Shotgun Wedding: Unfinished Stories With Not Much in Common

by Kevin Tilley

  …

  Day Two, Part Two: A Flash in the Pan

  It all moves in a dreamy spiral. The air is full of swirling promises. A dance of cut-throat proportions. Sounds from outside meandering through the vortex of my perception. My eyes fixed on a painting hung on the opposite wall. A merry-go-round buried in an empty, overgrown field. Rusted over. Its once bright colors all faded to a dim spectrum of brown ruin. Broken-maned horses, with frightful looks frozen on their faces, cracked, whipped, free to run the endless spaces of unstitched land. But they will never move again. They will never feel the ground beneath their feet. Or so I imagine. A hobo camp can be seen in the distance. The smoke from a campfire rising into the hazy skyline. The wounded metal of a long retired set of railroad tracks snakes its way across the landscape. And tucked into the lower corner, upon close inspection, is the clear outline of a ragged toy animal. The circus has indeed left town. Leaving only its cast away shadow behind.

  I can remember a time. Long ago. It seems. I walked the streets with no thought to the future. The future was taken away. Deemed obsolete. A bureaucratic write-off in the grand ledger of time. And then I'm standing in the middle of a large bookstore. A giant warehouse of words. Escalators connecting the stories. A cafe on the top floor, with tables cluttered with stacks of magazines and paperbacks. An eclectic mix of contemporary standards seeping out hidden speakers. I was a regular. Spending my aimless days drifting through a sea of titles. Too poor to actually purchase any of the volumes which I treasured so dearly. I would just make my way down the aisles and read. A frequent flier on a jet stream of printed thoughts. A freeloader. I admit it. With nothing better to do.

  I was standing there, when she interrupted me. Asking if I knew where the Photography books were. That's what you get for hanging out any place too often. You become part of the scenery. You carry a piece of the place in your demeanor. You notice the little things. The height of the various layers of books on your average island display. And you know when something is out of place. Perhaps she saw you making note of one such irregularity -- or worse yet, taking action to right the wrong. I wonder.

  My first impulse was to tell her that I didn't work there. But I stopped myself, knowing full well where the books she was interested in were shelved. Why should she care? I could pretend, for at least one of our sakes. I could do that much. I must have smiled. At some point. I'm almost sure of it. It was pretty funny in a way. In a good way. Follow me. It's a bit tricky to describe. Tucked away. No problem at all. It's my job, after all. While we made our way she confided that she was working on a research project. So I mentioned a book or two in the Religion section which might prove of interest. I paid attention to her needs. And I was kind. Two attributes she was unaccustomed to experiencing first hand, or so she said, even from her children and husband. And when she made her purchases she asked for the manager, to ensure that my efforts would not go unnoticed.

  I know this because shortly after leaving me a stuffy looking fellow with a bad tie and short-sleeved collared shirt came up to me and told me what a good job I'd done. Me, who couldn't seem to buy a job. I'd done a good day's work without knowing. But now I knew.

  I am remembering now.

  I lost my job. That's the acceptable terminology. In fact, there were a whole bunch of people who met in tiny side offices and pooled their magnificent resources and eventually lost my job for me. And they never once asked me if I had an opinion on the matter. I was downsized. The guy who stayed late and ordered in for dinner. I was expendable. Or so it seemed. Or so it was.

  And so I was pushed down the mountain. Left out in the cold. Over qualified. Out of range. A smart, hard-working, all around decent chap...with one foot in the gutter.

  And then she came along. I could have just directed her to the Information Desk. That would have been a perfectly appropriate thing to do. A polite way to divert her attention elsewhere. Over there. But I wanted to be of help. And I was fully aware of the kind of shoddy and (more often than not) rude manner to which one's needs are attended at your average Information Desk -- which was undoubtedly a factor in my rise to prominence. I kept returning to the bookstore, as I'd been doing almost every day since the layoff, only now I was given work to do. And I excelled. Before I knew what was happening I was the first unpaid employee of the month in the history of our free economy. At least that's what I like to think. Certainly the first who actually lived with roaches and limited his meals to steamed rice and canned goods. Not that I'm complaining. I took over the entire 3rd floor. I was managing minimum wage malcontents. Meeting district honchos. Championing literacy programs. I was an up-and-comer. And nobody once ever bothered to check with Payroll.

  Until I stopped coming in.

  I decided it was time to move up the corporate ladder. So to speak. Expand my horizons. Take what I'd learned at the bookstore and apply it on a grander scope.

  I can picture the bookstore manager. Frantically trying to find a way to contact me. His star. Only to find that there was no record of my existence in the corporate files. They couldn't even look in the phone book. I'd used a phony name. I wondered at the time if they would feel they were violated or blessed by my deception. I wondered if they could tell the difference. But I didn't spend much time worrying about them. I had other things on my mind. New ground to cover.

  And so it I began -- my career as the subject of my own haphazardly conceived experiment. A nobody with no title or reason to be there. Filling a non-position. I thought back at drone VPs who'd give speeches about thinking outside the box -- hah!...I threw the damn box out the side door window and backed up over it. I was a shining model of go-getter'ism. Basing my work on one basic principle -- for every half-wit who turned me down for a job, I'd find a way to infiltrate the system and out-perform whoever was hired.

  I'd sit there. Doing my time in an interview. One after the other. Playing my part. Fully qualified. Eminently able. Hands presented for my shaking, along with the polite mention of a call that would never come. So I'd wait and make my appearance. Crossing the front lines with a story of Temp status, armed with names and a keen knowledge of the task at hand, to find the person who was hired for the position spending no small portion of their day e-mailing friends and making small talk to the other pay checkers. Bearing my teeth at the opportunity. Sinking my uncompensated resources into project after project. Making my mark. Indelible. Carved into the very workings of day-to-day agendas. Until their reliance was complete. And then I would disappear.

  Laughing to myself and whoever else might be in earshot as I reclined in the arm-chaired comfort of my crummy home -- with the stuffing come out the side -- at those stories on the Evening News of a failing economy and the decline in worker productivity. If only they had a few more of us charity cases on the case.

  I can't recall exactly how many times I did this. Maybe a dozen. Maybe fewer. They tend to blur together. And then my unemployment checks ran out, followed a few months later by my moderate savings. I lost my funding. And I was in a bad mood. Rent was coming due and my shoes were on their last leg. So I took what I could and went away in the middle of the night. Leaving my apartment door wide open. Climbing down the squeaky staircase. Starting my car. Turning on a radio station. Headed straight for the freeway onramp.

  I know there is more to all this but I can't get it all down right now. I remember something violent. An event. A catastrophic moment of deep wounding. The details are hazy as I sit on the edge of my bed and remember. Everything is spiraling down. Whirling around the edges. Disappearing.

  As I take my eyes from the painting I realize that somebody is standing outside my room. I can see the shadow beneath the door. I stand and climb into a pair of pants, throwing on a t-shirt with a picture from a Japanese monster movie on the front. A flash of frenzied destruction...covering my chest. I cross the room. And I open the door.

  I can remember a time... Almost.

  I find a tray resting on the floor. A
small pot of coffee and a sweet roll. I smile. I pick up the tray and return to the cave of my thoughts, kicking the door shut behind me.

  ….

  Day Two, Part Three: Call and Response

  I'm conspiring against myself. Peeling away the layers. Leaving myself torn and exposed. My skin is bare and in serious need of protective devices. A safe harbor on the forefront of this dangerous frontier. Free from worry -- of all those sharp corners and rusty nails, of all the lingering doubts, which I pick up at every turn. The pain and disease of afterthought. The overlooked war zone you happen upon during a meaningless trip to the supermarket.

  I'm getting ahead of myself. Or perhaps far behind.

  I've made a mess of things. In the short time I have inhabited these surroundings. Debris scattered about. In disarray. What was I thinking? An unsure reflex. Going about its business. I can feel the immediate need to come to grips. A desolate call to arms. What have I come here to discover? What revelation is waiting to be washed up on this shore? The threat of nothing. A silent utterance from within.

  The phone rings. Breaking the spell. Wrenching me from my listless routine. A message from the front desk. The final link in a chain reaction that began long ago, many miles away. Word has arrived, right on my heels. A line of communication reaching its final destination. Clawing at my consciousness. A voice in my ear, letting me know of its arrival. The shudder of syllables betraying more than the messenger can possibly know. An understanding between old rivals. A secret shared. Among friends. Signaling the obvious need to gather my wits and head out. Can't sit in this room all day.

  I'm a stowaway. A vagabond. An uninvited attendee at a make-shift farewell party. The guest of honor. I'm the elusive unknown in a horribly misconceived equation. I'm here and now. And that can not sit well with the wild-eyed practitioners of a certain ageless craft. Leaving my footprints in the sand. Singing at the top of my lungs.

  I enter the lobby with no trivial amount of trepidation. Surveying the terrain like an animal that's been removed from its natural habitat. Sniffing the air for bad intentions. Expecting trouble. Ready for anything that might come pouncing my way.

  The morning clerk is waiting for me. With a pleasant look on his face. His hand extended in what some might take for a gentle offering. But I take it for what it is. A postcard with handwriting I recognize immediately. I read what it has to say. Anticipating every word. My back to the front desk. And I look up to witness a surly looking fellow seated across the room in a velvet chair. A potted palm tree casts a shadow across his white suit. He is scanning the headlines of a foreign newspaper. I squint my eyes in an attempt to make out the language but the paper folds and he directs his attention directly my way. A pair of dark glasses and greased mustache obscure any imminent recognition.

  A face meets another. Events go on without missing a beat. The veneer of discretion rises imperceptibly at the scratching against its tender surface. Initials are drawn in the wind. Left in the passing for some random passerby to make note. A sharp look. A flat refusal. A measure of steady beats captured within the confines of a place and time. Squeezing every ounce of life out of what has been given. No reason or rhyme. Nothing you can easily name. Just another random verse in this freeform period piece.

  I fold and pocket the postcard as I cross in front of the fellow. A whisper escapes and floats toward a ceiling fan. Dissipating all trace of its existence. I rush toward the revolving lobby door. Swiveling my head as I push my way outside, in an attempt to destroy any hint of a lingering effect. Letting it go as I step from the building, and take a deep breath of morning air.

  I am full of misrepresented discretion. I have taken my love for my own humanity to its bitter extreme. Listing on the wave of a forgone conclusion. Running to ground on the jagged shore of new world sentimentality. Medicated righteousness. Annihilation rushes toward solid understanding. I am standing before the last gasp of reason. Taking it into my lungs. Exhaling a deep-seeded residue of toxic last impressions.

  I am repeating myself. Again.

  …

  Day Two, Part Four: Progressions

  I feel a lightness to my step. A pressing desire to engage in this here and now. I've been caught up in mind. Insinuating my petty desires on the heavy air. I need to feel the climate. Go for a walk. See what the land has to offer. Explore the turns. Roll with the sweeping sand. Give myself over to the wind. Let something happen.

  Right or left. It's all the same to me. I'd climb into my car but I'm short of gas and I have no time for details. I'm swinging to a flapjack beat. The fog will have to lift without me. I am out to find a place where the going is good... where hearts are beating and exchanges are being dealt. I'm feeling for any kind of a call. No right or wrong. No manufactured give and take. Just simple being.

  Summer days are long gone. Their dreamy memories filter away with each passing year. Opportunities squandered to some idea of the future. Life left on the dirt blown doorstep of yesterday. Each day holding a secret that falls neatly between the cracks. Nothing to show but a pocket full of cancelled checks. So you rip them up and toss them skyward. A confetti showering in the midst of renowned failure. A victory of sorts. Throwing your own personal ticker-tape parade. Celebrating the great triumph of living this one day.

  I set my sights on a grassy path snaking its way between the road and the beach front. Tempting me with swaying blades. Beckoning me to come along. Offering a simple gesture of welcoming -- to ease all possible reckoning. At first glance, this seems as good a route as any. But I pause a moment and wonder...what am I sacrificing in order to tend to my immediate inclination. What set of circumstances will never be allowed to unfold along the numerous lines of trajectory which lie as readily accessible before me. For every ounce of life there exists a gallon of death. How much of all this non-existence can I allow myself to feel responsible for?

  The moment passes and the thought-stream is blocked. My mind is made up.

  And I go forth. Making my way toward and into the entrance of the path. Tasting the salt in my teeth. Melting into the crevice between these two immense states of being. Liquid understanding. Solid belief. Continental drifts. Inverse reflections of one another. Negative reactions. Erosions blurring easy distinctions. Phantom lighthouse keepers there to remind us poor city slickers of how nothing is ever as it seems. Whiling away their multi-hour shifts with the firm resolve to prevent all potential collisions resulting from the common occurrence of short-sighted certainty -- fully aware of how often the most basic of life's lessons are forgotten.

  My agendas have all run empty. An uneasy awareness that tags at my side as I make my way along. I am moving forward with no thought as to what I might be hoping to achieve. Each step a series of fleeting momentums. Nothing gained and nothing lost -- or as close to nothing that gravity will allow. A journey through pointless destinations. A course charted on the cuff of shrugged shoulders. A joyous two-step swinging to a desperate tune. Just your basic weary march through the barren fields of sullen utopia.

  No sense in looking back. Best to fix your gaze on the tip of your nose. If only as a reminder that you are actually present at these proceedings...you are following your course, whatever that may be. Not the most inspirational of thoughts, but you take what you can get. Not bad, considering all you've been through.

  Don't start with that line of reasoning.

  Be here. Right now.

  I have traveled some two hundred yards from my starting point. I am not sure what evidence allows me come to this estimation. My awareness to distance is only raised by the realization that I am being followed. And I wonder how long this tailing has been going on. I assume it has only recently begun -- but this could be based more on an unfounded over-confidence in my peripheral vision than any reliable set of hard facts. The image of the man in the hotel lobby flashes in my mind and I worry that he has decided against allowing the proper time to pass before bringing to bear our inevitable confrontation. I
pause in mid-stride and turn abruptly to hopefully catch the gent off his guard. But he is nowhere to be seen. A sigh of what I presume to be relief escapes through my lips. And I smile. My imagination is getting the better of me. Or so I believe -- for just as this afterthought is being fully formed I witness the culprit standing not ten paces away.

  In the spot where I had assumed to see a well-polished pair of shoes, I am instead greeted by the rather intent face of some mixed breed dog. Hmmm. This is a bit odd. What am I to make of my four-legged shadow. I move toward the dog in an attempt to locate a collar but it retreats, keeping the same careful distance. So I wave my hand to encourage a further retreat but this proves to be a futile gesture. I move toward the dog again. It retreats again. I run toward. It runs away. I stop. It stops. I grow weary of the game and continue on my journey. The dog follows.

  The grass has grown considerably higher on either side of the path. I can still hear the sea to my right. And the occasional car passing far to my left. I get the feeling that I am headed nowhere and entertain the notion of turning around and going back. My canine companion is weighing heavy on my initial free-wheeling intentions. I gather no inclination that it is here to guard me against any possible harm. For all I know the dog is merely keeping pace to gain a ring-side view of a bad scene it knows all too well is lying in wait just around the bend. I cast a sharp look behind me and emit a brief growl. The dog only stares back at me. Taking my admonition in full stride.