Unfamiliar Signs

Each window, each face, they all seem extremely foreign to me. Coming from where I grew up, faces were like mirrors; familiar in every way until you stared at them long enough that they became alien to you. Of course, there is obviously going to be a considerable amount of difference between a middle-of-nowhere, gas stop of a town and downtown Manhattan. I hadn’t been here for very long before I realized that those small gestures of kindness that I’d grown up knowing were nothing more than bothersome charades to the people of the city. Although the concrete jungle advertises a life full of luxury and beautiful views outside of your front porch or balcony, it carries an enigmatic aura along with it; something that select few people would understand unless they were here themselves.

I cough more now than I did while living with smokers for parents and the horrendous stench that emits from the sewage drains is enough to make a person gag. The grimey sidewalks are unkempt; caked with millions of footprints a day, all of which are entirely untraceable. It makes a person wonder just who these people are and what their lives are like from day to day. No matter how much you ponder, nothing will change the fact that you are you and they are them. Who knows what the glowing pupils peering from the alleyway belong to. A cat, a dog, a demon, or a serpent. In the city, they’re all connected, merged together in some sort of way.

I observed just how diabolical this place could be one day alongside the hot dog stand that ran every morning, courtesy of Harold Lopez. I liked Harold well, as did most of the district. After all, he was how most of us fetched our late-early morning breakfasts on the way to work. However, that fame only carried him so far until that incident that foggy morning; the first bit of excitement I’d had since I moved here. Harold happened to be a rather short and stout man, who donned a fairly large mustache and always wore a flat cap to shield the street lights from reflecting off of his bald head, or so that’s what he would tell me.

He humored me as I did him. I liked him very well, considering he was my only comfort on the account of me being new here. He informed me about the different sections of the borough and what parts to avoid, especially at night when the streets become “mean”. He was so very generous and personable with me and to everyone else that I watched come to the stand. He dressed pleasantly and if I didn’t compliment his outfit, someone else did.

Harold did not look very happy that day and it didn’t look as if he got very much rest the night before. For a moment I felt bad, but he set up shop as scheduled. Soon, the customers began filing in line while I spoke to him on the side. The last customer was becoming progressively angry with the amount of time it was taking Harold to prepare his sandwich, or hot dog. I was primarily focused on some of the ads scrolling across the south billboard. I can’t remember very well what they were trying to sell now, I just remember thinking how wondrous it appeared since I’d never seen it before due to the recent brownout cutting the power off. I realize that happens a lot now that I've been here for awhile.

“Hurry up, would'ja? My work starts in an hour,” the man jeered at Harold. There were usually people who seemed at least a little agitated in the morning as expected. I remember Harold attempting to pacify the impudent goon.

“Screw it, I don’t have time for this.”

It sounded like the norm for me before the bang. Calling the police was out of the question personally, for I was struggling to pull Harold up from the concrete. I yelled out for someone to dial 911 and by the time I had looked around, the hoodlum was gone. I knew I wouldn’t be able to describe his facial features to the cops as I wasn’t paying attention. Harold had already passed in my arms before anyone could show up. His eyes, they were bereft of life at that point and glossy. It all happened very quickly.

I regret looking at that billboard every day since then. My only comfort in such an obscure place had disappeared in a flash right before my eyes. After the police arrived, it all became unusually nonchalant for some reason. I still had Harold’s blood on my hands while recounting what had happened to the officers, yet their faces remained the same; blank, cold and departed from this world as if seeing death was something they had experienced all too well. Their eyes were planets away from the city. 

“Hmm, yes, understood,” is all the officer repeated as I stammered throughout my entire account. I watched as the lumpy, charcoal colored body bag swallowed Harold’s body. My hands had become stiff with his blood, creating small dusty flakes which peeled away at every movement as if it were dried paint. No one consoled me as they walked close by the crime scene. No one paid any mind to what had just taken place and I couldn’t help but wonder what is wrong with you people?

I immediately wanted to move back to the countryside and disregard ever coming here, considering this is what my reality may develop into. Nonetheless, I stayed. I weighed my job opportunities against humanity and humanity lost, as is the outcome all through this place. Otherwise, there wouldn't be anyone here. We all, after some time, settle with the fact that we’ll never know each other completely, regardless of how much time we spend with one another whether it be at a hot dog stand or at a congenial coffee shop. We all ultimately forget about past conversations, past laughs and all things good about the past when surviving from paycheck to paycheck is the number one priority in the present.

Harold was a good man to me and he was a good man to every customer. His main goal was to serve the public and make a living while doing so and he did so happily. There was never a day that I can remember where he wasn’t smiling, except his last day on Earth. His face stopped being so unfamiliar to me after those several months when I spoke with him every morning until taking off for work. I looked towards his smile every day more so than I did breakfast. 

Every person here has a life, a separate reality compared to the one they display to the world around them. The criminal that fled the scene also has a life of his own, and I assume that he’s still going around taking innocent lives on the whim whenever he feels the notion to. Some nights I would walk the sidewalks, waiting for something else to happen. The street lamp’s orange hue that glimmers through the smog with such weakness reflects the spirit of the city. Nothing can or will protect you here when the system itself is depleted, deadened by the insufficient amount of power. No village, capital or community can run itself or protect itself when it’s inhabitants are awfully muddled within the pits of sorrow.

“Can you spare a dime?” Of course I could, but why would I dish out something that could someday be my last resort? The homeless, the poor, the wretched and the morose; we are all in some way or another the same, yet we persist in denying it. I don’t bother giving small waves to strangers whom I know from nowhere and I will not eat from another street side vendor. I’d say that I am finished handing out my kindness like a brochure to people who refuse to console a crime scene witness.

These people are no longer aliens to me; they are animals. The street lamps sprout legs at night and walk to where they can receive more sustenance in order to guide those during the dark, for even the lights know an evening stroll automatically turns you into a dead man, walking. The curbside merchants grow fangs and follow you home regardless of whether you paid them attention or not.

I think about how it could get any better. How we could fix the blurred murky skies, the potholes in the road that deepen with each passing day, or how to enliven the numb tone in people’s eyes. Some days I’ll watch the windows of fellow apartments. I admit that I desired to see some form of life revealed inside of them, although I have yet to see anything more than blank walls with decrepit wallpaper and yellowed curtains that sway each way from the blowing vent below. 

It gets cold here and it will consistently be cold even on the hottest days, but winter is extremely damning to anyone who wishes to remain indoors with their family. Running across a jolly old snowy-bearded man with a bell is the worst nightmare to all of us here. My first year, of course I gave him a dime but once I saw his eyes, I quickly turned my back on him and haven’t given him anything since. I knew my first dime would not be going to anything beneficial. The Christmas tree is the brightest thing in the borough each year. It is brighter than every billboard in New York, everyone’s smile and somehow it is more alive than we are. I’d say it breathes life back inside us all, specifically children, for the next several days following the lighting of the tree.

I wonder what my parents would be doing on Christmas if they were still alive. I wonder what Harold would be doing on Christmas if he were still alive. Would we be having a coffee, or would he still be making hot dogs on Christmas Day when he should’ve been at home with his children? There are so many things to think about when sitting alone in a room with no radio. I hate watching television at all. Seeing as how gloomy it is here already, I do not require a reporter to tell me about the cruel despair in the world.

My birthday comes and goes every year and I am now fifty-three. I’ve lived here almost twenty years now and still to this day, cannot recognize a single face that passes me by on the sidewalk or street. I keep my hands in my pockets and my eyes on the ground. I’ve memorized what the sidewalk looks like on the way to work so that I can maneuver proficiently without having to look up too much. I see cats and dogs now and then wandering the streets. I’ll pet them when I have the chance or give them a small cookie that I’ve stashed in my pocket for a lunch break. I stopped eating much by that time but it never bothered me. It shouldn’t concern me if it doesn’t concern anyone else, or so that’s what I’ve learned here.

We’re all sheep in one way or another, programmed to think and follow what someone above us is doing whether we’ve been taught to go our own way or not. There will always be someone out there doing better compared to you and it is astonishingly apparent in the metropolis, constantly throwing your flaws in your face. Oh yes, faces. They transform into warped eyesores as the days go by. For twenty years now, I’ve seen so many different ones that my mind tends to trick me. 

“Harold?”

“Get away from me, you old coot!”

I could have sworn it was him. I could have. Perhaps it was the mustache, or the eyes. Either way, I miss Harold. I’ve wondered about his children and how they are doing these days. I wish I could have met them. I saw a billboard advertising a nearby cheeseburger joint and it reminded me of him. I hate billboards now and I can’t stand their colorful luminosity in such a grey area. If the city is going to be nothing but red, silver and black, the billboards may as well resemble just as much.

It is pathetic that anyone outside would ever dream about coming here. The green hills I grew up watching from my bedroom window were ten times more vibrant instead of the drab, stale apartment buildings and broken power lines dangling from the sky I see here day by day. Conversations consist more of predictions about when complexes and structures will be built and repaired rather than talking about the latest movie in the theater or a stroll in the park. The park isn’t open due to the disease rapidly spreading throughout the area. It’s interesting how we are the only city being affected. 

“I think it’s something in the water,” one blond haired woman remarked to the man beside her at the cafe. I sat nearby drinking my coffee, eavesdropping on the chat. 

“Maybe it has something to do with the mayor,” the dark headed man replied.

They both chuckled together, as if it were something to laugh about. I suppose that’s all you can do when the population is dwindling around us due to something we, as citizens, have no clue about. What am I saying? I’m just an old loon after all. Several gnats swarmed around my cup and I let them enter, swimming around inside of my drink. It was no use to me by then.

I walked up to the trash can next to the two cackling people and threw my drink into the dirty abyss. It devoured the cup like a sinkhole to a car. I looked them in the face and wanted to share my piece of the pie, but then they would know some old creep was listening in on them. Their eyes reminded me of Harold’s. I must’ve stared at them far too long as their expressions quickly writhed between confusion and disgust before they both got up to leave the shop.

“Scaring my customers off again, you freak?” I tried apologizing to the clerk, but he wasn’t having it this time. I left and was permanently banned from that shop. On the way home, I stumbled upon a crime scene. I’m unsure of who it was exactly, seeing as how I don’t bother to try and piece together mangled faces just as I don’t piece together live ones. Though, I do remember it being a blond haired woman and dark headed man. I thought I had seen them somewhere before, but maybe I was mistaken. I tend to get confused a lot these days.

The officer spoke to me again with the same paralyzed look in his face and I’m not so sure what happened after that. I couldn’t remember my way back home. It seems like everyone is adrift, disoriented in the streets; forgetful and misplaced in more ways than one.

Something is incredibly wrong here.

I miss my family and my freedom, that is definite, and the bed here is noticeably hard on my back. This place isn’t any lonelier than the streets and sidewalks outside, but at least it’s cozy in here. I’m sure by now you have heard enough about my humdrum life, however it was fun while it lasted.

I’m confident that I won’t remember your face either by the time you walk through the slotted gate next to the guard shack out front. The city is demanding, bleak, and raw. Yet somehow, we all find contentment and pleasure among one another regardless of looks, clothes or color. May those street lamps guide you like they did us all before the power shut off.

Be wary of those glowing eyes within the alleyway shadows; it could be anyone. They are more than likely just as lonely and destitute as the rest of us, only biding time until they forget where they belong, too.