I woke the next morning feeling alive for the first time in years. And for the first time in years I felt a remarkable clarity. I had been growing more scattered as the years progressed; growing more fearful. The gnawing feeling of great big razor white teeth gnashing at itself. Always out of sight. Always at my hind. Stone on stone and metal on metal. But for the first time in years. I was clear. My path was apparent. I was made whole once more.
Shower and a shave. Clean clothes. Boots laced. Immaculate.
Two eggs over easy. Ham. Toast. Jelly. Coffee Black.
I fill my belly and leave my apartment.
Ms. 3F is yelling at herself again. She’s accusing someone of stealing her mail. Putting the whole apartment on trial. Again. She never married. Never had kids. And is much happier for it. Every week she hurls one of her sculptures off the fire escape into the alley below. Launching it down like she’s defending her castle. Sometimes I watch her and smile. I imagine her as a knight. She tells me to fuck off. I smile. She smiles. She goes back inside and starts on another sculpture.
Down a flight of stairs I dodge an oatmeal thick puddle Mr. 4A left in the hallway. He passed out on the second floor; clutching a wrapper filled with half-eaten falafel. He won’t wake up until its time to start drinking again. Grinding his teeth down in his sleep. He mutters obscene things to a woman; real or imagined? He’s either dreaming or remembering. He smiles and nudges the wrapper up to his mouth. Stuffing it in his face instinctually. He forgets to open his greasy mouth.
Out the front door. All of the trees in our neighborhood whistle as plastic bags slowly disintegrate in the tangled barbs of their branches. There’s always music here.
I walk with purpose to the corner store to say hello to Mr. Bahar. He changed his name legally to Stanley when he came to America. Every morning he straightens his hair to fit in. His wife hates it; she misses running her fingers through it. She misses how proud he used to me in the old country. I still call him Mr. Bahar. He always smiles real big when I do. Years ago he was a surgeon in Damascus. Sometimes i think of how many lives he saved. He never brags about it though. He’s the kindest man I ever met.
I take the bus to the park. I stare out the window. Slowly the neighborhoods get nicer. The people look less and less like me and more and more like people on TV. I get off the bus and get lost in the park. The trees quiet the city outside. It’s like an island. Remote, Quiet. Everything is beautiful here. I lose the path. I lose my way. I pass lakes most people never care to find. And out here, it’s alive. Everything’s alive. Birds dart past with life and music. I am still. I am whole again. I am not afraid. I am present.
I close my eyes and lose track of time. I go further into the park. It seems impossibly big. Further and further still, I find the edge of the park. I find the fence. Wrought Iron. Tall, black, cold to the touch. I walk along the fence line. Maybe I’ll walk the entirety of its length; a great big square. I drag a branch along the fence, tapping out a slow resounding metallic tang. On the other side, I can see taxis and buses trudge by. People litter the streets but somehow its still perfectly silent. Like the fence holds this little world in. Perfect, contained and peaceful. Further along the fence I walk. The taxis and buses slow to a crawl. The people stand with a fixed glance; singular and amazed. Not amazed. Concerned. Up come the car horns. They stab, jagged. As cars lurch forward in violent stutters. A deer is in the middle of the street. Scared. Spasming back and forth, unsure of its footing. Somehow it got out of the park. The wrought iron fence is over eight feet. How did it get out? The only gate is on the other side of the park. How high could it jump? Great big points of bone stick out of its head. Swinging at cars, scraping at buses. People shout. A man throws a water bottle. A rock. They try to shoo it away. Back into the park. It stutters forward. Stabs back. Cars lunge. Brake Hard. Screeching brakes. Horns blare. People are late. Angry. Crying. The deer is crying. Moaning a slobbish bellow. Terror. Jagged car horns. Swinging its head. Violent. Pained. Yelling. More lunging. A car nudges its hind leg and he’s off. Out of the street. On to the grass. Barreling toward the wrought iron fence. Faster and faster. Heading straight toward me. I stagger back. Run away. He leaps hard and high. Eight feet straight up. His ribs catch. Jagged points at the top of the fence. Cold iron digs in under his chest. Screaming high and horrid. His voice shakes. Unreal. Louder than the city. Screaming. Rasping. His legs struggle to climb up the smooth iron. His fore legs flail wildly. Struggling more and more. His weight sinks him. Stuck to the fence. Wailing. His entrails heave up and out of the jagged wound under his ribs. The fence is shaking like its going to break loose. People on the street are screaming. A young boy cries. An old man vomits on his suit. I fall back and look up at this horrid thing. A thunder clap rings out. Loud as a cannon. Amplified by the canyons of metal and concrete. No one moves. I don’t breath. A cop shot the deer. He isn’t wailing anymore. His legs hang limp. His arms rest on the top of the fence. His head cranes down and to the right; looking near me but not at me. Impaled on the fence. The poor thing looks like Christ crucified. Bowels hanging out.
Sound is gone once more. The city carries on. Buses and cars speed home. They just leave him there. Hanging. I can’t move. It’s getting dark. And again. I lose time.
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