Folly Dogs

The driver honked, irritably, his shout and squealing tires sending a shrill arpeggio into the cold, listless air. Gesturing apologetic, Lev hastened through the intersection with renewed purpose, unable to un-equate this near miss to his life trajectory, similarly on a collision course with some unforeseen catastrophe. He continued on, his rapid steps and fixed gaze of one trying to outpace their thoughts. Wind bit at his nose and ears but he barely registered the discomfort, mind elsewhere, mired in despairing fog. The weight of missed opportunities and unlearned lessons made lead of his heart; navigating the crowd, he couldn’t help but feel like a lost soul adrift in a sea of purposeful lives. The faces around him seemed illuminated with determination while he stumbled in shadows of his own indecisiveness. He had always been plagued by self-doubt, constantly questioning his decisions and fearing the consequences of a step in any direction. His mind was a labyrinth in which each turn led to dead ends of anxiety and regret.

Reaching the subway entrance he paused, making way for exited riders, then started down. Distracted in descent, his eye nevertheless caught a patch of unfamiliar wall graffito – printed in neat blue caps on a blanked square:

WE HAVE ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD

Whomever hung such a platitude was jaded or naive, he thought, in either case hopelessly. The notion of time in abundance mocked him, laughed in his face as he reached the platform. He had barely taken three steps when a gust of wind blew through the underground station, causing loose papers and discarded wrappers to swirl around his feet. Lev’s eyes followed the chaotic dance of debris, momentarily captivated by the patterns they formed. The sight brought a fleeting sense of peace, a reminder of his grandmother, who would always say

even in chaos, there could be beauty

He took a single seater, leaning back to rest his head, and turned to the window, gazing at the people bustling around the station. He wondered what drove them, what lay at the end of their relentless pursuit. An announcement momentarily broke his reverie, informing passengers of a succession of skipped stops, though the rhythmic clatter of the tracks below soon eased his return to the tangentia of his mind. He thought of the last visit with his grandmother and how her face, wrinkled with wisdom and humour, reflected the fiery radiance streaming in from the westerly window. She had told him stories about life, love, and loss – and the indeterminable interconnectedness of them all. He had held her hand, feeling the frailness of her grip, and promised to see her again soon.

As the train hurtled through the underground tunnels, Lev’s gaze shifted from the passing stone walls to his reflection in the window. His eyes, once filled with curiosity and hope, now seemed vacant and hollow. He wondered if it was too late to make amends, to reassemble broken fragments of promises and time. Lost in thought, he barely registered that they had emerged from underground. The sudden intense luminosity blinded him; seeing spots, he groped for the shoulder strap to his pack and made ready to depart.

The first above ground stop was near the hospital where his grandmother lay. A glance at his wrist revealed it was 2:30pm. Confused – he had told his mother he’d arrive around 3 – he pondered this unexpected temporal gap until he remembered those missed stops. Trudging the doldrums of his mind he hadn’t noticed their number or absence. He went to the surface, lingering for a beat while he pondered the prudence of getting an outside meal; he recalled his prior visit to the hospital cafeteria and it’s meagre provisions.

As if on cue, a light breeze passed with the aroma of fried food. He scanned for the source, finding it in a middle-of-the-block delicatessen. Assuring himself this minor detour wouldn’t make a difference, he pivoted for it.

***

Hers was a mind in torment. Her mother lay, mere steps from her vigil by the window, undoubtedly at the border between this life and eternity, yet she could hardly break from her watch. In this section of the hospital, at the end of the hall, floor to ceiling windows gave an unfettered view the sprawling landscape, trees with leaves burnt crimson by the sun, and underground passengers as they ascended an exit stairway. She hoped, as only a mother could, that he’d gotten the urgency in her voice and hastened from wherever his enduring complacency had landed him. Time, her patience, and her mother’s claim to this world wore thin.

***

Why do they call you Lev? Short for Levi?

He smiled.

Not quite, it’s from the eleventh hour

Her face remained impassive, egging further disclosure, so he continued

I tended to procrastinate as a kid, didn’t matter if it was homework, chores, whatever. I’d end up scrambling to get it done, so often that my dad started calling me Mr. Eleventh. Friends picked up on it and it stuck, then became just Lev after a while

She smiled, then began to laugh, but as if she were four persons laughing instead of one. Puzzled, he sat and listened, watching her. The sound became a cacophony; he feared loss of compos mentis moments before three sharp reports, as from a rifle, snapped him to consciousness.

The laughter continued, measurably saner, from a group of women sharing a pitcher and corner booth. A patron, watching a game from the bar, had pounded his frustration at a poorly executed play from the quarterback.

Comprehension set in like a weight, slightly dense at first but growing with the reckoning of what he had just done. He grabbed his pack and fled, heedless of the shout from the barkeep. The impact of this latest self-indifference felt physically concussive. Every ignored lesson, every bit of his grandmother’s wisdom not instilled, the collected caveats of humanity became at once manifest. He flung himself into the street when suddenly a driver honked, irritably, his shout and squealing tires sending a shrill arpeggio into the cold, listless air.