Looked into the Sun

   The liquid between my toes and the frying pan pavement that threatened my shoes with a forboding hiss as I disembarked from the train told me it was July when I reached New Orleans.  I squinted reproachfully at the devil in the sky as it climbed higher onto it's noontime perch, it's descent however was anything but falcon like.  It seemed to relish each moment of sweltering pain until the excrutiating end when it left us with night air that smothered like a senile grandmother.  I had been looking for some place to cool off when I saw a little building that tilted like a drunken man falling in slow motion, I entered with intentions to cool my liver if I couldn't cool my skin.

   Luckily and much to my surprise there were ceiling fans there that swirled like slow southern belle ballerinas; like lazy after noons on a white washed porch with dust knitted doilies hanging from their blades.  My fellow patrons however were of a different design, there was no antebellum antiquity about them.  In some cases they were even more fetid and disorderly than I. Most of them seemed to be drifters: women and men of aching feet and asphalt soles (souls), and this place, it seemed, was a refuge for them, and a loud refuge at that, a raucous and ecstatic temple of shabbiness. The floors were layered with debris, the chairs and tables creaked as tan leather hides leaned haphazardly on their greasy surfaces and the unkempt beards of toothless laughing men fell in chaotic tangles to their chests.

   Over the din of curses and cat calls I could make out a slow soulful singing. Of course when I say soulful people usually picture sitting in a church, clapping your hands, staring at the ceiling with a Ray Charles smile on your face. But this, this was a slow, mournful, soulful singing, like God himself was crying terrifying and magnificent tears of sound. As I made my way past hookers and drunks, past the firefly peaking fires on cigarette tips and their collective gasping smoke I saw the stage, where the sound had been coming from. A tall black man stood in the center, his clothes were mismatched and two sizes too small for a normal man much less this wiry coat hanger man whose arms dangled lankly at his sides. He looked, laxly, at the far corner of the building as he sang, his painted on pupils were the color of smoke and reflected in them were the precarious candles at every table. It did not take me long to assume he was blind.

   No one in the room seemed to be interested in him however. They cheered and laughed at spit, and falling over, and vomit, paying no mind to the sound of sorrow echoing from wall to wall. I sat at the bar trying to ignore it too, but it nagged at me. I purchased a bed from the barman, he slapped his towel over his shoulder and the stains showed me to my room. All I could hear was the strain of the stairs as others made the trip to their beds stumbling hilariously toward the end of the dark hallway. My room smelled of whiskey and sex, the remnants of impermanence, it always interested me to note, seem to last. Though the stench permeated the room I was used to it and, quickly, I fell into a deep sleep.

   I dreamed strange dreams that night. There was a rhythm clip-clopping in my mind as strange shapes formed stranger meanings. I saw the bar patrons jeering, I saw the man singing, eyes empty, staring at the corner table. I saw the woman’s fat rouged face; I saw the man’s hairy fists. I saw the candle tumble end over end as they brawled, I saw the flames leap. I heard the syncopated excitement, frantic footfalls became beating drums, screams: a chorus, and above it all a rich voice chanted and called out, but no one listened. The music climaxed in maddening triplets like a sounding horn out of tune! A whole choir of voices but like a hellish orchestra in timber rising into a deafening-discordant-crescendo!

   Then, with sweat and sun beating down, I ripped the paper thin hotel sheets from my body. Only two of the walls were still standing, like a picture of fire bombed Dresden everything was black with soot and charr. I walked down the still intact stairs and saw that the main room was deserted and the wall behind the bar had fallen into a pile of bricks and what looked like a sand box full of vintage pictures and broken bottles. Then, slowly, I looked up from the empty flaking chairs and tables and broken glass. The stage was untouched, but he was still standing there, no longer singing, just staring at that spot in the back corner. I walked towards him tentatively and thought I saw him nod at me.

   "What does it mean?" I asked not sure what I even meant but desperate for some kind of closure.

   "You don't see."

   I thought it was a question: "Of course not, how did this building burn down while I slept so peacefully? It just doesn't make any sense."

   "Keep your eyes open and you can always see." There was a pause.

   I looked at him. "What about you?"

   "Looked into the sun." He smiled, then he began to chuckle moving his thin shoulders up and down. I looked back at him as I walked away and heard his deep, rich, laughter, resonate in my head.

   I went across the street where a man was reading the paper. I asked him when that building across the street had burnt down; I meant what time of night. He gave me a suspicious look and popped his newspaper murmuring something that sounded like "S’been like that for years." Then he just kept on reading, his eyes affixed to the black ink.

Reviews

[faryn wolff]

I am delighted to read your prose.. I'm sincerely in awe over your descriptions in particular. They sketch wonderfully vivid scenes. Your dialogue is smooth and relevant...I feel like there’s a looming overtone to this story that I can’t quite grasp. Perhaps I’ll read it a few more times to see if I can. Anyway, this is a fantastic example of your writing skill.

[Daniel Gardner]

This is good. I like your writing style. I don't get easily hooked into stories, but this one captured my interest.