Only Happy People Whistle

Only Happy People Whistle

 

                Perched on the curb watching water rush endlessly into the sewer I breath in the strong scent of the streets, the potent mix of oil and rain polluting the air.  The rain has long ceased, but the puddles remain.  I listen to cars splash through puddles not caring if they were to soak me with the tainted waste.  I hear the hollow sound of water beneath my feet, surging through the series of  tunnels.   My bare feet rest in the puddle at the edge of the curb just deep enough to graze my ankles.  The water, still pristine after washing all the grit and grime from the streets, feels cool and in a way soft, as it caresses my skin.

                To break the crystal surface flowing steadily around me I dip a finger delicately into the stream.  Having such control is meaningless, but provides cheap entertainment.  I can see the ripples and new trails created by this action.  It's intriguing the way I can so easily manipulate the rainwater with one touch, and I think of how quickly it will disappear when the suns burning rays come out.

                Describing this beauty I see in the middle of this waste and crumbling buildings they call a city is no easy task.  For my mind is different from most.  I can see it when no one else can.  When they all but crumble, like the buildings they built, I am still standing.  Maybe not tall like those who have found riches and revel in the poverty of others who perform their every command and all but bow at their feet, but I stand. 

                I have stood beneath the willow tree on the corner of Bruce and Beckett.  The wind, a subtle whisper that simply calls my name and the impulse to close my eyes, one I cannot resist.  It's like I'm lost in time, nowhere to go, nowhere to be, and in a second everything disappears.  The only hitch in this story is the sound of rubber upon pavement, angry drivers laying on their horns in the distance, and the voices of disgruntled parents yelling profanities at their children.  I never said it was perfect, but you didn't catch that.  You don't care to hear me describe the beauty of a city long drained of life.

                It's nothing too difficult or trying to understand.  It's not a trick or a puzzle to be solved.  It's a story about life.

                I'm not conventionally happy, and don't claim to be.  I'm the type of person that others go out of their way to avoid.  I have witnessed three people in the last ten minutes still bundled in their raincoats and boots, bustling around make a perfect half circle around me.  Who wants to walk past a barefooted stranger staring mindlessly into the swirling abyss that is the town sewer?  Seated as I am upon this road I appear to be completely out of my head, ready to physically maim the next person who steps a foot near my precious puddle.  My mind does run it's own course as it wishes, but the speculations of those who walk on past are far from anything that is the truth.  They think stereotypically, but then again that is a stereotypical thought.

                I watch, impassively, as a woman scrutinizes  a dark puddle.  Possibly judging it's depth, if it's worth the risk.  Anyone would, but when you could walk a block either way why waste the time, unless of course she dropped something.  Even a trivial penny could render pause in anyone's step, but to spend this amount of time would lead me to believe it could be something worth a great deal more.  I don't remember seeing her drop anything, and I tend to be someone who notices things like this.

                I pause, staring mindlessly into the ripples of the puddle, listening to a soft song trailing from unseen lips.  A faint whistling of an unfamiliar tune captures my attention, captivating me.  I cannot help but be drawn in by it's simple, carefree melody.  It's nothing too extravagant or garnished with challenging harmonies, clear in it's intent to pass away the time it ceases for a second, but quickly returns.  I always thought that "ignorant of reality, stuck in a perfect world" people whistle.

                It's origin finally makes an appearance around the corner of a decaying building.  An average man in a windbreaker, tennis shoes, and jeans makes his way down the street.  His pace is that of someone in no hurry, but with evident knowledge of his destination.  His eyes meet mine for a second.  He is the first to acknowledge my presence.  It's nothing unusual to get a few looks here and there.  However, he looks at me again and I see a glint of curiosity in his expression that is not like the general look of disgust or pity.

                It takes me a second to realize his eyes are still locked with mine, and even longer to notice his path has changed.  He makes a straight line towards me, crosses the street, and pays no attention to the puddle at my feet.  He stops before me, but says nothing.  My first thought is that he wishes to ask if I need assistance.  The only other person to ever speak to me was a counseling psychologist who acted very concerned about my well being.  I suppose she was just looking for another tortured soul to add to her collection.

                He makes a motion, as if he wishes to say something.  I raise my eyebrows questioningly.  He c***s his head to the side a bit, and relaxes his posture.  Jutting his leg out as he places all his weight on the other he splashes water onto my legs where I've rolled up my jeans to keep them dry.  His expression is apologetic as he finally speaks.

                " I apologize miss.  I hope that water wasn't too cold," he says.

                I look down into the cool puddle and I shake my head as I trail my finger across the surface. "Not at all," I say, " Your body becomes accustomed to it after a bit, and it's really not that cold to begin with."

"I see, and do you do this often?"

                The tone of his voices catches me off guard.  I look at his face and his eyes glisten with what I might guess to be amusement. 

After a pause, I answer, "I do enjoy the rain."

He actually smiles and says, "Really?  I never would have guessed,"  his sarcasm rather evident, "Not many people in this city do.  Most cower under umbrellas, or lock themselves away in houses or office buildings.  It's as if they would rather lose all eye sight staring at a computer screen than risk getting a little wet."

"Makes for an interesting sight.  I watched a woman not too long ago pondering whether to brave a puddle or go the 'long way' around."

"And her final decision?"

"She took those few perilous steps to circle around."

"Must have been horrible."

"It appeared so.  She looked none to pleased at being bested by a shallow pool of water.  However, I'm sure her shoes thanked her profusely," I smiled at this statement.

"Ah, yes.  A woman's shoes should always be taken into consideration," he said thoughtfully, "Although, I couldn't help but notice that you're not wearing any."

I laughed, not meaning to do it aloud, but  I was having a conversation about rain, and women, and shoes with a total stranger who seemed none to put off by my behavior.  It was definitely; pardon my cliche, a breath of fresh air. 

I replied with ease, "If I were wearing shoes there is no doubting the fact that they would be soaked through by now.  May I ask why we are talking about shoes?"

"Well, you cannot deny that they are, in fact, essential to living," To which he added, "In a city that is."

I nodded my agreement. 

                He started to speak again when the breeze picked up and I shuddered involuntarily.  He paused and looked down at my thin jacket.

"That jacket, if you wish to classify it as one, does not look as if it were designed to withstand this type of weather." He said as he made a motion with his right hand towards me.

"It's doing it's job well enough," I say.

He eyed me skeptically, but not in an unpleasant way.

"In that case, would you want to go down to the Stone Wall and grab a drink?" He says,  waving his hand in it's direction.  It was at least a good six blocks from where he stood.

"I never understood that name," I say,  "There's not a piece of real stone within a block of that place, and it's walls are slowly deteriorating."

                He caught the mock disgust in my voice and smiled accordingly.  I made a slight movement to stand and his hand came down to assist me in a manner I hadn't witnessed in a long time.  I took it tentatively and released it almost as if it had never been there.  I asked him to wait a moment while I went into my house to grab a pair of shoes.  My house being only ten good steps from the street, it was a short trip.  I returned within five minutes with my jeans rolled back down, black boots--to accommodate the rain, and a slightly heavier jacket.  He eyed me for a minute before we started our walk down the street. 

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                The trees lining the pavement fluttered in the breeze, the leaves making sprinkling sounds, as if it were still raining.  The coolness of the air nipped at my fingers tips and I hid them in my coat pockets.  The sounds of the city cavorted around us as we walked in silence.   I curiously eyed the stranger beside me, stealing glances here and there.  He seemed content, in his easy stride, to wander the city streets.  We were slowly encrouching on their destination, and I could already smell the liquor, freshly poured and aging in the carpet.  Music flowed from the door, propped open with an old steel anvil.  Pulsing light flooded the sidewalk, revealing every crack, crevice, and cigarette butt, left behind by ritual smokers.

                I stopped just outside the door, gazing blankly at those crowded around the bar waiting for their turn to purchase the potent substance they would spill, and likely lose in a few short hours.  I let my eyes wander towards the stage, only a portion could be seen from where I stood.  It was karaoke night, and a middle aged woman, dark lines streaking her face, was wailing the last few words to "Crazy."  She had an uncanny way of butchering timeless music, as most drunk participaters tend to. 

                I turned my attention to my companion, who having continued down the walk, was leaning leisurely against a magnolia tree.  He returned my glance with a smile, and I left the doorway, still listening to the last words "and I'm crazy for loving you."  Sounding more like a howl the longer she dragged it on.

                I kicked a rock and watched it skip across the pavement then turned back to look at the man standing beneath the tree, and walked towards him.

"You know," I said curiously, "you haven't even told me your name."

He stuck his hand out and said, "My name's Royce."

"Like the car?" 

"You don't know how often I have been mocked for that, but no, I wasn't named after the car."

"I've heard much worse," I said smirking a little.

"And yours?"

"Journey."

"That is quite an unusual name."

"My Mother was an avid reader," I said shrugging my shoulders.

                The noise erupting from the bar turned to angry shouting and a bottle, heaved from somewhere inside, landed in the road and shattered.  Glass lay scattered across the ground, glittering beneath the street lights.  A few moments passed and a patron was pushed out the door by a massive man who proceeded to stand in the door way and appraise the man who lay sprawled on the sidewalk, possibly to deter him from reentering the establishment.  When he realized there was no way he would be getting back in he passed us mumbling obscenities, and something about freedom of expression.

"Well, that was quite a show," Royce said with a hint of amusement.

"Got to love bar fights, right?"

"Of course," he paused looking up at the swaying branches of a tree, "Want to walk?"

                I followed his gaze, watching the leaves dancing around one another, mixing shades of green.  They seemed to play in the faint illumination, from the streetlight and setting sun, and tackle one another without mercy. 

"Yes, let's walk."

"You first," he said gesturing down the street.

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                The sun slowly set as we roamed through the quiet streets.  Televisions could be seen flickering in various apartment windows, and the barking of dogs resonated in the distance.  The chilly breeze had won us over and we took refuge behind a building where we were unreachable.  We found ourselves sitting on an old metal fire escape.  It was dark, but it was almost like light was filtering from unknown crevasses around us.  It seemed highly unnatural, but its beauty was undeniable.  I was fairly certain glitter would come pouring down on us if we weren't careful.

                We had been talking about nothing and everything for about an hour and I was running out of common topics to keep up the usual conversation.  I just sat there for awhile hoping that Royce would come up with something to talk about.  I finally decided that he wasn't going to pipe up anytime soon and that I needed to end this silence.

"I think," I started off slowly,"that in order to be a writer and be creative you have to deal with pain differently."

                I could see him watching me from the corner of my eye.  He had the contemplating expression of a man with a burning curiousity.  Instead of bombarding me with questions he studied me for a minute, possibly trying to decipher my meaning, or formulate an opinion.

"That could depend on the degree of pain," he paused readjusting his position," and, I suppose, how you deal with it."

A few moments passed before he spoke again, "Are we talking about a da Vinci sort of situation?"

"Well, he was an artist.  I was thinking about just writers," I said, letting my thoughts drift, "They are able to put feelings on paper.  How do you suppose they do that?  You can write about anything, but how can they write moving things when they've never personally experienced it?  You can convey the emotions of a person going through cancer and never have been sick a day in your life."

He puzzled my statement a minute, "Research?" he said questioningly, "If you are toying with the idea of writing about a cancer patient you would want to know facts."

"Not necessarily about the patient, but rather from the point of view of one.  What they are thinking, how they feel, all the inner turmoil and pain they are experiencing.  Could you put yourself in someone else's position?  Could you make yourself feel what they would feel?"

"Complete fabrication seems like it would be more difficult, but I would also venture to say that you might project your own feelings into your character."

"Like how you would feel being faced with the same challenges," my tone that of agreement, "You have to have some feeling for them, you know?  You know them, you don't just sympathize with them, you empathize, you feel what they feel.  Almost like they're a part of you, a branch off of yourself."

"You seem to have almost strayed from your initial point," he said, interested, "You said something about dealing with pain differently.  What did you mean by that?"

                Royce watched her think about it, watched the inner debate about what to say, and whether she should say it.  He noticed the way her hair shone in the light, and how her eyes would wander, possibly across the bricks or cracks in the concrete, when she was thinking. 

"It wasn't until after my mother died that I learned about her writing," I paused, "the things I read were mostly poems, lines here and there.  Thoughts, I would guess, that weren't complete."

                Her voice had gotten quiet, almost distant.  She knew he saw that sort of longing in her face, the kind you saw in movies.  She exhibited a silent surrender to her thoughts, like she could finally admit to someone, to herself, what she had thought about her mother.  It wasn't a striving need, or one she was uncomfortable with, but it was one she dealt with on a day to day basis.  One she had thought about while she was on that curb, immersing her feet in the cool water.  She had thought about how her mother would have described the feeling.

"I feel like I understand her," I said at last, "better than when she was alive."

                He didn't say anything, he sat and listened, hoping that that was what she wanted.  He knew she didn't need input, or explanation.  She wasn't asking for him to help her muddle it out.  He saw it in her face.

"She kept a separate folder of works, if you could call them that.  They were laced with sorrow, dread, guilt," I didn't even know why I was telling him this, but I continued anyway, "She was prone to breakdowns, course she would never admit it, but I knew.  She never hid things as well as she thought she did," I paused again, "She wrote about me."

                Royce had that look that told her she had his complete attention.  So, she went on, "She never felt good enough, she expressed her concerns about her parenting and about my behavior.  I guess you could say I wasn't your typical child.  She always wanted to give me more, what she had never been given.  Judging by her writing, she didn't realize how much she had given me, or how much I loved her."

                My eyes felt heavy with unshed tears, but they didn't fall.  I thought about her, and I talked about her, because I didn't want her pain to become mine. 

"In order to understand her I felt like I needed to feel the pain she felt.  While reading I found I never really knew the extent of her emotions.  She could seem so collected, but on the inside she was going insane.  She was slowly falling apart at the seams, until something would pull her back together."

"You never knew she wrote?" Royce finally said.

"I was aware she had written poetry previously and some short stories.  She kept a framed poem she had written in the living room, but I had just thought it was an occasional hobby.  Although, I suppose it would still be considered one, but she did write almost daily, like she needed to get it out," I paused with that dumb expression of realization on my face.  Royce looked at me expectantly, waiting for whatever I would say next.

"I guess," I paused once again, "that's what I'm doing now."

                The way he looked at me gave no hint to his thoughts, "Getting it out?" he said, " It always helps to talk.  Just because you want to talk, and somehow feel compelled to talk now doesn't mean you're like her.  I'm not saying that you shouldn't be.  I really didn't know her so I can't have that opinion.  You seem like a great person, and from what you've told me, she seems like she was too."

                I looked at him now, with a blank expression I'm sure, and I wanted to believe his words.  However, I knew he was a stranger, a man I had just met, but I felt like I knew him.  At the very least I felt like I could talk to him, and just listen to him speak.

                He watched Journey just as he had for the last hour.  He saw what he had seen in the eyes of many others, loneliness.  She didn't acknowledge it, but he could tell.  She was, in a way, craving his attention.  She wasn't looking to impress him, he knew, but she was talking to him as if she knew him, as if she could tell him almost anything.  When he had seen her sitting on that curb he had been struck with this irresistible urge to talk to her.  It wasn't your," love at first sight."  No, it was a curiosity that was too strong to ignore.  He could have kept walking, but he was drawing off of impulse, and a good conversation was always in the cards.

                She shivered, and once again his gaze was drawn to her jacket.  She made a move to get up, and it was apparent that it was about time to end the conversation, for now. 

"I know this is said much too often, but I think it's getting rather late," I said, "and I should probably head home."

"It's a much prettier city when you have someone to walk with," Royce said.

"I agree, it seems to add a little nostalgia to the scene.  One could always use more of that in their day."

                She smiled at that statement, perhaps from a memory, he wasn't sure. 

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                When we reached my front door the wind had dropped considerably.  You no longer needed to turn your head to avoid it's wrath and I could still hear water trickling down the drains that lined the road.  I looked at the building, the one Royce had come around.

"When you came around the corner earlier," I said, still looking in its general direction, "you were whistling."

"That I was."

"Why were you whistling?"

"I don't know, I suppose to fill the empty air," he said, contemplating his answer, "It is a tad boring walking about this city by yourself."

"It can be," I smiled, "thanks for the good conversation."

"You are quite welcome.  My ears are always here to listen."

                I let the smile fade, slow enough to notice, but not enough to render questioning.  He just stared back at me.  I guessed he was waiting for me to dismiss him, or invite him to talk a little longer.  Thinking of a good way to tell him goodbye, and not sound like I was just getting rid of him, was more difficult than I would have anticipated.

"So," I said, "is it a long walk back to your place?"

"Not at all.  It's really not far from here," he said, but gave no further explanation.

"Well, I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening."

                He knew I was ready to let him go, but I could see the reluctance in his eyes.  Even as he walked down the front steps, and as he reached the sidewalk, even when he was approaching the corner there was a subtle hesitation in his step, but despite that, he was seemingly happy.

                As he reached the corner, he picked up whistling again.  The same carefree nature, but a different melody.  I watched him disappear around the corner, then sat down on the steps. I sat there until I could no longer hear him, and then I sat a little while longer.

                Sitting out in the dark, listening to water drip slowly, I still think, only happy people whistle.

Author's Note

Any comments are appreciated. I wrote this story a few years ago, but I wanted some new feedback on it. When I reread it I realize it has quite a few problems, but I really enjoyed writing the description for it.