The accents on the coffin are distracting. Smooth from vigorous sanding and staining, they dance about with soiled pride as another pile of dirt imposes itself on this spectacle, settling in the shallow depressions. Staring through the filled valley, my flesh still tingles from the callous taste of mahogany. I feel an imaginary splinter that prolongs the connection. Before long, the last dancer takes its seat, earth weighing it down.
A glimmer of pain suddenly shoots up from my shoulder as words slowly come into focus: “—ude, George, that chick is totally hot, isn’t she?!” There must have been other people at the funeral. I had not noticed.
I open my mouth to respond, but my neighbor issues condemnation first: “Why, I never!”
I smile as I realize Freddy must not have whispered his question. Freddy apologizes profusely to the miss but to no avail. She glares at him, ripping his perceived life to shreds. Admittedly, he does not imbue a great first impression.
At last the grandmother turns back to her grandchildren, whispering in their impressionable ears. This does not put a ceasefire to Elijah’s snickering. Nor had Freddy’s crimson blush. I feel slightly bad for Freddy, though I do enjoy the comic situation. Elijah always has enjoyed ragging on Freddy, regardless. If only Elijah could understand him better. I always wonder whether or not Elijah can see, if he can feel, if he can be. I wonder if Freddy can. I wonder if Mr. Chambers could.
There are only a few drawers in the file cabinets upstairs that I still have the key to. Sometimes that light keyring presses hard into the broken seams of my hand, a heavy reminder of my incompetence. For now, I simply press the different shapes into the dark, unforgiving slot. As the malnourished drawer slides outward, I find and open the folder I am after. Ah, blackbodies, how could I have forgotten you? Everything reflects light, unless it is a perfect blackbody.
I cannot remember how long ago the funeral was. All I know is how clammy my decrepit body feels in this stale bathwater. I cannot remember how long I have been here. They did not provide enough context; they merely zoomed in on this wretched existence. I seem to be staring at a light dangling precariously over the tub, not more than a foot above my head. I would probably go blind if not for the gradual darkening of the bulb. Slowly, darkness envelops everything. The peeling Versailles knock-off wallpaper and the cold linoleum checkers refuse to indulge my desires. Maybe this bathroom is my perfect emotional blackbody.
“Hey Freddy, now THAT is a hot chick,” Elijah goads to me with a wink.
“For real, tho,” I respond with a fist bump, making sure to whisper now. Lord forbid I piss off granny no-action over there.
I glance over at George, but he is off in space again. Where does he go to I wond—Ooo, I forgot about the popcorn next to his feet. I’ll be super casual ’bout taking it.
As I grab a handful, I pop it into my mouth. Mmmm, the extra butter was a good call. I nod to Elijah to affirm his good call. He winks back and beckons for the bucket. I grab it and hand it over, but not without another handful. George doesn’t even notice. Ha! Sucker!
I’m a little worried about George, but my eyes gotta stay on this film for sure. I can’t afford to miss another babe, ’specially since this is my one outing a week without Rebecca. Maybe I should just dump that broad. She’s kind of a burden. Man, I even gave up the good stuff for her. I’ll just run it over with Elijah at his place later while we do a couple lines. Heh, that guy is rad when he’s got some lines in ’im.
Ah man, can’t do it tonight. Momma would kill me if she found out, and she told me to be home by ten. She would probably make pops fire me from the garage too. Huh, maybe I should ask Elijah if he’s got any jobs lined up.
Simple Freddy is too troubled for his innocent heart to realize.
There seems to be a host of people around me. People of all sorts: pinstripes, tracksuits, cut-out jeans, rainbow highlights. All bustle about in the perfect combination of mirth and depression to the cacophonic soundtrack of whirring blenders and zealous telephone conversations. The illusion of passion is what keeps many of these souls going.
I look down to find my hands draped about a lukewarm, dimpled brown cylinder. The last wisp of steam is released through an oval imperfection in an otherwise perfect white lid. I follow the wisp as it disperses across a pair of inviting hazel eyes lingering across the sticky table. The eyes are looking at me, naturally, as her organic lips shift upwards in the corners and part slightly in the middle, revealing a beautiful smile. They bring me more comfort than the ethereal affections of any drink.
Screw this softcore crap. Where’s the action at? Come on woman, just take ’im back to yo place already. Get that good satisfaction! Heh. What I wouldn’t give to be her friend. You can bet I wouldn’t be just her friend for too long. Heh.
I scope out the theater for babes, knowing this flick isn’t going to do nothin’ for me. After a full lap, I haven’t seen a darned thing worth seeing. Well, this just blows. There ain’t a decent looker in this place, just a bunch of families. I wish my mum would quit buggin’ me ’bout gettin’ in a serious relationship.
I glance to my right again. Something caught my eye in the dank theater on my first pass. I can’t explain it, but one spot seems lighter. Just not quite as dark. There’s a gal hugging her fella, but neither of them are watchin’ the flick. They’re not looking at each other neither. They’re looking at a kid, a kid who is very into the girl in the coffee shop.
Maybe there is somethin’ in committed relationships. Maybe I’ll ask Freddy if he wants to get some shots after the flick. Son of a gun spills every bean when we he’s got some bourbon in ’im. I’ll ask ’im ’bout Rebecca. I’ll ask ’im what it’s like to be with the same girl for a while. That seems like it could be okay.
I nudge Freddy and ask, “Yo, you wanna grab a drink after this?”
Freddy pauses for a sec before sayin’, “Yeah. Sure man, that sounds good.”
Why’d he pause? Eh, probably just watchin’ the flick. At least someone is. Georgie is just off in space. The hell is wrong with ’im anyhow.
From above, the office must appear rather extraordinarily contrived. There are long rows of cubicles, each containing a man or woman. Accompanying that person in the rectangular cells are the standard items that come with the job: a foldable picture of a significant other, a poster of a popular destination resort, and an assortment of office supplies that are egregiously overstocked. Barely clutching to a corner of most of the posters is a small sticky note with ‘Someday!’ scrawled on adjacent to an ecstatic stick figure’s perfectly circular face. It is amazing that they manage to hang on with all the dust that gets in the way. A slight breeze might blow them right away; luckily, we closed the windows years ago.
My desk has a foldable picture too: in a metallic frame encrusted with fake silver bands is the real hazel-eyed girl in the coffee shop standing next to Mr. Chambers on a snowy hill. I smile as I notice the toboggan leaning against a majestic fir abreast the pair. I know the context now. Perhaps I always have.
Tormented is the one who is only others.
While a migrant bird eats
On its journey to the next season,
A wandering soul is only eaten
On its journey to understanding.
When they arrive, the one feasts and sings ere returning;
The other withers and cannot go back, bound
To dark chasms it could not help but find.
—“Gossamer”, by R. C. Hammons
I own one other picture, and it resides on my desk in my one bedroom studio. It is in a small, plain black plastic frame, unadorned even by a date. Under the dust, I can vaguely make out figures, my best friends and I on an elementary school playground with other kids neatly strewn about. I chuckle to myself when I notice that the friends are elbowing each other, their eyes betraying any connoted youthful innocence; they are looking at a pretty girl running by. The chuckle disturbs the dust’s slumber, and as I follow a playful speck’s delightful prance upwards, my eyes briefly perceive stale bathwater under a broken glass lightbulb. Every so often a stray light beam attempts to caress the chaotic fractures, only to be sent careening down to the unbroken water surface below.
All the specks flutter into oblivion as the stray light beams become less frequent. The bathroom fades away, so I return to the picture only to see it fade away as well. My hands follow, and then my eyelids until at last the dismal scene lacks nothing, because it is no more. I do not know whether to panic, scream and cry, or to enjoy the nonbeing of transition.
But there is not nothing; there is something. I am with the hazel-eyed girl from the coffee shop. We have returned to the cemetery after a brief stop at a candy shop because, for some reason, Freddy just had to have popcorn. He drops one piece on the manicured green carpet that invites strangers and loved ones alike to enter the company of Mr. Chambers. These bright strands are a stark contrast indeed to the shades of brown that preempted them. The shades did not appear in a smooth gradient, but rather in a disordered frenzy of emotion.
I smile at the innocent juxtaposition of popped corn, glistening with butter under a clear fall sky, and the chiseled grey tombstone. Mr. Chambers always did like popcorn.
The guy starts to walk away from the cemetery with the girl from the coffee shop. He gently extends his hand towards her as she mirrors the effort, and the credits start to roll over the scene just as the fingers interlock in mutual understanding. Hmmm, that flick wasn’t so bad after all. I bet Georgie really liked it too.
As I look over to find out, I see Georgie is just staring down near the mess of dropped popcorn scattered about Freddy’s feet.
I am about to call out to him when I realize I have not been able to get the hazel-eyed girl from the coffee shop out of my head. Huh, I had not noticed her eye color before.
That film sure wasn’t bad at all. I ’specially liked all of the parts with the chick. Damn, I don’t think I could stay with Rebecca after all. There’s someone out there like that chick from the film. I don’t think that I’ll need those drinks tonight.
I turn towards Elijah to cancel tonight’s plans when all I suddenly notice something I had not before. As if seeing straight through him, I see a young boy and his parents. Immediately, all my previous memories of happiness are ruined; these parents and the child are sharing the most genuine laughs and smiles I have even seen. The room even seems to be oddly lighter around them, as if highlighting the vision for all to see. And for some reason I cannot stop thinking about the hazel-eyed girl from the coffee shop.
I do not know what to do. The gentle rain pokes my skin inquisitively, coyly encouraging me to step farther from the rusty doors of the theater that I just creaked through. Despite the warmth of the rain’s sensual limbs, I am frozen still. And yet my thoughts race about confused. There is always so much emotion swelling inside of me: immense pain, unimaginable joy, worries and desires. I sense that they are not my emotions, and yet they feel distinct from one another, each more real than the last. They are my emotions; they form my being.
I come out of the theater, smacking my buttery lips with delight. Another me exits with some effort through the rust, staring melancholically at my feet. I leave yet again, holding the door open for an adorable couple with a cute kid. The boy’s shoes are speckled with fresh mud.
I start running. I must know. Running straight for the cemetery, I head for a tombstone at the top of a hill. I dust off the engraving, revealing the words, “Mr. George Chambers Sr.” I wonder vainly whose life I am living, knowing the answer is lost beneath the dirty earth in a mahogany casket: a spirit who last danced long ago. Whose spirit am I?
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