The Lunatic

The town bore and fatigued the man, a vagrant with dwindled hope and tattered boots. The air blew with an indifferent bite, flittering along his skin as a keen reminder of impending conditions. He sat with his back against a telephone pole, shuffling fragments of frayed paper in his callused hands. He pondered. Transient thoughts, captured visions, phone numbers, and names were recalled as he sought direction, numbing in the hurried wind. Winter was coming with haste, with hunger, void of sympathy, tinting his nose pink and ruffling grey whiskered beard. He approaches a corner store, bells ringing upon his entrance, as he proceeds with a disillusioned stare. He wanders the aisles and makes a phone call.

“Kerry? Kerry? Oh, Kerry I have a great idea.”

“Jon? I’m at work—What is it?”

“Hey, Kerry, could you relay something to your sister for me, please? Just shape it up, ya know. There is nothing much else to occupy me here, I’m taking a trip down to Tennessee. It’s warmer there, and I’ll try out some music and look for a job there… sit down with one of those people who’ll help with my resume or application. See, I’ll feel light as a feather afterwards, Kerry. I’ll sing and write music with all the big shots down in Nashville, I know my way around a guitar. Make sure you’re lyrical too, will ya?” he quickly mumbled to his sister, distant static silence humming on the receiving end of the call.

“Well, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea—Just remember to get your prescription filled before you leave, you need it, Jon. Your check should be renewed soon as well. I am sure they have a local homeless shelter there. Good luck.” She concluded dismissively, assuming it would be simply one of many failed plans.

Promptly he stood and began to meander down the sidewalk, stumbling over cracked pavement to reach a familiar bus stop. Seeking any brief escape from the grasp of the cold, he waited with absent-minded patience for the arrival of the bus. He zipped a heavy coat beneath his chin and raised his shoulders high in frigid reflection of his direction, unbound by a home or any longing destination.

With the harmony of screeching wheels and gears, the bus halted in front of the man, the doors opening wide to reveal a hurried driver and a mechanism to new opportunity. He situated himself in a vacant beige seat, allowing his head to fall back in exhaustion. The sound of disgruntled sleep, gentle seeping breaths, arose from within him amid humming traffic and distracted bodies in transit.

Miles of highway evade his perception, drifting past his sleeping body. Meanwhile, many bodies arrived and dispersed from the bus. Women peered inside pocket mirrors, retracing their lips with precision, skirt hems flittered a wink at observant men. Businessmen positioned brief cases between their boney knees, furrowing their brow and taking swift glances at their watches. Crossed legs shake and jitter. Scenes of disheveled and preoccupied minds, as well as composed and dismissive sighs and gestures, fade in and out of the scene like frames of forgotten film.

A gradual transition, the man gained consciousness of his environment—the reverberation of tires against road, the distortion of light on the large windows beside him, the stars’ burning glow against the glass. It was night now, his neck ached, muscles tensed. In the distance, a vast expanse of the city shone brighter than the lingering stars. The bus slowed to a stop and the man gathered himself, exiting into the night.

“This is bigger than I’evr imagined,” he reflected in awe, glancing at streets riddled with vibrant nightlife and overhead neon signs. He began to wander the newfound streets and alleyways, littered and dense, keeping a keen eye for advertisements, signs, or any offer of new opportunity. Although, with unsettling discernment, he began to feel the city was merely an enlarged version of his previous location. It was a parallel reality with hastened bodies, an expanse of population possessing brighter lights and honorary adoration to the alter of mass buildings, statues, and parks… but with no new offer of hope. However, one evening while aimlessly walking, he noticed a sign-up flyer for choir-singing at a local parish and put his bets on the event the upcoming Sunday.

Time assumed a distorted nature, days and nights drifted by, not partaking in his plan for fame or growth. A subtle anxiety was imminent. A familiar neurotic sense of dread crept upon him, paranoia and intense delusion dominated his conscious mind. He glanced down to check the date; his medication was overdue. But it was sunrise on Sunday morning, and he must pursue his chance despite the circumstances.

He situated his collar, buttoned his shirt cockeyed around his neck, grimy hair hanging below his shoulders, and began to walk to the Church. Abruptly, it appeared as if the sky had opened before him into an honorable Cathedral, exploding with depictions of God and the Heavens. Visions revealed pews lining every row of the sidewalk, men and women filing in before the man. Gold relics and stained glass drew him in evermore. With composure, he stood still, and began to bellow a song out from within him. He sang with all the dedication he could muster. He sang to God himself, jumping for joy and crying to be seen amongst such beautiful blessedness, appreciative eyes of the crowd watching and praising him.

Other passersby simply saw a man disrupting transit in the street, standing entirely alone, jumping, and singing upwards to the sky.

“Watch out, he’s crazy.” Many of them said with disgust, moving around him quickly and complaining about the disturbance.

“He’s hallucinating,” a mother would whisper into her child’s ear, grabbing her hand and rushing away from the scene summarily.

The man did indeed garner attention and display a show to a new audience, but the only title he ever earned was that of a bumbling lunatic.