Alan's Blues

Alan squinted, trying to decipher the red letters that were globbed together on the mirror. He recognized the letter “r,” it was backwards. R for ransom; was it a ransom note? Perhaps the letter was written for the people on the other side of the mirror; maybe he was on the wrong side of the mirror. As he tried to read the words, he noticed the dusty wooden walls were missing entire boards. The sun shone through the gaps illuminating particles floating in the air. The lipstick ransom note. He was in a brothel. He couldn’t remember entering the shack, or how. He didn’t know who he was, but he worked to piece together the scene around him. His mind grabbing at familiarities. There was a vague memory. Someone he cared about had been kidnapped. A horse neighed outside and there was hollering. Alan took one last glance into the mirror at his black cowboy hat and thin, curled-up moustache and darted for the door.

His boots knocked against the floor as he rushed out to the posse. “They’ve got ‘em cornered at the pass,” one guy announced. He was caught up in it now. Another guy whooped, and Alan mounted his red horse. He imagined they were riding off to enforce justice and rescue the hostage. Who was the hostage again? The more he tried to focus on the situation, the more the scene faded, and he found himself twisted up in olive-colored, paisley sheets. It was time to get up.

What was it about the wrong side of the mirror? Maybe he was on the proverbial wrong side of the mirror in life generally. Alan stretched his thin arms and pouched out his hairy stomach. The wooden floor was cool under his bare feet as he walked to the adjoining bathroom. Koren had already left; he knew this because he could smell her vanilla perfume, the last item in her morning regimen. Alan imagined Koren’s hollow boots clicking against the floor and remembered his own boots in the dream. He squeaked the hot water on and raised his unshaven face to the mirror.

Taped there was a note: “Dear Alan,” he read out loud, “We have both known this would happen for a while. I am just the first to acknowledge it.” His eyes skimmed over a few more rambling sentences and finally, “You need to stop wearing those maroon polyester bellbottoms every Wednesday. You will always be in my heart.” Her signature was surrounded with tiny flowers. Confusion turned to hot anger as he read the insult about his pants. At first, wearing those pants every Wednesday was a coincidence, clearly a product of routine laundering, but then he had decided to deliberately wear them only on Wednesdays.

Alan glared into the mirror at his curly brown hair and stern gray eyes. His eyes were especially stern at him, questioning and scolding himself at once. He evened up the edges of his stubbled face and plucked the straggling hairs from the thick whiskers that filled the gap between his nose and upper lip. He thought momentarily about growing a thin handlebar mustache. There was something villainous about his moustache in the dream. He buttoned his silk western-style blouse. The wavy lines of camel and red matched his maroon pants perfectly; today was Wednesday.

Despite the devastating start to the day, Alan walked along with a spring in his step. That was mostly because he had Boogie Shoes stuck in his head. As he bounced along, he peered out from behind his yellow-tinted glasses. He liked them because the color made even cloudy days seem brighter, and today was definitely a cloudy day. It smelled of dirt and blossoms just before rain. Thinking he would rather not walk to work in the rain, he slipped into a seat at the bus stop shelter. That Sammy at the shop. Alan wondered if he would ever get caught. Seventeen copies of the same Barbara Streisand record? Why not Jimi Hendrix or even Neil Diamond? Neil Diamond would be better than Streisand any day. What does Sammy do with all those records anyway?

The silver bus squeaked and hissed before him, and he stomped up the three steps. He stood between the two front seats and looked toward the back of the bus, but he couldn’t see it because several people were standing in the center row. He took five steps into the bus and took his position, holding a metal bar with his right hand. The smell of vanilla perfume, delicately mixed with the smell of body odor and rain. It was quiet. His eyes searched the crowded bus for Koren. Standing there, he was momentarily caught up in thoughts about vanilla perfume. He was forced back to reality when a man with a long, white beard holding a brown bag in his right hand noticed him. Their eyes met and he raised the paper sack in a toast and winked as he swigged a mouthful. The silent bus Alan had boarded roared into a crescendo of murmurs. He could almost hear his posse whooping and the horses galloping. He could hear the boots clicking against the floor.

The bell chirped as he entered the shop. Janice Joplin was playing at a moderate volume as Alan proceeded to the timecard area. His eyes scanned over the alphabetical cards, there were only five of them; his card was missing. Alan’s heart tightened in his chest, but he took a deep breath and convinced himself that the card had fallen on the floor. There was nothing among the fluffs of yellow shag carpet. Desperately, he knelt down and reached under the desk. Sticking his hand under there was like plunging his hand into a rattlesnake hole. Alan thought something had bit him too, when his boss, Wayne, tapped his shoulder. “Having some trouble finding your timecard?” Wayne chuckled. Alan nodded and sighed with relief. Wayne’s chuckling was comforting.

“Well that’s ‘cause you don’t work here no more,” Wayne laughed louder. He laughed so hard that he began to cough; he was a heavy smoker. Nauseated, Alan rose to his feet. The room tilted forward. “Why?” he murmured. Wayne spit mucus into a brown handkerchief and cleared his throat, “We’re missin’ bout twenty records, Sammy blew the whistle on ya, we’ll mail your final check after we minus the loss.” Wayne grinned and his mustard teeth squirted out between his dried lips. “Streisand, eh?” The smell of tobacco and garlic nearly strangled Alan as he edged around Wayne and toward the exit.

Why should he even try to defend himself after a day like today? He spotted that rascal Sammy in the corner of the store. “Maroon bellbottoms! It must be Wednesday!” shouted Sammy playfully. “Have you talked to Koren,” Sammy taunted. Alan shoved the door open, and the bell clanked to the floor. He probably should have known. He was tired of being the good guy, of always doing the right thing and getting a bad wrap anyway.

Alan still couldn’t get those Boogie Shoes out of his head. As he moseyed down the street, he noticed a man with broad shoulders and black cloak. The man’s feet were so long. “Ker-plop” was the sound each step would make, if he were walking. The man’s foot would tap the ground twice, Alan thought, like a flipper. He looked up with his crooked nose, wire glasses, and handlebar moustache. He put his face close to Alan’s, who had stopped to stare at the stranger. “Pardon me, young man, do you happen to know the time,” he said politely. Alan was shocked at the man’s pleasant breath and soft tone. He glanced at his watch and gave the time. The man nodded and said, “Yes, but do you know the day?” Abruptly, the cloaked man with long feet turned as if to walk away, grinning and chuckling softly. It was then that Alan noticed the blue parrot, perched atop his master’s shoulder.

Alan knew what day it was. It was Wednesday, the last day he’d smell vanilla perfume, the day of maroon pants, the day he was lied about, misunderstood, the day he stopped being a good guy. That man knew it was Wednesday too.

As Alan’s thoughts swirled, he noticed the parrot examining him. Moving its head slightly but keeping its gaze fixed with his. Why was the parrot looking at him like that? Perhaps he was looking at his maroon pants, admiring them. Yes, that parrot loved his maroon bellbottoms. The silver bus whirred by just as the parrot squawked something. It sounded like ransom. Ransom. Alan remembered the note, the perfume, the timecard, the records; the dream. He had been on the wrong side of the mirror this whole time. Without any further thinking, Alan wrapped his left hand around the blue torso and squeezed, running down the street as Boogie Shoes filled his mind.