the End of Summer

[frankfillmore]

Would anyone be interested in reading this story and giving feedback?

I was greatly influenced by the prose of Fyodor Dostevsky as you might be able to tell as well as the films of Woody Allen.  This is the first piece of fiction I've written, just want some unbiased feedback.

 

The End of Summer

I:

The Beginning of Fall

The evening was cold and as fall crept
in to town the the city outside was bleak and bereft of life.  It was in the small and stuffy taverns of our
city the people would steal away to their cold weather vices underground.  Downstairs and off the street Harold sat before
a cold pint at the bar of Colonel Brooks’ Tavern.  Harold ran his fingers around the sweating
pint glass in front of him feeling it might be time to leave.  He had thought about catching a midnight
showing downtown, or beginning one of the portraits he’d been thinking of.  Even a bike ride across town through the
frosty city night would have been a fine idea. 
It came down to it that Harold couldn’t make up his mind whether to stay
or to go and the truth was that one way wasn’t any better or worse than the
other.  It wasn’t that Harold was
avoiding anything in particular and it wasn’t that he was making excuses for
not getting anything done.  It couldn’t
be so simple.  Harold felt there were
many things he would like to do, there just wasn’t enough time in a day.  It may have been that there just wasn’t
enough Harold to understand that there was. 
All Harold could be sure of was that he was conscious, thinking and
breathing, and that it had been a long time since he had actually felt like he
was living.  Harold paid his tab and left
for his flat having become frustrated by the sense that something strong was
coming over him.

Harold resolved to turn in early in
hopes of sleeping off the unsettling sensation. 
If nothing else, sleep granted him a brief period of relief in which all
he had to do was simply exist in his wild and wandering dreams.  And so it wasn’t unusual the next morning
when Harold awoke in a state of dismay. 
All morning and through the afternoon Harold took to feeling very dismal.
 The tolling of the floor clock in the
corner made each passing hour more depressing and harder to rise than the last.  Harold hoped for sunshine on cold and rainy
days, and though the familiarity of such miserable weather was comforting to
him as much as it could be debilitating, he wished today was less bright and
humid so he might feel better about feeling so terrible.  It was easy and not uncommon for Harold to
spend long hours in bed and in that sense this day was no different as he lay
staring at the ceiling from underneath unlaundered bed sheets.

He reached across himself for his
eyeglasses on the nightstand and putting them on he found his dilemma was
turning out to be much more serious.  It
was true that his head pulsed and his eyes burned quite like any other headache
he had experienced, but there was something more to it this time.  Straining to make out the time displayed by
the floor clock was no use.  He removed his
glasses and the room was as it should have been: blurry, out of focus, and one
dimensional.  Though suddenly to him now
it seemed he was thrown in to some crude and haunting cubism meets pointillism
portrait painting, the kind you need to take several steps back away from in
order to get the picture, and even then you may not understand what exactly it
is you’re looking at.  The walls seemed
to be breathing and the old brown wooden clock reached long, thin, tree
branch-like arms toward him.  Bearing a
menacing, sharp-toothed sneer, it began to toll louder than should be expected
for such an old clock.  Harold thought it
may have even been attempting to mutter something, though entirely incomprehensible
over the noise.

The phone rang, howling at his
bedside.  Harold glanced over at the
black rotary telephone and put his face in his hands.  Rubbing his eyes and running his fingers
through his hair he considered whether or not it was this time his mother, or
brother, or best friend phoning him for the first of more than a dozen times
they could all be expected to phone that day. 
He felt the greatness of their love for him, and he felt it burdensome
and painful to be so loved.  His heart
sank then a bit more than it had the many days previous as the phone would ring
and he would let it remain.  He just
couldn’t take it.  He couldn’t be sure of
what he could take any longer.

Harold descended on to the street from
the dingy, crummy closet-like flat which he leased on the fourth floor.  The sun was as bright as the first day of summer,
but fall had in fact begun as it should over night.  Despite the chilly weather that had been creeping
up all through the week, it was rather surprising that the air this day should
have been so exceptionally stifling in our city, and much farther from the
weather I could recall being predicted by the weather man.  Behind Harold’s ear a perfectly sharpened
pencil sat tucked, the eraser never having been used, and under his arm the
brown leather bound notebook he carried around on days like this, a notebook in
which he so infrequently ended up adding anything new.  For the past several months Harold felt he
had been living the same mundane, uneventful day over and over again.

As he often did most days of the week
when he could find the strength and sense to leave the depressing hole he
called home, he wandered the streets and alley corridors and parks of our
city.  Meanderings through these
particular places invariably led him to feeling nearly completely at ease.  Music played in Harold’s heart.  He walked and he hummed, occasionally
vocalizing some such original or otherwise self-interpreted melody that raced
around his mind.  Among the perceived
chaos and the deafening noise of chatter and street cars passing, and the
nearly intolerable, yet strangely settling brightness of sunlight reflecting
off each window of high rise apartment and office buildings Harold felt free at
least from the unrelenting and nearly limitless sorrow and misdirection he
otherwise carried around with him.

Harold found himself this evening led
in to the lower city district that was home to one of his least disliked dive
bar-cafés, Café Cafard.  Always dimly lighted
and stuffed to capacity, noisy with the shouting of orders across the bar and
the clamoring of silverware on porcelain, Harold knew he could hide himself
among the students and drunks too busy gossiping and lying to each other to
notice the likes of him.

Slipping through the narrow front
entrance the thick, stifling air which hit him upon passing neath the threshold
felt oppressive, contrasting greatly even with the unusually humid night air.  His eyes scanned the room inspecting the
situation carefully.  Harold felt
uncomfortable already and now from the bar in the back he spotted someone who
began waving to him and excitedly calling out across the racket from atop
strained toes.

Harold couldn’t imagine himself
interacting with anybody and in fact felt quite sickened at the thought.  He quickly made his way toward the door and
left the unsettling situation and oppressive atmosphere.  The street wasn’t much cooler, but Harold
felt much more at ease.  A sudden sharp
pain shot up his back and to the top of his head.  His eyes watered and he felt disoriented.  He rubbed his eyes, pacing quickly away from
the noisy crowd loitering outside.  The
oak trees lining the sidewalk around Harold began to grow many times taller
before him.  More than the solid black, somewhat
shiny, smooth and thinly twigged oak trees they were characterized by sleek,
round lobed, simply bladed evergreen colored leaves they began to resemble grotesque
and fleshy reflections of their former selves. 
Reaching high above the low rise buildings of the crummy district the
monstrous oaks, charred and flame-darkened, too lurched atop Harold.  The streets fell silent and there was not a
single person around.  Harold nervously rubbed
his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. 
With his glasses back on he recalled how his vision had been blurry back
in his flat and wondered now why it was still the case.  Hanging his head he had been overcome by a
heightened sense of misdirection.  Harold
was alarmed when a hand was firmly placed on his shoulder.  Startled, Harold pushed himself back against
the brick building before the sidewalk and found his surroundings were reset to
be as they should have been.  Harold
faced his dearest, oldest friend, Oliver who was smiling widely at the sight of
his face, a smile which Harold recognized turned quickly from a smile of
delight to a look of concern.

“Man, you peered right at me as I was
calling for you back there.  Where have
you been?” Oliver said.

“Summer’s over.  There’s a full moon, and I’m getting older,” Harold
muttered coldly, moving away from Oliver.

“What’s the matter with you!  I don’t think you’re well, and I think you
know that too!  You don’t look right,
Harold.  You’re out of focus.”

As Harold quickly made off away from
Oliver his last words left Harold feeling lousy.  Harold felt despondent, hopeless, and tired.  He confusedly wandered across the city again.  He was deeply distressed when he arrived back
at his building where he had started out not more than an hour ago.  The thought of ascending the four flights of
to his tiny, empty, desolate bedroom triggered a recollection of memories he’d
rather not have recalled.  He and Lucy would
race drunkenly up to their apartment in the middle of night, amused at the fact
they were avoiding their nagging land lady. 
Rent had not been paid, but it would be. 
Lois, the stark black and lightly speckled sheppard mutt wagged her tail
and riggled anxiously behind the door awaiting their appearance.

The last two years had come and gone
and Harold had not a single new thing to show for it.  He slouched heavily as he made his way up to
his forsaken, empty room.  It was a great
trouble for him to carry himself, and so he stepped slowly.  Following his hand along the banister he
longed for her touch.  He imagined the
warmth of her breath on his lips.  He
wanted the delicate, prickly whispering of her voice in his ear.  He longed for Lucy and he yearned desperately
for the women he loved and hated to admit he would not hold again.  He despised himself for being the pathetic
louse he was that drove her off.

Reaching the landing at the fourth
floor he found the door to his room open.  
He thought it may have been ransacked and his possessions robbed, but
couldn’t have cared any less if that was the case.  On the floor he was rather more disappointed
to find the house pooch splayed out among his prescribed medication and shoes now
torn and tattered.  He sat beside the
wretched little mutt, stroking its matted, filthy fur, and it sadly reminded
him of his old pal Lois.

“You have no idea what you’re doing,
do you, you little idiot?”  Harold asked
the poor beast wagging its tail at the sound of his voice.  Harold stretched himself out on the floor
among the orange plastic canisters and scattered oblong pills.  “You have no clue what you’re doing,” he
sighed closing his eyes.

He thought about Lucy some more.  He closed his eyes and imagined holding her close
on the hardwood floor among crumbled slips of paper, bread crumbs, empty
bottles and assorted pieces of cutlery and dishware.  The fist-sized hole in the wall by the door
mocked him.  He felt depressed.  The hole was a haunting reminder of the bitter
ending endured by their relationship.  He
had thought about filling it in and painting it over, but that would have been
a painful experience in itself.  Besides,
allowing it to remain was a punishment and the pain was satisfying to him.

Harold just didn’t know what he wanted
anymore.  He thought he could be almost
sure of all that he didn’t want, but what would knowing what you didn’t want
get you?  What was it to want anyway?  He couldn’t make the distinction or come to
any real conclusion.  What was the
difference between what you do and don’t want? 
No matter what it’s always the same sad ending.  He felt as though he was neither here nor
there and he felt very alone.  He lived
alone and he would surely die alone.  He
faced mounting debts in need of repayment and was met with uncertainty by almost
every aspect of his life.  All of these
things would consistently continue to bring an even greater amount of sorrow to
bear down upon him.

He cleared his throat and ran his
fingers through his hair.  He stroked his
head in desperation, wishing he would think of something he didn’t think of
before.  He moved his tongue across lips
attempting to moisten his dried out mouth. 
Propping himself against the clothes dresser behind him he became
envious of the dog’s simple existence. 
Watching the wretched little mutt unknowingly consuming its way closer
to overdose in the middle of the room Harold wondered what it really was that
set them apart.  The dog and him, any
animal and any man.  He wondered why it
was so hard to experience true joy.  He
snatched up an empty beer bottle and put it to his lips.  He swished the sour, warm liquid around in
his mouth.  He spit it out and whistled
sad, and soft, and quiet.  For a few
moments Harold whistled as he watched the dog finish up the last of his
medication.  Then suddenly frustration
seized Harold. 

“Why, god damn it!” He spat and kicked
the bottles near his feet, sending them clanking across the wood floor.  The mutt leaped up and left.  “Why is it so hard for me to commit to
anything?   Why can’t I ever love for a
lasting period of time?”  Harold stood to
his feet and began pacing the room.  “Maybe
it’s precisely that which I am lacking that’s causing me to worry so often,
almost to the point some would call obsession.  What’s out of my range of influence and out of
my god damned control is just that!  But
what am I missing?”

It was then that the solution, an all
too familiar idea, struck Harold harder than it ever had before.  His throat swelled up and he didn’t want that
any longer.  He didn’t want to experience
the misery and sinking sensation he felt in his gut every time he turned away
from the ones who cared for him.  But what
could he do for them?  To begin with, he
couldn’t do a thing for himself.  He
didn’t want to have this debate any longer. 

“Why should I feel so miserable about
avoiding these people?” He thought.  “Why
should I subject myself any longer to the debasement of self consciousness and
incessant self criticism?  Why deal with
the frustration any longer that’s sure to follow attempts at articulating the
deep pain within my gut, the sorrow in my heart, my lack of direction, the
loneliness I feel from being alive?  Why?
 If it’s
inevitably going to come along at some point anyway, why not get on with it?”

*        *       
*        *        *       
*        *        *

In the bathroom Harold thought his
face seemed atrophied.  His character was
prone to harsh, excessive self criticism, but this time there could be no
denying the fact that his face did seem greatly troubled and unable to any
longer withstand the weight of some immense burden.   He had changed in to a clean, white and ironed
button up shirt, black slacks and black jacket. 
He thought he looked rather handsome for such an occasion and considering
the circumstances.  It was a pity no one
could see him.  He checked his teeth in
his reflection and buffed them with his finger. 
He cupped his hands beneath the sink and rinsed his face.  He spit water over the mirror and in the
distorted reflection bitterly decided he looked better that way.

Harold hated the way the light from
the setting sun accentuated the pale appearance of his skin.  He hated how it illuminated the imprinted
impression of sadness on his brow.  He
hated most of all, despite the beauty he found in his eyes, how the god damned sun
couldn’t help him feel anything more beyond that about himself.  He pressed his forehead firmly against the
mirror.  Gritting his teeth he growled an
angry, disgusted, vengeful, sick sounding guttural growl.  He pulled his head back and lunged across the
bathroom sink slamming the underside of his fist against the mirror of the
medicine chest.  The walls shuddered and
creaked.  The mirror shattered with an
explosion of glass all around him gashing his hand, blood smearing about the
frame.  In one sweep of his arms he flung
everything lining the sink against the wall and in to the bath tub.  He rammed his foot in to the latrine behind
him, forcing it out of the floor, linoleum tearing, porcelain cracking,
floorboards snapping.  He spun around and
pressed his fists and forehead against the wall with the release of a great
sigh. 

He breathed deeply and evenly.  He rested in this way a moment.  Calmly he turned once more to face himself in
the mirror’s shattered reflection.  The
new tiny red cuts on his face seemed to emphasize his dissatisfaction and the
distortion he had become.

“I guess we’ll meet again.” His
reflection resolved.  Time slowed to a
halt.  He saw his mother’s small body,
her arms wrapping around his waist.  He
felt her absolute love, unwavering trust, her pure certainty fill his being and
his chin began to quiver, his stomach sank. 
He imagined his father’s face.  His
laugh, the signs of age cutting around his eyes, his determination and
strength, tough and joy never wavering. 
His throat swelled up tight, and tears welled up in his eyes.  He wiped the tears away with the back of his
hand and raised the cold steel gun to the underside of his chin, sweat and
water and tears running down his face.

“Still my lover won’t return to me.”
He drawled to a tune, the gun trembling in his hand.  “Wild parsnips they still scald my lungs
while thistles still burn my feet.”

His vision blurred.  His feet ached.  He felt dizzy. 
Harold had been over it several times. 
The problem in his heart had not been solved, and if the answer could
not be affirmative it could never be negative either.  His hands trembled and his head perspired.  The gun glided gently over Harold’s dampened skin
underneath his neck.  He took a sharp
deep breath and everything went black.

Harold half considered again whether this
was the true solution, and then he considered whether he was even alive at that
instant and what that might have even meant. 
And then he heard the click of the trigger, and the release of the
hammer, and the big bang that would serve as the beginning of fall.

 

II:

Winter
Buries Deep

Harold lay motionless and face down on
the bathroom floor, the filthy gray tile grout rubbing against his skin.  A warm breeze blew gently through the broken bathroom
window pane causing the thin and frayed fading blue curtains to flutter in the
wind.  The air blowing over his sweat
soaked head awoke him.  His head throbbed
and his eyes ached with tremendous pressure. 
He moaned, shielding his eyes from the white light reflecting from the
ceiling off the grimy white walls.

“Ooo-umm-uhh,” Harold grumbled.  “Take these broken wings and learn to fly me
to the moon.” He muttered.

Harold opened his eyes and was sure he
hadn’t killed himself.  He sat up
propping himself against the half broken and crooked toilet which hissed,
spraying a delicate mist about the bathroom and in to Harold’s face.  He could hear the commotion growing
downstairs and sensed the urgency in fleeing. 
Frantically he began fumbling at his feet for the gun.  The bathroom window pane had taken the shot
meant for him and he tossed it down in to the open dumpster below.  He crept clumsily for the door oblivious of
the mess he made of the room.  Harold was
in a daze and the shampoo bottles scattered about the floor wouldn’t let him
leave so easily.  They tripped him and he
groped for the shower curtain, tearing it down and crashing loudly in to the
bathtub.

“God damn it!” Harold struggled,
wrapped within the plastic curtain.  He
threw his arms about to uncover himself. 
Climbing from the tub he felt his eyeglasses under his foot and they cracked
beneath his weight.  Gripping them in his
hand he pressed his shoulder firmly against the threshold of the bathroom.  He cracked the door open and listened to the
commotion of voices, a mixture of excitement and concern, rising up from
beneath him.  Without a second thought he
threw the door open and ran down the single flight, jumping down the last
several steps to the landing before his flat. 
He burst through his bedroom door, and shooing away the scraps of food,
plates, and bottles littering his desk he climbed upon it and unlocked the
window.  He climbed out feet first and sat
at the edge of the sill peering down the forty feet to the ground below.  His heart pounded in his chest and his
insides shuttered.  Harold hastily
grabbed the iron bars of the window adjacent his and began making his way to ground
level.  He reached the first floor face
of the building lacking windows, and where the gutter broke off he let go,
fell, and collapsed on the gravel below. 
His ankles stung and bits of pavement and pebble dug into his palms and
knees.

He was delirious.  His mind raced.  He was horrified and embarrassed.  Nervously and repeatedly Harold ran his
fingers through his hair wandering the upper west side for hours.  He paid no attention to those passing by him
as he made his way across town, east towards the river.  He cleared his throat and muttered things to
himself.  Following the cracks in the
concrete until one ended and another began Harold moved across town.  By the river the sidewalks were much more heavily
populated and he seemed to have his own private lane when moving amongst the
people.  Wherever he went he stuck out as
very strange and everyone being much more aware than Harold sure to move out of
the way.  The frenzied heart beat pulse
of upright and electric bass could be heard coming from the jazz bars all along
the water and Harold was filled with a terrible sense of anxiety.

Harold was beginning to have a more difficult
time seeing.  He rubbed his eyes and
cleaned his glasses with his shirt.  He
felt like he wanted so many different things the moment he decided what he
really needed was a place to sit.  He
walked down the dead end street of Clarence Avenue allowing the chatter of the crowds,
the lights, and the jazz music to fade behind him.  He stepped over the waist high ledge at the
end of the street and sat down.  On such
still winded and warm nights the reflective black waters of the river Neda
represent the star littered night sky precisely.  And the night Harold sat at the shoreline of
her bay its waters lay so still people watched stars shooting across the
heavens without looking up. 

Harold kicked off his shoes and dug
his toes in the sand.  The delicate
lapping of the gentle waves at the shore and the bay breeze were almost all
there was to hear.  He looked out across
the bay, at the moon reflecting off its shiny black surface, and the lights
from the homes at the other end.  He
sighed and pressed his forehead in to his hand.

Something had gone wrong back at his
flat.  He couldn’t even control the one
thing he was certain he actually had control over.  He knew why Lucy had left him and was sure
she would never come back.  Why would
anyone stick around with such a louse that couldn’t stick around with himself?  Why would anyone stick around with a louse in
the first place?  As he was finding out,
no one would.  Harold wondered whether he
actually even cared, or whether it was just his own misdirection that made it
seem as though he needed her or anyone at all.  He wondered about his mother and father under
the same starry night sky, under the same big white moon.  He knelt at the water’s edge and couldn’t
make himself out in the reflection.  He
submerged his face under the water and blew air out his mouth creating bubbles,
blubbering in the water.  The water was
refreshing and the sonorous bumbling soothing.

A horrible sudden shriek sounded and
Harold lifted his head.  He surveyed the
dark beach alert, water running down his head, dripping off his chin.  He wasn’t sure if he had actually heard
anything at all and then he could hear what sounded to be the exasperated
grunting of a man, or maybe two, and a woman hollering a ways off.  Harold stood, and grabbing his sneakers he
made off running down the beach toward the commotion. 

Harold came to two men rolling in the
sand and exchanging sharp blows to one another. 
The woman stood about fifteen feet off from them.  She would cover her mouth with her hand, gesticulating
wildly, shrieking and crying, and then shout for the men to stop.  She was visibly drunk as she kept raising her
hands to her head and staggering where she stood.  Covered by the darkness, Harold stood no more
than fifty feet from them watching the scene.

The men grunted and gasped heavily, rolling
in the sand, delivering menacing blows to one another’s face.  They were wild with rage and certainly poised
to kill the other.  One of the men was noticeably
larger with wide biceps and broad shoulders. 
The other was smaller and at this point receiving the bitter end of the
bargain.  The large man knocked the
smaller man down and mounting him at the waist continued to deliver a series of
brutal blows to his face.  On to the side
of his head in to his ears and directly downward on to his nose and mouth the
large man pummeled the smaller helpless man. 
In the moonlight Harold could make out that the smaller man’s face was
becoming blood covered and horribly bruised. 
It was a nasty scene and Harold debated whether or not he should
intervene.  After a while the small man
ceased to struggle, and eventually ceased to resist at all.  The large man came to his feet.  His large chest heaved, panting like a beast,
fists clenched at his sides.

The woman held a pair of heeled shoes
and wore a tight, silver-sparkly gold dress. 
Her lips were painted red and in the moonlight it seemed her makeup was smeared
a great deal.  The large man’s hair was
greased and came to a flip at the front. 
Harold caught the overbearing pungent scent of his cologne in the warm breeze.  He wore a white tank top underneath a tan
button up collared shirt.  Around his
neck he wore several chains.  Harold was
well aware of these sorts of people.  He
despised them.  Each Friday and Saturday night
they come to the east end of town in great numbers.  Until three, sometimes four in the morning
they fill the streets, shouting, howling, screaming, and fighting.  The men and women become intoxicated and
belligerent and litter the streets with paper plates, empty packs of
cigarettes, plastic cups, and refused pizza. 
Many found it amusing to view these people from afar.  Harold could see what was amusing, but it
wasn’t funny.  It made him sad, and he
thought they were foul.  They made it
easy for Harold not to get involved.

The large man strode up to the woman as
she tried to make off and grabbed her by the hair, yanking violently.  The man dragged her away from Harold as she
shrieked and cried.  They made off at a
rapid pace and Harold cautiously followed behind.  He came to the smaller man lying on the beach
who was unconscious but still breathing, and whose face was cut deeply and
marked by large red and black bruises. 
The swine threw the woman down on the sand and mounted her at the waist
as he had the smaller man and put both his hands around her neck.  It was decided then before Harold knew what
he was doing that he must intervene.  Harold
was overcome with rage and dropped his shoes beside the man unconscious.  He hastily searched the dunes for something
large and thick and quickly succeeded in pulling a rigid and heavy piece of
drift wood from the sand.  He removed his
jacket, dropping it on the beach.  He
made a quick dash for the couple and the patter of his feet alerted the brute
who turned and began to rise.  It was too
late for him as Harold wound the drift wood back under-hand.  He swung up fiercely the splintering hunk of
wood directly into the man’s chin with tremendous force.  The rigid wood tore in to his face peeling
back deep, white and red, fleshy gashes in his skin.  Blood spattered across his face and he fell
on to his back moaning and muttering incoherently, writhing in the sand.  The woman shrieked and howled terribly.  Raising to her feet she made an attempt to
run off, stumbled, and fell.  She lay
there trembling with her hands over her head in the fetal position, obviously
too terrified and perhaps too drunk to make off.

The man moaned pathetically on his
back, fists half clenched and sobbing.  Harold
was surprised when he began pulling himself to his feet.  Harold wound back the drift wood again to
deliver a second blow to the side of the man’s head which must have terrified
him.  Suddenly the man raised his hands,
made no sound, spun around, and fell face first in to the sand.  Harold prodded the unconscious man with the
drift wood.  He dropped on to his
backside and laid the wood beside him. 

Harold looked over at the women who
was staring at him and breathing heavily. He walked over to where he dropped
his coat and then approached her.

“Get away!” She screamed.

“Be quiet, god damn it.  Be quiet.” Harold said to the woman,
disgusted, and frustrated.  “Let’s get
you a police officer, all right?  What
were these men trying to do to you? 
You’re drunk aren’t you?  So are
they.  What are you involving yourself
with these animals for?”  Harold said.  The woman panted frantically, blubbering and
scooting away from Harold. 

“God damn you, will you calm down!” Harold
reached for the woman’s arm and she lashed out at him.  Her long nails stung as they gashed his arm
and Harold backed off. 

“Oh, to hell with you!” Harold
screamed at the woman turning away, leaving her weeping in the sand, and the
men sprawled out on the beach behind her.

Covering the scratches on his arm with
his hand Harold came to the bustling night life again.  He put his jacket back on to cover the blood
bleeding through his shirt.  The jazz
music was still beating and there were more people out now than before.  The lights were bright and Harold had to
squint as he fumbled through the crowd out of the darkness.  He approached an officer strolling along the
sidewalk. 

“Officer.” He called.

“Yes?” the officer returned without
breaking stride.

“There are two men having it out on
the beach there just before Clarence Avenue. 
There’s a women too, and the big man was brutalizing her, hoping to have
his way.”

“Goodness, man.”  The officer turned, hurrying in the direction
of the bay.

Harold looked about him and found that
he stood before Wise’s Drugstore, showered beneath the fluorescent lighting of the
brightly illuminated red and white and black plastic sign of the shop.  The clean white and black speckled counter
tops and old fashioned soda fountain bar stools had always pleased Harold since
he was a boy.  He pulled from his pocket
a crumpled pack of cigarettes and from his jacket an old book of safety
matches.  Harold placed one of his two
remaining cigarettes in his mouth and struck a match.  He raised the crackling match too quickly to
the end of the cigarette and inhaled its sulfuric fumes through his nose and
mouth.  He gagged and coughed and the
cigarette fell.  He tore another match
from the book and picked up the cigarette. 
Again he struck the match and too quickly raised it to his cigarette, this
time extinguishing the flame before he could get a light.  Leaning his back against the large front
window pane of the drugstore he sighed and closed his eyes, the cigarette
hanging loosely from his mouth.

“You need a lesson, kid.” Someone said
as the cigarette was snatched from Harold’s mouth.

Standing before Harold was a tall and
sharply dressed man who was perhaps a foot and a half taller than Harold
himself.  The man swayed gently, waving
his arms around at his sides, softly singing some tune.  Harold watched him carefully as he raised the
cigarette to his mouth and closed his eyes. 
He snapped his fingers and shifted about, dancing before Harold. 

“You got to take control of the fire.”
He said.  “Let me see them matches.”

Harold handed the man the book of
matches which he took ingerly between his pointer finger and thumb.  He tore a match and struck it against the red
strip of flint on the back immediately using his free hand to shield it from
breeze. 

He sang to an improvised tune the
words inscribed on the backside of Harold’s book of matches.  “Winter buries deep.” The cigarette hung
loosely from his lips and he watched the tiny flame dance and the sulfur
dissipate in the air.

“You got to give a damn, you see.  Give it time to calm down.  Take care of it.” He said out of the corner
crack of his mouth, glancing at Harold, and then back at the flame, the
cigarette flapping between his lips as he spoke.  “It wants to burn you before you can make use
of it.” He moved the match closer to the cigarette, and stopped.  He angled the match a bit upside down.  “You got to hold it like this, let it crawl
to you.”

He sucked in gently lighting the
cigarette and turned from Harold. 
“Thanks for the smoke.” He said walking away.  He shook the match and tossed it in to the
street.

He stopped and faced Harold.  He flicked the pack of matches with his thumb
in to the air and Harold caught them.  “Whatever
it is you’re after, let it burn it’s way to you.”  He turned and danced away down the sidewalk.

Harold lit his last cigarette and
propped himself again against the front window of the drugstore.  Jazz music was all around him and Harold
puffed on his cigarette.  It was
beginning to cool off a bit as the sun was just about set, but Harold loosened
his tie nevertheless and felt much more comfortable.  Harold smoked slowly, enjoying the unusual
delight.

At the corner heading from the beach
at the bay a large crowd was rapidly beginning to form.  The two men from the beach were being led by
several police officers and the woman shouted hysterically as she was led in to
the back of the police cruiser.  The
large man was hollering, and fighting to free himself from the restraint of the
officers.  Harold approached the mob and
was stopped by the officer he had alerted earlier.

“Sir,” the officer said, “We can’t
tell what was going on there, but lucky you found us when you did or these men
might have killed one another.”

The mob that had formed around the
scene was great.  The other drunks
gathered around to watch the unfolding events with that strange inner feeling
of satisfaction that may be observed in the course of a sudden accident.  To witness the misery of the unfortunate was
the end of their night long quest for excitement and it was met with great
delight.  Harold was repulsed by the
show.

“Oh, why don’t you just let them at
each other!” Harold shouted.  “To hell
with them!  Let them kill each other if
that’s what they want, good riddance!”

The officer looked at Harold with a
perplexed expression.  “Head home, my
man.  These people have upset you
dearly.”

Harold left the depressing scene and
stopped before Wise’s.  He hesitated a
moment and then dropped his cigarette and smothered it with his toe.  The old establishment was empty when Harold
stepped inside.  He strolled slowly along
the tall rows of old canvas books filling the shelves along the western wall of
the shop.  He ran his fingers across them,
occasionally removing some ancient publication and checking the copyright.  Harold was fascinated by the maturity of many
of the books, some having been published as far back as the early 1900’s.  He found solace in wondering how far they’ve
come and gone, whose hands they had been held in, where they may have been lost
for decades and then later found.  He
closed his eyes and imagined he was a wealthy gentleman.  The year was 1933 and Harold wore a brown
suit with thin, light white stripes, a red tie hung from around his neck and a
matching brown felt hat.  Times were
hard, but times were simple he thought, and Wise’s Drugstore was true.  The old pharmacy had remained just as it had
been since Mr. Wise first opened its doors. 
Outside the world was going to shit, Harold thought, the faint commotion
of the drunks a testament to that, but inside old Mr. Wise’s drugstore it was
but a trifle concern.

 “Oh, hello.” 
Harold heard the old man’s voice and was awakened from his
daydream.  “Good evening,” he said.

Harold recognized the voice as Mr.
Wise’s and made his way to the counter. 

“Mr. Wise, its Harold.”

“Oh, Harold.” Mr. Wise was endeared by
Harold’s presence.  Harold had often come
to Wise’s with his mother and brothers on weekends when they were
children.  Mr. Wise had always held a
deep affection for Harold and was confident Harold would someday become a very honest
and upstanding man.  It had been several
years now since Harold had been inside the old man’s shop. 

“Harold, what’s the matter?  I can’t make you out.  You know my eyes…” the old man said, rummaging
through the shelves behind the counter.

“Mr. Wise, you’re wearing your
glasses.” Harold said smiling, taking a seat at the bar.

“Oh, I am.” Mr. Wise chuckled,
removing them from his face.  “Do I see
you are without shoes, Harold?” He said buffing his spectacles on the white
apron he wore around his neck. 

It hadn’t even occurred to Harold
until that moment that he was in fact barefoot. 
“I left them on the beach.” He said.

“Well, it’s no good for a man to
wander about every day in the same old pair of shoes, anyhow.” He said smiling,
returning his lenses to his face.  “Goodness,
Harold, how are you?  It’s been some time,
hasn’t’ it?”

“It has, Mr. Wise.  But I just don’t know.  I just don’t.” Harold said, hanging his head.

“My sweet boy.  Look at me, Harold.” Mr. Wise said dryly.

Harold looked up at Mr. Wise.  Harold’s eye lids were heavy, and darkly
lined.  The blood from the scratches on
his forearm had run and dried on his hand. 
Mr. Wise carefully examined Harold’s face.  It was hard for him to make out most of
Harold’s features.  Moving his glasses
out of the way he peered over them at Harold and then returned them back to
their position. 

“Harold,” the old man said, “You’re
glasses are broken, aren’t they?  You’re
filthy too.” He paused, examining the poor boy.  “Harold,” Mr. Wise said pausing with
hesitation and then continued, “You’re out of focus.”

Harold felt nauseas. “That’s not the
first time I’ve heard that today, Mr. Wise.” Harold said, leaning his elbows on
the countertop and cupping his chin in his hands. 

“I’m not surprised, my boy.”  Mr. Wise said fixing Harold a cold glass of
iced tea.  “I suppose there are a few
things you can do about that, not to worry.”

“Oh, but I just don’t know what to do
about anything.  I don’t know what I know.”
Harold said pouring sugar in to his glass. 
“I don’t know what I don’t
know even!”

“Well, Harold, you’ve lost focus, and
that’s not something that can’t be fixed. 
We wear eyeglasses for a reason, don’t we?  Could we work out a way for everyone else to
adjust to your lack of clarity?  I
suppose we could, but that wouldn’t really do much for you, would it?”

“Yeah,” Harold said shaking his head.  He looked up at Mr. Wise.  “I’m just so struck with fear, Mr. Wise.  I feel so immobile and I’m afraid of myself
and the whole world, like nothing I do will make a difference.  It’s so hard to live with myself.  I am afraid to die, Mr. Wise, but I can’t
take being alive.”

“That’s fine, Harold.  Anyone who hasn’t thought about dying hasn’t
really lived in the first place.  And life
is a scary thing and it is only temporary. 
But what can you do?  We die
alone, but we live among men.  You’ve got
to work with what you’ve got.” Mr. Wise said standing up from leaning on the
bar. 

The old man began fiddling with the
record player and albums behind the counter. 
He delicately removed an old 78rpm Louis Armstrong record from its
browned, tattered, and delicate sleeve setting it gently on the turntable.  The crackling of the needle on the black vinyl
record chilled Harold and goose bumps spread across his skin.

 

III:

O
Spring, Which in Full Choir Hails Thy Approach

“It’s funny, Mr. Wise, when you’re a
kid you don’t think like that, ya know? 
If you do you tell yourself that’s not how you’re going out.  You say you’re going out with a bang or
something.  I feel like I was going out
with a bang once, but that was before, that was before I was just two decades
old which seems like such a long time ago. 
Where did that bang ever go?  I’ve
been wondering since I was twenty where did I
ever go, under what rock did I bury my heart in my sleep, when will I ever find
it again, if ever! ” Harold ended practically out of breath.

“Harold, Harold, Harold.  You think too much and don’t live nearly
enough.  Ya know, life is a choice, and
everything in life is a choice.  It
wouldn’t be life if it and everything else wasn’t
a choice.  That’s a chilling realization
I’d say, Harold.  You know this.” Mr.
Wise peered over his glasses examining the television remote control in his
hand and Harold traced outlines in spilled sugar on the counter in front of
him, his cheek resting on his hand.

“But sometimes,” Mr. Wise continued,
“the good lord gets a little excitement out of throwing you a bone and all you
need to be is a victim of your heart.” 
The room was filled with the familiar trumpeting Harold knew very well
as that of old Satchmo. 

Mr. Wise danced with an invisible
figure, dipping and spinning.  He pressed
a few buttons on the remote control and the television came to life.  The jazz rhythm guided Mr. Wise and his
invisible partner and it made Harold sad. 
And he felt tired.  The black and
white credits rolled on the screen behind the counter, the volume muted but the
film accompanied by the energetic jazz music of the 1940s.  Harold was comforted when Stan Laurel and
Oliver Hardy appeared on the screen lying side by side in bed sleeping, their
breath blowing a lone, small white feather up and down from one of them and
then to the other.  Harold had not seen
this movie in many years, and it began to bring an old joy and comfort back to
him.

“When I was first going with Emily,
Harold, my wife,” Mr. Wise said, “I was going with one other girl too.  Oh, we were kids then, and this girl was a
true knock out, she was.  Her name was
Betty.  She was a real good looking
girl.” Excitement flashed in the old man’s eyes, and a smirk spread across his
face.  “She would do anything I asked of
her, Betty would.  She wouldn’t do much
of anything else, that’s for sure, she wasn’t the brightest girl, but she’d
surely do whatever I wanted.”

Harold allowed the jazz rhythm to
surround him, and bring him to a place he hadn’t been in a very long time.  He rested his head on his arm at the
countertop, watching Stan and Oliver blow the feather back and forth in their
sleep, comforted by the old man’s soothing voice.

“And then there was Emily.  Always with her nose in her textbooks.  She’d run straight home to get her homework
done every evening after classes,” Mr. Wise paused with a dreamy expression on
his face, and it was a moment before he continued, “But not without the
sweetest, most tender kiss for me before she went.” The old man said smiling.  “She’d glance back at me and her eyes would
steal a little more of my heart each time. 
She knew that I knew my heart didn’t belong to me anymore, and she knew
I had her too.”

“She sounds sweet, Mr. Wise.”

“Oh, she was.” Mr. Wise said softly.  “She was.” 

“Where’s the excitement though if your
life is already pre-planned?” Harold said.

“You’re right, almost nothing sounds
less fun than having your choices already made for you.  But, you see, Harold, sometimes men have to
make the choice, and sometimes they’re blessed with already having the choice made
for them, and that’s usually when we end up most joyful.”

Harold sat up and cried out in
amusement when Stan yawned and inhaled the feather. 

“I love this movie, Mr. Wise.  Every Christmas when I was a child my mother
would play it from VHS for my brothers and me.” Harold said excitedly.  “Ya know, it just doesn’t make sense for
people to think of killing themselves.  I
mean, it’s so stupid, isn’t it?  What if
our existence is only temporary, what if there’s really no god?  What if that’s it.  Don’t you just want to be part of the
experience?”

“You know, Harold, what the hell, it’s
not all a drag.” Mr. Wise smiled.

“I’m thinking I should stop ruining my
life.  Look at Laurel and Hardy, they’re
real funny, and so what if the worst is true. 
I’d like to say I took the damn trip. 
I’m constantly searching for answers I’m just never going to get.”

“Let it go, enjoy it while it lasts.  Maybe there is something, maybe not, and
sure, maybe is a slim reed to hang your whole life on, but it’s the best we’ve
got.” Mr. Wise said lowering the blinds of the large store-front windows and
shutting the overheard fluorescent lighting.

Harold sat back and actually began to
enjoy himself.  Mr. Wise and Harold spoke
enthusiastically through the night.  Mr.
Wise kept the music constant, replacing one record with another when each one
ended, and it was daybreak by the time Harold and Mr. Wise said goodnight.  The morning sun shone golden rays of light
through the slats of the closed store-front blinds.  Harold had to shield his eyes, squinting as
Mr. Wise led him out of the store, and it was then that Harold had noticed the
clear reflection staring back at him in the large glass window pane of the
shop’s front door entrance.

When Harold stepped out into the
bright sunlight from the darkness of Wise’s Drugstore he had only two things on
his mind: finding a new pair of shoes and his way home.

 

The End

[TanvirBD]

Nice one.

Thanks for share

[Author]

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