Shotgun Wedding: Unfinished Stories With Not Much in Common

by Kevin Tilley

  I decide to press on a bit further. Finish what you started. Eh? No matter the obstacles. No matter your fate. And no sooner do I make this decision than I come upon an apparition which strikes me as distinctly out of place. Before me, swaying like a skeleton in the breeze, is the remaining structure of a frontier outpost. At least that is what I make it to be. Its weathered facade is quite featureless... containing no visible markings. For all I know it could well be an old tool shed. But that would run counter to everything I am willing to allow as truth. A wooden fence stretches far into the distance on one side of the building. I am curious as to what historic treasures might be waiting within but rather than entering the precarious looking door frame, in light of my new-found resolve, I choose to place my faith in whatever route the fence has in store. A conclusion worth taking note.

  As I am about to take my leave I notice a rusty weather vane on the roof of the outpost. It seems frozen in place -- as the wind is moving quite strong in a direction contrary to the one being aimed at by the rounded off arrow. Another pointless indication. What can you trust these days? And how many of these seemingly genuine artifacts have I allowed to steer me in bad ways? There's nothing left but inner deception. The last bastion of ultimate enlightenment.

  Something like that.

  …

  Day Two, Part Five: Unsound

  I am aligning what I perceive to be an overabundance of negligible wisdom being directed toward a diminishing subset of lofty ambitions with a greater understanding of subtle salvation. And I can't seem to help but come up short. No matter how hard I try. No matter how forgiving I am or how lazily I apply myself to this balancing act. It all just remains so blatantly out of whack -- a phrase which should be finding its way to nearly every front page headline, but that would hardly be fitting for our eminently distinguished news outlets (discount emporiums located safe distances from middle of the road sensibilities...nothing too trying for these trying times).

  Left right? Right left! Upside Down

  Spin those wheels, spin 'em round.

  I left my rights when I left that town.

  And found my shoes on a merry-go-round.

  I surrendered my library card at the local precinct. I did my time in the beer hall. Where's the justice? I signed my name to words I would never understand. I stood for many things.

  I stood very still.

  As still as a statue.

  Carved by trained hands.

  Erected for any to see.

  Displayed with all the rest.

  Forgotten soon enough.

  Left out in the cold.

  Trying to remember,

  Just why I was there.

  Gambling is the only noble profession that has managed to survive. The honesty of chance. The pure contempt for hard currency. A gambler will never give up his profession until he's plum broke. The surly integrity. Total accountability for one's losses or winnings. No excuses. Gracious exits. Respect for time honored rules and tradition -- and no tolerance for transgressions of either. No bailouts. No pension plans. No safety net.

  What do I know?

  Perhaps I am just projecting. Talking to the dog. Casting about for wishes in this old well I've seemed to happen upon in the midst of my mid-morning stroll. Right here beside my chosen path. Asking for something. Airing a few grievances. It takes most of us too long to figure out that playing it safe was the most dangerous thing a person could do. There is no such thing as playing it safe. I just wish they didn't muck it all up with those hypnotic messages of success and love and spiritual blah blah. Does that count? Does it follow the rules? Is there anybody down there listening? Where was I?

  In case you didn't hear, we're now broadcasting on 148 channels. Right in your neighborhood. Between commercials.

  I just wish that one time I could have opened to the horoscope page and under every listing were the words "You are going to die."

  I know...not the most uplifting of messages but, given all the other crap I've had to absorb, at least it would have been the truth. Deal with it kiddo. And who knows...it might just have been a beacon to myself and a few others, to shake off all the transparent layers of comfort that were burying us alive, to cough up those empty calories we were being force fed -- a nice slap in the face, the kind of wake up call that might lead one to accept old Chet Baker's great invitation (can't you just hear that mesmerizing voice whispering from the depths of some dark forbidden highway, "let's get lost")... anything -- a tap on the shoulder, a note passed underneath the desk, telling me that something else was possible, drawing a clear picture of exactly what one has to lose by not defining their own set of parameters regarding what they will and what they will not accept as 'the way it is'. And here's a stopwatch, a little reminder that we are constantly running out of time.

  Maybe then I wouldn't be stuck here making up excuses to keep pressing on.

  Tossing pennies in this old well.

  Going to pieces. Going nowhere in a hurry. Gone to the dogs.

  A flat out race to the end of the line. And back. Getting a firm understanding for the limits...the cleary defined parameters for a person of your station.

  Throw another coal onto the fire and watch the smoke rise. Feel your way around for a way out of this maze, knowing full well you are already in way too deep.

  As deep as a thousand wells.

  And a hundred thousand more.

  The echoes die on their way to the surface.

  Like a child's cry far from shore.

  Waiting for a response that never comes.

  A thought revealed in every washed up daydream.

  Carving my initials in the stone. With my fingernail. Never to be seen. A secret between me and the dog. A code they won't be able to crack. My best impression.

  The ground is good for digging. That's what someone must have concluded. Long ago. Rearranging the coordinates. Dancing in a circle. Breaking out the shovels. Striking downward. Into the very depth of perception. See what we can turn up. Between the endless darkness below and the soiled beauty above. The unknown treasure. The element we are all seeking to discover.

  I am standing somewhere in the middle. Taking too much for granted. Of all that has come before. And all that is yet to be. A walled in collection of wishful thoughts. Trapped in the sun dried mortar. Why can't it be raining? My flesh is thirsty. This well has no water to offer. And the sky just stares down. I'm spinning in a storm of my own making. And I can think of no greater insult. So I throw my final coin into the abyss.

  My heart is aching.

  I would offer up a prayer but this is no altar. Not that it matters. My faith has been tested and I am awaiting the results in the mail. Too bad I didn't leave a forwarding address. Some answers are best left sealed. Tossed in some dead letter bin. Like a pebble into the sea. Like a wish into a well.

  Wait a minute. But not a second more.

  Snickering to myself as I walk past a 'No Trespassing' sign. Moving toward the sound of revelry -- a get-together of notable proportions which seems to be under way. Somewhere up ahead. And I am in serious need of distraction.

  …

  Day Two, Part Six: Unearthly Delights

  I am moving ever forward and tirelessly backward. Treading along a worrisome plane, riding a stream of consciousness between simultaneous waves of reality. Staggering to keep an equilibrium. My parallel worlds are in a constant battle for my wayward attention. Keeping my own time. Walking beside this rickety fence with its three loosely connected rows of knot riddled wood beams, disrupted every few yards by rotten posts -- serving to keep the entire length of the partition in a more or less straight line -- each of which rises to a level just under my chin.

  I stop to catch my breath, resting my head on hands which fold so naturally on top of a randomly chosen, laughably unstable post. And I breathe in the air's sweet perfume as my universe swirls around me. Gazing skyward with that dog loitering a few feet away I suppress a sudden
urge to break into song, having no rainbow in sight to direct my crooning toward.

  It is not long before I find myself swept up in a twister of dandelions, a Technicolor yellow riot, with intentions that seem far from sinister. Your basic flower power uprising. Sneaking up when my back was turned. Kicked off by some disturbance in the ether. An otherwise respectable vibe gone unexpectedly bad.

  Here we go again.

  I am standing in a musty room with extremely tall ceilings and lines of bolted down chairs. It could be a bus station or a hospital waiting room. Maybe its a government office. Or a bank lobby. A large clock adorns the better part of one wall and hastily constructed barred windows line the base of another -- each with drab looking human cutouts waiting on the other side. Tellers or ticket sellers or unhelpful bureaucratic receptionists. It's hard to say. Inside the room, seated at random intervals, are the usual cross-section of the population one finds in places like this. But not quite usual upon closer inspection.

  The room is peopled by a rather down and out lot, all seeming to be keeping to themselves. They look tired and in no great mood to be disturbed. Over in the corner is a disheveled gent, his suit is stained and wrinkled, with a mangy briefcase at his side. A wilted fedora is perched atop his oversized head. I imagine him to be a traveling salesman many miles away from his last promising lead. A few seats away a woman struggles with a broken shoe heal. She has the fallen air of a spent prostitute. Growing more frustrated with each passing second. How long can this go on?... She gives up on her footwear and begins rummaging around in her purse for a stick of gum. A baby cries across the room and my head swivels in response, spotting a decades-old carriage resting beside the grotesquely dolled-up mannequin of a mother. A pair of hopeless runaways. In the middle of the room, sitting on the cement floor, is the hunched figure of what I presume to be a homeless man. He is drawing patterns with his index finger in the dust that has accumulated on the ground, humming along to a tune in his head.

  The balance of those in attendance all strike hauntingly similar poses. Defeated. Run down. Run out. Eyes avoiding chance meetings. A man of fewer years than his stature exhibits swims in the soul annihilating turbulence of middle management malaise. A woman on the verge of collapse checks her lipstick. And so on. In one corner a poor assemblage of musicians are fumbling their way through a Salvation Army waltz. An inverted Bosch-like nightmare scene. To say the least. Or perhaps I am making too much out of it. Who am I to pass judgment on these good folks? Am I not in the room as well?

  I continue my surveillance as an uneasy awareness begins to descend. I scan the faces more rapidly, going from one to the other, gazing at each with a horrified fervor. I break from my stationary stance, moving through the room at an even pace to get a closer look. And then it hits me. Right between the eyes.

  I repeat my path through the room to verify what I already know, what I am struggling to accept. All of these people, every one, with the notable exception of the baby, are old friends. Classmates. Chums. Crushes. From elementary school. Yes. Sure enough. Each set of features corresponding to a bright-eyed, smiling youngster in one of a half-dozen indelible class photos. I begin to run through the aisles, ticking off names and seating assignments and notable behaviors. Larry. You sat across from me. I can picture your handwriting. You lived alone with your mother. And Christy. Karen. Jon, the jokester.

  I can see them now. All of them. They are on recess, engaged in various activities, scattered about the playground. Having the allotted time of their life. But not me. I'm searching for someone. Standing on the edge of the paved boundary. An expanse of wide-open field behind me. I'm alone and desperate. I don't know the way home.

  My forehead is sweating and tears are running down my cheeks. I am exhausted. Spent out. Humiliated.

  I am back in the musty room. The clock has stopped. The cutouts are gone. The light from outside has disappeared. I take a seat among my peers.

  And time spins away.

  I am seated in the front seat of an automobile. I can smell the leather seats. Unmistakable. Sweet. My heart is breaking. I am saying my final farewell to a doomed love affair. Refusing a final embrace. Directing my attention to the side view mirror. Feeling no desire to look ahead. Lost in a meaningless reflection of things that are closer than they appear. A sigh of resignation fills the cabin. Fogging the windows. And I wait patiently for the passenger door to open, listening to the slow creak along hinges in need of oiling, a sound which does not repeat as the door gently closes.

  I am years ahead. And a thousand miles behind. My feet are flat against the ground. Tired. Out run. Steadily preparing for one last stroll through the garden.

  I am under a spell which has yet to be cast. I am moving into the eye of the storm. And I feel neither relief nor fear. I am my last honest chance. Open for suggestions.

  The dog barks and I am shaken back to my immediate surroundings. I kick some dirt in the general direction of the pooch but it only barks more. Seems to be in a general state of agitation. Scurrying around in its tracks. Emitting the occasional whine. Probably hungry. I think. But I get the odd sense the annoying mutt might just be alerting me to something. And sure enough, upon a cursory glance along the path I notice a curiously costumed band of outsiders. Ten or so. All dressed in brightly colored outfits. Some with make-up. Others with a general appearance of highly refined oafishness. I call to them to pay no attention to the dog's noise but they run away at the sound of my voice. Gee...just trying to be friendly.

  This certainly calls for a more detailed inspection.

  So I kick some more dirt at the dog and throw it a stick. We both seem in a rather playful mood -- having frightened away that dubious gang of apparently benign marauders and now preparing to give chase. I guess we're beginning to get used to one another. It seems to know I mean no harm with the stick as it is able to easily secure each toss in its mouth, and even manage a good throw or two back my way. After a minute or two of our measured give and take we come to the joint conclusion of re-asserting our efforts to the journey at hand...skipping along our make-shift road, into the waiting arms of further adventures.

  …

  Day Two, Part Seven: High Noon

  The sun is looming directly overhead. The shadow world has gone underground. Digging in deep. Retreating from the stony glare of everything that has gone pathologically wrong. Curling up in the dark recesses of nevermore. Retrenching. Staving off the burden of self preservation. Waiting out the passing over. Buried alive. To live again.

  And I reach the crest of a moderately sized hill. Reminded of all the stars above. Out of sight. In the wings. Beyond the reach of the pain being dealt out with such thoughtless regularity. Taking more than it will ever offer in return. Hanging in the balance. Loitering in the dusty regions of afterthought, for a kind word, a wish elevating through the clouds...some semblance of humanity.

  Gone but not forgotten.

  My hand begins to tremble. All hell is breaking loose. All around. I can hear the cries of anguish. Images are flashing before my eyes. Muscled heroes falling to their knees. Children holding lifeless hands. Old men and women desperately embracing. Crimes being perpetrated in broad daylight. The smoke from a thousand fires rising in all directions.

  One of those days...

  As I begin my descent I notice a small village a short distance ahead. A few scattered buildings. What looks to be a main street. A steeple. Your basic picture postcard from a time long passed, complete with that eerie sense of nostalgia. The image blurs over. Whitewashing to a windswept vista. Viewed from ground level through the lens of a early generation television camera. A pair of dusty boots enters the foreground and the weekly strains of a distant theme song begin.

  He's a Stranger. In a strange, strange land.

  With a dog at his side and a pen in his hand.

  A witness to Creation; A fugitive from his home.

  Mistaking his identity, cursed to ever roam.

&
nbsp; The Stranger!

  If you see him passing by.

  There's danger!

  Hidden in his eye.

  A criminal with no time to lose.

  Fingered by a clever ruse.

  Out to clear the humble name,

  of all brave souls put to shame.

  The Stranger!

  Where will he turn up next?

  A lonely ranger.

  For - e - ever vexed.

  His fate was sealed on a sad, sad morn...

  His life was lost, his shirt was torn.

  Now he fights for the honor of every good deed.

  Hoofing for the weary, with no trusted steed.

  A dog at his side and a wound in his heart.

  Knowing that the end is just another start.

  For the Stranger.

  Indeed...we are being treated to some infamous and extremely rare footage from the French existentialist TV western, "The Stranger" (L'Étranger), filmed oddly enough in English but never picked up on American television, which may have accounted for its limited appeal. About a guy seeking meaning in the spiritual wasteland of the New World. Traveling the frontier with his faithful mutt companion, moving from town to town. Doing his best to infuse a greater depth of understanding to the lives of all those he touches. Pulling the occasional grift. Pausing every few miles to involve himself with some political intrigue or, better for ratings, with the buxom daughter of a local big shot. Usually spending the better part of the final five minutes in drunken revelry, kicking some serious refusing-to-be-enlightened butt. That dog even getting into the action now and then -- in most cases, just to sniff one of the poor knocked-out saps before lifting its leg...a running joke of the series.