Old Time's Sake

I ran into an old girlfriend of mine on the walk out in front of a store.  The walk was set up with stalls and wares like a flea market, and we bumped into one another as we were browsing through all the loose odds and ends, pocket size picture frames, novelty key chains, and decorative trinkets.  There was a sunniness about the scene that told me that it was mid-morning and also many, many years from now, the distant future being infused with a light every bit as golden as the distant past.

We decided to have lunch in a cafe inside the store.  As we took our seats, I reflected inwardly on the memories of our turbulent relationship, snapshots of tears by a grey pond, cars taking us every which way, the faces in the rear view with hands reaching out, bewilderment at the roadside, the crazy silent echo of those days.  But it was nice to see her now.  I realized that in this strange new age, we connected with those who disrupted our lives even more than with those who settled them.

The Collaborator

I accompanied the overseer as she made her rounds of the facility.  She was a rather severe woman, dressed in a military uniform of high rank, her blonde hair gathered into a tight knot at the nape of her neck.  I was dressed in a uniform as well, but one more sloppy and tattered, as befitting a lackey.  Some yellow dust clung to my baggy pant leg where I had brushed against a wall.  I tried to brush it off with my hand as I hurried to keep pace with the overseer.

We came upon a room which some workers were painting.  There was newspaper spread out on the floor beneath step ladders spattered with yellow and white paint.  Utility lights set up on the floor cast long shadows up the walls.  These workers had been abducted and forced to work against their will.  They were terrified of the overseer.  Their hands shook visibly when she criticized their work.  Their faces paled with thoughts of whatever abominable punishments they might face for their failures.  Their voices faltered, their eyes flinching involuntarily, betraying an anticipation of blows.

I had been abducted along with the rest of them, and I considered myself to be just as much a victim as they were.  I lingered for a moment after the overseer had left the room.  I went over to a woman who was working with a brush in the corner.  I tried to tell her that I was sorry for all of this.  I tried to explain that I was caught up in it all just like they were, that I had no choice in the matter, that I was just trying to make the best I could of the situation.

The woman took a moment to weigh my words, nodding thoughtfully as she stared off.  Finally she turned to me, staring pointedly into my eyes as she said, "It don't matter.  I got to thinking about it and I figured it out.  When the police come, they'll know who to arrest."  And she turned back to her work and I knew that she was right.  I was dumbstruck with the realization of my own guilt, but I knew things were going to be different.  I made no effort to catch up with the overseer.  I let her go and I just stood there smiling, whatever the cost.

Graveyard of Past Regrets

As a relaxation technique,  I was asked to picture my sins and mistakes in some kind of physical form.  I thought of a little plot of land on the beach where everyone's transgressions were buried.  The places were marked with tall wooden stakes dabbed with a touch of red paint along the top.  Everyone wandered silently, mindless of one another, passing from row to row looking for the stakes which belonged to them.  The tide came in, and the water flowed in between the stakes, each wave broken into separate rivulets of foam before receding back into the sea.  And all the while, a flock of grey birds gathered on a dune across the way to witness our strange human compulsions.  

Running Late

I was running late for guard duty, which rarely ever happens.  As I was rushing around trying to get ready, I could somehow hear the chatter between the other guards at work on the radio.  The guard I was to relieve at my post was moaning about the futility of his existence and going on about what a bastard I was for leaving him stuck there and so on.  Meanwhile, I was having my own problems.  I kept trying to put on my guard uniform, but every time I looked down I found that I had put on my normal jeans and t-shirt, and I had to start the process all over again.

Finally, I thought I had it right so I was off to work.  By that time it was getting light out, and I found myself reporting to a park in the early morning hours.  I headed for the guard shack on the premises, but a supervisor caught me on the dirt path.  He took me over to a shaded area where the management were all waiting around a cluster of picnic tables.  First they reprimanded me for being out of uniform, and it was then that I noticed that I was still just wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.  On top of that, they told me that the shirt was ugly, which seemed unnecessary.  Then they made me watch some kind of training film right there at the bench.  I tried to go, but I knocked over the projector as I was getting up.  They told me that the film stock was very old and fragile, and that in damaging it I had released dangerous chemicals into the air that would probably give us all cancer.  I wasn't exactly having the best morning.

From the Outside

I had a nice old colonial house that sat in a clearing with clusters of weeds growing around the foundation, but for some reason I always slept on a straw mat laid out on the front lawn, curled up in a wool blanket that had gathered thistles and thorns.  There was something appealing about forsaking the shelter of the house in exchange for being out in the open air, under the stars, exposed to the elements, and all just mere feet from my door.

One morning I awoke to find a small group of people gaping in at the windows at the corner of the house beside the front door.  I wasn't bothered at all by the impropriety.  I just rubbed my eyes and crawled out from under my blankets.  I heard them complimenting the rustic furnishings, the carvings on the wood, the inviting comfort of the interior.  There was a desk there beneath the windows, nested in the little nook at the foot of the stairs.  There were wooden figurines scattered on the desk, their fine details painted to various degrees with a toothpick and a set of acrylic paints.  A magnifying glass on a metal crane shined a light down on this cluttered work space.

I fell in along the back of this clustered group, almost impersonally partaking in their gaping admiration of my house's charming interior.  But I knew I was going to have to tell them the truth.  I wasn't responsible for any of it.  The previous occupant had done all of that.  All I had ever done was hang some paintings on the walls.