Shotgun Wedding: Unfinished Stories With Not Much in Common

by Kevin Tilley

  Hardly.

  You'd like to think. You'd like to leave fundamental details to the winds of chance. But you would be terribly wrong. Allow me to prove my... hey, where did you go? You must have me mixed up with someone else. I've been here all along. Haven't I? Me and the crows. Me and the bars. Me and all those toxic facades.

  Have you seen my latest trick? It's all the rage. Or so I have been told. Left them gawking down in the dens of sin of whatever towns I've rolled through. We all do foolish things. And this sleight of hand is no different. All a matter of perspective. You can see for yourself. I'm sure you heard it through the vine. Forgive me if I am not quite as entertaining as the next fellow. I'm doing my best. What I was always taught to do. For better or worse. And I do have my own set of crosses to bear. A stone's throw. A fool's gold. A retched old tale. Your basic repeat performance that ran itself out. By popular demand. Just take a look at these notices. So unkind. So full of clearly directed anger. Two-stepping on my shallow grave.

  Mobs have a mind of their own. Sweet cotton-candy revenge. Wouldn't you agree? On this disjointed life line. On this creaking balcony.

  Somewhere. Out there. Right here.

  I'll close my eyes and see the world bleeding. I'll send my voice into the ether and wait for a response. Even if and especially when. I borrowed that. Not that anybody will remember. Too caught up in charted terrains. In the same way we let all the really important things go. Like the sound of a known voice. Or the majesty of a kind hand. The bronze shine. The firm belief.

  Music is rising to my ears. Sharing its secrets so freely. Humbling me in ways I am not quite prepared to deflect. Why have I been acting so selfishly? What has brought this monster out in me? The false modesty. The walled off worthless mystery. Keeping to myself. Shuttered. Indispensable. But I'm running out. Nothing left to hide. Nowhere to turn. Perfectly happy. Listening...

  They're playing our song.

  Can I have this waltz?

  …

  Day Two, Part Sixteen: For Now

  What are you still doing here? I thought I made my intentions clear. Back in the day. Remember?... When we set out on that final collision course to nowhere. When we did our best to rip the heart we shared to bleeding shreds. When we made our solemn vows to move on in silent seclusion. What gives you the right? To refuse. To never mind. To hang around the loose dirt. And step out from the shadows. What do you hope you will achieve? There are no respects left to pay. Our accounts have run dry. And your welcome ran out ages ago. I do not have the strength or inclination to sift through the details of our illicit game of cat and mouse. Give and take. In and out. We both know the score. Battling our way to a semi-climactic draw.

  What can you possibly mean? Really. Is there something you want from me? Some minor point that was left out. A word hanging over your resting forehead. I wasn't the one who refused to let go. I am not the one who was left to carry on. It was you. All along. You. My dear friend. My trusted companion. You. My arch rival.

  Think.

  Can you find your way?...one more time.

  It is not that far. Away. I can point you in the right direction. But that's where it ends. I have nothing else to offer. Just like old times.

  The spell we fell under has a little magic left. I watched as a dozen birds fell from the sky. Twisting and turning in hopeless flight. Hitting bottom with a flurry of feathers and spent potential. I was there. I was hidden beneath a cloak of sincerity. Yeah, I existed. At the time. I walked past more lifeless bodies than I care to remember. And I didn't think to pick up the cause. I could not bring myself. Objects are endowed with an affliction of their own. They carry the weight of all those things with which they have come in contact. There is no protection. No barrier to keep our receptors safe from the bad images imprinted on our minds.

  We are a dying breed. You and I. The garbage is piling up. Not just in the corners. There is no free place left to take an uncluttered step. Yet we must still make our way. But it will never be the same. I don't know what to say. I am not sure of what I am thinking. No fault of my own. Something fundamental left town when I was a young man. And I was left to grow older. In a world that I could never understand. Playing the pathetic fool.

  Clad in iron. Revealing regions that should never be left exposed. Simplicity gathered. Turned over. Taken to levels you could not have predicted. When you started out. When you first decided to walk away. I have learned how not to love. I spent my last dime on a slow dance that cost more than I ever could have imagined. I mortgaged a future I will not know. I lost many a privilege. And I could not care less. How could I?

  Wait a second.

  The person you thought you were listening to has suddenly begun to attend to other issues. Pressed to the point. Demanded. Whispering your solemn secrets to a bunch of faceless voyeurs. Haven't you learned by now? Trust is a demon. And you are its pawn. Can you hear me? This is not a pastime. You are not an innocent bystander. Do you understand?

  Wait. Have I done something wrong?...

  Wouldn't you like to know.

  Who said that?...

  Wait. Let's say that history is not written in stone. Open to interpretation. That we can step back and mess things up in a whole new way. Have a bit of fun. Let us turn back the clock and make a difference. Let's pretend a while.

  Wait.

  It's getting late. In case you haven't noticed. The band has stopped playing. And tomorrow is a new day.

  It is time for bed.

  …

  Dream Sequence

  I saw you out of the center of my eye. I pulled out all the stops to get a glimpse of your smile. Going out of my way to trespass on your borrowed ground. Who was I? Just a simple pedestrian. Walking the paved waterways with no ill intent. Taking it as it comes. And then you came along. Looking so alluring in your enchanting attire. Slipping me a deeply personal look through the maddening crowd. Establishing a firm foothold beneath my skin. I never stood a chance.

  We danced without ever sharing a touch. We declared our intentions without a word. We got drunk in other company. But we grew stronger. Together. Apart. Our blood boiled. With the simmering doubts of our sidelined distractions.

  Perfection begins to take on a more solemn meaning with the passing years. A wondrous set of teeth. Eyes that say more than a Webster's diatribe. Lips that hang in the balance. And you realize that everything you thought you believed is converging on one universal truth. The one resting in the dead center of a horribly selective world. Right there. Between two outcast souls.

  Reminiscing about a thought. Riffing on a theme. Enjoying the moment. For every ounce it could possibly mean. Dancing to a beat that echoed my own. The thought of hope. Standing beside you like a silent angel. Guiding you through the sea of life. Keeping you safe. From all the selfishness this world serves up with such reckless zeal.

  Hope. For a better tomorrow.

  But that was long ago.

  I am but a passing thought. A thousand reflections in a hundred shattered mirrors. Blood running through the splintered ruins. But my heart is in one piece. It is whole. And it is taking it upon itself. To get me out of here alive. Once more. Forever.

  Caught in the crossfire. Walking a dangerously thin line. With words rushing through my ears. Containing their hidden meanings and questionable lies. Hearing things that were never there. Cutting ties. Sweat beading on my fevered flesh. Swallowing a poisonous concoction of exhausted opportunity.

  Out for one more stroll. Through this abandoned promised land. Touring the rubble.

  Old friends. Waving so enthusiastically. Hello or goodbye? Is there a difference? Family members looking so worried. Is there nothing you can say? To ease their caring minds. They wouldn't be able to hear you anyway. From your side of the soundproof chamber. Inhabited by the distorted faces of all those folks who received your poor invitation. Pawn brokers hawking tarnished bits of your past. Streetwalkers disguised as jealous lovers. Wondering
where you've been keeping yourself. And how lucky they are you showed up. Offering up their eternal devotion. Till the money runs out.

  You wouldn't think we'd still be capable of falling for such transparent vows. But you would be wrong.

  Haven't you learned? Haven't any of us?

  All is fair. If you've got the fare. Save those thoughts of beauty for another place. They aren't worth a damn.

  Hey. What about...?

  The disenfranchised doctor is making his rounds. With a crumpled license in his pocket. Checking up on a steady stream of wounded sailors. And he stops you dead in your tracks.

  "Where have you been keeping yourself?"

  Where indeed.

  The form is mutating. The setting is pouring down the drain. The light is melting into a murky nonexistence. Waves are crashing. Thunder strikes. And you sit up. And take notice.

  Can't a guy get a decent night's sleep? Is there no peaceful rest?

  Have I really come so far?...

  Population: Unknown

  Chapter 1

  It was Wednesday morning. And the world was on fire.

  Stepping out onto the upstairs landing, the smell of burnt food permeates the hallway. Toast, meat, coffee -- over cooked and over boiled -- filling the corridor with a haze of noxious fumes...serving to heighten your appetite.

  Moving down the maze of stairs into the day. To the corner store. Past a smoldering trash can. Flames burning themselves out in the motionless breeze. Sometimes it's not enough to throw something away. Some items need to be destroyed. Beyond recognition. Beyond the demented eyes of scavengers and the curious hands of salvation. Knowing how a careless toss can come back to haunt. Every scrap a piece of evidence. To a purchase made, or a meal consumed, or a location happened upon -- a habit, a circumstance, a preference. A crime. The landfill holds all our secrets...if they make it that far.

  The pavement is baking the rubber off of shoe soles and car tires. The temperature never changes. Day after day. And the night offers scarce reprieve. The heat only swelters as it awaits the morning sun. Picking up where it left off. They don't even have a name for this season. The papers and politicians call it 'mean summer.' Everyone else just calls it hell.

  Black exhaustion fills the air and mocks your attempt to locate the morning light. Choking on the horizon, the power plant is protesting the needs of the living -- buckling under the brutal loads. Blackouts have become a daily occurrence... some scheduled, some just dropping by. Owning an air conditioner is against law, punishable by heavy fines. Running an air conditioner will get you in much worse trouble. And great effort has been expended to ensure compliance. Just

  last month, all households were shook from their slumber and greeted by the big roundup. Badges and search warrants brandished. Loading the potentially offending units into large trucks. Some were found hidden in basement alcoves and behind cleverly disguised attic doorways. These instances were treated harshly. And other items were taken away as well. Cold air isn't the only threat to local power after all. The laws have become quite malleable in these unforgiving conditions -- melting off to one side...becoming disfigured renditions of their former selves.

  But to what extent do you know this?

  Sweat is dripping from fevered foreheads as you slide through the rush. Reaching your destination a few doorways away. With breath held, you fix your gaze on the day's headlines. The lead story has something to do with a car bomb exploding in a busy section of a town thousands of miles away. Scattering

  details across neatly lined columns. They stopped printing the weather report. Along with a variety of similar forgone conclusions. But you don't notice. Your attention is elsewhere.

  There it is. As matter-of-fact as yesterday's installment. Another disappearance. The twelfth in as many days. You pretend to make no notice as you flip to the sports section and lay down your money on the counter. Feigning interest in futile box scores. Not that it matters. You already know the details. They're always the same -- except for the names of the missing and what area of town

  they were last seen in. Still, you need to read them. For the slightest hint. For some minor fact. For any indication of who is perpetrating these acts. Trying to rule out certain possibilities.

  You want to go and sit in the park. The benches are always so comforting. Beneath the trees. In the shade. With the sound of birds and dogs and children at play in the neighboring schoolyard. But you know it's early enough that many of the park's live-in patrons will be occupying most, if not all, of the available resting places. Still, it's worth the walk.

  A poster catches your eye as you pass the gated entrance. A citizen group is organizing a meeting to object the building of a new power plant in the immediate vicinity. Skulls and cigar-smoking fat cats and other button pushing symbols adorn the grave rhetoric -- the threat to lives and the environment and our sense of community. Wondering where these concerned folks have been all these years. Wondering if they succeed in their mission, what lower-tiered location

  will be stuck with this toxic demon. But that's not our problem, is it? After all, we only voice awareness over the vagrant when he's rummaging around in our back yard.

  Maybe you should be returning home. You've been away for many minutes now and perhaps you should make sure that everything is okay. What wouldn't be okay? You live alone. Nobody is awaiting your return. Did you leave something turned on?...unattended. Do you have to check to see if someone left a message for you? Is it something else? Did anybody see you leave? Would that matter? Oh well, you have your reasons. And they're burning a hole right through your brain.

  Stopping dead in your tracks. And everybody else follows suit. The entire block gone still. A rhythm begins to build. Heads start to nod in unison. Including yours. And feet begin to tap. Everybody falling in line. The businessmen with briefcases in tow, the mothers with their strollers, the groggy eyed tramps

  pocketing near-empty bottles. All moving together. The rhythm growing stronger. And a horn section seems to be joining in. Quite the hot number. In fact, the entire joint is set to burst into song.

  A-one, and a-two...

  The world's on fire!

  Have you seen the pyre?

  You'd be quite amazed,

  It's really quite the blaze.

  So bring your marshmallows

  And gals grab your fellows

  Everything is burning down

  in this whole damn town!

  (Chorus)

  One alarm, tow alarm, three alarm, four!

  The earth is burning down to its very core.

  It's too late to recant

  Dancing around the hydrant

  Cause the world's on fire.

  The whole damn world's on fire.

  Even Smokey has retired.

  Yeah, the world's on fire...

  (repeat chorus again and again,

  until heat exhaustion sets in)

  Chapter 2

  The crowd disburses. Going about their routine. Mingling back into the business at hand. And you join in. Shuffling off with your paper tucked securely beneath your arm. Keeping to yourself. As you are prone to do -- especially these days. You have found that it is always best to maintain a low profile under watchful eyes. And everybody is taking note of the slightest aberration in another's behavior. Everybody is scared. Everybody wants to attach a face to these dark days. All senses are on edge. Poised to pounce.

  A man stops you in the street and places before you what looks to be a section of a finely printed scroll. What could this be? An arrest notice? A summons for committing one of the growing number of petty infractions? Your mind races as you snatch it from his hands and hastily turn it to your face. A simple advertisement. An announcement inviting 'one and all' to the newly arrived carnival that has set up camp on the outskirts of town -- in an otherwise deserted field oft
en frequented by local hooligans to carry on their various rites of sexual indiscretion and alcohol consumption and territorial squabbling. No place for good, honest, hard-working citizens. Except for special occasions. Such as this. Turning out in droves if only to tread the otherwise forsaken ground.

  The handbill notes the appearance of a renowned story-teller, whose skills in the art of the spoken word are apparently 'legendary in his home country'. As you read these words, the strange man accentuates the flattering description by tapping the words with a long, bony index finger. You look up.

  "I'm sure you will find his stories most entertaining. And his performance quite captivating." Drawled out through a crooked grin.

  Did he emphasize you?

  His index finger rising and pointing somewhere between your eyes. "Not to be missed." Which comes out as more of a statement than a come-on line.

  He leaves you with the bill. And moves along down the street and around a corner. You fold it up and put it in your back pocket. Stopping in mid movement to wonder aloud whether or not the strange man had other notices to hand out to other passersby. You can't remember. Pricking up the ears of the few people in your immediate vicinity. Giving long and wary looks of reproach...noting your height and hair color and other physical characteristics. That's right, talk to yourself in the middle of the sidewalk. Good going.