At The Whim and Flip of a Coin

 

The world had existed for millions for years. It was likely that in another million it would still exist, and still likely it would even a million after that.

He couldn't comprehend this. He could not wrap his head around anything existing prior to his birth nor following his death. Be it incredibly naïve of him, or perhaps incredibly egotistical, but he couldn't. In his eyes the world was as it had always been and would always be. He functioned under the simple, if arrogant, principle that time stopped when he slept, resumed its tedious ticking upon his awakening; when he couldn't see something it remained exactly as he had left it, untouched by weather or age.

Twenty years was not a whole lot. It was no longer the distance between technology updates. It was barely above the average life expectancy for a kid who'd come from his neighborhood. Twenty years amounted to nothing in a world where the pony express morphed into lightning fast email in a little more than a hundred years. But twenty years was his mantra, his only true possession. It was the span of his life thus far, his whole existence, and the only thing he could be proud of.

And so it surprised him to return to his childhood city, and find it, if possible, a colder, harder, more forbidding place than before. The change was disorienting at best, more than a little scary if he allowed himself to consider it too long.

With his uncoordinated shuffle and neglected scruffiness he was almost lost in this new crowd; never quite blending completely, but certainly less conspicuous than other places he'd been, and he was content to be jostled and jolted along by people who, under any other circumstance, would never willingly touch him. They cringed away as soon as they realized what they'd brushed so hurriedly past was no inanimate object, no pile of ruined skin and layered cloth, but a live man. A flesh and blood being, sharing DNA and, currently, road space with them. None of them had the decency to at least fake an apology, and left him to restlessly scan the cityscape with the poorly hidden disgust and enlightened, half-amused smirk of a man who knew a secret. Who knew something they could never begin to guess at. And indeed he did.

          There were some who clung to crop circles, some to the ley lines of Stonehenge, and some to U.F.O's, there were fanatics and internet groups for every trick, ruse, prank, and fraudulent species the world had ever had the nerve to invent. But those were only drops in the bucket, arts-and-craft projects the government handed out to the dim-witted and willing like pennies to the poor. Acts of charity they let leak to the newspapers every so often. Supplying an endless stream of causes for people to crusade for solely because it kept them from too closely examining their lives.

No, it certainly wouldn't do for them to start noticing the disjointed seams of existence, the places where the world was connected with duct tape and gum and glue and crumbling caulk. Where reality was held together in a glory of leaking stuffing, shoddy stitching, and thin fabric.

Places he himself knew where to find.

Places where the elusive, nameless Truth lay hidden. Unfortunately the heart of the matter had lain hopelessly tangled and dead center; buried within a butchered mass of double-edged words and loosely founded theories. Diligently he dug, and scraped, and peeled, unknotting and rearranging the pieces so they made the most sense, sometimes doubting that which he searched for was even there at all.

But finally he had returned from the pit, the one lie that had unraveled the rest clutched protectively against his chest. The answer to everything.

Why it had taken him so long he had no idea, the simplicity of it was almost laughable. History had skimmed its outermost mysteries, had come embarrassingly close to the truth, and yet remained so woefully blind to it. Even then they hadn't guessed, they still didn't guess.

Stability…

Stability was the government's most ambitious and most successful hoax yet. A grand illusion, a powerful dose of fairy dust. A bitter pill to swallow, indeed. And from that initial truth his thoughts mushroomed into ones of intense paranoia.

The pre-spring sun had the raw, jaundiced tint of something newly birthed, and still tender. It glided behind the veil of smog, impatiently racing from basin to zenith and back again, like a ship not quite convinced to seek harbor, but never leaving enough time to properly consider the decision before the cycle had to be repeated, and the air was cold for mid-march. Suspiciously so, he thought resentfully. The government was probably tampering with the weather again, no doubt trying to squeeze the last few ounces of happiness from the world. He wouldn't put the notion past them.

The streets were banked high with a filthy gray slush, pocked with cigarette butts and discarded Starbuck's cups. He tugged his jacket collar over the expanse of neck his t-shirt left bare, wistfully staring at his foggy breath, wishing it were something decidedly stronger than steam. Preferably something nicotine or TCH laced.

Without glancing up to check the sign he veered left, onto a deserted side street. His feet knew where they were and where they were going. There was no need to look.

It was like stepping into one of those rare, quiet places the world had overlooked. Granted, he understood just how easy it was to overlook such a place as this. A place hopelessly neglected and scattered with boxes and debris that, at first glace, one might assume to be trash. They were in fact homes and possessions, the only things any of these people had.

Leaning against the grimy brickwork, he scuffed a heel along the muddy ground, listening to the bitter wind rushing right past the mouth the alley, as if it couldn't be bothered to fill this insignificant, forgotten place. And he felt a camaraderie with the glassy-eyed junkies, the elderly man who could no longer work nor would accept charity, the evicted and desperate family of three, two teenagers, one five months into carrying her stepfather's baby, the other five months into a love affair with cocaine. They of all people should know the lie of stability without his explanation.

Things threatened to become unbalanced at any moment. When they shifted, even minutely, there were always repercussions elsewhere. The cost of milk went up one dollar, the landlord raised his rent, his tenant's budget was already stretched too thin, and so a whole family was put on the streets, all for a gallon of milk. It was all complexly connected.

The man glanced over them all, his gaze appraising and perceptive, and then looked down as his scuffing toe caught and flung something metallic. It bounced against the opposite wall, rolling idly into an ever-tightening circle before falling flat onto one side. Close to his feet as if it sensed he was curious.

A coin, he realized. A quarter. George Washington stared up at him disdainfully from where he lay on the frozen pavement, and he picked it up, murmuring his apologies. "Sorry, man. Didn't mean t'kick ya. You know how it is. You're so lid'l. Betcha get kicked all the time." He clicked his tongue sympathetically, rubbing grime from Washington's face and starting to pocket him. Then he stopped, feeling shame and guilt at being so greedy.

Slowly he retracted his hand, dropping the quarter with a dull plink. He stared at it a moment, slowly registering that if had fallen on heads again.

Every coin has two sides, and when one side is glinting skyward the other is obediently pressed into the street, as gravity dictated. For a long time he was that side, with his face smashed into the dirt. The darkness to counterbalance light. The seedy underbelly to the world's shining brilliance.

He straightened up, pushing hair from his eyes, and then shook his head so it fell back again, laughing with a dark humor, that was neither directed at his stupidity nor the world's.

"Do as you wish, batter me, abuse me, shift under my feet, freeze and soak me. I give you permission. Make me submissive, make me the dirty side. Only do not fear me, do not cringe and cower and hide yourself beyond unreachable horizons. Look me in the face, look in these eyes, I am your lover. I am Hermia to your Lysander. I am Helena to your Demetrius." He paused, momentarily shocked, not sure where the names came from, but they slipped off his tongue as if they'd been stored somewhere deep inside his subconscious. "Even if you don't recognize me, even if you spit on me, or spurn my face, I shall remain your faithful spaniel." He murmured, half-quoting, half-remembering some high school assignment, the text he'd only skimmed dim and fuzzy behind a five-year veil.

And the world was silent. Perhaps quietly digesting his words, perhaps preparing to attack him for his speech.

Perfect. Fine.

That was just fine with him, he was nobody's plaything. First and foremost he was a man, not a piece to be scuttled across a board upon the roll of the dice. He was a man, one who relied on himself, and held his ideals in far higher regard than anyone else's. He was self-sufficient. Self-centered. Self-contained.

And for what?

He sighed, leaning to flip the quarter to tails and nodded to the pairs of eyes watching his soberly from inside decaying boxes.

No stability.

No stability at all.

 

 

 

 

 

I really, really enjoyed writing about this guy. Especially his conversation with the quarter. Lol. This was just for fun, it's not going to be continued in a short story or anything, and to be honest I probably wouldn't have posted it if Arty hadn't been so woefully lacking in the reading material department. Sorry if it makes no sense, I just felt like writing, and it doesn't really have any definite plotline or moral or anything.

 

A few points I'd like to make, just to clarify:

A. the historical reference I'm making is the Dust Bowl, of course. A time when the economy fell because people were paranoid about the stability of the government.

B. this guy is obviously stark raving mad.

C. Do not take this seriously; of course our Government is reasonably stable. Don't start withdrawing your money; if you cause another DB I'll be very angry with you.

D. ugh, I don't even want to begin editing this. I know, I know, it contains run-on sentences galore, and fragments and whatever else you spot. Go ahead, chastise me. I deserve it.

E. If you're wondering why cooky-nuts guy refers to himself as the female roles in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" and not the male.... well... then you're not very clever.