Dreamers Rise An Open Notebook And for those who choose the twisty road, prefer it to the straight Let joy beat out old misery, as love will conquer hate. Illustration by Henry L. Stephens from The Goblin Snob (ca. 1855) A sort of electronic broadside, composed of rants and reviews, conceits and speculations, and whatever else feels the need to be here. Issued as chance will have it. The wraiths (I)       Gerald Fermory woke up. As was usually the case, his alarm had not yet sounded, and as was nearly always the case, he was alone. He stretched out, decided he could stay in bed for five minutes more, then remembered he had an early meeting and groaned, closing his eyes for a last few seconds of solitude. He rolled onto his side, lowered his feet to the floor, and managed to haul himself into a vertical position. From that point on his body knew the motions, carrying him down the hall to the bathroom, into the shower and out, back to the bedroom to dress in a white shirt, gray suit, and a tie he noticed would soon be too threadbare to wear any longer but which would do for now. From the kitchen sink he retrieved a glass that seemed less dirty than the others, rinsed it once with water from the tap, then filled it again and took a couple of swallows. He pushed aside some papers that were lying on the kitchen table until he found the file he needed, then opened his valise and stowed it inside. He grabbed his hat up from the chair where he had left it the night before, made one last check of his pockets for his wallet and keys, then pulled shut the door of his apartment and headed down the stairs.       When he opened the door to the street he realized that it was going to be warmer than the day before. There was a bit of wind, which was swirling some dust and loose pages of newspaper around the sidewalk and under the row of parked cars, but no sign of rain. Gerald was not very fond of rain; he did not own a car and had a history of difficulties with umbrellas, nor did he take much interest in the condition of the lawns and flower beds in the park that lay immediately across the street, behind the iron fence. If the gardens were dry that was not Gerald's problem; he asked no one to take care of him and expected only that he be in his turn excused from doing so for anyone or anything else. He did his job, of course, in a reasonably conscientious fashion, but that was no more than a financial transaction, an exchange. Were it not for the check that he brought home, twice a month, enough to cover his rent and food and an annual month's vacation on the coast, he would simply get up from his desk, gather his hat and valise, and walk out the door of his office forever, without troubling himself to say goodbye or giving another thought to his work or to the colleagues he had known for eleven years.       Gerald was not a sentimental man, but he was not vicious. He was unfailingly polite and patient, and was in general regarded as a decent sort. If he chose not to go out of his way for the sake of others, he bore no malice for anyone either, and he liked to think that, if a child were to step off the curb unguarded, he would warn it in time of the approach of a passing car or even gently take it by the arm and guide it back to safety. If it came to that, of course. He was not given to philosophical reflection and did not ask whether he was fulfilling his purpose in life or indeed even if he had one. As far as he was concerned, his purpose in life, at that moment, was to step inside the café on the corner for a coffee and danish, as he did nearly every day, and to stare out the window into the street eating his breakfast as the city woke up around him.       It was when he was about to wash down the last bite of pastry with the last sip from his cup that an unexpected blur of gray flickered across the extreme edge of his field of vision. He turned in that direction, towards the etched glass door of the café, and saw a man some ten years his junior, dressed in an oatmeal turtleneck and jeans, approach the cash register with a newspaper tucked under his arm. Gerald didn't know him; the man reached into his pocket, withdrew his wallet and paid for the paper, then went out and disappeared down the sidewalk. Two women came in, greeted the cashier, and made their way towards the back of the room; one of the pair glanced at Gerald and met his eyes, but only for a second. There were conversations in progress around him, but even as Gerald knew he recognized the words their meaning was suddenly beyond him.       He started intently at the doorway, which was now unblocked and allowed him a clear view through the glass to the sidewalk and the street beyond. The blur was gone — it had been there for only the smallest of instants — but somehow the space where it had been remained defined in the room. And what disturbed him, what made him feel suddenly, inexplicably unwell, was the absolute certainty that something had been there but that nothing he had seen when he turned his head, definitely not the man in the turtleneck who had been standing in the same spot but who had not been in the same place at all, could fit the space occupied by that something, could explain what he had seen.       Gerald lingered for a minute longer, then finally raised his cup and swallowed the last cold sip of coffee. Feeling himself again, he grabbed his valise and climbed down from his stool. He looked at his watch and saw that he still had time to catch the bus to his office. He nodded at the cashier and reached for the handle of the door. It was then, as the door swung open with a little more force than he had given it, that he saw the young girl coming through from outside. She was about ten years old and wore a school uniform, blue and white, and thick glasses; she held a lunchbox in the hand she was not using to push her way in. Gerald did not know her, was quite sure that had never seen her before, but all the same as she stepped past he knew he recognized her. For a single second the world revolved furiously around him, or maybe the world stayed still but he spun inside it, and then in an instant it was all over and he was striding down the sidewalk on his way to catch the downtown bus. (To be continued abandoned) May 8, 2006 Previous page Next page Home Index About Email me