Shotgun Wedding: Unfinished Stories With Not Much in Common

by Kevin Tilley

  Home.

  Destination Boulevard

  Person 1: Pardon me. I think I'm lost.

  Person 2: No you're not, I just found you.

  ~ ~ ~

  Part One - Can You Get There from Here?

  He stands alone. As the shuffle of the morning crowd hurries past. He stands staring. Eyes fixed on a drawing taped to a storefront window. He stands motionless. Paralyzed. His mind swims in a flurry of images. Are they memories, or just an imagination running wild? He stands unnoticed. People rush by and through him. It is a state of being he has become accustomed to. Layers of self peeling away day after day, until his disappearance was complete. He stands in a world he no longer inhabits. Only his likeness remains.

  Does anybody remember him? He has spent many sleepless nights wondering. Isn't somebody worried that he hasn't come home? Aren't there any agents of the law commissioned with discovering his whereabouts? With the passing months of silence, where are the friends who might seek him out? Nothing. Only absence. Walking the shadow regions of unconsciousness. Now coming face to face with the one person left he could believe in. What does it mean?

  Couldn't leave well-enough alone. Could you? Or is that too simple? Perhaps some other sinister force, more diabolical in its intentions than 'well-enough' could ever aspire to be, decided it couldn't leave you alone. In your current subterranean state, it's not uncommon to cross the path of an invisible malcontent or two -- rushing along surly paths with a momentum you'd be wise not to disrupt. But that's what happens when you go shuffling around town with your head down.

  The key question is how this unwelcome sight is going to affect his day. One doesn't simply walk away from a moment like this without trepidation. And trepidation has a way of seriously inhibiting the calm transference of being from one minute to the next. Time begins to shut down. Thoughts become trapped. Simple activities like walking home or opening a door become monumental feats of heroic endeavor.

  Trouble brews...

  The morning started like any other. He arrived at the city park before sunrise. It has become a routine. A calling. Something to fill the time. A ritual of belief. A random collection of tasks he senses is fundamental to the well-being and preservation of survival. If not his, then of something greater. These are not minor realizations. They belong to the core of everything. And they are in serious danger of fading away without a trace.

  . . .

  A gentle fog mingles about the hedge as he crosses the threshold of the park's east entrance. The clock tower strikes the hour and he is filled with a deep sense of comfort. Some sounds become almost holy in a world of neglect and destruction. The hum of a street lamp. The gentle coo from a newborn baby. A train whistle. Waves meeting a shoreline. Wind through a forest. The rustle of leaves... dancing at his feet. He walks by swings that sway with ghostly occupants. He views a teeter-totter balance in a state of suspension, leaning one way and then the other, creaking slightly with each rise and fall. He continues to walk toward the center of the park. Emptiness surrounds him. It is the time of nothing, the middle hours between the frenzied activity of the night and the clean-up crew's first shift. The window of preservation. And with meticulous attention to procedure he goes about his work.

  Part Two - Check Your Shadow at the Door

  He rests for a moment beside the fountain at the park's center. Although its flow of water is shut down during his visits, he is always steadied by its sheer beauty...the perfect symmetry and inevitable erosions. A great circle from which life springs and death comes to pay a final visit. This is the heart of this great space -- pumping energy into the arteries that lead from its base...a collection of paths where lovers walk in ecstatic oneness, where mothers push strollers and gaze into their infant's overwhelmed eyes, where old men gather to share stories and children run with reckless abandon. All congregating at this wonderful fountain. To reflect and smile and surrender to its peace.

  This is the point from which his work commences.

  As he is about to rise a light rain begins to fall. He pauses and listens as the gentle shower brushes against the trees lofty shelter and makes its way to the ground, striking the grass and crashing into pavement. Each sound distinct...joining to create a symphony of elegance. A muted brass horn sings in his mind and he utters a sad laugh at the empty seats for this grand performance...wondering about all the sleeping bodies hidden behind darkened glass. Resting for the busy day ahead. And, as he often finds himself realizing, he is happy to no longer be among them.

  The rain will not deter his work but he is hopeful that it might hinder the arrival of the first shift. He never has enough time to complete his tasks but he does what he can. Starting now as he resolves to finally rise. He begins by taking inventory of the coins resting at the bottom of the fountain. With the water gone, and only an incidental amount accumulated from the rain, his job is easier than it might be otherwise. He notes each location and denomination. Another set of entries in a daily log of tossed wishes. The coins will all be gone in a few hours and it is up to him to make sure some evidence of their existence remains. He knows how easy a wish can be washed away by the forces of the day. So he keeps his record. If not in service of the person who tossed the coin, then in honor of the intention.

  A person's hope might easily be crushed, but hope itself must find a way to live on.

  From the fountain he moves outward in a spiral that would ideally cover the entire park, but time and resources limit him to those areas deemed most necessary. He pauses beside benches to inventory painted initials, joined for eternity...brave declarations of undying love which will shortly be taken away by liquid chemicals and muscled arms. He fills his ledger with slogans and mysterious symbols. Representations of belief and pride and conviction. Each a glimpse of yearning and freedom. Undeniable manifestations of deeply felt joy.

  He passes by a monument to the brave young soldiers who embarked from the doorsteps of this neighborhood long ago to fight on a distant shore. A symbolic angel reaching with one hand into the endless sky and holding a loaf of bread with the other. The inscription has long since been filed away...another statement of integrity and resolve dropped into the growing abyss. At the angel's slender feet someone has left a wreath of flowers, which will soon be duly taken away. Perhaps a forgotten Veteran wounded in one of the war's countless battles. Or a loved one still waiting for a knock at the door and an embrace that would last a lifetime. He takes down every detail of every petal and pays particular attention to their slight imperfections.

  Heaven and Hell have reserved their own worlds. And their reflections must surely be reserved a space in ours.

  His work continues. For many hours. Tedious. Exacting. Scribbling furiously in spite of the forces of time. A crimson ribbon tied to a metal gate. The murky outline of a hopscotch game. Candy and cigarette and other wrappers. Empty bottles. A tiny sock stuck in some briers. A dirt black overcoat hanging in the limbs of a Sycamore Tree.

  His work continues... Until he arrives on the park's outer edges. The sun is beginning to come up. And, as usual, he finds himself in a corner of the park reserved for purposes that do not belong to him...a section of the universe he'll never enter, although he is allowed to hang about and observe.

  This is where the abandoned lives take refuge. The unclaimed souls turned away from your front steps. You secure yourself from them. Hiding behind thin walls and locked doors and sliding glass -- sequestered in corner rooms, paying bills and dreading the future. Busying yourself with 'important' matters that have nothing to do with anything. But no matter how safe you think you are, they have a way of showing up. Waiting inside an upstairs closet. Hanging around the edge of a bedroom mirror. Half-asleep among some boxes in the basement. Paying a visit. Seeing how the other half lives.

  There is no escape from these uninvited guests. Unmistakable in their characteristics. Recognized immediately in a moment of breathless terror. The battered profile of a failed dream. The limp
ing outcast of forsaken opportunity. The hollow eyes of an unredeemed mistake. The bent frame of disappointment. The bone-thin shadow of better intentions. They mean no harm. But that doesn't mean you'll walk away from these encounters unscathed...the scars just exist in places not readily seen by the casual eye.

  They're a funny bunch. In fact, he often finds himself chuckling at their antics. They seem to enjoy huddling in this desolate area of the park. Milling about. Mumbling to themselves -- giving the appearance of a lively discussion at hand. But they never directly address one another. They wouldn't know what to say. Or where to begin. Or how to listen. Consumed by their own non-existence. They bump into things quite a bit, seemingly unaware of where they are going -- or perhaps fully aware that they are going nowhere.

  His work ends here. Inspired by your resolve to deny their appearance, he extends no effort to report their words or movements. Nor does he attempt to engage them. Why should he? To him, they are the same as anyone else. They just have a different set of reasons for keeping their distance. Still, he does feel a sense of solace from their daily presence. After all, they do have many things in common.

  As he is about to exit the park, he passes a crumpled sheet of paper lying beside the walkway. He leans down to pick it up. The paper is filled with a collage of images -- some are photographs, others created by hand. Rocket ships. People flying kites. Trees. Birds. Stars. Clouds. Grass. Sports cars. In the bottom corner is a crudely drawn image of a child. He assumes its the same child who created this work but has no basis for this assumption...other than experience. The child is standing alone. Tears run down each cheek. He folds the piece of paper and places it in his back pocket -- some bits of history must not simply be registered, they must be kept close at hand.

  . . .

  He thinks of the child's creation as he stands before the drawing in the storefront window. Unlike the paper in his pocket, this page is filled with only one image and a few words. And in contrast to the crude depictions on that paper, the image on this page is quite realistic. Every detail of the face has been rendered with great care and considerable distinction. One would readily recognize this person if they were to come across his path -- a realization he must now come to terms with...standing speechless before this unwelcome visitor. The person he once was.

  Part Three - Hand Me Down

  Miles traveled can never be measured objectively, especially by the person who has walked them. The abundance of obstacles that cross our paths, along with their various demands, combine to bend the trajectory of time and space -- causing it to overlap on itself in some instances, and completely disappear in others... only to show up again some point down the road.

  The need for understanding permeates sacred boundaries and sifts into the dusty regions of common sensibility. Righteous attempts traverse the terrain of dubious inclinations. Simple survival surrenders to the will of heightened awareness. Life goes on. But, depending on where you're standing, you wouldn't know any of it.

  Now you see him. Now you don't.

  He shifts his balance of weight from one leg to the other. Trying to ease his state of mind. Resting on his right for as long as he can endure, before moving to the left. The image commanding his attention...piercing his very being.

  The message written on the sheet of paper, located just beneath the face, provides little clarity as to the drawing's ultimate purpose. Two words. Set against one another in whispered harmony. "Be Aware!"

  It reminds him of the propaganda posters used long ago by the governments of powerful nations. Distinct reminders from one of the strong arms of a benevolent but stern leader. What place could this have in the workings of day-to-day life? What deeply seated trepidation is this designed to gently rub the wrong way?

  What meaning can be derived from this flagrant display?

  Is it a message from The Morning Crew?...the same fanatical group of self styled do-gooders whose members are right now sweeping up in full swing -- carrying out their sanitizing efforts in a variety of common spaces around town, including the park. Part of their continuing mission to eradicate the garbage of the mind and soul from the city's consciousness. Cleansing the very body of society from dirty insurrections. Fighting diseased manifestations at every turn. Some old and readily dealt with. Others mutating overnight, forming new and stronger strains, requiring the intent intervention of one of the more seasoned Samaritans.

  Perhaps they're onto him. They would surely frown on his efforts at retaining some record of human passion. Has he been spotted by one of the many paid snitches in the neighborhood? It seems unlikely, buy certainly not impossible. His current state keeps him beyond perception in most instances, but if someone is looking for him they'll see him plain as day. These are not the kind of people you want to cross. It might be a good idea to suspend his efforts for a day or two and exercise more caution when moving about. One thing is for sure, he has no intention to drift back among the masses. Not if he can help it.

  What if this has nothing to do with the Crew? This could well be a message from the local authorities. A warning for all...to be wary of any movement against the carefully, and not to mention painfully, achieved balance. This drawing could be reminder of a person who crossed one of a growing number of invisible lines.

  Or is this an announcement from The Underground Community? A call for awareness against the rising forces of oppression and eradication. Is this man a martyr for the cause?

  Or perhaps the drawing is meant to depict a criminal at large. Given the fact that no specifics are provided might only hint at the unspeakable nature of his acts against humanity...a horrendous set of misdeeds whose details have permeated the collective consciousness -- requiring only his face to conjure any number of fearful possibilities.

  One thing is for sure...his general disposition has taken a noticeable turn downward as a result of this encounter with himself. He was hoping those days were over.

  . . .

  "Be Aware!"

  The words run through his head as he weaves his way through the city streets with no thought to direction. He stops as a clock tower strikes the noon hour. How far has he traveled? He feels lost as he scans the area for something he might recognize. Before him, some fifteen feet away, stands a tall man resting his weight on a wooden cane. The man stares directly into his eyes...and begins to slowly approach.

  Again, he stands motionless. Paralyzed. The sound of the cane against the pavement grows more and more prominent.

  And then he is gone.

  The man stops. And mutters into the kicked-up wind.

  "Be aware..."

  Part Four - Echo Chamber Choir

  The afternoon is beginning to wane and the town's citizens will soon be rushing through the streets and preparing for the night. Sundown has become an event of great magnitude -- signifying the growing division between the reality of knowledge and the looming thunder cloud of implicit awareness...a line drawn in the faces and etched in the mind. Not one among these people is unaffected by the light's fading brilliance.

  Some fear the darkness the way an elderly woman fears the entrance to an alley. They know of the evil forces at work in the world who would like nothing more than to prey on the weak and innocent. Some relish the black backdrop to whatever drama they might be cooking up for the evening. They feed off the danger of a poorly lit street and the potential for suspicious encounters. Some feel the anxiety and anticipation that only night can bring -- wondering who might be lurking about and what side of the law they're affiliated with. The borders between right and wrong are tending to blur more and more with each passing of day into night. All that anyone can be sure of is the inevitable gun shots and sirens and hosed-down sidewalks. This is what they hear in sporadic intervals until they finally manage to drift off to sleep. No mention is ever made in the news of these seemingly violent events or referenced by a neighbor or co-worker. They all know the truth, but the truth doesn't exist.

  We mu
stn't get too far ahead of ourselves. The night has yet to fall so it would be best to leave it alone for now. And speaking of now, now is when most of the town's citizens are still at their places of employment. The people of the town are hard working folks and they take pride in the quality of the goods they manufacture and the efficiency with which their financial and educational institutions are run. A job well done is the greatest reward. So much so, they rarely travel outside of the town's well marked borders for a vacation or on personal business. In fact, if one were to research this subject, they would find that it has been many years since any but the town's most respected leaders have traveled abroad.

  They are happy where they are. It would seem.

  We know where they are. But where is he?

  He is on a street he knows very well. He feels as close to being at home as he is able when he is within the confines of this block. The familiarity of seemingly meaningless items and the recognition of colors and sounds -- which must surely exist on every other city block but not in the exact same way -- provide a sense of comfort and safety which are dubious at best.