The shadow of the blimp passed, and I shivered in its darkness. Overhead, its motors roared, a distant din, and I, with hands in pockets, walked on, whistling a simple tune. For a time, our motion coincided, but all passions and loves will fade, and ours was a simple affair. I took a left, a left I had been heading for for a long time, but the shadow kept on in its course. It would shadow other strangers, and I had walked in its shade for a time. Some nights are full of music, some days are silent in nature.
The butcher’s shop, its door propped open with a little wooden wedge, sent the enticing aroma of salami and pepperoni out unto the sidewalk; good marketing. Beside it, the closed door of a solicitor, the window dark and without light. A candy shop was on this street, and its window was full of playful delight. His hat at his feet, his cheeks full of air, his fingers traveling the familiar stops of his instrument, the musician played a woeful dirge. Melancholy notes swam in the air about him, and my heart was soothed by his blues; but I passed on.
A man carries things in life. Some things a man’s forced to carry, for no man is his own master. Some things we want to carry. Mostly, it’s a mixture. This morning I dressed myself, and I filled my pockets with what I’d need: A comb, a wallet, and today I carried a gun. I had been on this path a long time, my way planned out for me before I saw the end of it. Here is another door, a door like the others, only this is the door I walk through. A bell rings as I open it.
He looks at me from across the counter, his eyes drooping. A bushy mustache hides his lips, and his cheeks and chin are dark with stubble. A thin, white cigarette hangs languidly from his mouth, its ash dangling, ready to fall. The thin smoke swirls about his unmoving face. I smile and wave. He blinks. The cool morning air which had followed me in is stifled by the stench of the place. His eyes are empty, sleepy from his night’s work. Mine are clear, my mind made clear by sleepless nights and a dream, made clear by a fatal choice.
There is a radio droning on beside him, the volume low. Reports of traffic, clear, summer days, an end to the war, all white noise. All these ebb and flow, are moments which pass and come again. A life, though, comes once and then there’s only dust. My love belonged to dust, and I know nothing of spirits or souls. I only know she’s dead, know her pillow smells of her, know he sold her ring to the man who sold it back to me. A thief, a strangler, and like most men, not knowing when or how he’d die.
The shots ring out, and in a semi-comic scene, he falls behind the counter, his legs flailing in the air a moment. I grin, chuckling a little. Throwing the gun aside, I too exit, though this through the door, and the stage is empty, both actors done. It’s Saturday, and tomorrow’s Sunday, and then Monday and work. Who knows what these days will bring? I suppose—I gaze up at the distant blimp like a football lazily hanging in the air—I should run away. A one way ticket to a one way place, and so is life and death.
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Tale Told 