A moment's peace

Clay rests his head on his desk, wide eyed and fixated on the wood panel wall before him. He seesaws between internal perception and appreciating stretched tree ring designs. He possesses an interoceptive awareness that is only sharpening by the day. Within him, there is a buzz of blood rushing and nerves receiving messages, the inner workings and systems that your body is supposed to carry on quietly, a full body buzz. Teetering back to focus externally, the buzzing has transferred, lingering on the skin, a full body stinging. A frantic small spider has come into view, it’s scurrying aimlessly. Clay thinks “how comforting it is to see the proper reaction to how he feels.”

They’re not paying him to exercise his monster, “I should have considered being a yoga instructor, peaceful bastards”. He has to finish these reports, he envisions his local coffee shop, “Wake the Dead” not exactly the theme he’s going for but it’ll do as long as he avoids the coffee. It’s cool out, maybe a jolt of crisp air will cure him, he’s tried everything else. He unsticks his head and swiftly packs his laptop into its bag, knocking over an empty teacup that soaked a calming blend- just as defective as the empty rescue remedy pastilles it lie next to. 

           He hastily walks to the back door but doesn’t see his bike, he realizes he doesn’t have his key anyway and stops in the kitchen to scramble around for them in a miscellaneous drawer. The storing unit for ketchup packets, rubber bands, a marble, old chapstick, a crumpled sandpaper square, “where are they?” he thinks frustratingly. His blood has started to boil, heat escaping through his ears, he’s pricked himself on a stealthy tack. Shaking the drawer in anger he notices that it is jammed, lowering his head to peer at the back of it, the keys are wedged straddling the lip of the drawer.

           It was dark and he had forgotten to change the burned out lightbulb on his porch again. The brisk air was a dose of relief as it prompted a deep breath from Clay. He used this temporary medicine to unwind the chain from his bike and get moving. He needed to catch some wind and imagine the gust entering his body quickly dividing through every vein and nerve to extinguish the burning.

           The entire ride to the shop was uninterrupted bliss but only a temporary solution. Clay starts to imagine a makeshift system at home where he can simulate riding a bike. He’d use a stationary exercise machine and have cold air blasted at his face while he works, maybe a fan blowing on ice-Clay lets out a brief chuckle as he chains up his bike. He begins to think about where he’s going to sit when he’s inside. His emotions range from anticipation to worry. Would he get a good spot, the perfect spot away from intrusive loud people, or smells- maybe by a window so he won’t feel crammed?  Worry sets in that there won’t be an ideal spot that would offer contentment to the conditional creature within. This premature deliberating is routine, still in the midst of wrapping his chain his next thought is the menu, how long is the gamut of choices on it and will there be enough time for him to read all of it, contemplate the choices and apply budgeting strategy before he starts sensing irritation from the cashier? “I don’t want to rush into something I’ll regret ordering. Maybe they have it posted outside, hopefully there will already be someone ahead of me in line so I get a minute. I’d hate to miss a special they have on one of those short sandwich boards that I normally overlook until after I’ve ordered”, he thought.

He’s only been stopped a moment and while his heart is still beating from the recent cardio, it’s now accompanied by a panicky throbbing as a large white SUV is turning into the parking lot- unsettling the gravel to make a horrid crunching sound. “Of course they are going to pull up right next to the guy who could clearly use some protective space against large vehicles!”, Clay seethes. The headlights beaming invasively, illuminating Clay’s vulnerable state; He makes sure to leave the scene before having to exchange eye contact with the people coming out of this car. The skin stinging sensation has resurfaced; do they know they’ve just assaulted him?

           Metal music is the first thing to greet him as he approaches the counter, this decides it, he’ll have a Porter - when not referring to an alcoholic beverage, means baggage bearer”. The lady taking his order has a neutral attitude but a naturally kind relaxed face. Her hair is light ashy brown and in messy pigtail braids, a bit frizzy in the front. She’s layered in overalls, a squash colored plaid button down and a navy zip up. As she’s pouring, she yells to the back “track 6!” A real head banger kicks on, heavy guitar and double drum to match Clay’s pulse. He’s anxiously looking around; the place is relatively empty so he doesn’t have to worry about claiming a good spot after all. “6.50,” she says, still straight-faced but not offensive, relaxed in fact. Clay is intrigued by the irony, how can this girl exude serenity in the midst of such cacophony? She’s refreshingly non-descript and fairly mysterious. What clue could her name give, Clay thought; The receipt says “serviced by Waverly”.

He pays up and goes to a room in the back, there’s lots of empty tables, he puts his bag down and starts trying seats like goldilocks, even tries a few twice. He goes out into the main room again, if he sits at any of those spots his screen will be exposed and that would make him paranoid the whole time. He goes back into the room with bad seating, he could settle for the one chair that’s upholstered and has a tall back against the wall for good privacy but a badly placed light is facing directly onto him from the other room. Luckily a curtain hangs from the doorway, which he moves slightly to cover the light.

           He sits for not more than 7 minutes before an employee has soaked a mop in cleaner and left it in the hall right by another entrance on the other side of the room. “Of course!” he thinks, he feels an itch on his head, then on his leg, that doorway is also curtained; he gets up to pull it completely closed. There’s only one other guy in the room and he doesn’t seem to mind. Clay’s whole body is peppered in electric pangs, his body is telling him the chemicals are seeping in. He tries to deal and sits there with his shirt pulled over his mouth and nose. He thinks, “Damn it, does clean have to mean Pinesol up the rear!”

           Just then the cashier pops into the room, “Do you own this bike?”, as she shows him a picture on her phone. He’s released his shirt and responds in an curious tone, “yeah that’s mine?” “You chained your bike to mine.” “What really?! As he sloppily rises from the chair, embarrassment leading his body language, he knocks over his beer. The cashier senses his embarrassment and empathizes, “don’t worry about that, Terry is about to mop the floors”.

           Outside by the bike rack, Clay is clumsily unlocking the chain, he’s a bit shaky; Waverly notices he’s raking his lips inward then press and release, smear and smoosh, a move she knows well. “Why were you covering your nose in there?” she asks. “The room was being fumigated”, he says without looking up. “Heavily fragrant cleaning products disrupts our endocrine systems and I don’t need any more problems.” He states as he pulls the chain off. “I know, I’ve been meaning to talk with management about that, it bothers me too. -Nothing should overpower the scent of espresso in a coffee shop, I can’t drink the stuff but its aroma does something wonderful to my senses. I’ll mention to them losing our regular…” (She looks at him in a way that prompts him to tell her his name). “Clay”, he reveals. “Waverly”, she says as she places a flat hand on her chest. I double as a gardener so once I get found out as a barista that can’t jive with java; I’ll have that to fall back on.” “Why don’t you drink coffee?” Clay asks. “The caffeine makes me jittery and has caused me to have a panic attack”. Clay’s interest perks up, he doesn’t know anybody to relate to about his condition, beside that he finds her delightful. He hasn’t felt on edge since she started talking. Waverly continues, “But I do drink other things and on behalf of “Wake the Dead” for your unsatisfactory experience, I owe you one- plus, you kept my bike extra safe.” “Oh I don’t really want to go back in there, but thanks”. She quickly suggests otherwise, “No, I was going to suggest a place I know of about a mile from here, called Pastimes.” Clay answers in segments “Oh, sure, why not” his tone, uncertain but also willing.

           It’s fall season, they weaved through a decorative neighborhood scattered with soft glowing light posts. The last stretch of the way they rode over a small bridge arched on a pond, the moon was big and yellow reflecting gorgeously in the water. Clay wished this numbness bliss could stay forever, pure enjoyment of his surroundings, feeling warm and right inside. He wished to be released from the totality of tension that he has become.

           They arrive at a building that is four stories high, it has four doors at the bottom, one belonging to a laundry mat that sits next to a an empty ,once was boutique, next to it, a glass door framed in filigree casing, you can see a short hallway through. The last building is barren and lifeless, simply displaying a “for lease” sign on the window. They locked their bikes and enter the door with the hallway which turned out to be the waiting area to board an elevator. “Is this where you live?” Clay asks. “No, I think it use to be crummy housing that became overwhelming for the owner to maintenance, an arrangement was made for the bar to continue using the lift”, Waverly explained. They get on the elevator, it’s upholstered and there’s a faint smell of vomit and booze. This checks out, Clay thought, he holds his breath so the bodily fluids of others, still present in the deep purple velvet, don’t seep into him. He wonders if there’s a stairwell; he is unable to enjoy this novelty as others see it. His whole body is flaring up and his skin is crawling at the thought of being trapped in there, in suspension with bottled up pathogens. Waverly notices Clay is not amused, she can tell he has some tick about him. She won’t ask him if he’s alright since he’d have to somehow get words out without breathing in and that would just blow his cover.

           The elevator door opens directly outside and before them the rooftop is covered in green AstroTurf. It’s immediately a cozy hang, there is a fire pit in the middle of the lot surrounded evenly with worn in wicker lawn chairs. To the left of the elevator is the bar, on the front of it is a neon sign of a paddle ball- Waverly heads directly there giving Clay the chance to take in the surroundings. To the left of behind the bar are two dart boards, also neon. In the corner directly across from the bar is a bean bag toss, flowers climb two thin lattice walls that sit on the parapet lined with planters that hold incredibly vibrant indigo leaves -they continue across to the other corner area where there is a pole for tether ball. Traveling back to the fourth corner is the suggested perimeter for horseshoe, while the perimeter on the other side of the yard has a miniature wooden bowling pin set- arriving back to the other side of the bar and darts is a small patio table with chairs where an iron version of chess sits. So much concentrated excitement for how vast the other rooftops are, Clay vividly imagines a giant jumping from top to top, it’s striking silhouette in the big cheese wheel in the sky.

           “So what do you think, how would you like to pass the time?” Waverly makes a face that acknowledges her “on the nose” remark, it gets Clay to smirk in approval as he accepts his drink. “I’m a beanbag guy myself, hacky-sacked in college when it was really in, then again maybe all fads remain “in” and what determines that is the time in which you and peers are engaging in said fad.” “So, “in” would mean the inside of a bubble and the determination of when said fad is “in” is when you are in the bubble as you pass through time?” Waverly confirms. “Yeah” says Clay happily. “Nah, I think we’d have to liken “fad” to something substantial like having a following and as of these days hacky sack remains a distant relic from a pASt- time, again referencing the name of the bar. “Stop that” Clay snaps in jest. “How old are you?” Waverly exclaims playfully. “32, how old are you quipster”. “27 but I don’t have anything against throwing a bean bag around”, she traipsed across the roof in a skipping manner. Clay follows, “So how long has this place been here? Guess I don’t get out as much as I use to, this sort of place isn’t typical for Abilene”. “About 5 years, there are a few Texas treasures scattered about small towns. I donated those lattice walls and suggested those coleus bonsai plants”, she says as the beanbag drops into a hole. “This place is best enjoyed when you bring a guest so thanks for coming out with a stranger”. “I normally would be on high suspicion about a random invite but you’ve been cleared by my stranger danger alarms”. 

All of a sudden it’s back, his chest is starting to tighten up almost upon que, “now words trigger it, he thinks in irritated disbelief”. Waverly does not detect this, she wants to ask about his source of nervousness but instead she informs, “I host a small group of people the first Wednesday of the month in sharing calming techniques.” Hearing that opened the floodgates for Clay, did she invite him out because she was scouting test subjects for her side project, he thought. Clay starts looking around, more people had shown up, the place seemed crowded in an instant. Clamor was being carried by the wind in a disorienting swirl around him. Waverly called to him, “Clay?” -but he remained still as the scene before him turned nightmarish, her words were muffled and seemed far away. He felt people were looking at him, he had not taken a breath in twenty seconds yet his heart was working overtime without oxygen return. He wobbled toward the ledge for support when just then someone knocked the tetherball so hard it flew off of its string and bounced off of Clay, forcing him into the lattice. In this moment it’s Clay’s wavering will that decides his fate, even in this split second he could use his instinct to sink like an anchor and be caught by the parapet, but he doesn’t. In that second that the ball hit he simply surrenders and puts his weight into the barrier, a subconscious decision made in a miserable state. The muffled voices were cut by a shrill yell “NO!”

Patrons run to the ledge to view the state of this previously composed man. Waverly has run off to call an ambulance and rush down to him. He landed near their bikes on some newly compacted asphalt, dead weight and gravity teetered him completely onto his back. Blood is trickling out of both nostrils, he is still conscious but he feels nothing. He looks up at the magnificent moon and is enchanted by it’s cleansing aura. He is reminded of the wish he made crossing the bridge, as slowly, a peaceful smile forms and he allows himself to close his eyes.