A Utility Pole On Writer's Park

It was an ordinary day. Most days in Beer Sheba lacked the many distinctions of life in a modern city and had not the faintest trace of a thrill in them. The city, like the desert surrounding it, was bleak and monotonous. For one can never run out of words to describe the metropolis of present day, nor can one describe with impeccable detail the ever-changing forest. But a desert is, simply put, a big brown wasteland. Sure, a close look at its texture reveals lines and curvatures and small glimpses of life, but that is beside the point: a desert can appear as a still object from afar, and the forest and metropolis cannot. Likewise, the city of Beer Sheba could be described in a short list of words: hot, aggressive, flat, low, boring, despairing. I came to the city out of necessity, and my military background soon pushed me to work as a security guard. My job was to escort income tax officials who wished to collect money owed to the state from people who did not practice paying taxes on a regular basis – criminals if I may say so bluntly. The criminals were not keen on parting from their precious possessions, and that was exactly the place for me to step in. the clerks I accompanied had extensive training for conflict management, negotiating with hostile persons and convincing them to pay what was due. However, some gifted mind in the executive branch of the ministry decided a trained bodyguard with a gun could help deliver the delicate message. That was me.

One would think that the aggressions that naturally occur in such a line of work would break the dullness imposed on me by the wretched city, and one would be totally mistaken. Sure, there was plenty of threatening and shouting and from time to time a conflict would arise, but they all had the same tasteless nature of the city. Their threat, their anger, even their violence – they all screamed mediocracy while whispering danger.

It was an ordinary day in a painfully pain city stuck in the middle of the desert. It was my daily routine to walk in Writer's Park, a modern park full of green fields and free books amid grey rectangular buildings, a place that I could embrace as a lone seeker of intellectual life. In that park I would sit at dusk after my daily shift, read a book from the oval library at the center of the park, write my thoughts on a given subject, and hope for different times yet to come.  Indeed, I must admit that I loved the feeling of loneliness on my usual seat there, the feeling of separation from all others, even the soreness in my throat from being lonely for so many years. It was not always so. Back in the army my comrades were my friends, my family. I did not have to feign manners or adjust to social norms, they accepted me for my quirks and loyalty and sharp instincts. They knew I was terrible with greetings and small talk, but better with carrying a rucksack in time of need. And they knew me as the sharpshooter who saved Illai and Yotam that one night in the streets of Bethlehem, when shots were fired from the rooftops and the fog covered our assailants. The memory remains clear and vivid, of the small flicker amidst the shadows on the rooftop, yielding the position of one of them. I remember the recoil, the shift of distant shapes as the man collapsed and remained still. I had no telescope to give away my hiding spot, and it allowed me to remain in my spot, target the second shooter, pull the trigger, feel the recoil, watch the rifle fall from the window to the street below. We went forward, pulled the injured to safety, and parachute flares lit the sky in yellow and orange. And I saw what I have done. One was silent as a stone when I arrived, his eyes shut peacefully, his chest penetrated twice where I hit him, the blood beneath him like a bed of roses. The other one still moved, faintly flailing his arms, searching for a rifle far beneath us, resting on the pavement. His eyes were dizzy, feverish, focused on things I could not see; his mouth moved, and he uttered words unknown to me. And then he became silent too.

I was a hero back then, and that meant a burden compounded with privilege. The others knew that, respected that. And then came the war. I could handle the urban conflict, the stressful nights, the constant booming beat of the heart, the gunfire. But what can the bravest soldier do in face of the raging skies, pouring down mortars on the open field? There was no cover, no merciful curve of the earth, and the vicious bright sunlight revealed the horror in all its detail. The mortars crushed earth and metal and flesh; the shrapnel penetrated a few others. I stood frozen and watched fire and metal burn through foundations of my previous life. When it was done, I ran and assisted those I could still save, trying to keep them alive just until the medics show up, just a while longer.

They all said that I performed perfectly, that I did what I should do, that I saved whom I could have. And when things deteriorated, they did not, would not discharge me. They gave me a made-up position in the supply company, so that records would show that I completed three years of service as a combatant in a special forces unit. They did it so I could find a job more easily, shape my narrative more freely. They did it because they felt indebted, but we both knew the truth of things, and I resented them for it.

As is the natural way of things, those of us who remained found other ways to disrupt our lives, in the years following our release form service. Some got addicted to drugs, their mind forever lost in a marinade of hallucinogens. Others went on trips increasingly more dangerous, more extreme, until sometimes the disappeared entirely, their fates forever a mystery. I dabbled in those sorts of things, but my cowardice always stopped me from taking the final necessary step. I signed up for a bachelor's in computer science, like a grown-up man with a plan and appropriate aspirations.

And slowly my will slipped away, as if by a decree of a higher power. The gravity of events finally caught up to me, preventing me from fluxing with the direction of normal desirable life. That was how I got to that point in life, sitting on my regular bench in Beer Sheba, searching the skies for an eventful omen of sorts.

I do not know what urge pushed me to walk to that certain street, on that particular day, but something did draw me to that street. Perhaps I was looking for a restaurant, a grocery store, an ill-attempted bar. I remember the explosion, mirroring the sounds I had not heared for so many years. I turned and watched the Utility pole burn, covered in a ball of fire, roaming with anger. Electricity crackled through the wires, so fast that the eyes could barely keep track, and the streets quickly darkened. All around us, the city shut down. The fire burned the walls of a building and quickly dissolved, leaving charred remains of the pole in its place. As I started to walk back to my bench, people swarmed out of the buildings, out of their ugly concrete rectangles and lifeless neighborhoods. I knew that someone eventually would take care of it all, but the impression of the bursting pole still possessed my mind. Wherever I looked the fire remained, rendering me helpless as I once was.

I do not remember what drew me to that certain spot on the grass, next to a few people sitting and watching the commotion before them with ease.  I sat there and watched the city wake up as the blackout took hold of it. Like a potion to cure the body of a tumor, so was the darkness to Beer Sheba. Unable to escape the desert, people flowed out of their cool shelters, and at last I could drown in an endless ocean of souls. The heat from the fire still warmed my face, like it once did so many years ago. Inside that crowd I got lost, and finally absolved myself of my fears, of the false sense of significance. Just a drop in the ocean, nothing more, no use to fret over it. If a sick individual slows down the herd, it knows deep down when to depart, and now I knew it too. Quickly through the streets, to pack as many things into the dusty backpack eager for a final adventure. The streetlights were out, cars stopped in the middle of the street, men and women stood in the street, hopeless and perplexed. I walked past them all, away from the road, from my apartment, from all the hated things that I accustomed myself to. Away from them, and into the eager desert. I watched the dark shades of the city absorb the dark blue of night, the stars above glowing, oozing with light, encircling a moon yellow like the sun. it burned like the fire ball on the utility pole, like the desert's sun in bootcamp, like the Humvees and APCs burning, spreading fire in the dry fields, entrapping screams of despair. Now my legs burned, the sweat reminded me of the day we first crossed the border into Gaza strip, and how I looked at the stars back then. So many years gone by, and always the remained above, a single comfort in a life bitter, a life dissipating before the desert's sun. The pool of sweat beneath me reminded me of a pool of blood, of arms crossed, and a man peacefully laid to rest. An ancient Greek philosopher once said that life is fire, that all that is and becomes does so by the way of fire. Now it has burnt through the tired body in a final cleansing surge. The gun lay heavy in my hand, but it did not tremble. Once I thought my exit from this world would be something worth reading about, a hero's death in a blazing gunfight. Now I find an enemy in my own image, clinging to remnants of a life deserted. I lay down on the cool sand, feel the cold steel in my mouth. I look up at the stars, a final glance, a calming presence. Across infinite skies they spread out, their light strong and enduring, indifferent of small waning stars.