There they were. Not so much unlike any other Saturday evening. Maybe a bit more aggressive in their attempts to be involved in the events of the night than most. For this night, rather than standing by, shrouded by the darkness that inevitably encompasses the darkest remote corners of the establishment, they are seen in the forefront. There they sit. Faces clear to those who pass. Illuminated by the lights on the exterior of the structure. There they are. To announce their presence would be unnecessary. They sit at the front table. Not the small one next to the door, but the large one, immediately next to that. The one with enough room for eight, yet it is just the three of them.
The one directly in front of the window. Streetside. For all the passersby.
There they sat. There they spoke about times past; that is, in the short time that they’d known one another. Yet somehow, their friendship seemed to extend far beyond the physical truth that was. It begged the questions, at least from one of the participants this evening: What is time? What is reality? And how can one place into perspective those events of the past, and those current? From his viewpoint, the present somehow always won.
Now.
Right now.
This very moment answered all the questions that he had longed for his entire life. Sure, there were still uncertainties, but somehow, those questions that could be answered at this moment somehow derived there clarity, their certainty from this moment. Not directly from the events, but more from what this moment stood for. This comfortable moment. This moment in time, and in space, where all things, whether they be personal experience or lessons learned from those mistakes inevitably made, somehow came together. This comfortable moment where all things seem right, all important questions required for survival answered all in the good company of those next to him.
* * *
This venue was unique in it’s particular ability to literally manufacture inebriation through the sweet concoctions that the bartender produced, regardless of who was tending bar. If one weren’t very conscience of the plot against them, they would certainly fall victim. Sometimes the same fate would befall even the patron most aware of the plot.
The drinks were served in a large jar, the very same jar that someones grandmother might use to store tomatoes of turnips in over the course of a long Midwest winter. The sheer size of the container, along with it’s unusual diameter and thickness of glass made it difficult for anyone to estimate the amount of the beverage within that was consumed. Even with these threats to their ability to make proper decisions, somehow the three maintained that ability. At least partially.
The evening progressed. The colorful characters, inches away on the opposite side of the thick-paned glass of the window, passed by. Some noticing their presence. Some interacting with them, though probably not consciencely due to their own intoxication. Others made gestures. One, in fact, danced in a circle while suckling on his right thumb, then proceeded to present a certain finger of his left hand to the three. Amazing. Somehow, this one particular individual managed to entertain, insult, and perform three consecutive acts that none of the three could ever recall witnessing from a single human being or otherwise at the same time.
Throughout the course of events, the conversation of evening continued, only briefly interrupted by those happenings about them. The table, being far too large for just the three, separated them by several feet on all sides. On one end, next to the window sat one always concerned with where life might be headed with respect to his ambitions toward his romantic aspirations, but lack of action. On the other side: the quiet observer. Along for the ride, along for something to fill his time with those individuals that he calls friends. There he sits with them. Senses most acute to the ploy that this particular establishment has deployed against the patrons with the dangerous potion offered for a mere $3 in an enormous glass jar. He partakes, but knows the limit. His line is drawn just below that of the nearly equally quiet member (at least to this point) on the opposing side of this table. Between them resides the only one of them with real responsibility in life. Yet somehow he is the one that livens up the evening. Possibly the repression that true responsibility inevitably brings to one’s life is the source of his unhindered excitement. Not that he doesn’t absolutely relish the happiness that his daily life brings, but something different appears in situations like these. His line is drawn a full two or three measures above that of the either counterpart to his right or left.
Enough time had been spent. The three rose from their seats and were soon off to what was next.
If I could open my arms
And span the length of the isle of Manhattan,
I’d bring it to where you are
Making a lake of the East River and Hudson
If I could open my mouth
Wide enough for a marching band to march out
They would make your name sing
And bend through alleys and bounce off all the buildings.
I wish we could open our eyes
To see in all directions at the same time
Oh what a beautiful view
If you were never aware of what was around you
And it is true what you said
That I live like a hermit in my own head
But when the sun shines again
I’ll pull the curtains and blinds to let the light in.
Sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole
Just like a faucet that leaks and there is comfort in the sound
But while you debate half empty or half full
It slowly rises, your love is gonna drown
Your love is gonna drown
Your love is gonna…
What does one have to say about this? I’d love to hear….
An almost surreal setting. The sky shades of pink, streaks of blue and broad strokes of purple, but mostly the warm glow of orange casting it intense color across all things. This time of year the trees and grass beneath were at their peak of green yet the overwhelming cast of the sun above made them appear almost brown; blending all objects’ colour and making them it’s own.
Still off in the distance were the spikes of lighting. Like a spear through the calm they cut across the sky, far too distant to hear the cracks of thunder to follow. Up close, the clear, clean droplets of water that recently mist upon them twisted the light that now beamed down upon the petals of the tulips below. From this vantage, the dark clouds retreated to the west.
He sat there, perched on the edge of the opening to the roof of the barn, peering out at what remained of the storm that passed above. Thoughts of wonder; thoughts of delight. Too many thoughts, too many ideas to remember, though he wished that he could do so for later review. To remember, to catalogue within his mind, in hopes that one day they could be retrieved. Retrieved so that he could put them into the story. Not the story of his life, but -his- story. The one that he would one day write. The one that he would one day possibly take part in the activity of transforming it into a film. In his mind it was perfect. Far from here. Far from, in his mind, this dismal scene. Not due to those things that surrounded him at this moment. No, indeed he felt comfort in the wake of this natural event. But instead far from what was indeed the reality of these times. The things to come. The way that things were.
He sat to reflect for a moment. Looking back on all that had been and all that had taken place. He didn’t realize it now, but he was reflecting on all those things that would one day define who he is today. Too many things to remember. Too many to catalogue. Yet all a piece of what was and is to yet come.
Down the path that was the narrow road to the home, he heard the distant sound of a running engine. At this time it could only be one thing: his father had returned home for the day. This could only mean that the dreams of the day had to be put aside. Now was time for more practical thoughts. Those being anything to do with the progress of the duties of life… and nothing else. His heart became cold, his spirit sagged. Hope was never lost but certainly diminished. At this young age, how could there ever be escape?
* * *
The car pulled into the drive and came to a stop. It could be told of the truth that happened next. The truth of what happened to a boy so young, yet so full of imagination and adventure within his mind. It could be told what happened to a boy that spent his day completely involved in his vivid thoughts of those fantastic things to come. It could be told of what happens to a boy driven by such impractical nonsense and what happens to that boy when it has been discovered that that he had spent his day dreaming rather than accomplishing some viable work for the day. This could all be told. No doubt his life had certainly been shaped by the repression of those minute things that gave his young existence meaning. It is a combined effort of all things that has brought him to were he is today whether these events seemed to be a force in life at the time.Fear. Possibly a bit of panic overcame him, but an urgent sense to the extent of the unknown to come masked most of these things. He focused on those tulip petals below. The light glimmering from those droplets. For a moment, calm. Just before the darkness of the emotional storm rolling in over the horizon from the very direction that the past storm had come. Yet, unlike the storm created by nature, it was clear as to what would come. It was clear as to what would come from -this- particular storm.The car door slammed shut. The heavy footsteps made their way toward the barn. They beat against the hard earth. They were deafening. More like those of the souls of wooden shoes against a marble floor.
* * *
He knew why they had come. He knew all along. He pulled the inexpensive comforter down and away from his body alongside the tightly pressed sheet. He scuffs his way across the carpet. He had never removed his shoes. A dim light reached into the room from the small window in the bathroom. Briefly he glanced that direction. He was on the second floor and could possibly fit through the small opening and onto the fire escape. Briefly he glanced toward the door. What was beyond the front door he knew. What was beyond the threshold of the bathroom window was the unknown. To suppress the unknown, or to embrace the given? The bottoms of the shoes scooted against the rough grain of the carpet as he moved.
