A foggy night
by George Paraschiv
May 8, 2019
I leave the pub early, abandoning my friends in a tide of laughter, quick enough to rob them of their skill of keeping me there for a so called “one more” beer. Like a wild horse I can’t be lassoed back, however sweet the appeal might be.
A few lonely steps on the sidewalk and the noise left behind in the pub echoes to its downfall. It’s all but a dream now, justly to say the alcohol likes abrupt transitions in this evening movie. The cold air hits my face to kill my dreamy spirit. I decide my steps are not so important on this flat pavement, so I raise my sight ahead only to find no end. The expected fog, a regular evening guest this time of the year, hugs the street a bit too tightly. Knowing my way quite well, I plunge in and let the fog devour me. Although my awareness is risen, my will has other plans, so I light up a cigarette for company, only to betray my eyes even more. The cigarette brings companions in the shape of my thoughts.
It seems I’ve landed in a different type of pub.
illustration by Livia Falcaru
The bus stop should be near. I ponder wether it’s early enough for a longer stroll, refusing
the bus and walking my way home, giving my thoughts more time to sink into my nerves. Again my will fools around and abandons the debate. I’ll decide once I get to the bus station. With the debate out of my head, I’m delighted to plunge back into my sea of thoughts. The lack of noise and visible distractions build a highway where my mind can speed back and forth. Unsurprisingly, I overlook my daily errands. It would be a pity to waste such a poetic backdrop worrying about mediocre future activities that would certainly not create my mind’s theme on a replica stroll ten years from now. The same cannot be said about my hometown which slaps a contracted smile across my cold face. My imagination, powered by my timid longing for home, teleports me back there.
I can see the imposing silver statutes downtown. I can smell the blossoming acacias in spring time. I can hear the many voices of my childhood friends merged into a soothing sound, only to stumble my feet on a crack in the otherwise quiet pavement.
I reached the bus stop.
I’m dragged in my comfort zone by some flimsy excuses the likes of the late hour I’d
arrive by foot or the possible danger of this tardy stroll, even though this small town has long forgotten the definition of crime. Disappointing the masochistic ghost believer in me, the night bus arrives quickly, not letting this idleness write its own story in my mind. After a sporty “hello” offered to the unfortunate driver that has to guess his way through this fog all night, I answer my favorite seat’s calling, somewhere in the back, driver’s side.
At this point, one might think that the evening has depleted its action reserves. To my surprise and sudden rise in my alertness, right before the doors close, another stroller, not looking like a denizen, gets on the bus. The fact that he looks unfamiliar, being such a small town, is overshadowed only by the uneasiness that I wasn’t as alone as I thought in that silent gray fog.
The five stops till my house are not enough for my imagination to paint an entire backdrop for this strange character. It is only after I set foot on the quiet concrete near my house that my curiosity dresses the clothes of distress, realizing that the next station is the last and in the middle of an empty field.
Where is he headed?
I slow down my steps, turn around and watch the moving bus become a character in a
silent film. The dominant silence soon returns and makes it clear that I’m not welcomed, so I quietly resume my walk home. The otherwise virgin paths cutting through the neighboring
houses decide to reveal their edgier sides. I suddenly feel I’m in a dark maze with no certainty of ever getting out of it. My neighbor’s cat seems to be testing my courage in this anxious ending of the evening, as it jumps out of a never-ending hedge.
Time to re-examine my paranoia and just get home. As I lock the door, I start laughing at my older by 2 minutes self, realizing how absurd the whole scenario was. “A man on a bus” is no title for a thriller.
Coat and shoes are not invited, but other than that I plunge for the couch and give myself a boost of dopamine by grabbing the conveniently close remote and turning on the TV.
I lose myself in changing the channels, foolishly thinking I get to choose what I watch. But I don’t. All the good stuff on TV is on a Saturday night. I get hooked by a NAT GEO documentary about dolphins and the endless depths of the sea. That British narrator surely studied hypnosis, for his voice takes me to a selfless place, a place where the superficiality of our daily lives doesn’t matter anymore. It’s only about our planet. It should be all about our planet.
The documentary ends, and with it, my selfless condition. What about me? What about my needs? Planet will have to wait at least for a cigarette break.
No smoking inside. No leaning against an open window. No deals with my vices. My
weedy backyard’s sole purpose these days seems to be about hosting my late night smoking sessions. That and reminding me of my cheap ambition in sports by exhibiting a rusty, forgotten bike, too unimportant for me to lift it off the ground after last month’s storm. But my life’s cynical that way. Smoking won. I love that 5 minute loneliness. It speaks to me like no smug therapist ever could.
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Again the cold shakes the warm comfort out of me. One of those silly trades that non- smokers don’t get. How could they? Innocent pricks...
I light my cigarette and after a long first puff, I sink in my cold wooden rocker. Thank God for my cotton cushion. For a second I think of those dolphins and how they freely roam the oceans. The thought fades away quickly. My mind is no place to swim.
I frantically reach deeper. Concerning thoughts about my insurance policy clash with ideas of changing my workplace, ultimately jumping to reminiscent images of my dear relatives 1500 miles away and their faded youth. After a certain age the years like to hurry and never look back. Maybe there’s wisdom in that. However, it’ll have to wait for another night. My cigarette is finished and like I said, I don’t make deals with my vices. One is enough.
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Insomnia has always been my secret lover, so a very familiar feeling of disappointment inhabits me as I head inside to go to bed. I guess we never learn to appreciate how good we have it. Suddenly, my feelings desperately veer. The reigning silence in my dull neighborhood is broken in the core of the night. I accuse myself of exaggerating again. It was only a loud cat.
illustration by Livia Falcaru
Or at least that’s what I thought it was. I love cats. A few seconds pass standing outside
my backdoor and my fucked up mind convinces me to check it out. Another silly excuse postponing my bedtime. I often wonder if I ever have a say in managing my own life. Maybe we’re all slaves to our subconscious. Or maybe I’m the only one that’s weak. I surrender, but at least I get to lead the way towards my back gate. The urgency of cleaning my backyard hits me at this inappropriate moment. Lifting my bike is enough to deny my lazy ways in front of my ego. I’ll do the rest tomorrow.
I exit my backyard and carefully look around. No cat in sight, though I hope one appears soon. Taking gentle steps not to cause any disruption in the environment, I reach the main alley. Most of my neighbors are old people, the type that would not be awake at this hour. Yet through the thick diffusion of a house’s window a light tries to escape. It’s Mr. Evans’s window. He lost his wife a few months back and ever since, that bulb works overtime. I can’t imagine wrestling with the night after 50 years of marriage. Sleep is probably the first one to betray you once you’re left alone. I’ll go and say “hello” tomorrow.
A circle of my house and no sleepless cat in sight. Disappointment meets me again. I guess this time I truly ran out of excuses to not go to bed. But it’s late. It’s already yesterday. The bed will feel like a winning lottery ticket.
Funny how you long for a peaceful walk and it braces all your nerves for the first half.
Funny how sometimes the return feels just like transit. With my back gate just a few feet away, I already start thinking about tomorrow. A free day. A Sunday. I’d like to take that free time and turn it into something useful. Like fixing something around the house or catching up on work. Maybe it’s a guilt response and catching up on time I lost years ago is what I’m really after. But time’s slick and fast. I’ll never catch it.
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My back gate squeaks as I gently push it. The night has been disturbed a tad too many times, so I promise it I go straight inside. The neatly positioned bike in the backyard mayhem seems ridiculous now. Such a hypocrite. But the mess in my backyard abruptly turns into a long forgotten issue as I notice a man slowly backing out of my house, with some of my belonging
under his arm. Such a surreal thing. Your mind freezes. Your heart races. It doesn’t add up. It’s the most boring small town in the world. Just how I like it.
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“Hey!! Who are you?!” my trembling voice spews.
But the man from the bus does not answer. Unlike me, he looks like he never chases time. He knows what he’s doing. He runs right past me. I don’t even turn to look at him, let alone follow him. My petrified body still gazes at my opened back door while my mind picks at the ice around it. What had just happened? Sweaty palms they say, but this feels more abundant. I look at my hands to find they’re pressing on my stomach, covered in blood. The quiet pavement becomes harsh and loud as I hit it. I break my promise...
illustration by Livia Falcaru
It’s not night anymore, but I’m not sure it’s Sunday. Pain hits me before I even try to find
out. My body’s sunk in what I would normally consider the softest bed in the world, surrounded by sky blue walls and medical equipment. A constant beep reveals itself to my awaking consciousness. It reminds me of my guitar metronome. Or some of that shitty music they make today. But today is still a mystery for me. A few minutes pass, I hear the door opening and a lovely nurse comes in.
Strange feeling to hear your own story from a stranger. Better than not knowing it at all at least. And to think I left the pub early as a favor to my mind and memory.
A burglar almost ended my life. They checked the security footage and he shot me straight after he saw me. I fell on the ground and almost bled to death, but Mr. Evans, my neighbor, came and saved me. I’ll go and say “hello” when I get out.
Still it doesn’t feel like I made it. All that blood was announcing the finish line and it seems strange that I’d be so lucky. I probably died that night and my life just goes on here, in a different place.