Knife

  "I can't imagine a more beautiful place," I thought as I stepped off of the transit. Certainly it was just a street in downtown Mulvehill, and accordingly carried the grating visual burden of downtown, but at the moment Altman Street transcended it all. The sun, in carrying out its routine descent as the Father had once taught, seemed to hide behind the monstrous building to my right, attempting to conceal itself from the rest of the world; carelessly letting spill just enough light to break through the thin fog that hovered only inches above my head. While the fog continuously changed its shape I associated the place as the setting to many of my most memorable imaginings, complementing both dreams and nightmares alike. As I began to compare the scene to a painting I'd once studied, two people died, three were born, and the sun had disappeared completely. Consequently I regained my literal consciousness within my wristwatch and found that I'd been observing the street for nearly fifteen minutes. Seeming to be hopelessly alone I assumed that the people of Altman Street had retired to their homes having probably long tired of the lights that their sunset reflects. My quiet fascination with the scene had me instantly labeled as, "just visiting," and while it was true that I was only there for the time being, I would never have considered myself a visitor.

 

            I was tempted to the city of Mulvehill by the promise of meeting with an old buddy of mine, a former Gilliam Gator like myself. At his absent insistence I have decided to wait for the transit back home instead. Be it a test of patience or punctuality I was tired and already I wanted to go home. Given that I had nearly an hour and a half until the next transit to Gilliam would arrive, I started walking. I've always said that I have been somewhat spoiled in my old age as far as being surrounded by people that I love, and as a result I found myself looking desperately for someone to talk to, feeling particularly lonesome having been tricked out of bullshitting with my pal. Coincidentally, as I made my way to the next street over I began to hear the soft flutter of voices coming from behind an old warehouse. I commenced a slow trot, making positive not to run, for to tire oneself results in poor conversations, consisting mostly of, "are you alright?" and almost always concluding with, "take it easy next time, old timer." The repetition of the word time was intolerable, but repetition is good for the memory and I'll never forget his face.

 

            To my dismay, I reached the epicenter only to find that the voices belonged solely to the new breed; the, "cruise-control generation," I had referred to them once. There were about a hundred of them, all with the same thoughts on individualism, the same idea of diversity, and the same brand of shoe. Uncomfortably they spotted me with their peripherals and casually dismissed my presence. They were all gathered together, fighting societal standards in their black garb, tight fitting pants and stylish hairdos that their parents had regrettably paid for. I would imagine that they'd purchased the mascara themselves, for God knows what would happen if Rock Sr. knew that little Rocky was looking to accentuate his eyes! They all kept up their meticulously pre-cooked sad gazes as they conversed about the government and their favorite movies. It was definitely a lot of time and money to be spent on an image. I must have come off as a real a*****e differentiating myself from them in a fleece jacket and a fedora. As one of them accidentally gazed in my direction, I decided to inquire about what was going on, and I did so, repeating that very question only in a present tense manner. His response, although possibly worded differently, carried all of the resonance of, "we're waiting to get in." His mascara coated glare had me scared shitless. Bravely, I delved deeper.

            "What for my good man?" Good man I'd thought to call him; that ought to butter him up.

            "The show," was his well lubricated answer.

            "What sort of a show?

            "It starts in five minutes."

 

            It felt quite natural to end this belligerent banter there. "Five minutes," he had said! In spite of my failure to relocate, "my good man," I am certain that his face was glowing with embarrassment when the doors opened not two minutes later! The warehouse was titled, "Malignity," and everybody was filing in. Refusing to allow the derelicts to hold any sort of a secret from me, I obediently followed, wrongfully expecting that I could simply pay the cover charge and take a look around the place. The commute from outside to in was a particularly languid one. Like a chemical burn I slowly oozed my way into the open wound that was, "Malignity." It was much smaller on the inside and appeared that a fire code was being overlooked. Three minutes and five shuffled steps later I came upon the heat; a horrible oxygen-free sort of dryness that picked at the skin and crawled along your bloodstream. It was unbearable, but turning back would have been impossible; only seven steps in and you were damned. The roof of the building was fairly high and the lights that hung from it were positioned to accentuate a stage at the back. The walls were adorned with giant speakers, their cables trickling down like opened veins. At this thought, I was again struck by the heat. Knowing that screaming would solve nothing, I quietly counted the drops of sweat that formed at my brow and fell from the tip of my nose. I couldn't help but blame the hundreds of others for sweating and breathing along with me; even the yellowy wallpaper was taking in oxygen! I was just about to black out when I was startled by a rather bestial voice.

            "Are you m***********s ready for the greatest f*****g show of your short motherfucking lives?"

            The responding applause left little doubt in my mind, these people were m***********s, and they would live short lives.

            "Forgive me if my voice is a little off key, I've got a bit of a cold."

 

            Damn.

 

            I'd never seen a seven foot tall man with a microphone that I wasn't afraid of before. He carried a guitar and brought a number of friends onstage with him. The kids played music and reminded me that there was a reason I hadn't listened to a current radio station in over a decade. They stood there with their electric guitars just waiting to get big enough for someone to steal one of their riffs; with the lawsuit money they'd never have to play another song again! Along with the music came dancing. Seemingly reenacting a poorly organized bar fight, the little cretins, to no rhythm whatsoever blindly swung and hurled themselves at one another. At the back of the room I saw a lonely looking girl around the age of 17. She had some dope around her arms, sure, but her beautiful, shocking eyes told me that she was lonely.  Caught within the lovely tangles of her long black hair, I forgot about the dancing and was violently approached with a shove. By this shove I was blown back to the middle of the floor, where I discovered the source of all my torment. The b******s actually had a heater blowing, and if it wasn't on its highest level then air conditioning technology has come a long way since my day! The wallpaper was no longer to blame, for oxygen being taken in was not the problem; they were blowing the air right over our heads and out the doors! The faded wallpaper was just as much a victim as the rest of us! The band reveled in the spotlight as the kids danced in their shadows, willing to do whatever the lead singer required of them. I began to feel a bit uneasy and decided that I would need to find a way out. I'd thought about simply inching along the walls, but there was too much of a chance of my being crushed against it by one of the band's minions. I watched a kid dive off of the stage to be carried away by the sea of people. I can honestly admit to considering this as a mode of transportation before blandly deciding to, "excuse me," my way out of there. At each intrusion I was faced with a hateful but sad stare. I look each one of them in the eyes and saw only animal instincts; all human behavior was gone. Once I reached the door, I stopped to let my eyes and ears adjust to the sights and sounds of Lynch Boulevard and what seemed to be a group of "them" in a huddle. I felt a sort of unexplainable sadness for the kids. Maybe they would grow out of it, but perhaps that's just the way that times are changing. After about a minute's worth of adjusting my eyes I realized that the ground really was red, and that those horrible moans were not a part of the song. Peeking through the kids like Venetian blinds, I discovered the source of the blood flow. A curled up and shivering sort of fellow lay there bleeding on my shoelaces. As he shook, I noticed that his head had been cracked open. Before I had a chance to investigate, one of the surrounding kids decided to reassure me.

            "Don't worry about it, Ralph's a pro," he coolly mentioned, "He's going to do it again on stage in a few minutes."

 

            I conjured up the most condescending, judgmental look that I could muster and quietly walked away. I couldn't figure it out. Was this guy really going to crack his head open again? Was that the act? Maybe that wasn't Ralph; maybe Ralph was the guy standing to my right flipping his unlit cigarette between his fingers, and, blinded by their awe for the stupendous f*g twiddler, the swarm had failed to notice the bleeding man at their feet. Did Ralph honestly intend to perform this feat on stage, and if so, would the kids dance?

 

            I needed to think.

 

            I left the kids standing in Ralph's blood and glory and made my way to the end of the block; to Altman Street. Though the sun had set long ago, I was still haunted by its impression. The fog had become thicker and a light rain began to fall. Through the haze, I could see the outline of a tall, thin man approaching. He appeared to be quite frail as he spoke to me through a thick Russian accent.

            "Do you have a light?" he asked, carefully motioning the word light.

            I did, and I lent it to him. He told me his name, Andrei, and I offered him mine, seeing that this was somebody that I could easily waste fifteen minutes talking to. I supposed that he'd memorized how to say, "Do you have a light," and, "My name is Andrei," judging by the quality of the rest of his English. Together we trekked through the thickened atmosphere, not talking about much as far as I can remember. After about a minute or so, he gave up on his English completely. Still we continued with two different one-sided conversations. He punctuated every sentence by either puffing on his cigarette or by popping some sort of pill into his mouth. I complained to him about the state of today's youth and he inserted his commentary in Russian. In spite of the fact that neither of us could understand the other, we decided to at least be decent and keep up the framework of a conversation. He caught me off guard by suddenly returning to his broken English.

            "Do you . . . live . . ." his gestures pointed to the word here. He took a puff off his stog.

            I told him that I lived in Gilliam and was just heading for the bus stop. Returning to his own language, he insisted that he come with as he popped another pill. I suggested that it was all right with me, but that the bus stop was only a matter of feet and fog away. Releasing a hearty chuckle, he took a puff of his cig and walked with me towards the bench. His f*g was down to the filter and he flicked it away; it was all pill popping from now on. Conjuring up a newfound vigor he suggested a new, less agreeable topic.

            "What you . . . think on death?" pop.

 

            S**t.

 

            I can't imagine that the look on my face had hidden my lack of comfort with the question. Apologetically he expanded on it.

            "You think it is . . . happening or . . . planned . . ." pop, pop.

            "Predetermined?" I uncomfortably inquired.

            While I despised that thought of having to answer such a question, Andrei had provided me with enough company to pass the last thirteen minutes that I figured I owed him at least that; I gave it my best shot.

            "Well . . . I suppose that it is somewhat predestined in that we all know that we're going to die someday, but as far as timing . . . yeah, I suppose it can come at any time . . .  really."

            Absolute indecisive bullshit, but God bless the man, looking as if my answer had held some real meaning to him. My own personal blundering had left my mouth dry and my face red. Thinking that it would be best to hide my embarrassment I turned myself slightly, looking for fresh air and studying the bus schedule. He abruptly offered me his theories on suicide,

            "People will . . . kill them own persons . . ."

 

            10:32 . . . the bus was late.

 

            ". . . that God does not . . ." he began to breathe heavily, ". . . but . . ."

            When his panting overcame his speaking, I looked to him and saw that there was a small hunting knife lodged in his side. I panicked and attempted to yell, but, obviously frightened, Andrei kindly asked me to continue to look away, and, moved by the sincerity of his request, I obliged.

            "No," he continued, "this is . . . how I am dead."

            His breathing became almost inhuman. I looked again to see that he was holding in his left hand a horrible blackened mass; a cancerous kidney. He bled there, insisting that it didn't hurt; the pills I'd supposed. Probably noticing that I was shaking, he attempted to comfort me. He thanked me for keeping him company in his last moments and handed me the knife.

 

            He died there as the bus pulled up and I took a seat near the front. The passengers seemed not to notice Andrei. The driver, however, suspiciously kept his eyes on me, intermittently switching between the road and I; two seconds for the road, three for me. Why did he give me the knife? Did he want me to go with him? Is that what he meant by keeping him company? No, he was delirious; the knife was a present. I began to think about my family: my beautiful wife and daughter, and what they would do without me; I had reason to live! The driver was still watching me, closer now, and I began to feel quite uncomfortable. In an attempt to shift my weight a bit the knife in my pocket stuck me in the leg. I started, and the driver with me, as if pricked as well. He stopped the bus, for me it seemed, and I decided that I would walk the rest of the way. Immediately after my departure, the bus sped off. The fog was so thick now that you couldn't distinguish it from the exhaust. After about a half an hour of walking, the light drizzle turned into an epic downpour. It was cold, and I had miles to go before I would reach the near mythical town of Gilliam; my home.

Reviews

[jen -- JG]

Quite an interesting read here. Flirting with the unknown and wanted simply because of the need for company and true to life discovering what you find is not exactly what you were looking for.

Story starts off well, a sense of the normal - and gradually reveals itself to be something more than is seen of the surface. Each scene is is vibrant - in both scent and sound - the imagery is great in all areas.

The dialouge between the two men is believabe, their need for company overcomes their need for language - or understanding.

A good little story - very much enjoyed.

Thank you

Jen-JG

[Raef C. Boylan]

Bleak but amazing.
I loved the cynical sense of humour throughout; it works very well that your protagonist is an older man commenting on kids, as opposed to a sardonical teenager sizing up their peers - his summaries of the kids' posing lifestyles have more of an affect, because they're coming from a total outsider to the 'culture'.
Excellent imagery dispersed throughout the well-crafted narration made this particularly enjoyable.

I sense that your stories may be like Kevin Spacey films: brilliant...and someone always dies[?]

This is the kind of piece that deserves to be a contemporary classic. Unfortunately, the aforementioned kids tend to have short attention spans lol.

Thanks for posting this.

Some queries:

"At his absent insistence I have decided to wait for the transit back home instead."
[Present tense when the rest is in past tense. Suggestion: I had decided]
["At his absent insistence" - I think I get what you mean, but the wording is quite awkward]

"It was much smaller on the inside and appeared that a fire code was being overlooked."
[He's referring to overcrowding or a lack of easy access to exits, right? The second half of the sentence is worded a bit awkwardly. I'd suggest something like:
"The place was much smaller on the inside and it appeared that a fire code was being overlooked."
or maybe a slight explanation:
"The place was much smaller on the inside and, judging by the solid mass of black clothing [lame language, I know, but you get the jist], it appeared that a fire code was being overlooked."]

"I look each one of them in the eyes and saw only animal instincts;" [look = looked?]

"While I despised that thought of having to answer such a question" [that thought = the thought? Not sure, just checking]

[Rain]

I enyoyed this. It was an easy read, and you characters were well defined. Rain..