heaven and earth

Ethan lunged suddenly for the door and opened it. Standing in the hallway was Mr. Day, the super. Ethan leaned against the door frame. "It's so good to see you again, Mr. Day," he drawled.

The other man was bed-sheet white. His eyes were beady and blank. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Sweat formed on his neck where his skin met the collar of his shirt. "Ethan..." he breathed. "You... you..."

"Is there something wrong, Mr. Day?" I didn't like the way he said that. I shifted on the couch to get a better view of Ethan's face.

Silence. Heavy breathing. Sweat dropping. Fear leaking from his pores.

"What is this, Criss Angel Mindfreak?" Mr. Day said. His voice was whispery and dry, like dead leaves.

Ethan smiled. "Excuse me?"

"Am I being Punk'd or something?"

"I don't follow..."

There was a silence. I could hear Mr. Day's heartbeat across the room and his breath whistling from between his lips. And then Ethan shut the door and I couldn't hear anything.

---

It's really strange, the things I can remember. But I can't remember anything about that day after that moment. The door shut and boom - nothing. Something inside gnaws at my brain, telling me that remembering is important, but I can't seem to focus my thoughts. Everything turns into a grey blur and I can almost see something, if I just squint a little harder... And then I'm back where I started.

I'm walking, and when I walk, I keep a list of the things I bump into and the people whose paths across which I have strayed.

1. A man jogging - He looks tired. Tired from more than just constant movement. I smile at him and he salutes me. Why? He wears a Rob Schneider t-shirt and sweat stains proudly. An accomplishment.

2. An old woman riding a bike - Her grey hair is pinned up neatly. She looks very severe, but I have a sneaking suspicion it's just a front. She likes things the way she likes them and she doesn't take shit from anyone. I can see that in the weave of her cardigan. I hear her cry as she almost runs me down, "Sidewalks are for moving, not for dawdling!"

3. A girl in red boots - She has a notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other. Her red boots contrast nicely with the dirt beneath her feet. She doesn't look up as I pass by. She's writing. I wonder why she doesn't look up. I smiled, but she'd never know. I hope what she's doing is important, even if it's only important to her. That's a start.

4. A woman looking out her shop window - She holds a drink. A ferret curls around her neck. She's frowning as she watches the street, frowns as she sees me staring, then pretends not to notice. I think about how pretty she was once. I can tell. She still carries herself like she did when she was 20. All confidence and nothing to back it up except make-believe and hearsay. I like her, she's honest, but she doesn't realize it.

5. A girl sitting in a tree - She stares at the sky. Her skirt billows around her and she looks much too small for it. Her black hair is dirty and curly. She looks at me. "There's not much grass here," she says. I nod and tell her that I know. She breaks a hard piece of bread with her fingers and catches the crumbs in her skirt.

6. Alex - I see her sitting alone in Jorri Rae's, eating waffles and reading a book. When she glances up to look out the window, her hair reveals her face. She doesn't see me. Then she turns to the book again, hunching her shoulders over it like someone's going to take it. Her hair is like a curtain.

An armed truck blocks traffic. People are yelling and cursing, standing half in and half out of their cars. Like they all have somewhere really important to be. But no one does. Not here in this town. Once you arrive, you stay, no matter what you think. It grows on you, grows inside of you like a nasty mould. And you never get rid of it because it always comes full circle. I think after a few months, I've accepted that. I wonder how long it will take everyone else.

I hear whispered plans to blow up the truck, shoot the driver, and steal all the money. But no one does anything. There's nothing to do but scream and yell and sit and wait for traffic to move again.

A man sidles up to me. He smells like dust and stale air. His clothes are rags. His hands rub together once before he claps me on the shoulder. Like my dad used to do when I was younger and had done something right. I almost expected the man to say "I'm proud of you, son," but instead, he said, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio."

This guy gets it.