skip stones on a stagnant lake. I want to just spend a day sitting backwards on a forward moving train listening to nothing but Beethoven. But I can't very well do that, now can I? It's this accursed world and its unquenchable thirst for expansion and advancement. You always kill off a few good men when you speed things up to a blur, but we want it now and we want it cheap, so we can cut a few corners and limbs as we go, as long as we get there. We're all trotting out of a conveyor belt to have guns held to our skulls. You step out of line, the barrel rotates sixty degrees and gives a dull click.
Remember what I always tell you, trust in yourself. And follow that golden rule! You can always trust in people to return a favor. Just you see, there are many good people in this world that will help you out. Why, I don't know where I'd be without the nice people in this world.
Yeah mum, I know.
I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm a misogynist. I'm a misanthrope. I'm so pessimistic it's killing me. I'm depressed, I'm angry all the goddamn time. It's a feeling I just can't shape, it's like the weather, I can't change it just like that. I don't trust a bloody soul save for my own but I can't stop helping people. It makes me feel better about myself, and I think, in those times where I'm devoting all that time and energy to lifting the afflicted off of their knees, that maybe things will turn out well. But oh, people have a way of proving you wrong. Yank out one weed and ten more pop up. The only good thing that comes from this interminable depression and anger is my writing. And now that's gone too. Gone in the cesspit that is this thankless world.
Of course there'll be the bad people once in a while but they don't matter. You just keep your chin right up and walk on through! Don't let anything stop you.
Don't talk to strangers, look both ways before I cross the street. I know, mother. Thanks.
I remember I went to a circus once when I was a little boy. The act where a man would strap himself to a board, terrifyingly immobile as a knife thrower hurled daggers at the board, puncturing close to the bound man's body with stunning precision.
The fool I am, to render myself defenseless, trusting those temptresses with their shaky, backstabbing hands. The head I hold so high in the clouds of blind trust that falls to earth faster than heaven's slain angel as a knife spears my vulnerable heart and sits there, quivering with truculent glee. “Thou dastardly sow, thou cowardly traitor of a woman” I bellow at her retreating back. She goes on to cast daggers at some other poor fool bound in place by her beauty and apparent graces until the moment he finds the knife's blade carrying running blood from his body into a little pool on the ground. And then he screams. Sometimes he screams at her in hatred. Other times he screams at her because he can't understand why she's done it. He loves her. He loves her so much that he would trust her even as the second, third and fifteenth daggers made their acquaintance with his flesh.
“Thou hast slain me thrice, thrain and evermore” I gasp, dying but not quite ready to cross Hades' river.
You make good friends now, dear. Make good friends and keep them close to you. Keep everything nice and straight and that's the way things will turn out, straight and nice. I'll talk to you later, son. Keep in touch! Love you...
Love you too mum. I'm sending you some money. And I might come home for the holidays. We'll see. Buh bye.
Oh god, somebody help me. I don't know what to do with this weight in my chest. I'm in so much pain all the time. Yes, I have friends. But it seems like they only come to me when they're in pain. Did you know that I'm a surgeon? I can repair wounds, holes through the heart, lacerations of the soul. I can talk and soothe the pains of those who come to me. I can make them feel better, let them see the clear path ahead of them.
But I can't do it for myself. I'm alone here, I'm stumbling in the darkness, blind poor fool that I am. Where's MY surgeon? Where's MY angel? All this helping, it should all come back shouldn't it? But it hasn't. I've been broken for as long as I've known me. Oh Jesus, I feel so lonely sometimes. But it's a pain I'll happily bear if it means I'm forever writing masterpieces...
The boxer set the phone back into the receiver and exited the booth. He briefly checked his watch and made off into the labyrinth streets of the city.
Ladies and gentlemen. I present to you the mule, the stupid ass, the deformed horror of our time. I give you... the trusting man.
He has no apparent physical deformities, instead, he is crippled by his blind faith in his fellow man. Look at his club footed optimism, his back hunched from bending to the wants and needs of others, his throat parched and his stomach shriveled from watering and feeding all but himself. See the nebulous wounds in his back, a knife here, a boot there, eyes obstinate to the many betrayals and manipulations about him as he remains steadfast to his farcical philosophy.
Ah, the shame and the pity you all feel as you gaze upon this sad, sad creature. But do not fret, for he will be gone within the century...
The writer walks into the hazy mural of pale yellow and murky streets both light and dark. The pen and paper sit back on the desk. He realized now how fruitless his day's work has been. Nothing but wasted ink and mankind minutes, and the piece he had just wrote, strong as he felt about it, was too self absorbed and esoteric to be published.
He pushes it out of his mind. He needs to get to the bus, but he has time and a few leftover bills in his pocket to spare, so he goes out of his way, taking a circuitous route.
The boxer ends up at the homeless shelter not far from the bus stop. They wince when they see his face, the patches of dried blood and mourning purple and blue marring his otherwise welcome visage. What happened to you? they inquire.
I fell, he answers quietly.
Fell? Did you fall on your face? they ask incredulously
Yes, he replies, not looking up. I fell on my face.
He spends the next couple of hours packing boxes full of canned foods and unloading trucks full of toys and clothing articles. His body aches, the sharp pains nagging him as he strains under large bundles and boxes to lift them up and around. But he persists, and with time the pain stops. He is working, and work requires all of his concentration. Work is good; work is a hiatus, and it helps him forget.
The writer strolls along, his mental burdens having lifted along with the tempo of his stride. It is along this route, which he regularly walks in the opposite direction to get home from work, where he meets the denizens of the streets among the way. There is the man with the trumpet who plays either happy or sad tunes according to how much people give him that day, and the man who never sings but has a microphone at his lips as he plucks the strings of his guitar to songs of a bygone era. Lastly, the elderly woman who relies on her electric wheelchair to rove about. But as he is walking in the opposite direction, she is the first he meets that evening.
Good evening to you ma'am, he hails with a slight inclination of his head.
Why, it's awful nice to see you, dear. There's been nary a helpful soul this night. Spare some change?
Always, he grins, and he drops a couple of bills into her cupped hands, those wrinkled, knotted and trembling mandibles he so strongly pities.
God bless you, she smiles.
He smiles back at her and continues to walk. I'm sure he will, he thinks to himself. Busy bastard doesn't seem to be doing much else for the world.
He plunks himself down next to the man with the guitar, gladly noting that heaps of ones peek out from within the man's open guitar case, coupled with the odd quarter, a few dimes and a single serendipitous five. He doesn't speak to the man, for he's established from the very start that the man doesn't want to talk. The microphone pointed towards the man draws in the gentle lisp of the guitar and the hodgepodge sounds of a city at night. The guitarist's eyes are closed, as if he doesn't care if you place a few slips of paper money or coin for his sake, or god forbid take some for yourself. He plays and exudes a gentle rhythm of trust and existential importance, as if he cares not for the cold that stings like tiny nettles across his grizzled, beaten cheeks, nor for the busy world outside, but merely knows that as he sits there stroking his soul into his guitar he exists, and the music he makes seeps into the city's life stream and makes it real, makes it melancholy and fine to the tongue. The writer deposits two dollars into the man's guitar case and stays there listening for a few more minutes before pushing himself up, clapping the man on the shoulder as he goes.
He jay walks across West Saint road to get to the trumpeter.
The trumpeter's body is replete with spontaneous motion as he bounces to the merry beats spilling from the golden funnel that is his instrument.
Good haul today, eh? the writer asks.
Nah, shrugs the trumpeter, pausing his tune to chat with his regular. The street is empty, with only a few people driving by immersed in their own music, and the lingering strings of the guitarist floating down the street.
I'm just happy today. Ever have one of those days, nuthin' can get you down, nuthin's gonna get in your way? That's how I feel right now. And I want everybody to feel it with me.
The writer gives a smile that feels more like a grimace. Yeah, that's great. Good for you, man. He drops his last available bill into the man's collection tin. Checking the time on his cell, he sees that he needs to be at the bus stop within the next five minutes.
You take care now, he tells the trumpeter.
You too! the man replies cheerfully. Have a good one. God bless ya.
I'm sure he will, the writer surmises as he makes his way to the bus stop.
The boxer reaches the bus stop at 5:43, the writer at a quarter till. They sit in the same sheltered stop, a dirtied glass partition striking a barrier in between them as they wait patiently for the sixty three bus to arrive.
They both wait for the women and elderly to board the bus before they do. They pay the one fifty fee and sit in different rows on different sides of the bus. The way the bus is arranged, there is a center aisle and a couple of seats on both sides. There are about a dozen rows total, and a few seats facing towards the center aisle, fold able for the sake of handicapped patrons.
Everybody in the bus sits in separate rows on window seats. Ridiculous, the boxer thinks as he surveys the backs of their heads. They'd leave an open space for a fellow rider but would never take that open space unless force to.
The bus rolls on in stark, mechanical silence, interrupted only by the cool female voice relaying the names of coming stops and requests to get off.
The boxer and the writer get off near an intersection. They make off on their separate ways, the boxer walking straight down the street to the concert hall while the writer waits at the crosswalk, the boxer in his frayed jeans, musty jacket and frazzled hair, the writer with his black coat obscuring his white shirt and navy tie, his dark slacks listing lazily about his ankles as he embarks with a brusque pace as the light turns green.
All throughout their waiting they take absolutely no notice of each other.
The boxer walks into the concert hall. He barely has enough money left in his pocket for the ride home, and so he wistfully eyes the merchandise stands strewn about the floor where the fans will be massed in just under an hour. He stands there, self conscious of his frayed shirt with its skull and crossbones emblem, the band name emblazoned in sharp, gaudy letters underneath. He's been lucky to squeeze in at the head of the line and is one of the first inside, so he walked towards the stage, staring with adoring eyes at the guitar, drums and bass that would fill the air with indomitable energy, a fist against oppression, a middle finger at the hypocrites and optimists.
The writer settles into his seat. He is slightly annoyed by the fact that a rock concert is playing just down the street, but as the man at the front door explains to him, the building has been reasonably sound proofed in a recent remodeling stint.
In his hands he holds the program for the evening. Disinterested, he scans through the names of other composers until he finds what he is looking for. Three pieces by Ludwig Van Beethoven are to be played that evening, and that was the only reason he had come.
Running his fingers through the coarse hair that he's neglected to wash or comb before leaving his apartment, he lets the program drop from his other hand onto the floor. He closes his eyes in anticipation of the coming breath of life, the imminent storm that ravages and renews souls.
The stink of cigarette smoke and perspiration clings to the boxer's nostrils as he struggles to stay near the front amidst a crowd of flailing fans.
Lost among the crush of a hundred bodies like an ailing ship at sea against the ostinato of surging waves casting their grasping liquid claws up like the contents of a witches brew, knowing that to fall under would be to be crushed, to be asphyxiated under a frenzied stampede. As he struggles about the encroaching flesh he keeps his eyes train on his savior, the beacon shining brightly through the room's haze, voice spearing through confusion and mayhem to coax out a primal fury.
The lead guitarist raises his instrument over his head, his fingers gliding across its strings as he screams into the microphone, a siren's call that drives the crowd wild, their arms reaching up and out towards the man, like undead claws lusting for flesh's warm touch they strain and strain to reach the men that bring them a light so great it makes every atom of their being shiver with joy...
Myriad bows jab up and swoop down in synchronized rhythm, frantically clashing against violin and cello strings as they play the dread- filled interlude that continually reappears through Beethoven's 5th. The paths the conductor's arms follow wax and wane as he steadily builds towards a climax, a culmination of Beethoven's anger and despair that fills the room like a great wave, like fate looming over a man slowly losing his sense and sanity.
The writer contemplates Beethoven's predicament, the shock as the first few lingering strains of silence began to spread their unwelcome tendrils into his life, the hatred that must have consumed him, the rage he felt at people, at the world, at god himself. The uplifting strings of the interlude return. Just as every cloud has a silver lining, every clear blue sky has a foreboding dark tinge, and as he moved on spurred on by happy thoughts and happy days, Beethoven must have felt fate's damned raven slipping its talons over his back and shoulder like a hated whisper, drawn in evermore to the dark certainty of his dilemma, that silence would settle upon him and never let go.
But he would continue to fight fate, even after its most apparent victory had been settled. He would strike at it again and again until he became its master, it his cowering hound.
The boxer stumbles to the floor, his hands, by reflex, shooting in front of him to break his fall. He frantically struggles back up only to be shoved back down again. He feels his heart beating through his throat as a helping hand reaches out and lifts him off the ground.
The boxer never knows his savior for as soon as he is up he is back in the fray, struggling to breathe as bodies and heavy smoke beset him on all sides.
The rock star on the stage whips his head back and roars a final challenge before pointing the mic out to the crowd. They respond, raunchily screaming the lyrics from heart as the guitarist stands there, his arm out stretched, the chesire smile on his face gleaming like bleached ivory.
The moonlight sonata. Every member of the audience, bored or enraptured, a separate image in their minds.
Diamonds in a bed of fresh fallen snow, twinkling under the pall of a gloomy winter day as they slowly disappear.
A breakup song. Alternating lines of anger, regret and remorse. The guitarist hangs his head as he speaks softly to his crowd. For a few hours he is a god, so omnipresent and sovereign that he commands the very mood of the room. And as he lets the forlorn strings of his guitar fall to a moody low, the crowd goes with him, sharing in his pain and thanking him for it.
The uplifting arias of Beethoven's 9th. Strength and unwavering fortitude woven through its every nuance. You would silence me and make me half a man, but with my music I will stand resolute. You can take everything I have, give me every reason to give up and back down, but you can't change the way this music makes people feel. I have the hands to write with and the mind to wring worlds from crashing rain and furious thunder. Here I am despite the weight of your crushing palms.
The guitarist finishes his piece to the elevated eagle's cry of the crowd. He spreads his arms out and basks in their adulation. He has felt the pain that they feel, has the power to draw it out and make it real. It becomes the air they breathe, golden water from the heavens that trickle down throats to revive their dying hearts. They see the world with wide open eyes, walk away with jaunty springs in their step.
They have been freed.
The last lingering strains of the violins linger in the air like ash disintegrating in the open air.
A standing ovation.
The writer stands up and applauds, the small smile gracing his lips oddly strained, as if he has not used it in a while.
He feels that he has been saved.
There is a fire in the concert hall, probably because of the churning masses within. The boxer shoves his way out onto the street. He's forgotten how cold it was outside, and draws his bruised, aching arms about him as people frantically spill out onto the street.
Just down the street the well dressed patrons of the local orchestra walk out, drawing the lapels of their trench and overcoats more tightly over their chests.
They glance disdainfully at the burning concert hall down the street, the flames bursting through the windows to greedily suck the oxygen from the air. A plume of smoke drifts upwards past the hazy yellow of the streetlight's glare and continues to feed into the dark night sky where it eventually dwindles and fades to black.
The boxer quickly makes off towards the bus stop, urging people to move away from the burning building so that the firemen can get in and do their job.
The writer notes the fire but keeps walking towards the bus stop. In his mind he still hears the unique melodies of Beethoven.
He happens upon the intersection and politely allows a car to pass. As he does, however, the light turns red on his side, and he is forced to wait a good five minutes as more cars pass him by.
The boxer reaches the bus stop, as it is on his side of the street. The bus is already there, but a frail, elderly lady is struggling to board. The boxer kindly takes her handbag from her and sets it on the bench. He helps her on board, then goes back to get the bag. He hands the bag through the window to the old lady, who thanks him with a toothless smile.
He steps back and rifles through his pockets for spare change, but realizes his wallet is missing. He curses, and before he can beseech the driver to let him on the bus, the doors close and the bus leaves.
The boxer sighs. He sits down and drags his Ipod out of his pocket.
While he's waiting at the intersection, the writer does the same.
They've both spent the evening intoxicated, one with rock music, the other with Beethoven. The writer merely puts his on shuffle and begins to listen to the first song. The boxer searches through his list of artists and chooses Rufus Wainwright's Hallelujah.
I've heard there was a secret chord,
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music do you?
The writer eventually works his way over to the bus stop. He notices the boxer, and sits on the other side of the hazy plastic partition. It's a cold night, and he wraps his arms around his stomach and leans forward, trying to stay warm.
She tied you to a kitchen chair,
She broke your throne
She cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Down the street, a little boy's selling balloons. A myriad of colors bunch together, red, blue, green, purple, yellow, orange, their strings all tapering into the boy's tiny fist.
He inches too close to the street and startles as a car hurtles by, honking at him. In his fright he releases the balloons, their colors almost completely uniform in the dull yellow light of the city streets.
He stares upwards as they float away, slowly separating and unwinding from one another as they cast off in separate directions.
Seen your flag on a marble arch,
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.
And then he begins to cry, plump, hot wet tears cascading over his dimples and ample cheeks. He keeps looking up. Wipes a sorry sleeve over his eyes, thinks its not fair. What a cruel world it is, that would take his balloons away.
The balloons continue their flight upwards. They eventually disentangle completely and fly far apart, never to meet again.
He's stopped crying now. At least, he thinks to himself, they won't look the same color as they do when he holds them to the ground. Maybe they'll regain their color up there.
And remember when I danced with you?
The holy dark was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
The bus comes by again. The boxer boards first, having found his wallet in his other pocket, the writer directly after him. He smells the stench of smoke and perspiration on the boxer's clothes. It's completely alien to him, and he wrinkles his nose.
Maybe there's a god above
And all I ever learned from love
Is how to shoot at someone who outdrew you
They sit in separate rows, the boxer a good two rows behind the writer. The writer's closer to the exit, though it should be the other way around since the boxer's stop comes first.
It's not a cry you can hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
The bus grinds to a halt. The boxer gets up to leave, but stumbles over his own feet. He falls right in front of the writer, who surveys him for a brief moment.
He sees the bruises and gashes on the boxer's body, gets a whiff of the fire smoke and stagnant sweat of the man. He sees the worn, frayed clothes and emblem of a band that he despises but has never listened to. He looks on dispassionately and does not leave his seat to help the man, merely watches as the boxer gets to his feet.
Their eyes meet for a brief moment before looking away.
The boxer sees a well dressed man, sees the disdain in his eyes. He narrows his eyes and scowls, turning away.
They hurriedly look at their Ipod screens, the boxer as he jumps onto the curb, the writer just to have something to do. Their song is almost over.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
| | |
| Absolutely superb book, can't believe how well it's written. It confounds every notion of heroism and righteousness while presenting a compelling argument for the deterioration of American society.
simply amazing.
by the time the reader finished the book they will absolutely believe that this is no longer a country for old men | | |
|
