Tranquil Metropolis

Tranquil Metropolis (revised)
By L. Dykeman


Complications, imaginary adversities. That’s my world today, right now, in the year two thousand and three. Choose a college, choose a career, choose a house, car, church, pet, lover, or finale. And then your death. A mass hysteria of confusion and material possession, that’s how I’m supposed to live.

I was walking downtown alone, my vision a little blurred by my contacts of vanity, and passed by one of the old churches. It’s black from the days of the mills, with a bright red door that’s always just partially open. I leaned on the wall that keeps up the church’s base, a rising hill of green grass in the middle of the city, and stared at the point of one of the wrought iron spikes of the elevated, surrounding gate. I was waiting for the bus with a mass of others. The 41G; it would be taking me home, almost to the front door as a matter of fact.

There were a few dark skinned children playing around their mother, another with curly red hair crying and clinging to the leg of its father. I closed my eyes and looked up at the sky, the bright blue faded by the dark shields I always wear over my sensitive brown eyes. I could hear a bus coming, but I ignored it. I was imagining, for a moment, living in a different world, a different time. It would be a simple life, a fulfilling life of spiritual peace and physical harmony.

I was walking down a flight of spiraling stairs, very carefully avoiding the hem of my brown robes. I could feel the day’s sweat still collecting on my brow and pouring down an aching back; my arms were sore and my hands raw with hard labor. The stone stairs felt cool and soothing on the rough bottoms of my bare feet, a small gift for a hard day in the fields. I came to the bottom and made my way through a torch lit hall, rounding a corner and emerging into a large room. It was full of monks and children, all gathered around a long wooden table piled with bread and bowls of weak soup. I took my place among them, just as an ordinary equal. Beside me, was a child with whitish hair, pink face beaming with a wide spread grin. I smiled back and watched as she folded her hands in a neat little prayer, bowing her head in simplified contentment. I followed her example, resting my forehead against the wrinkled hands of an old man. We began the prayer, a deep, shaking voice vibrating from my throat the words of thanks to a god I never believed in my real life. But this mind, this time and place, settled within me an unshakable faith, a sureness in the divine, the just, and the powerfully virtuous. I could live like that, in quiet reverence of the beauty of life. I could just work day to day, toil honestly in the earth and come home to gaze in the innocent eyes of my reward. A life like that, so wholly different from what I had before….

We rose from the table when finished and began to herd the children together for bed. Another monk and I took a group of the smallest children over to a room on the ground level. Two miniature hands groped at my robes and I picked up their owner, a dark haired head resting on my shoulder. The tiny boy sucked his thumb and used his sticky fingers to play with my long beard. When we came to the room of shabby little beds, I set him down and watched as he and the others scrambled to their places.

“What story do you want to hear tonight?” the young monk beside me asked. He was a very good man with deep set blue eyes and a smile that can only be described as soft and warm. He handed me the book and we sat together, staring at all the children as they awaited our words.

“Baby Jesus!” one cried.

“They always want that one,” the man sighed with a little laugh. “You do it best though.”

I wouldn’t read straight from the book; it was just pretend. I started the story softly, describing the ancient characters in childish terms, and then finally ending with the angels and kings. They really liked that story, never really wanted to know what happened to him later in life. The other monk and I went to each bed and tucked in each child. The little boy with the dark hair looked at me with wide blue eyes.

“Will I see baby Jesus in ‘eaven?” he asked.

“Yes, but he won’t be a baby. He’s a grown up,” I replied.

“Why’d he grow up?”

“Because,” I said and felt my eyes unfocusing. “That’s what people do. Everyone grows up.”

“Will I grow up?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What ‘appens aferature you grow up?”

“You die…” I paused. “And go to heaven.”

“Dat’s good.” He smiled and rolled over in his bed.

I touched a little of the boy’s hair and left him, coming to the center of the room with the other monk.

“How’s the garden going?” he asked me simply.

“It’s well. Plenty of crops to preserve for winter,” I said, rubbing my left arm a little.

“That’s good. We’ll be getting another child tomorrow. Father Bernard sent word that he’ll be bringing one with him when he returns.”

“One more of the tempest tossed,” I sighed. “Well, good night. Bless you.” He said the same and we parted ways. I felt like I couldn’t breathe a little, a sharp pain twisting in my chest. It seemed like the short climb up the stairs was miles long, but finally, the little door to my room had been reached. I opened it and went inside before taking a small candle to light it on the hallway’s dimming torch. I went back to my room and very gently shut the door, setting the candle down with a shaking hand.

“I’ll just…” I paused and looked through the small window at the brightly lit stars. “Rest a little… then I’ll change for bed.” A soft breeze dried the sweat on my brow as I lay in my humble bed of straw, staring at the plain, stone ceiling. I was dying. I knew it. But I was calm, just solemnly awaiting the embrace of my lord and great savior. The faith was absolute, unquestioned and soothing even at my most dire moment. I thought of the young monk, for some reason imagining how he would follow in the same way, with no fear, and with no pain. Lastly, I remembered my conversation with the little boy. Then, I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I was staring at an orange sign that said, “41G.”

I looked around for a moment at the other people that were waiting for their bus. I looked at the open doors, and I watched as they closed before me. The bus drove away with that loud sound that had always reminded me of a horrific sort of monster. I turned and looked at the old church one last time, before beginning to walk back into the massive, bustling, city. When I passed a homeless man, I stopped and smiled at him for a moment. His skin was pale and cold, his hair matted and his clothes torn and stained with his sweat. He wore thick black sunglasses over blind eyes and an orange baseball cap with a tiger across the front. I put my bus fair in his cup and he smiled.

“Bless you,” he said with a little nod.
I put my hands in the pocket of my suit coat and kept up an uneven pace. There was a saxophone playing in the distance and on the corner, an old dark skinned woman screaming something about disease and redemption and hallelujah and all that kind of stuff. My cell phone was ringing in my pocket; I turned it off. I took out a cigarette and put it between my lips without lighting it.

I sat on a bench and looked up to the sky, crossing my leg over the other and spreading my arms across the back. Someone sat next to me, a young man taking a break because he was carrying a heavy suitcase.

“Hello,” I decided to say to him and he jumped a little. He reminded me of the other monk in my fantasy. “It’s pretty hot isn’ it?” Young, very faithful, and very young.

“Yeah,” he said and gave me a tired smile. “But the breeze is nice. It’s a good day.”

“A good day…” I repeated, still looking at the sky.

“A good day to die,” the boy mumbled a little and I looked at him. He was thinking about something important, weighing something in his mind. He had the prettiest eyes I’d ever scene, black as coal and surrounded by long, down cast eyelashes.

“As good as any,” I replied and he looked at me, a little startled. “We all die eventually.” His face softened and he stood, just looking at me.

“You’re right.” He gave me one last smile before he walked away, getting on a very crowded bus.

He was looking at me as the bus began to drive away, and he was looking at me as he opened that suitcase, and he was looking at me as the flames exploded forth, and he’s still looking at me now. Now as I look in the mirror and trace the scars on my cheeks, exploring the various shapes, I find imprints like the half circles of his eyelashes resting upon the young roundness of his cheeks. And I live in a bitter envy and faithlessness, but I harm no one and for that I will always thank the Great Divine Nothing. Yes, thankful, I am, that I am not that boy, and bitter, I am, that we could not be the monks.



I got the idea for this story from a contest I glanced on writing.com about being in someone else's shoes for a day. I didn't finish it in time though, so I changed it to a different idea I wanted to convey. Thanks for reading and please, please send me your comments.