Another old story: Perfectly Fair
Jonathan pulls his hat lower to hide his face. He doesn’t belong here. He huddles his jacket closer, starts to turn away… but he’s caught. The sound of faint melodic laughter. He turns slightly and leans back his head, hoping to catch a glimpse of the world beyond his hat brim. Across the street he sees dancers and mothers and lovers and children. Sounds of joyous music and strains of pleasant conversation. Smells of fresh food, sweat, and the sweet air of liveliment. You can see it in his eyes; he is young, happy, and ignorant again. He cannot help but straighten up a bit, crack the slight smile. He remembers home, family, comfort, safety, happiness… and then hunger hits him in the stomach like the kick of a horse, or a speeding car. He doubles over, dropping his fantasy and watching it shatter against the pavement of reality like a glass picture frame. Slowly, he straightens again. Suffering worried looks from those nearby, he calmly reaches up and pulls his hat lower. One fantasy dies, so he replaces it with another. Perfectly alone he trudges off. People look at him with concerned stares… some quietly offer him food. He hears the ghostly whispers, and ignores them. He is returning to the world that hurts and starves but is perfectly “fair.” Something about his face catches your eye. In the light, it’s impossible to tell, shimmering slightly, maybe. It could almost be a tear. Almost.
Keep walking. That’s all you can really do. You’re just a passenger on your own train through life. You’re in for a ride if you stay with that train, but if you stop for a bit, sightsee, well then, the train is gone for good. Maybe if you’re lucky you can catch up with it later by taking a shortcut. Maybe I’m taking a metaphor too far. It’s not my point anyways. I don’t remember when I found my hat. I think I bought it, probably for real cheap, but I don’t remember. It’s tattered and brown with dirt. It’s flimsy in some spots, and stiff with grime in others. But it’s my hat. My refuge. You can always just snug down the brim, cut out the light. And soon, cut out the sound. Then the world. The only companion I need is my loneliness, and for that, I have my hat. I remember when I first needed my hat. It’s hard to believe it was two years ago… I’m not even sure, maybe it was longer. Sometimes I feel that I left yesterday. I was prepared then. I was confident. I knew what I was doing. It’s funny how unprepared, unconfident, and unknowing I was. I could laugh now, but I’ve forgotten how. Either way, I left. I was free. It’s funny what free is. I felt so liberated. I knew now that I could do whatever I wanted and nothing would hold me back. I ran from the old world and into the new. I ran. Left the restrictions, but left the safety. I could survive just fine. I was certain! I was an idiot. I went to the city. It’s where the desperate go. Those seeking a fortune or seeking food and shelter. You can find it there. It’s not that bad of a life, living off the refuse of something so rich. A city defecates of gold if you know where to look. Of course, even golden excrement only lasts so long under the onslaught of prospectors. Funny way to think of it. Each street bum is searching through miles and miles of useless stuff for that one thing, whatever it may be, that’ll brighten his day. Really changes your perspective on “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” Of course, I had no plans on living that kind of life. I landed a job. Nothing fancy, nor high paying. Not particularly interesting or engaging. I can hardly remember what it was now… something about a shop, I think. Either way, the important part was that this job paid in a few ways. For instance, it offered board in the upstairs storage area. Small and plain, but I actually liked it. With what money remained on my reduced pay heck, I made my offering to Uncle Sam. What that left me bought food and had a bit left over. Not a half bad life, I supposed. Just look outside. Human refuse and refuse humanity schlepped together till there is hardly a difference. My tiny room seemed a palace of endless and exquisite wealth. It had a window. Eventually, I got “promoted.” I learned that this is a tricky method to make you work more without really increasing your pay. I fell for it. Prestige can mean a lot when you have nothing else, and I already lived at the store. I took it in stride. I puffed out and held myself with minimal pride. I was Moving Up. After a time, tough to say how long, as usual, I chanced a return. No warning, no nothing. I just grabbed a bit of money, applied for a short leave, and headed off. I wish I had never gone. Sure, there was acceptance. I was home again. They offered a room and dinner and really to stay as long as I wanted. I spent 5 minutes there and knew exactly how long I wanted. I left in the middle of the night. Snuck out just as I had the first time. But I’ve digressed, I’m sure. I had a point to all this and it got buried in the details. I’m notorious for that, so you need to learn to keep moving on. Keep walking, Just as I said originally. I’ll never stop. I have too much ambition. Having no drive, or preparedness, or care can’t stop me. I’ll walk till my legs fall off. I glance up, my eyes, trained the hard way, swipe across my surroundings. The beast in my stomach growls warningly, but then curls up for a bit and take a nap. I feel my pocket, and decide that perhaps I should accommodate it. I tug down my hat again, and trudge off for the nearest grocery store. Perhaps some fruit would be nice. I could hold a truce with my hunger, I’ll feed it something nice from time to time provided it leaves me alone. No matter how far I pull my hat down, my friend Hunger wont go away. Nor will my heavy heart. It’s been so long since I smiled. I try it just to see if I remember.
It was to be cold that night. Jonathan had heard the report so he’d brought his heaviest jacket along. He pulls it tighter, and compulsively takes his hat down another notch. The effect is almost immediate. He glides into the surroundings and seems to disappear. A wind takes up some paper and blows it about forming tiny twisters. Traffic flows on the road to the left: the living blood of a City. People move. Ideas move. Money moves. It flows in and past so fast that you can touch but the faintest edge. But that’s okay. It’s amazing how far you can go just by skimming off a little bit.
September 2004
(I was 16. This essay won some minor award in a writing competition, I believe. Today I’m just not sure why.)
