The Disconnect

And so you stand before the nice, fat lady. She's shuffling about with some documents behind her counter, and you're standing five feet away, unable to move. You thank the heavens she hasn't noticed you. Why are you standing there? For what purpose on earth did you come here? A moment ago you were on a bus, going home. Something is missing. You raise your hand to your head, trying to check for a blow, blood, and bruise - anything that would indicate you've been knocked out and dragged here against your will. Nothing. You step away from the counter just as the lady looks at you and you walk quickly behind a corner in the huge hall. People everywhere. Noise. Darkness outside, accompanied by the sound of rain. A flash in the distance. And in that light your eyes fall upon the sharp edges of a tailfin. An airport. The fat lady suddenly makes sense. And the rest of your memories suddenly surface and float about, bleary. You'd gotten off at the terminal without thinking, really. An honest mistake, seeing as to you had sunken into thoughts about work. Just the wrong bus stop.

Relieved you walk away, hands in pockets, gaze set free. Upon reaching a revolving door, one of those that had fascinated you since you were a wee boy, you queue up behind the people waiting to pass. Just as you're about to reach the gate, someone pulls at your sleeve. You turn. A man is standing there, wearing a clean, striped, black suit. Your eyebrow darts up, voicing your questions. You don't notice. The man says apologetically:

- You forgot something, I believe. - And pulls you out of the crowd.

Wondering what you'd forgotten, but perfectly content on letting him reveal that for you, you trundle along. Suddenly you stop before a bag, casually lying on the ground. You get suspicious and look around. The fat lady is near again, and so is her counter. Right. You forgot your bag. You grab the bag and thank the obvious businessman with a heartwarming nod. He smiles. You head back towards the door. You still don't notice.

You throw the key on the stand next to the door and head for the couch. When you get there, and plop yourself on the soft pillow, you unbutton your shirt. You stare at nothing in particular as the TV runs silently across you, churning pointless images. Its sickly blue light illuminates your tired face and one part of you is wondering what you're doing, looking at the clock and pointing out you should go buy dinner. Another part of you throws in you're waiting for someone, and the first part goes "ah" understandingly and falls silent. So you wait.

There's a knock on the door. It had been seconds since you sat down. You open the door and the man in the suit from yesterday is standing in the hallway. Of course.

- May I?

He asks, inviting himself in before you could answer. Seeing as to it's too late to tell him what to do, you stay silent and shut the door. You go to the kitchen to get a drink. The man goes around the room, fiddling with some objects and sits down. Soon you join him with a second drink and he takes it, saying:

- So. What exactly are you doing here?

- Shouldn’t I be asking you that?

Puzzled, but not really, you sip the spirit and it burns. Quite pleasant. The man thumbs at the nearest window. You look. There is a person standing there, quite miserable in the rain, his face white as a sheet.

- I’m here to either help him, or get rid of him completely. He’s been there quite a while. Along with a few others.

You aren’t really surprised. You’d noticed the homeless people around your place a real while ago. It was high time somebody did something about them. The fact you live on the seventh floor doesn’t give you pause for even a moment.

- Good riddance.

- So you want them gone?

- They’re a nuisance. Get rid of them.

Fiddling around, the man seems to be looking for something.

- I seem to have forgotten my magic wand.

You stare, no hint of a smile on your face. Damn that suit fits him well.

- You can’t just expect them to be gone. After all they used to live here.

The previous tenants. How annoying. But you can expect that in this day and age – people who owned your house yesterday are now living on the streets. Such is the way of life. You spare it no further thought and direct your hollowed out gaze at your guest.

- What then, do we do?

The man smiles wryly at the mention of “we”. You still don’t notice.

- They want back in.

You find yourself nodding as if that makes sense. You could have sworn it made sense.

- Or you have to give them a new home. Here, let me show you.

He reaches over to you. But he stops.

- First.

He pulls out a metal cigarette case. Soon enough smoke shrouds his face.

- Now.

He reaches again.

You are no longer in your apartment. You’re in the night. Rain pours. You’re dry and so is the man. Before you is a miserable sight. Someone is standing not too far from you, darkness hides him almost completely. But you know he’s just a shell. Not the man he was.

- He used to enjoy the rain. – speaks the Stranger. – Bad weather was an inspiration for him. Sitting by a fireplace with sheets and a pen in front of him, rain and thunder and lightning and all the other muses guiding his hand towards creation. Until he lost the roof over his head. Now all he has is the wrath of those muses, and his misery.

Somewhere inside you, you pity the creature. But it doesn’t surface. It drifts away. You wipe the rain that doesn’t fall from your face.

You’re not there anymore. You’re in a park. Yet another man. Yet more ruin.

- This one. He used to wear a suit. – The slumped creature in the grass is wearing rags. – It doesn’t fit him anymore.

Your businessman friend need say no more. You see it. Empires falling apart. Dreams crashing like the heavens around you. Companies drowning. A girl in a pretty dress leaves. The man is broken. Mansions and riches lost, fading into nothing. No, not nothing. An apartment. He’s alone.

You’re somewhere else. The same sight repeats itself. This time the man next to you says nothing. He needn’t.

The idealist. The dreamer. The one who helps, sacrificing himself. His sacrifices lead him in the dark alley you see now. He’s eating garbage. “That’s what naivety feeds you” you distractedly think, absorbing the image. Peace is slain. Riots are crushed. Depravity rules supreme, and along with it abundance. Greed casually passes by the alley in a black, gleaming car. It laughs. “This is what naivety feeds you” thinks greed inside.

You’re in a graveyard. Somebody is sheltering from the elements under a large gravestone. You don’t look at the name. You know what lies there. You see the Love being dragged off and decapitated. She doesn’t scream. She sees resignation. From the poems and the music. From the paintings, the long walks home after she was sent safely home. From the daydreams, the inspiration, the cups of tea and the silence between. The immortal silence that binds souls together. It is love’s headless body that lies in the dirt. No casket. Nobody to care enough. And in the shadow of the formless tombstone shelters a dreg.

Place after place flash before your eyes. Everywhere you see the same. Death and decay. Abandonment. Chaos. Slaughter. Loss. Refugees from fate. Hollow eyes. Distant memories, overcome by darkness. Absence of destiny.

- How many? – you mutter.

- You wouldn’t care to know.

And you realize you really don’t. Once you would’ve. But you don’t. There’s just a disconnect. You are exhausted. You soul feels heavy, you feel the ground closer. The sky is receding. Sinking.  That’s what you’re doing. Yet more images flash. Time bends down to look at the curious happening. It looms over and you feel it pressing on your shoulders. You slump. Your hands are shaking. Blond hair breaks the monotony, but it is quick to leave. Then brown then black then blond then a red dress, then a blue then a yellow pajama. Smells find your way to you. They begin a desperate war. Perfume, sweat, flowers, paper, ink, winter, gasoline, embers, forests and streets. Familiar. Yet part of another world. Your palms are wet and cold. Your eyelids flutter, your chest tightens.

- Why?

Your voice sounds frail and small. The business man smokes on. Images flash. And touch. You feel you skin crawling. Fingers slightly dragged across your cheek. Biting, grabbing, clawing, someone holding your hand. Your head is in someone’s lap. Then a smack stings your cheek. You taste tears, both your own and another’s. Your legs feel weak. Time laughs at the farce. A mocking, sound. The sound of someone who pities. You can barely breathe.

You’re on an escalator. The man in the suit is no longer with you. You’re holding your bag. You’re back at the airport by the smell of things. Confusion and noise. Colors colliding. You feel lost. You look around for the man. You turn around and you see him. He’s finished his cigarette and throws the butt on the ground casually. And finally, you notice.

The man has no face – you can only see twilight, yet you can feel him smiling. The world falls into place with a deafening crash.

Something changes. Something gives.

Among the thousands of people crowding at Heathrow, there is one who is standing dumbfounded at the top of an escalator, staring towards the lower floor. There is a look in his eyes, a look of pure astonishment and wonder. He seems pale, but his color is coming back. If anyone were to look at him at that moment, they’d see something that too rarely surfaces in the world. They’d see how emotion breaks free from its catacomb prison, flooding the veins of the man, his eyes widening as if a veil was lifted from his mind and his posture changes. He stands taller, more sure of himself. His hand is gripping a bag and he realizes he knows what he’d find in it. A smile crosses his face, and the mask that had been him cracks. Flakes of it start falling off, almost tangibly, and evaporate into nothingness. The man waves goodbye to someone, probably a close relative, and turns towards the boarding gates. There is a crowd there that seems to be waiting for him. Perhaps he had delayed the flight, but none of them seemed angry. They were all content, some of them even smiling. The men made way for him, gazes glued to his face. The same one they all bore. He passed through them and handed in his ticket. The security staff threw suspicious looks at him as he smiled for no reason, and once he was through the gate, he looked back. There was no one in line. He strode on forward, forging destiny with each footfall.

Somewhere far behind, an appalled, fat mother pulled her five year old daughter aside and bent over, muttering angrily:

- The audacity some people have.

She shoved the cigarette butt that had upset her so in the bin.