And so it goes with the other vendors. A few ask about the blonde boy with curly hair. I tell them he's gone, taken away, and a far-off look invades their eyes. As if knowing this could happen to them too.
I take small naps in the park, my head and shoulders a deadweight on the bag of flyers to keep them from blowing away, to safeguard them. It's not really sleep, but a deadening of senses for twenty minutes or so as the flakes blanket me. It's not the deep sleep you can bask in.
I've gotten it down by now. I go in and ask for the owner, take them aside to a corner or a back hallway, always out of the sight of others. I ask them if they sell lotuses. And they invariably stop the myriad of thoughts and priorities running through their mind as a distraction from what really matters. They notice my finer details, my tangled hair that's turning into a matted textile or rug, my ragged clothing stained with dirt in skidded patterns, the fact that I don't have a mask. Perhaps they even notice my musky scent of layered oily skin, my fermented breath, which I try to keep at bay. They question how far the government would go to trap someone like them. Would they send such a young woman, such a girl. Then I say I have the final installment, would they spread the word that it's out. That's all I ask. Please, I say. Please. This is the last one, the most important one. And they nod ever so slightly as a way to say they didn't agree to anything if they were ever videotaped doing such a thing. And I hand the flyers over, stuff them in their hands. They take them and hold them out, not really accepting them. And I say once more, please, this is the most important. They nod again, a mere millimeter of movement but enough that I can see its accord and promise. Then I rush out before they can return them. In the back of my mind I know they could throw them out or even call the government. But I block that out as much as possible. I have to finish.
I'm delirious as I fall asleep. Is this my calling, what I was born to do? Not a career, not marriage, not a child. But this.
Everyone wants to do something special with their life. Some do it through climbing corporate or governmental ladders and others create businesses or focus on a craft. But those are only the few. Perhaps most turn to having children to build something monumental, push forward a lineage, a form of self that can live into the far future. But this is for me. This... This... as I drift...
I awake to find a medium-sized, cardboard box next to the garbage bag. Its warmth saturates my fingertips. I open it and find a glass bowl of rice and vegetables and meat seasoned with herbs and spice. They even left a spoon.
After a long day, I suddenly realize I'm in a deserted parking lot. The darkness has descended far faster than I kept track of. By now I would be on a street with more people. Crowds mean a better chance of safety. But I've lost track of time and find myself standing awkwardly in the dusk with my unwieldy bag and backpack. I see a pack of young men approaching me from the near right, as if a pack of animals roaming together yet aimlessly. They laugh and yell and joke, gesticulate wild and feral as young men can, the sound waves of their voices poking and jutting this way and that. I turn to walk away when a breeze blows with such a force, almost toppling me over. The lights turn off in an instant, the buildings and street lights snap to black descending us into nothing until our eyes adjust.
After I get up, the boys surround me without meaning to, as if they were a swarm of insects. They mutter and joust verbally with each other as I begin to see their silhouettes. I'm caught in the crowd of shadows and figments that bustle and tower over me. I'm frightened by the excess movement and noise of the male-centric mass. The powerful gust has windswept the parking lot of debris and dust. A sliver of river glistens a muted metallic color in the far off. I try to spy a way to slip out of this animated ring that's somehow swallowed me up when a tall, hazy shadow approaches from the corner, begins to reach out in the commotion. I yelp like a small animal as his hand reaches over because I know he wants to grab my arm and a friendly guy with shaggy hair steps in front of me to block the intruder. He does this without looking my way as he continues to joke with a friend to his side. It's a casual chess move, as if he didn't see me when he shifted position a bit. He smoothly ignored me as he saved me to prevent drama and potential violence within the group. And the lights switch on. The street bulbs shine so bright without the curtain of dust, like a spotlight on the circle of us in the lower corner of the parking lot. I take advantage of the reprieve and rip through the crowd to run as fast as I can, turning onto the next street so the bad one can't see where I've gone.
My heart thuds and thuds. I can't slow my breath down as I merge into a river of people traveling the busy street to everywhere I can't go.
I must never stop. I must continue to move along, trudge along. If I stop, I might be attacked or taken in. I must move. Move it. Push on. My eyelids droop heavy, as if they were weighted down by leaden eyelashes. But I refuse to stop during the night. I should meander in circles; no, circles might make me sleepy. Straight lines and angular turns keep you sharp. I'm desperate to keep ticking.
I'm marching in place and then in a straight line from here to there when I notice him. When did he get here? Was it when I turned and walked to the building with broken windows? I'm confused but the dust has a way of obscuring the facts. Isn't that true? He's an older man with the weathered, wrinkled face of an old folk singer or an old jazz whistler. His braids flow from his head to the tops of his shoulders and he doesn't wear a mask. A fellow homeless. He smiles from afar. It's a clear, pure one, no sly subtext about it. I sludge towards him as I fight the hooding of sleep and the showers of new dust. I don't know why I'm magnetized to him. When I get to his crouched figure on the sidewalk, he says, it's been awhile, hasn't it? I nod my head in slothy stupor. He pats the spot next to him saying, it's OK, I'll watch over you. I want to stop for a second and think about it, but the subconscious globalizes my brain, and the conscious desperately wants to fall back and give up. I put the backpack and half-filled garbage bag in between us as I plop down and slouch over the bags. Then I see his immaculate, egg-yolk shoes in between the flakes that shade my eyes. I'm falling and delving, liquidizing into the blubber. The wobbly, viscous land of dreams and secrets. I remember what mother said. Yellow is safe, I mumble, eyes closing. Yes, it is, he says, now go to sleep.
I stir and turn my head. I've slept well, deep and restful for what feels like forever. I hear him pushing himself up, teetering to a balance with the wall as support. My hands slowly brush the blanket of dust off my face as I come to, my eyes still closed, still craving the ancient well of sleep. His shoes take a clumsy step and I feel a cold hand on my head, the whole palm covering it and waiting, as if a saint were blessing or praying for me.
BEAUTIFUL MYSTERY, A DREAM
Let me tell you about it. The one where I become a fusion of this world and there. I stare at myself from across a breezy prairie field. The kind I smelled when I needed solace. That smell of sweet, sweet earth, the one that brings tears to my eyes, always. I can feel myself here and over there where she is, where she is me. A sort of optical illusion, a mirror displaying twins.
The wind gusts, flapping my white gown around me with a flick of sound. I feel a lightness, look down and see my body becoming covered with minute pinholes. An ultra-fine perforation.
And I can see it from afar. Tiny dots begin to cover her. Slowly I can see small, round views of the land and sky behind her, like seeing through a screen.
And they spread, but I don't feel any pain. Just an incredible lightness each and every time the pins multiply and converge.
They merge into circular patterns of the first stem cells, multiplying and dividing. Beautiful mystery.
I'm disintegrating, becoming air molecules, floating into the heavens where the birds soar. Where the pollen floats. Where dreams yearn to be heard.
The last parts are the head and then the eyes. A pair of them float into the sun where things can be observed clearly.
I can see it all and then I can't. All the sights and sounds disappear. I can f
eel them instead, as a magnetic sonar coursing through my body. And I want to cry because I can feel it all, the good and evil. The hope and despair. Our scars and laughter.
I see a flurry of everything settled on the ground thrown into the air, defying gravity. Even I am lifted up and can feel for a moment what she must feel.
It's all here. I don't regret the past and never will. I know where to start again, somewhere where things don't fall apart, where things are bound by all this... yet not. Let me tell you about it.
THANK YOU
It signals to me, invites me from an out of the way corner. A hidden spot that draws me from my sight's periphery, that spirit that lingers by your side until you turn to face it. I walk through the old door and smell that familiar scent of warmth, of cozy rooms, of cooked food from the room next door. Old books. Bound cloth and paper.
I run my fingers over the bumpy spines, the stretched leather, faded tweed and serrated paper. I don't know what I'm looking for exactly. Jamie was the expert at that. I stuck my nose in things here and there until something caught my attention, some turn of phrase turned something in me. I'm too wound up to really explore, still mindful of the garbage bag and my backpack. And my own gritty appearance and feel. But I'm happy to be here, the safety and comfort thaws the nervous iceberg within. The man behind the counter with the shiny, caramel skin and gold tooth smiles warmly and lets me wander. He doesn't follow me in person or with his sight as if I might steal something. He knows what happiness this is and wants to share it.
I remember grandma's notebook and wish I had made a copy of it. And knowing how things turned out, I'm now happy I brought Danita to the orphanage when I did. I got a chance to say goodbye. I got a chance to explain and tell him I loved him. If I hadn't done that, he would've been removed from my custody when I was jailed and it would've been chaotic and wild. A frenzy filled with the movement of everything and nothing worthy. All the words of love and wisdom lost to cries and shouts. There would've been no chance to tell him what he needed to know. I see how it worked out for the best, and I'm grateful.
I'm on my way out when it catches my eye. I smile at the man and turn to it, pulling carefully so as to not tear it. It's a hoary book of names. Shaggy and disintegrating. I search the pages to see what it holds, a coincidence, the unexpected or a lie. Some kind of entertainment or mythology.
Jamie (Hebrew origin): The supplanter.
Danita (Hebrew origin): God is judge.
Eloisa (Germanic origin): Famous warrior.
I can barely sleep anymore. The adrenaline winds me up then crashes me under for blind moments. And then it begins again. I have this last batch, but I feel I've been everywhere in these neighborhoods. I could go beyond, but I'm physically weak. I try to muster strength, but I'm empty as I zombie walk, my body sludging forward, my mind scouring its corners for pleasure and happiness. Yes, I'm slowly going crazy from lack of sleep. I'm seeing things from the belly of the underside, becoming slow-motion, hardened magma as people shapeshift into bits of memory and spooks.
I miss Jamie. I imagine his wide smile meeting the outer edges of his face. How it swaddled me up. How it conveyed an unspoken vulnerability, as if he were a newborn child searching my face for the new world.
I remember Danita's eyes examining the crowds for his mother and father. His posture of loyal waiting. How he wouldn't have been angry if they eventually came back. I want him to embody the best of the world. And I can see that atom and telltale within him, the music rising to meet its destined meaning.
And Dr. M. I want to tell you... thank you. Thank you for everything, even the things you didn't intend. I hope we meet again one day. I would tell you about the journey I've been on. I would tell you everything is done, that we are friends of some kind. The kind that twists and turns, but eventually finds the peace.
The masks droop and pour into the streets like molten glass and the streets become nets bouncing people up and down and their glistening hair slithers in to strangle me. I need to find a safe spot. The spiky demons are coming, they have my scent trail. Maybe if I... there... the familiar, orange lights. It's a spell, the wizard's zone. A hidden ghoul in the concrete says, the animal spirits are coming, hide soon. And I squirrel myself into a ball under the orange cast, hear groans marathoning high and low, louder and louder, as the blackest insects climb over me until they form a hard shell of armor, their little stick legs scurrying over my skin, kicking and getting settled in for the long haul. Kneeling in for insect prayers. Yes, it is, he says, go to sleep now... now...
Hey, are you OK, he asks as he shakes me awake. My dry eyes peer open and I see Franken in a smudge of gray feathers. The words won't form. I can't spit them out as I'm coming to. I nod. Do you want the... I ask slow and roundabout, still attempting to wake up fully.
He shakes his head no, no. I've been looking for you, he says.
I pick myself up and hand him the last of the flyers in the garbage bag, which is now ragged and torn.
He takes me into the store, leads me to the back storage room and another room within it. It's for you, he says.
There's a single bed and small table with a lamp. I'm in a bit of shock, the alphabet and consonant sounds don't arrive.
It's yours. I should've offered it before... but I didn't know... His hands tap on the door before turning to leave me in privacy.
And when I hear him at the front of the store getting ready to open, when I know he's far off, I fall to my knees and lean my head on the bed, my breath exhaling in one swoop, the tension and fear cascading by the wayside.
TEETH CLATTERING
This storm is one for the centuries. The wind blasts and pushes everything sideways, and everyone stays indoors on emergency orders, waiting for its tortured howling to pass. Rain pours incessantly, the sharp drip-drops spatter the streets, buildings and anyone who dares to venture outside with such a force, as if to pin the world down as it should've been. It's been a few days now and we wonder how much longer until it's all been spray-washed clean.
Franken and I play card games and help the occasional customer who braves their way in. The site has been up for a few days and today is the first I've heard of it in our state. Our media and political establishment can no longer ignore it as its brushfire spreads outside our state's borders and within the heart of our city. Video is incontrovertible. The truth. I picture Friend in his new country smiling at this result as he thinks of Dove, his heart filling with satisfaction. We did it, he tells Dove. We did it. I see him planning for a future that has nothing to do with this, a fantastic secret he can tell his children one day.
The federal government will take over tomorrow. They say they knew nothing about it. They reassure the global community this is a rogue situation and that our state government will be punished. And the storm keeps citizens from protesting as it cleanses our atmosphere and streets of the dirty deed.
We awake early because of the lack of sound. Its absolute absence. No rain, no yowling, just an eerie stillness beckoning us to come out. The hunch and inkling before the white unveiling. And we do, hundreds of us. Into the streets to see the bright light against the blue forever, to feel the alluring rays. All the heads tip up. All the brains hungrily devour the new cosmos. All the corners of eyes crack open wide with awe. And our lungs balloon with crisp air. With life. And the anger is put away for now.
I can't help but look down as everyone looks up. I see a hodge-podge of debris and garbage clotting the storm drains and laying limp on the streets in clumps. And I half expect to find strands of hair tangled in the tumbleweeds and plant-life blown in from the countryside, fingernails caught in ripped textiles and yarn as if clawing a way out, burnt bones masquerading as torn tree branches. Teeth clattering against steel as the last of the water trickles down the drains. All the remnants of sacrificial lambs that can never be put together again.
FLINCH
Franken leaves the heat on for me when he leaves for the night. That's what I'll remember most
about him. It's a small thing he doesn't have to do that shows a specific thoughtfulness. He treats me like a human being, with dignity. He and his wife have done so much for me, but this is the essence of his character that I'll cherish the most. I work at the store every day for a wage and I plan to save enough to leave and start a new life in another state.
Yesterday a warehouse on the edge of our city exploded. It would've been any typical news story in a metropolitan city, except it was where the clones were housed. And they escaped. I don't know if it was caused by a clone or if it was a failed attempt by the government to burn them up. The clones wandered the city streets or stood awaiting their orders as if they were humans with half a brain. Unconnected robots without the download. The public gawked while gathering closer and closer to get a real look and take photos of the robots encased in human flesh. Their eyes searched for a touch of humanity, a tell of it on the exterior. They would have seen omens of it translated through a brief look of fear or questioning, a shaking hand or impatience twitching through the eyes. But only on those that still had that small, arching spark, like all the ones who ended up on my table. And before someone could think of getting close enough to rile one up, the codes were announced on loud megaphones throughout the city whereupon they marched to an unspecified location, past a checkpoint stacked thick and angry with officers and military, their robo-matrons waiting in the privacy of closed rooms.
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