Too Close to Touch, Too Far to Reach

He gripped and he tore. And he bit, and he swore.

“Forgive me for my outburst…” he said afterwards. “It seems my tongue has become as bad as my teeth.” He sounded a smile.

Around the man, loud grating voices emitted in a spray of sputum quietened instantly.

A swirl of refinement about him, only just materializing, puffed away the circling clouds of choking smoke and sweetly sour smell, but a drift in the air still lingered.

The way he sounded, there appeared a hint of education about him. The clear, brisk tone of company bosses issued from him in a much too natural manner for it to be a charade. Yet there they were—the well-educated suits—in boardrooms, in Benz’s, in yachts. And here he was…

In that unique instant of dynamic, peaceful delivery, slouched backs at the man's table straightened; drowsy eyes opened large, in clearing away blurry images; and heads shook, in unclogging deafened ears.

Quavering soliloquy’s, furious discussions, and garbled growls, though present away from the table, now sounded like distant reverberations. Cacophonous sounds trapped in a jar. The mellow jazz, playing on and on, not as sleep-inducing as it earlier was, the scratchy melodies relegated to a far-off corner of the cramped confines.

He emerged a shadow in the dimness, later as a man not yet identified, even though he seemed to have always been there. From the midst of discarded bottles, empty and full, upright and collapsed. From the haze of breathy spray and billowing white smoke. He emerged. Like a teardrop in an icy wind. 

“I’m sorry for asking, but… when last did you eat?” I asked.

“What year is it?” He sounded a smile. 

I’d earlier noticed the hunched over contours of his body. Sitting and drinking. That’s all he’d done. Something attracted me to him. A faint familiarity. I couldn’t understand it. Invariably, I’d remembered something or someone from someplace, but then I’d accepted them as mere recognitions from an indistinct past and moved on. On some occasions, I couldn’t even acknowledge them, but I’d still moved on.

But this man, whom I could barely see, had resided deep in my memories.

I’d got him a bite to eat. Without asking. That wasn’t my style, but I did it anyhow, and I didn’t know why. Good thing I did; he was starving, biting here and there, and gobbling whole chunks most of the time.

After eating, he gulped down his beer and mopped his mouth with his sleeves. “You’re looking for a story, aren’t you?” he said. “Well, I know of one. I guess it would do no good to keep it to myself, now would it?”

I couldn’t tell if he spoke to me, but I nodded anyway. And so, he told of a story.

His voice buzzed in my ears, a spiral of words in my eardrum, twirling gently into my head. My gaze rested on my glass in hand, and I couldn’t tell whether I was tracking his story, or whether my mind had found a voice of its own.

But the story had already started, and I couldn’t stop it, even if I wanted to.

***

There’s a boy born into poverty. Not starvation kind of poverty. No, his belly was never empty. But the kind of poverty where his shoes had to fit for one year longer, even though his bent toes crashed into the tips when he walked. Where he undid the hemmed-up bottoms of his too-long pants a little each year; when the pants eventually fit the colour had by then faded. Where he wanted a shirt so much, the one displayed in the store window, every day he’d push through the browsers to see if it was still there. He’d walked past it daily because that’s where his route took him. Past the one thing he wanted.

And each day he went past, it hurt a little more. Seeing, not having.

He worked an entire year after school, and over weekends and holidays. The shiny folks, behind their curtains showing merely one side of their faces at a time, waved as they passed in their big black cars, and RV’s. He held up his hand to his chest, the highest they would go, his fingers twitching.

Mom kept the savings in a long vase. She used most of it for expenses and saved a little when she could. When she’d saved enough for the shirt, she dug deep inside the jar and pulled out a crumpled note. She straightened it out with her palms. And handed him a neat note.

The unfurled note nestled in his hands all the way to the store.

He wore the shirt on prom night. But his elation was short-lived: no sooner had he bought the shirt than the future trends appeared in the shop window, and he was wearing yesterday’s fashion.

A few blocks from Becka’s house a fancy car zoomed past him. She was inside with a guy wearing one of those new shirts in the store window. She was the most beautiful girl in the world. How stupid he’d been, thinking a girl he’d never talked to would stick around for a yesterday-boy on foot.

He walked, and walked, past her house, past the naked trees, and down to the lake.

The cold hugged tight around his body, shrinking him into his clothes. The pier jutted far into the fog, but he pictured it being no shorter than forty feet. A hush embraced him. An eerie silence, where monsters lurked unseen and suddenly pounced. And still, it was a soothing silence, the many weights upon him melting into the night.  

A gurgling plop in the water from deep in the mist caught his attention. He strode towards the sound, unafraid, the dark now his friend. And laid his eyes on the shape of a fisherman. He was close enough to sniff the fisherman, but too far away to glimpse his features.

After an eternity of silence, the fisherman spoke. “You wanna know something? I’ve never caught a single fish. I’m here every day… but nothing.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“It’s like this, see. I get a new rod today, there’s a better one tomorrow. I get fresh bait in the morning, and it’s stale by noon. So, the fish just swim past. But I’m never gonna give up… I know I’m gonna be lucky one day. There’s many fish in the sea, right?” He sounded a smile.

No further words were spoken; none more needed to be. The boy remained until midnight, before going home. His mom asked if he had had a good time, and he said he did. And, of course, he didn’t lie.

The boy grew into a young man. Working as a grass-cutter, he taught himself at night, and during every free moment. He learnt, watching, listening, reading.

One day he went into the city for a job interview.

Those buildings, mountains soaring into the sky, kept secrets hidden, pops would say. And the people concealed behind their walls, protected to do what they do. Those people on the streets, like waves, twisting and turning, pushing and pulling and drowning him. He finally arrived at his destination, just as a few young guys in suits walked out.

His pants and shirt ironed that morning, brutally creased; and earlier he was concerned about mismatching. A synthesis of different perfumes and sweat clinging to him, overpowered his own. The young lady at reception asked why he was late but didn’t wait for an answer.

A middle-aged gentleman came out from behind one of those walls. He peeked at his thin résumé, and said, “You don’t have any experience, do you?”

“No… but—”

“Okay, leave this with me. I’ll get back to you.”

As the young man stepped towards the door, a crack of thunder behind him stopped him in his tracks. He didn’t turn around, but the sound filtered through clear enough: his résumé gliding through the air and crashing on the floor of the waste bin. He felt what he felt the night of the prom. A slice across his heart with the sharpest blade, a weeping cut with every breath taken, there for the rest of his life.

Near the door, he dipped his head and glanced at the footprints on his shoes. That said it all. 

He rushed past the buildings, to the hills outside the city.

The torturous sun followed him, striking harder as he moved along. But a slight breeze greeted him on the higher ground and cooled him down. Down below in the distance, the city extended far and wide. Silent she lay, unlike moments ago.

He paused and wondered at nothing, at everything. He could be a speck like the ones down there. They’d grow larger and larger as he hurtled downwards and landed among them. He’d be one of them. Just one step and he'd be one of them. He swiped across his wet forehead and patted at his sodden shirt, but the water reappeared. And then…

"Aargh! Ouch! Ouch!”

A balled-up man came rolling down the hill. Covered in dust and dirt, he slammed into a rock and lay still for a long period. Red oozed through the black bruises and scratches on his twisted body. Much later, he flinched and inhaled. 

“Are you alright?” asked the young man.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. You wanna know something? I just can’t climb that hill… I try every day, but I can’t make it.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“It’s like this, see. I buy a piece of rope today, tomorrow it’s too short. So I buy a longer piece, but then it’s too thin. I’m never gonna give up… I know I’m gonna be lucky one day. The grass is always greener on the other side, right?” He sounded a smile.

A few years thereafter, the young man decided on a business.

He required a loan. And banks offered it; that’s what they did.

He’d heard of them, through the hum of his motor, as blades of grass lifted off the ground and hung in the air. Yellow sprinkles in the air. Like the gold within the walls of those banks. Gold, like the glow on the faces inside these mansions.

The bank wasn’t what he’d expected. It seemed like a friendly place, a trusting one; glass walls shielding the yellow hoard inside. Walls also mirrors. He tucked his shirt in, then overlapped a fold over his scarred belt. He licked his thumb and wiped the spot from his cheek.

And he walked in.

He wasn’t long inside. He bent down to sit when the manager asked him if he had any surety, and he said he didn’t. “We’ll let you know,” said the manager.

Although he didn’t know what surety was, his was a simple response. Even if asked if he had anything else, he’d still maintain that he didn’t. He had nothing at all. On his way to the door, he tried not to imagine the rustling toss behind him being his application form into the bin. But his mind was set on it.

His pockets, empty when he came in, still empty when he left.

The people inside were laughing at the lady outside with her finger in her nostril. He lowered his head and pulled his shirt a little more over his belt.

He went away from the bank, and past the shantytown to the tracks.

The trains whipped up a gale and a grinding roar as they passed, pushing him back onto the stones. A dizzying slide show flashing past, the windows, some with pictures in them, some only glass. He wondered how close he’d have to be before the blast from the train became but a gentle breeze. And if there’d be a numbness when she approached, a charged, metallic kiss to his face.

"Aaargh!" A sound came from the bush and out stumbled a man covered in twigs and shrubs. And limbs in plaster.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. You wanna know something? I just can’t get it right. I try and I try… but I can’t cross to the other side. I get here early, the train is already here. I get here late, there’s another train. I’m never gonna give up… I know I’m gonna be lucky one day. That’s the right side of the tracks, right?” He sounded a smile.

***

In the gloom whence the story began, the man had stopped talking, or my mind’s voice had. Either way, I wasn’t listening. 

I heaved up my head and it wobbled on my shoulders. The place was empty. My glass didn’t smell or taste so good anymore. Staggering outside, my trembling hands gripped onto tables, chairs, walls and doors. My legs behind me, in front of me, bending, dragging.

I leaned against a wall, fumbling in my pockets for a cigarette. A hand came out of the darkness, and placed one between my lips, and lit it too. Any other time, that would’ve frightened me, but not this time; my burning body, too hot to be chilled.

I took a few quick pulls of my cigarette, my mouth missing it a few times and pulling in air. But the body next to me pulled mightily right down to the filter and puffed an immense cloud into the night air.

I tried moving, and the floor rose to meet my face. A pair of hands grabbed me from behind and steadied me. A firm grip, a squeeze, not hurting, the hands warm on me and soft. Those grips held way back when, one on either side, lifting me off the ground, my feet dangling. On that day, the sweetness of sugar and fluffiness of cream, on my mouth, on my cheeks. And balloons bouncing on my face and head with each step I take. And…

“You wanna know something…? Oh, what’s the use, you won’t remember it anyway.”

He was wrong. I recalled it, faintly.

The next morning, I went into the bar, and the barman said after I’d asked him, “Sorry, pal, I don’t know who you’re talking about, but he’s not here… Go home, we’re not open yet.”

I could’ve done what he’d suggested. If there was still a place called home. But the layers peeled away, one by one, the job, the income, the house, the family, left a cold hearth exposed. A chilly emptiness, where once flamed a warming fire.

I walked past the bar, through the woodlands, into the park.

I remembered it always being so: a vacant park bench, just when you needed it.

A sunny day, but in the square foot around me, a dimness prevailed. Through the half of my eyes not covered by drooping eyelids, the grounds before me lay in a black tinge, but I envisioned the greens and browns there, and the many hues dancing on the boundary.  

Just ahead, the sounds of fussing kids, doting parents, and wannabe sportsmen carried to me faintly, softly.

“Aaaah!” Thwack!

The normalcy I wasn’t used to anymore, was interrupted by a winged object falling out of the sky and entangling in a tree. A stillness followed, every sound a whisper, a murmur riding on a breeze. But a few moments later…

“You wanna know something? I just can’t do it… fly to the rainbow I mean. I try and try but I can’t.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“It’s like this, see. I get new wings today but tomorrow it’s too small. I get bigger ones, but the clouds block my way. I’m never gonna give up… I know I’m gonna be lucky one day. There’s a pot of gold at the end, right?”

I expected the sound of his smile, but…

“WRONG!” he said. “You were right all along. I should’ve let you clock out years ago like you wanted to. If you’re born in the trenches, you stay there. You try, and you try, but you’re never gonna get out. So why bother trying.”  

Suddenly, a gust threw up leaves in a frenzy, and in a flash, the man was carried away in the sigh of a fluttering wind.