XVII: A Death Clock Minute

i.

There are stories, in newspapers, tabloids and television documentaries, that may be read by those interested of deadly diseases and unexplained lethal phenomena that leave their victims with a date of death, an ETA of the hooded figure at their doors or, in the best of cases, a general estimate of time left to live and fulfill and love and lose. Within these stories are others of heroism, of vacations and adventures, usually involving skydiving and deep-sea exploration in which these dying persons find meaning and purpose in their last death-clock minute. And still others who, when given their final deadline, loathing with self-importance, pity themselves to death alone.

1.

But at this given moment on this specific last day of life, a man is awakening somberly in a room with two beds, and rolls to his side to address a singing cellular phone that, for all he knew, could have been performing its spastic dance for hours. A firm depression of the "HOME" key reveals a message received at 3:03AM:

IRENE

314-333-8493
----------MESSAGE----------
For sure. 3 weeks!
-------------END-------------
Dec 02, 08 (TUES)
3:03AM

Of the mindset that one reply does not usually warrant another, his lanky fingers span the sleek casing of plastic and polymer in reach of the "END" key, swing back over his head, and with a brush of his short brownish hair nestle in the fabric of his smiley-face adorned pillowcase. It is cool where the space heater cannot reach, a comfort that pushes him back into a serene dreamless sleep. At exactly 9:30AM this same morning Big D and The Kids Table's obnoxious repetition of "MY GIRLFRIEND'S ON DRUGS!" bades him from his slumber. At the realization that he's slept dangerously close to the edge of the bed, and the undesirable consequences had he rolled farther from the wall, his size 12, sometimes 11 and a half, feet plat themselves on the floor. More specifically, on an unmatched sock and the inside of a plastic trashcan, empty. Sliding these obstructions from their path, and working in conjunction with his unworked arms, they lift the man into flight as blood rushes to his temples and behind his eyelids. Stumbling through the wreckage toward a door near the end of the hall, vision returns and he makes the sharp left into a small bathroom. A flick of his wrist to the left illuminates a mirror farther inside and reveals the location of a toothbrush that has taken residence on the tile floor.

2.

The local Starbucks, a short one and a half minute bike ride from home, is somewhat desolate. One, two, three, four baristas, he counts, and one, two, three regular customers, himself included, occupy the establishment. Cracking the binding of a paperback book for the last time, he reads for the third time in the recent past the introduction to Jay Mckerney's Bright Lights, Big City:

"You are not the type of guy who would be at a place like this at this time of the morning."

The sentence has always touched him in some small way, if only because it without fail, no matter where between the hours of 12:00 and 6:00AM, rings true. Two or so hours later, the novel concludes its short, concise story and a digital clock on the corner transitions from 11:56 to 11:57AM. To most successfully reflect on such a work, nicotine is necessary, and so book in one hand, American Spirit cigarette in the other, he strides to the door and slips outside.
"Judas! We've got to stop running into each other like this! How are you?"
The woman steps from her blue Honda Civic and onto the patio of enlightenment. He hadn't planned on such human interaction, and as such finds her appearance at such a crucial scholarly moment unpleasant but politely returns the greeting almost verbatim. She extends to him a napkin on which rests a a single chocolate lump and with an exclamation of the thing's importance ("HOMEMADE TRUFFLE!") disappears inside to find her son, hard at not-work behind the counter. The slightly irritated man picks up his bicycle and sets out on the one and a half mile ride home.

3.

At 3:30PM, his phone rehearses its performance in desperate attempt to shake him from a mess of denim and sheets. Unsuccessfully. At 3:45PM the routine is repeated more vigorously with the addition of a second alarm. A single wide hand argues barbarically for a moment with the keypad, locked before sleep, and upon victory raises the device into sight:

ALARM
3:45PM
------------------------------------
WORK!
------------------------------------
3:45PM
ALARM

He will be late, but is in no hurry to leave the comfort of warmth for his last day of work. And besides, he thinks, the shop won't be busy this time of year anyway. A short ride in his car with a broken driver's side window and a cigarette and a half later, the bundled mass of cotton and wool arrives at Sunset Cyclery, his place of work. He snuffs out the last of his cigarette on the ground and enters the newly decorated glass door.
"I need two innertubes."
"They come in different sizes?"
"What do you know about disk brakes?"
"How much is it worth?"
"Just a tune up."
"How's business this time of year?"
"It's beautiful outside. Too bad you're stuck in here."
With the excuse of refilling his coffee at Panera Bread, he winds down outside with a quick smoke. Narrowly avoiding detection by the shop owner, the work day continues.
"Yeah, I got it at the Trek Store."
"What's a dee-rahl-yor?"
"Too far gone?"
"Think you can get it done in ten? I have to be ready to race in twenty."
"Justin, another wrong ticket!"
"Do you carry GT?"
"Lets get the fuck out of here."
A luxury of thirty seconds is all Sam needs to be at the door with his things. The man punches in for the last time the insecure security code (0000) and waltzes to the door. After fighting the lock on the outside of the door, he turns to his car, waves same off, and realizes a lack of plans for the evening. An aimless drive sounds just fine, he thinks, since he filled the tank on his way in, so padding his pockets for cigarettes and a lighter, he pulls away from the curb and into the windy dark.

4.

At 9:06PM, the man on his last aimless drive to nowhere decides he's travelled far enough west, veers slightly to enter the Beaumont/Antire exit-ramp, makes a pointed left and returns to highway 44, headed east. At 10:34PM the maneuver is repeated at Town And Country, and again at Big Bend. After a longer than necessary detour through Kirkwood, Webster, and county-side Maplewood, he pulls into a driveway at 1041 Trelane Ave, puts the car in park and leaves the engine running so as to finish the last bit of his last cigarrette and the last bit of his last coffee, which inspired by the perfectness observed in big flakes falling across the neighbor's motion-detector lights, afront a soundtrack of Fleet Foxes' "White Winter Hymnal" turns into several more of each. The white and blue patterns continue on and on and on as he watches calmly until 11:58PM, at which time he shuts of the car, silencing the Hymnal that was on repeat, and emerges in the flurry of the outdoors, the lines of the song still continuing between his ears.

"I was following the,
I was following the..."

He steps, after a brief scuffle with the glazed drive, onto the traction of blanketed grass.

"I was following the
pack of swallowed
in their coats..."

His own pulled tightly across his chest and abdomen, he hums lightly to himself in time with his crunching footsteps.

"scarves of red tied
'round their throats..."

The fat flakes melt against the heat of his uncovered neck. The small ones, it seems, never make contact, like the points of an exponential formula portrayed on graph paper. Is it sad, he wonders momentarily, fumbling with his keys, that one must equate natural phenomena to a process determined in a classroom to see its...

"to keep their little heads
from falling in the snow..."

Before the thoughts conclusion, his keys, along with the rest of a body that at this moment and every one hereafter belongs only to the earth, fall from the palm, as do head from air and phone from pocket in a forward direction in line with their former destination.

"and I turn 'round
and there you go."

And it is here where his body is found, hours after the warmth of life ceases to melt the snow beneath, serene and cold, but not shivering, next to a cellular phone that performed its last dance at 12:01AM.

XVI: Christmastime During The Economic Crisis

Beneath the first of three concrete arches that separate the smoking from non-smoking sections of a hiply decorated establishment at Euclid and Maryland, beside a structural pillar adorned in "no loitering" signs, a game of chess is progressing between a young man in a fleece Santa hat and a comfortably dressed one that looks of mostly indecision, refereed by an unofficial in orange. I'm sitting in my usual, feet propped on a wooden platform ofthe uncomfortable seating of the place, ignoring for a moment the conversation droning around in favor of the observation of these characters. Pulling his queen from space 3B, replaced by a white pawn, and resting her at his elbow, the festive man's brows decend slightly toward his hollow temples in shame, then sweep high across his forehead, obscured by the faux fur of his festive headwear.

Santa is nervous

XV

I don't think it's better,
to converse about the weather,
to fill the space in time,
when no one else is speaking.

I don't mind the silence,
I've got thoughts and lots of patience,
to keep me occupied,
when my mouth isn't moving.

I think it's meaningless,
to fill my ears with empty substance,
in fear of awkward looks,
from those by which I'm surrounded.

I wish some could manage,
find beauty in just an image,
instead of adding all,
their subtitles and captions.