Purgatorium Page 5

  He walks closer, making me now see a King of hearts sticking out of his vest pocket. I can’t help but think back to my failed conspiracy theory. His card completes the royal flush. I try and get hold of myself, knowing my mind is trying to solve a puzzle that has already been finished.

  He looks at me intensely, his green eyes furious. I see that he is oddly caring an old 1980’s Polaroid camera in his left hand.

  He quickly lifts it up and snaps a picture of me, which slides out the front of the camera. He pulls it out and starts waving it back and forth and blowing on it intermittently. He looks at it and grins. “It’s like what they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.”

  The unwelcoming stranger takes another photo of me, then reaches back behind his seat and comes up holding a black baton. He heads back toward me, swinging the baton. I take a step back to make sure he isn’t going to use it on me. He smashes my window and swipes the broken glass off the seal.

  I stand up to make a run for it. “Do you have any idea what this is?” he demands. “This is what’s called a blackjack. It has the most stopping power of all close quarter weapons. A knife can cut the crap out of someone and they don’t even realize it. People get shot with 45s and keep going. Granted, these people may die shortly thereafter, but while the struggle continues, they’re still on you and still hurting you. The reason the police carry plastic nightsticks now is because of the damage the old wooden billy clubs inflicted. Broken arms, broken legs, blunt force trauma, all of which is a greater deterrent than the cut of a blade or a small bullet. Again, I am not talking lethality, I am talking stopping power.”

  I have no idea how to respond to this lecture.

  “A blackjack will pretty much destroy anything it touches. Targeted at knees, collarbones, or elbows, it will render the attacker useless. That’s what I’m getting at. If I take this blackjack and target your head repeatedly, it’s over. So I suggest you don’t run at this given time zone we’re both in.”

  He twirls the blackjack again, trying to intimidate me.

  “It’s okay, you can sit down,” he says, as calm as ever. He puts the baton down and slides into the booth opposite to me.

  I look at him, stunned, not knowing what he’s going to do next.

  “Almost lost my cool there,” he says, laughing. “I bet you’re not a man who believes in second chances. Am I right?”

  My head is too full with the day’s events to listen to any more, so I get up and walk away. He grabs my shoulder and forces me back down into my seat.

  “Oh, how greed gets the best of us,” he says, looking down at the photo. “I’m sure you’re not aware of your own name, but I’ll tell you mine. Michael, at your non-service and dismay.”

  Michael reaches into his pocket and pulls out a butterfly knife. “Have you ever heard of the trebuchet trick? It’s a balisong knife, like this one, consisting of a combination of three moves: a reverse twirl, a backhand opening, and an aerial.”

  Michael adeptly makes these three moves with the knife as he names them.

  “The balisong knife was used to distract. The attacker would come in close and you’d distract him by flashing the knife in front of him. It’s sort of hypnotizing, and as soon as you have your attacker’s attention, you—” Michael flips the blade back out and jabs it into the air to the right of my face.

  “Do you feel afraid right now?”

  Michael continues to play with the knife, light glinting off the blade as it twirls.

  “Do you even know what it is to feel?”

  Michael flips the blade in and out as he stares at my watch.

  “Pain, happiness, sorrow, regret, fear, and anger are all human related constructs of the mind. Though you know the meaning of each of these, can you actually express them?”

  Before I can think of a response, I see a little girl, appearing as if from thin air, walking past us. She has green eyes, and her face seems very familiar.

  “Mannequins walking,” Michael says, and takes a picture. After the flash goes off, the girl is gone. I look around to see if the girl has ducked under one of the seats.

  “It’s okay if you feel afraid with all the stuff that has happened or is happening to you.”

  My head hurts from all this forceful thinking I have had to put up with today. I just want it to end.

  “Feeling fear is a part of life, but you get to decide how much you let it consume you. You can spend your whole life imagining ghosts, worrying about what comes next, but all there will ever be is what’s happening right now and the decisions you make in this moment. Many choose their path out of fear disguised as practicality. What you really want seems out of reach, so you never dare to ask yourself what you are truly afraid of.”

  I look at my watch. It reads 42:02. Some kind of noise is heard in the distance.

  “Heaven itself will recall it to your recollection,” he says. “First you will come to the sirens that enchant all who venture near.” He rips open his shirt, exposing religious and tribal tattoos covering his muscular torso and neck. “Pay attention to what I am about to tell you,” he continues. “A loud unbearable noise is coming in just a few seconds. You will want to black out. I say instead of trying to cancel it out, try to let it in. I hear it coming. Get ready!”

  What is he talking about? I need to get away from him before he snaps. I rise from my seat until I see him picking up the blackjack. I sit down and lower my head. Seconds pass and nothing happens. I look back up at him with the thought of running for the door when my stop arrives. I’m a fast runner when I need to be. Suddenly my head starts to hurt. I clutch my temples.

  Michael, seeing me retreat, slaps me across the face.

  “Listen to the sirens!” he screams. “Get lost in their melody!”

  A horrendous screech—like a needle across a vinyl record—echoes through my head and everything starts to go black.

  He continues preaching, “You must fight through the noise, fight through the pain. Find the melody hidden deep inside the void.”

  What is he talking about? It’s just a loud noise! Nothing else!

  I squeeze my eyes tight. I cannot take any more of this abuse. I just want to escape. I cover my ears, focusing on the sound of my own heart beating.

  “Let your heart feel it! Let the melody take you in!”

  Suddenly, I feel like I’m in back in my nightmare. I can almost see the snow melting on the glass, wiper blades flicking it away, headlights flashing in front of me.

  I’m blinded! I can’t see!

  I hear Michael in the back of my thoughts whispering, “Listen.”

  I feel my body spinning out of control like a car has hit me or something.

  Michael whispers again, “Listen. The pitch. Tempo. Meter. Articulation. The art form whose medium is sound and silence. It’s all there! You just have to listen.”

  I begin to focus, using my ears to pick up anything out of the ordinary. I begin to hear soft music playing on the radio.

  Just then, something happens to me. The loud noises begin to sound almost instrumental. I hear different elements of sounds all coming together at the same time. I hear vocal sounds now! The sirens are almost lyrical. I can feel their cadence in my bones. It’s familiar and exquisitely beautifully painful.

  Michael magically appears beside me. He slaps me again and it’s as if something’s been knocked back into place. I look around to see that I am back on the train. I can still hear that same soft melody that was playing on the radio, in my ears. Bells tinkling just out of sight. I know this song. It’s the same music that my piano played for me this morning. I listen to the beautiful sirens coming out of the soft melody as they sing:

  “I don’t see a miracle shining from the sky

  I’m no good at statues and stories

  I try

  That’s not what I think about

>   That’s not what I see

  I know what the sunlight can be

  The Light, the Light in the Piazza….my love”

  I feel an emotional barrier has collapsed in my mind as I let the music guide me to where it wants me to go.

  “Sleep, sleep, little lamb,” Michael sings.

  As I open my eyes to find where the music is coming from, I see everything breaking away like puzzle pieces—the train car, the floor, the lights, Michael, the seat I’m sitting on, and finally, myself as well.

  THE COFFEE SHOP

  The small coffee shop is on the edge of town. The windowpanes are cold, frosted over on the outside from the recent burst of bad weather. The interior has already been decorated for Christmas, with twinkling lights around the menu board, a tree set on the counter beside the sign advertising specials, and yuletide music playing on the stereo. Even in early December, holiday cheer seems inevitable.

  I look in the glass window of the coffee shop and see in my reflection, but it’s a young 20-year-old me. How is this possible? I wonder. I hear a familiar sound coming from inside the little shop.

  As I stumble in, the door closing quickly behind me. It’s that same song. What was it called again? “The Light in the Piazza,” I believe. It’s playing through the speakers.

  I look around, mouth agape with surprise. I was just in the subway car. How am I now in a coffee shop?

  I take a step toward the counter, almost on autopilot. I stare at the countertop, the menu, the chairs, and it hits me. It’s my coffee shop! The one I go to every morning. It’s whole and unburnt.

  There’s no evidence a fire had ever taken place. I see a newspaper off to the corner of my eyes. I look over and read the date: 1991. That’s changed, I think. The song on the radio sinks into my mind, trying to dredge up old memories.

  I remember this song. Am I in a memory? Dreaming? I try to move, to speak, but I am powerless. I start to panic. I must be dreaming—a mere observer, forced to watch. The thought maddens me, but the soft melody overpowers the feeling and I am soon comforted. I remember…I remember why I am here in the first place: a blind date!

  I observe myself scanning the room for her. There’s a woman in the back corner being blocked by two gentlemen standing in front of her. I can barely see her face. I think to myself, Is that her?

  I walk toward her. As I get closer, a woman pops up right next to me from below her table. Her head is down and I begin to wonder if this was the girl I was suppose to meet. I am about to lean in when I see her take out the Good Book. An uncomfortable feeling comes over me as I gaze at it.

  “You’re late,” she says, sounding unhappy, without looking up from her Scripture.

  I can’t help but smile at her tone. I put my hands into my coat pockets, as if to humble myself for her.

  Still observing rather than in control of myself, I feel myself smile, as if I am trying to charm her out of her mood. I open my mouth as words force their way out without me even knowing what they are. “Late? What do you mean?”

  “Five minutes late to be precise,” she says as she looks up at me.

  I know her from somewhere. Yes! She is the beautiful girl from the billboard. The coffee shop bustles around us, but my attention is now completely focused on her.

  “Are you always precise?” I ask.

  She nods, closing the Old Testament and folding her arms on top of it. “My boss always says, if you can’t be on time, what’s the point of showing up?”

  “Wise words,” I reply.

  The waiter approaches. Still, as if dreaming, I watch myself ask for a cup of coffee, black.

  “Although five minutes doesn’t really warrant a lecture, does it?” I ask. Why am I being so smarmy? I think, feeling powerless to change my words or the course of my actions.

  She shrugs. “And why is that?”

  “Let’s back up five minutes then,” I find myself saying.

  “Okay, and then what?” She cocks an eyebrow, looking at me expectantly.

  “We can redo this conversation from the start,” I say. The waiter arrives with my coffee and I take a sip.

  She sighs, put out. “Okay, but it would be better if you wore a watch.”

  “I’ve been meaning to, but I haven’t had the—”

  “Time?” she interrupts, a smirk in her voice.

  “No,” I say, “the motivation. I haven’t felt inclined,” I insist. As I see myself speaking these words, I can feel our eyes meet. Her beautiful brown eyes light up as she looks at me. It’s the happiest I’ve seen her look yet.

  I start again to say, “Though, now, I think you’ve given me a tremendous gift.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she asks, almost flirtatiously. “What gift is that?”

  “Motivation,” I say. “Thank you for that.”

  “Speaking of gifts, I see you didn’t bring it,” she says, her voice turning dour.

  What’s she talking about? I wonder, confused.

  “Bring what?” I find myself replying.

  She responds, “And that would be a confirmed ‘no’ then. Well done.” I can’t stand it. What did I do to disappoint her? “I sent you an email,” she continues. “And in it, I told you my favorite flower. I asked you to bring one so I’d know who you were.” I heave a sigh of relief. It was just about a flower?

  “Sorry,” I find myself saying, grinning again, though I have no recollection of such an email or any conversation about a favorite flower. I find myself playing along, nevertheless. “I guess I didn’t get it. What’s your favorite flower?”

  “Sunflower,” she replies, plainly.

  Though I do not want to, I laugh. “Unusual. I think I like unusual. It’s refreshing to be around someone that is out of the ordinary. You’re not like most girls.”

  “Well,” she says bitingly, “I can already tell you’re like most guys.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest, looking quiet annoyed, as if I actually angered her. It’s not at all like the playful banter that we have been engaging in. She listens to the last part of the song coming through the speakers.

  She sings softly to herself, “The light in the piazza….my love.”

  I hear her beautiful voice as she turns to me, blushing at what she just did.

  “That was beautiful,” I say to her.

  She tries to forget what she just did and attempts to explain herself. “It’s my favorite part. Have you heard this song before?” She looks to me as I shake my head no. “It’s called ‘Light in the Piazza.’ It’s a story that conveys a message of escaping away to find one’s true love.”

  I am frustrated with how the conversation is going and my apparent inability to change my behavior. I suddenly hear someone whispering, as if they are right next to me. “Be prideful.”

  My body doesn’t attempt to look around to find where that whisper is coming from. It’s like the voice is coming from the same spot that I am in.

  “Be prideful,” the voice whispers again. Who is saying that? I wonder. I am not alone in my own thoughts. Someone or something is in here too with me.

  A feeling of pride and arrogance comes over me, and I once again can’t control what I am about to say.

  I lean forward, nudging her with my elbow. “Don’t worry, by the end of things, I’m sure you will love me.”

  Wait a second! Why would I say that? I think.

  “My, my, arrogant, aren’t we?” she asks. Her arms loosen and she plays with a napkin on the table, folding and unfolding it.

  “What’s wrong with a little pride from time to time?”

  The necklace around my neck glints in the light when I turn my head. I observe myself tucking it under my shirt, out of her sight.

  “Where’s that coin from? What does it mean?” she asks.

  “It’s nothing special,” I find myself answering.
>
  “Oh,” she says. “Family thing? I get that.” No fight, not even a bit of sarcasm.

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah, I had a snow globe my mom gave me—the kind that plays music, you know? Anyway, inside was a city that lit up.” She sounds happy for a moment, but her voice turns sour. “My mother always said it was where dreams came true. It even had a secret compartment to hide your treasure in.”

  “What was your ‘hidden treasure’?”

  “I didn’t have anything so she put something in it for me. A picture.”

  “What was the picture of? You and your mom?”

  She suddenly looks pissed as she states firmly, “Yea, something like that. I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s okay?”

  I wait anxiously not knowing what to say. “I’m jealous,” I say after a moment, smiling.

  “Why?” she asks, legitimately puzzled.

  “You have an ability to bring yourself back to a happier time,” I say. “I wish I could find that for myself. It would come in handy.”

  “Looks like you need to find a little faith,” she says, placing a hand on the Good Book.

  I feel a knee-jerk aversion to seeing that Book. By her noticing my reaction, she closes the Good Book quietly and puts it away in her bag. Underneath it there’s another book which is also leather-bound: The Odyssey.

  I hear another whisper from nowhere, “You know that book. Impress her. Go on. You’re smart. She’ll like it.”

  With a moment’s hesitation, I find myself quoting. “There is a tide in the affairs of man, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.”

  “Hmm…” she responds. “And what does that quote mean to you?”

  I reply, grinning, “That riches and power await the man who wants it the most.” She frowns, obviously displeased with my answer.

  “Were you an English major? I’m assuming so,” I say, trying to change the subject again.

  “Nope, I’m studying law at the moment,” she replies. “But I love reading.”