Stranger's Evening
By Ryley Clarke
A great exhale of jazz reverberated through the tunnels as the scatterings of dried, brown leaves kicking up ever so little to the sound. This, a rather new being, and That, a not so new being, felt it before they heard it, when they could hear it they saw it, and when they saw it, there sat a figure of great fatigue. With wrinkled skin, a bad knee and fingers already blackening heavily at the tips as they played, between them a dead and used cigarette hung still with a long ashy end intact. He was playing the saxophone.
The clicks and clacks of This and That’s shoes cut through the reverberating jazz less and less the closer they got, before turning a corner to see him down the end between a crossroads of tunnels, left and right. This always wondered how they got such high end shoes in the afterlife, That rebuked the notion that where they are is the afterlife in the first place, saying that it distracts us from what is instead of what has. This never understood that, That would call them stupid.
Rising and falling, the saxophone strapped to the old man warmed the marbled tunnel as the two closed in. Blocky, black sunglasses stuck to his face as he played. He was well dressed with a bowler hat, although those very clothes seemed a tad oversized, as if to hide his body away from this world, maybe he was disfigured, maybe he was just shy.
Usually there’s a fat, older guy in a wheelchair singing opera, said That.
Really? This replied.
That flicked a coin to the man and turned right without a second glance. It flew high and sank swiftly into the man’s mug set up in front of him, singing as it bounced around the inside, spinning at the end of its dance. The man only nodded his head back and forth to the saxophone’s rhythm, whether he was thankful or sorrowful, was most unsure.
This couldn’t help but look down the empty tunnel to the left, to the right where That continued to walk, then back to the left. They were the same as all the others. Once white but now faded with yellow, with tiles scratched ever so slightly, some chipped, though the tunnels never truly lost that shiny look permeated by the lanterns, giving each turn a sense of calmness but alertness.
This was yet to see another like the two down in these long, waiting tunnels. Finally placing a few notes of money in the busker’s mug.
“Wow!”, said he before getting back to his saxophone, the sound which haunted This’s quick steps to catch up to That.
Strews of dried orange and brown leaves littered every turn and crack of these tunnels, sometimes passing a massive pile stacked in certain corners; there were no patterns to them so This paid them no attention.
With a few sharp turns they came to an even longer tunnel broken up by archways, all on the right side, the closest of which That entered. It was molded into the marbled walls and ceiling, an archway which would’ve been of importance, This had no doubt of, but only led them to a blocked pathway full of broken ceiling and walls.
Fuckers! That exclaimed, moving out and back down the tunnel to the other archways. Context rarely escaping This, they followed along.
We’ll have time to kill since we’re gonna be a night before, That said, turning into the next archway, one having no difference from the last.
Will we need the hostel?
No, there’s a park nearby I want to visit, said That, We can stay there until tomorrow.
The archway led the two of them down another tunnel, one much longer and with the faintest, blue light at the end, to finally a set of stone steps, the scattering of leaves now replaced with rubbish. Empty packets and bags, glass bottles, pieces of paper, some full of the ravings of madmen, laid near the first steps and up, steps that revealed the blue glow of a soon to be sleeping sun.
With waves of grey clouds embarking across the sky, only a faint opening far off on the horizon stood strong, although it was known to the both of them that these clouds would soon consume it. It was going to rain, or at least that’s what This thought.
Park’s this way, said That, It’ll open up when we get back.
The tunnel exit they stepped out from hung an X shape of heavy chains across a now closed metal door, leaving them to a desolate street filled with that same rubbish from the step, now more alive. Piles danced in swirls, shooting down the street and high in the air. Not a soul was about.
A few streets down and through a busy market That stopped outside a rugged bar. Wooden panels were nailed across the windows and door with the spray painted letters, ‘GRAND OPENING, TOMORROW AT 8PM’.
Where is it, where could it–, That was searching and sniffing the wall until finally, AH!, ripping a stapled paper off the wall and showing it to This, who read on:
Set List
Murder Essex
Burning face
Crap my Pantzz!
Aaaand, ‘Salem’s Stakes’! That pointed so hard into the paper that it almost put a hole in it.
Can we go to the park now, said This. A headache began to build in his skull as the paper hung limply in his grasp.
Sure, That said walking down the street, You should keep that, those things are rare for things like us.
Folding it into the back pockets of This’s pants, they made their way again. The clouds above emanated a faint, orange glow from the godless reflection of all the city lights, turning the streets grim. A body hung upside down from a dumpster deep in an alleyway, flies crawling across the corpse’s lifeless eyes, inching into his mouth and coming out of his nose. It was now night, and late night by the time they made it to the park, enough time for This to build courage ever so little.
What are we doing here? This asked as the two entered the park, headache still pulsating even after asking the very question that had been causing it.
How long have you been with the company? That asked, knowing that This didn’t mean the park with his question, rather what they were.
A week.
A week, that’s not a lot.
No.
Well, that’s just alright.
It doesn’t feel so.
It shouldn’t, but I still want you to know that it is.
Was I…?
No
Well, does that mean that I was a…?
Nope
Then what was I, before this, before a week ago?
You were you, a spec, a great nothingness, an infinite abyss. You were before and now you’re after.
Are we to do anything, anything specific. Do we get assignments or homework? Tasks? Should we run around looking for things to do, I’m specifically confused.
The two of them were now deep in the empty park full of forest-like trees, a sick attempt to simulate nature within the concrete jungle that surrounded it. Some racoons fought at the edge of a bush over a human arm, paying the two no real attention.
No way, do you think I would be here if we had tasks or assignments, That vomited out, as if those sorts of words would make anyone sick.
Well, I don’t know.
They soon came across a man, clearly drunk on a bench clutching his upper right arm or really clutching at the lack of one, “They got it! they goddamn got it, they stole it! Where is it, where is it! Where goddamn is it! Fucking fucks where is it!”, acting as if he had lost his car keys than a limb. He too, like the racoons, paid them no attention.
Are we here to help them, guide them? Are they what we do things for?
Let’s leave him, he’s of no importance, said That grabbing This’s arm, I’ve got something to show you.
The two walked further and further through winding paths slithering in and out of the bushes stacked and stuffed around the park, a few tree lights guiding their silent walk. Shuffling leaves high in the great trees chatted away in the chilled air, the kind of air that stung and kiss at their noses and necks. Soon they came across a still river, a faint glowing light hid behind a collection of leaves and branches above, giving the surface of water a broken illumination.
Come here, again grabbing This’s arm and pulling them to the water, See?
The water?
Yes.
… And?
Hm? Oh right, That pulled This down further, pointing at the water with one finger, Do you see it? That’s fingers outstretched and flattened, softly mimicking the flat surface, Do you see them?
The spots.
Yes, the spots that cover the surface of the water. Specs of pollens and dirt, bits from the tree, all things surrounding it. Look at them, really look at them.
Toads further down the silent stream sang songs of love and longing as This stared at the surface, at the things floating atop, barely visible. Although full of sound and rustles, it was quiet and so was the water, then This saw. The specs above the water moved, ever so faintly, as if it felt it was being witnessed it wouldn’t dare to move an inch, breathing soft breaths long forgotten.
You see it now, That whispered like a breeze through a crack in a wall, as if words were spoken any louder this small, captured world that lived only here would slip away like sand through fingers.
This whispered back all the same, Yes.
Do you see how it moves? If you look closely you’ll see how some specs move forward, others back, some to the right and left, others diagonally. Image those specs as people, moving through the world, through the universe, through time. Sometimes they clump up like that spot over there, other times there’s barely any around, like further up. Even with the way they all move around, the river is still moving down, so very slightly, but still moving. What we do is move in between those spaces, in those unfilled black parts. We can come across them, interact, change their path, but for them it ends all the same, for us it doesn’t matter whether the river moves up or down stream. That’s what the tunnels are for, helps us move through the streams.
Okay, said This, coming to an understanding that even he wasn’t too sure he had fully reached, Can we stay a little longer?
The two stared at the water sitting down, witnessing specs move from here to there, all eventually floating down and away, replaced by new ones that look no different than those who came before.
The morning sun blued the now cloudless sky, That and This sat up. Through the trees and path they crossed a lady in wet, heavy clothing raving atop of a bench. No one was around to witness her teethless speech, talking about the tyranny and sanction of the big THEY, mainly though it was about politicians. She paid the two no attention .
Finally the two came to a great, circular opening in the park, the ground covered in pattern stone and pebbles. It sat awkwardly, as if dropped down high from the sky without a second thought. Claws of grass grabbed at its edges, a sign of its eventual taming by nature. A crumbling bench on the outskirts of this space was what they found as a perfect space to enjoy the morning.
After a while an overweight man in a wheel chair came from one of the paths, accompanied by a woman of subdued red hair and freckled skin, wheeling him near the centre. The night was fading as she set up a large, pink umbrella. There was a metal cartridge attached to the back of his chair. The faded woman adjusted clear tubes attached to the tank into his nose. Already he was sweating, his sunken skin sweltered in the misty morning air.
There he began to sing a song from a great opera. It was beautiful and sorrowful, the man began to cry halfway through, accentuating his voice even more. This and That sat comfortably, the two in the middle paying the two no attention of the sort.