In The City

I

Hello my name is Alex and I am a think-a-holic. I work waiting tables at a wine-bar on Woozer Way. No jokes; this is a modern form of torture. Furthermore, I am, occasionally, hopelessly, restless.

I pace eagerly along sullen moonlit streets, prowling for food, looking so serious, as if expecting to slaughter and roast the animal myself, in the midst of the swarming metropolis.

As I walk, I play a scene in my head, a scene between myself and my neighbor ‘Jess,’ a scene yet to take place. Jess is the darling of my fantasies. Alas, my imagination has a foul sense of humor; she is partial for sad endings.

I transfix my attention on a murky figure, approaching with stern intent, inevitable to cross my path. Paranoia is the night’s close cousin. My heart beat rises to the outline of curves and the defiant thump of heels hitting concrete. As the shape sharpens within distance/drawing closer, my gaze blazes for a new focus, denying the masculine transvestite the attention ‘her’ mini-skirt beckons for.

Feeling famished, I consider an establishment - McDonald’s Express: serving fast-food faster! Prostitutes base their work on the same concept: give me good money for a bad product and now get the fuck out.

I am blindsided by broad letters written in fresh white paint across a head-sign, reading ‘Life Is Beautiful,’ next to a downward pointing arrow. Directly below is a wooden bench, parallel to the sign. Lying across the green bench is a homeless bum in a brown tweed suit. The bum is only semi-conscious, his fingers struggling to grasp a bottle of whiskey hardly a quarter full. Nevertheless, the destitute man half-smiles to daydreams in his waking slumber. I am dumbstruck by the incredible coincidence of this fleeting, breathing composition. Life is beautiful indeed, I think.

Tonight is the late-twenty-something anniversary of my day of birth. I don't like to talk about that or think about it remember it etc. I am my only birthday buddy. Although nothing is certain; there is warmth in the stillness of this nighttime air.

II

Tonight is Sunday. Every Sunday after sunset I carry clothes down to the public laundromat, which is likewise Jess’s routine. I do this solely to stand in close proximity to the siren, as I have both a washer and a dryer. Nevertheless, in three months, I am yet to say "hello." Not to say I haven't tried; I have had multiple anxiety attacks in several close attempts. In fact, once, almost certainly, while gasping for air, Jess looked deeply concerned for my well-being.

I turn a round corner to discover a band of street performers, four musicians piping jazz for a scattered crowd, at the head of a long alley. The howls of stray animals are heard from the depths of the alley, singing along with the cry of the clarinet and the wail of the saxophone, creating a symphony of strums and beats and growls and purrs. A fat cat emerges from the thin alley and curls up by the starved musicians, next to an open guitar case containing a meager pile of change.

 I contemplate the collection of alleyways cutting across the cryptic city map, an intricate network of tiny highways enjoyed by thugs and rebels, conspiring in riddles, transporting secrets and mal-intentions. Dark happenings occur in deserted passageways.

My feet are feeling antsy. A fortnight ago, I constructed a grand plan to approach Jess on my birthday, at the Laundromat, to ask Jess on a date...making TODAY the BIG day. I shall dress to impress, smile for awhile, and let zest do the rest. And pray to AllahBhuddahShivaJesus (honestly Satan even) that I don't have a panic attack.

A bright red hand flashes; I yield at the crosswalk for a breather, though no cars cross this way. My eyes scope my surroundings. Close by, a teenage boy with shaggy hair leans against the wall of a building, looking around as if lost to the sheer magnitude of the city. We are alone. Suddenly, a shadowy form creeps forward from the emptiness of a nearby alleyway.

The menacing personage bears no skin, granting an impression of invulnerability. A long buttoned coat covers the body, leather gloves the hands, a fedora the head; the face is shrouded by a simple white mask, eyes sunken into the seemingly empty sockets. The anonymity of the sinister costume contradicts a sharply identifiable article of clothing, a pair of fiery red shoes, ragged from overuse.

The crook extracts a knife from the overcoat, raises the sharp edge toward the young boy’s neck in a threatening gesture. The short steel blade glimmers of danger, shooting goosebumps up my spine. The boy notices the villain, instinctively screams a shrill “Help!” in my direction. I take off before weighing any options, condemned to a perpetual unawareness of this event’s outcome.

I run gutlessly, chased by nothing, bathing in fear and shame. My mind travels much faster than my legs, imagining possible conclusions to the previous happening, the situation surely resolved by now. The boy may have been able to fend off the burglar, he might possess the courage I am lacking. I hope for the boy’s wellbeing, while wondering whether the assailant consequentially made use of the knife.

My thoughts are intruded upon by the growl of an airplane, scaling the night sky with grim certainty; blinking lights in the blackness confer scientific bravado. The vroom of the departing plane is overtaken by the rusty harmony of a gang of buses. Each bus announces each stop boldly, as if each street were its own prison sentence. I consider the persons populating these mass forms of transportation - a huddle of bodies at rest, a sea of naked faces, out of sheer trust, or delusion, whichever.

III

I sit in a booth (alone) at "The Rodeo," where I glance over the menu. I frequently occupy this hangout for the cheap food, second-hand waitresses, and third-world crowd. The filthy air keeps me company, and the lower class makes me feel highly important.

The booth before me is occupied by a quiet couple of hippopotamus, not looking at each other, entranced in handheld electronic video stimulation. They communicate through their portable gaming devices, the two gizmos connected by a thick blue wire. Their bountiful meal rots on the table. I reach across the divider and grab an onion ring; neither notice.

I deliberate having a ride on the mechanical bull, it would be my first time, for my birthday, you know? I can’t convince myself; I’m still shaken from the burglary by the masked thief.

“BLACK or BLOODY?” bellows my waitress whose neck is long like an ostrich. I prefer my meat cooked a la Americana. I like to hear my cow scream when I take the first bite. Apparently the ostrich lady didn’t comprehend my vernacular, ‘catch my lingo’ - the burger comes cold. I debate returning it for another, though not before stealing a courtesy bite. At least the freedom fries are okay - but I ordered onion rings! - I think...

I reflect on the mugging as an escape from my prospective plans. Perhaps my witness of the crime was an omen; perhaps my failure to take heroic action will bestow rotten luck. Besides I have hardly been a recipient of birthday fortune in the past; last year my dog died. Aren’t I doomed to some grave cosmic punishment, for shunning the call to play Good Samaritan? If what goes around comes around, then what is in store for that which does not go; which succumbs to the paralysis of fear, standing still and trembling.

I gaze out the dusty window into the misty evening, penetrated by glimpses of red - security sirens and ambulance alarms stuff the air quite unpleasantly. I can hardly hear the jukebox, which sings classic rock. Nice background music, assuming it's the King. He's my favorite, though I don't remember why, or even a tune, no matter.

 The always-too-expensive check glares from the table. A brawl breaks out at the bar, between two burly men over a dainty damsel; she gives both the slip before the first punch is thrown. Other drunken bozos join the festivities. I pay my bill with the money I don't have, then dash out the restaurant as the waitress screams and the fight ensues and the jukebox rock drowns away beneath the madness of dinner.

I hit the road again. Anyways, I was dreading another whiff of the waitress's stale odor. he rotted in front of all the customers, letting off a putrid smell, which was oddly enough vaguely familiar. This wasting must be due to the conventions of dull conversation; understandable, though the stench certainly contradicts restaurant hygiene laws, I think.

I share nasty comments of the incident with myself, occasionally chuckling at my own jokes, as I walk toward a congested boulevard. The traffic light is fixed at yellow; the cars honk ‘honk!’, though the drivers all wait, hesitant to bypass the lines without permission, for fear of reprimand. Honk honk beep!

IV

The sour food morphs my prowl into a brisk stroll. I walk with heavy legs, as fast as they are capable, hurried along by an uneasy feeling in my gut, a general ‘upset’ further aggravated by my inability to determine its origin. I see Jess, then the scary crook. The two revolve back and forth in my mind’s eyes, vying for my undivided attention, until they merge as one.

I dismiss the burglary from pestering me any further. I can’t be held accountable for another’s crime. I am not a caped crusader, but a meek citizen. I’m not obligated to risk my safety for my fellow man. The young lad must learn to fend for himself; to stand alone, as we all must, for in the end we have only ourselves, to congratulate or to blame.

Therefore, I have no excuse, either I go to Jess, or I do nothing, which is also to run away from. Destiny is a comfortable fantasy. Safety, the usual way, must be risked for change. I fled the crime scene, passing over change once. I resolve to approach Jess today, before my eyes are shut to sleep.

I park at a bus-stop bench, smoking a tobacco-stick and whistling a tune from a song I don't know, hoping to appear ‘cool’ or maybe ‘hot’ I can’t remember which temperature. Smoke bleeds from my cigarette, crawling by my shaky fingers, past my fragile voice-box, down to my withering life-balloons, finding its solace spreading out through the thick atmosphere.

A packed bus parks at the bench. I hop on; quickly take a seat in the front, to disassociate myself from the other outcasts and misfits, as if superiority veiled our similar troubles and flaws. I keep my back to the back, staring ahead at the city; broken images glide through the wide windows in blurs of texture and contrast.

V

On the outskirts of town, only mild colorizations distinguish one building from another, among the rows of commercial doppelgangers, like rows of toy blocks with (faded/pale plastic/paper/plaster) colors – (spring) green and (robin/eggshell) blue and salmon red. The toy building-blocks make a colorform mass of clone industrial flats, each equipped with tile floors and a steel fridge and a brass sink; some feature a wrought-iron balcony. The cold-material monotony stresses the anxiety of modernity.

I get off in front of my canary yellow apartment complex, a compound of identical live/work lofts. The studios cram cooking and working and sleeping into a single room, for those perpetually confined to the concrete jungle. You shouldn’t shit where you eat and you shouldn’t piss where you write. Either the master architect of these dreary home/offices was severely lacking in creativity, or quite lazy and cold-hearted.

My studio is a revolting bastion of cliché simplicity. desk chair lamp bed table lamp tv trashcan broken lamp - and a large chest. A chest made of old wood and worn brass, remains of the space’s previous inhabitants. Or perhaps it is my own, filled with long-forgotten objects, representations of ill-fated memories. I haven’t the faintest whisper of a clue concerning the contents of this chest. I have never opened it, and have no intention to do so.

I jump into the shower, ridding my skin from the dirt of the air and the smell of the waitress. I use Conservative shampoo that I bought off an infomercial. It's sure to get rid of the toughest muck, with extra anti-Arabic effectiveness. And it wasn't even tested on Mexicans!

While scrubbing, my dismal train of thoughts drifts back to the burglary. I should have intervened, displayed bravery, instead of cowering my tail between my rickety legs. I should have helped the defenseless boy, instead of abandoning him to confront the metropolitan terrors on his own, a terrible fate I understand too well. I should have robbed the boy myself, safely, instead of betray him to a stranger. I did rob him, of trust in others, of a youthful heart. My destiny is tangled with the thief.

I leap from the icy water; spray myself with rich person's sweat - sure to sexually arouse any descent cretin’s brain; grab a bag of musty clothes purchased from Goodwill, fully prepared for my sexy date at the laundromat. I pop a pill, they relieve anxiety. Better take two.

I lean out the sole-window in my single-room. I take notice of the dense city skyline, cluttered with dwarfing towers, scraping upwards, reaching defiantly past the clouds toward the starry void, into the strange unknown. Though the structures appear empty at this late hour, millions of meaningless lights fill their vacant rooms, like watchful eyes overlooking the sleepless metropolis.

In the distance, inside the top-floor suite of a lavish Hilltop Hotel, a scandal enfolds between the silhouettes of a foreign diplomat and a maid holding a vacuum, a memento of the shady business reserved for closed doors and shadows. The landmark hotel and spa resort outshines the other stone and metal structures like golden bullion, a pampered paradise built for the noble and the indulgent. 

The building adjacent to mine, a ‘textile factory,’ trickles with the distressing traces of a sweat shop. An elderly Asian man still works on the top floor, spinning wool, swiftly aging, hair whitening. Three floors below him, a Latin family crams into an undersized room. The young mother sits at a desk sewing a sweater, as the small child sits motionless on a makeshift bed. A tan man in a tank-top (on this chilly night!) lies across the window ledge like a feline, smoking a cigarette or maybe a joint, wearing the sad face of a neutered dog. The migrant sways gently; he might fall but doesn’t seem to care. High above, an enormous, tattered American flag flies from the roof. Worn patterns wave through the cold air, jaded stripes seep into the dark sky. I take an ironic photograph before exiting.

VI

I walk into the elevator, which is playing the musical score to my life. The melody is generic and slightly embarrassing, but disturbingly comforting in its reliability. BA BA DA DA BA BA DA DA. I close my eyes, humming to my own song, falling in and out of mindless bliss, forgetting which floor we were looking for. “UP or DOWN,” groans the elevator operator.

Something is wrong. I get off at the basement, stumbling out of the ominous doors. I see the path to my dear Jess disappear; I smell my odor alerting my nose of fear; I still hear my music ringing in my ear. I stumble to the emergency stairs, stumble my way up, back into my own apartment, crouch into a corner, my mind still stumbling.

As minutes travel like hours, the room remains undisturbed by the sluggish tick of time. The only movement comes from the hands of the clock hanging upon the wall, now pointing upward. The timepiece announces midnight, arrogantly, with a chilling CHIME. As the eerie sound reverberates, the doorknob turns slowly, then faster, recklessly. The door jerks open, permitting a crack of light to break into the room. A shrouded figure peaks inside.

The intruder closes the door, takes several sneaky steps within. I keep in the disregarded corner, hiding in plain sight. As the unidentified character enters further, I spot a familiar pair of fiery red shoes. It is the same crook from earlier, who robbed the teenage boy on the delinquent streets! I stare into the soulless eyes of the haunting white mask, no longer afraid, understanding of this fair punishment, this poetic justice.

Calm acceptance transforms to remarkable shock. The nameless antagonist lifts the disguise, revealing a rather innocent-looking young woman! In fact she is quite pretty, her face as simple and white as the mask was. The girl’s piercing green eyes betray fear as she searches frantically for my valuables.

I ponder calling for help, or frightening her away. Instead I linger motionless, not even a blink, overcome by painful sympathy. I wonder what inspires such a lovely creature into such dreadful behavior. She hardly seems the expert criminal, thrashing about, eyes wide like a bewildered doe. I flirt with offering to assist her search, becoming her partner in crime. I nearly confess that truthfully I have no prized belongings; I’m a broke waste of her time. For a fleeting moment, though she has no knowledge of me, I feel fortunate such a beautiful animal is in my home, regardless of circumstance.

I resign to waiting quietly. If this girl is comfortable with theft, one can imagine of what other bad deeds she is capable. She could have harmed the boy, out of panic. If he defended himself, it is conceivable she dared to use the knife, shifting both lives irreversibly, in an instant, in mutual self-defense. I shudder to this most awful thought, of two innocents pitted against each other, victims of their situation, mutual loss unavoidable.

The charming thief departs at last, as abruptly as she entered, carrying nothing, appearing distraught. I regret not leaving out my wallet; she could have taken a little cash for her troubles.

I am alone again with thoughts. I roam around my cage, turning over everything, looking for no object in particular, bored and breathless.

Morning breaks, signaled by the mechanistic roar of sanitation trucks and street sweepers, wiping city blocks clean from the dirty memories of prior nocte. Beeping automobiles fill the fresh urban air, like an orchestra of wild crickets. The hands of the clocks beckon sleep; the horns of the cars disagree. ‘Twas just another exciting night, always, in the City.