Loose helpers

 Maybe it was the draft, or maybe it was damp, seeping through the boards, but day by day it was getting colder and colder in the room. The checkered, motley blanket that had always served him as a duvet no longer seemed to satisfy him - he even considered borrowing some sheets from Mrs Emily, as he knew that the next visit in town would not happen sooner than Friday. 

Just like every day, around seven in the morning he would put on a sweater and go out into the garden to smoke a joint. He would stare at the clouds a little, drink some Rooibos tea and recollect what he had achieved the day before. Around seven thirty, it was, when the proper part of the morning started. 

He really grasped the concept of lunch on his first trip to Europe. It's not that they didn't have lunches where he was from - but they simply did not care for them. That's why discovering this new practice was meaningful to him. The first person to introduce him to this world was an old Italian deacon. "Eat rich, even if it's just one dish. It's not passing time." deacon said. He used to tell great anecdotes, which often had no real ending or punchline - they drifted lazily in the hot sun of the early summer. 

But on this particular day, he didn't prepare food just for himself. There were two plates, and also two glasses already filled with orange and grapefruit juice. He stared at the table for quite some time, often loosing his thought. Then after another fifteen minutes, from the bottom drawer he took a pack of chewing gums and firstly looking at the expiration date, put one in his mouth. 

The forms of the clouds on that day were better than yesterday's. They weren't as good as the best ones - it would be really hard to beat them - but they were pretty good, he had to admit. He liked one cloud in particular. Small, slightly bent in the middle, with undulating edges and a funny tail. He even described it to Mrs Emily, who, however, did not share his fondness for observing shapes. Mrs Emily was a real man of the West. She’d rather feel than ponder, rather be than reflect. 

“So, how was your day?” She asked in a fairly polite tone, but he sensed the trick immediately. 

“Oh well, you know. Business as usual.” He answered without hesitance, but with an almost childlike sly twinkle, appearing in his eye.

“As usual huh? You made good use of those carrots I brought you?” 

“Oh yes, in fact, I made myself a delicious carrot juice in the morning” Mrs Emily stared down at her shoes, and with her finger she tore a splinter off one of the four beams supporting the roof of the terrace. 

“ You know Mr Rinzky, you really should not be smoking so much of those… Whatever those substances are. My little girl used to smoke a lot just like you, and one time she ended up really badly” Mrs Emily, saying that, returned to her work in the garden. But he knew it was just another plot of hers, another clever plan to distract him. 

“And didn’t she end up in Stanford?” Mrs Emily purposely missed that question.

“I noticed you had some guests today”.

He smiled relaxed, and picked up a small blade of grass from the ground. 

The next day might have seemed alike but it really wasn’t. The first thing he realized was that he had poured cereal into milk, and not the other way around like he always used to. That had already worried him but still left him quite off-guard. The second thing was even worse. He forgot to shake the ash from the top of the burning joint, and the whole grayish mass flew over his pants. But then finally, he looked up. Not one cloud, not even the tiniest shape was in his field of view. It was all a mixed up mélange of unrecognizable grays. He stared at it baffled, with his mouth open. “So be it” he thought to himself. 

Mrs Emily found him packing his things just the same afternoon. He was putting his coat and his shoes into the zipped pocket of his valise, as they were in his opinion, his most valuable items. Some other shirts, and socks, and scarfs were scattered on the blanket.

“Shouldn’t you stay at least till tomorrow? You know Mr Glenson was coming, he would be more than pleased to meet you.” 

“He certainly wouldn’t find me interesting. Neither me nor my joints.” 

“No need for those biting remarks.”

 “Well I’m sorry Mrs Emily. I just didn’t expect to be leaving so early. It’s just that something struck me…”

 “And that is?” 

He freezed for a moment with a beige, cotton shirt in his hand.

“Do you sometimes listen to jazz music?” 

“My kids used to. I heard a lot of it, mostly through the wall, but I don’t know the names.” 

“Well, you know it’s just that bizarre feeling. When sometimes something doesn’t fit, completely, but somehow fits perfectly. You know what I mean?”

“It’s not jazz for me, but I think I know what you mean Mr Rinzky. Well, so be it. Have a nice journey then.” 

“Thanks Mrs Emily.” 

He descended the last wooden steps, and then just before he left he looked at the clouds for the one last time. He was not sure if it was only his imagination but one of the clouds seemed to resemble a big landing craft. He stood there, with his valise in his hand and looked at the cloud. A lonely cloud, suspended in boundless, intangible space. He checked his pocket for the last time, but all was in its place. He came down from the terrace, whistling to himself. He couldn’t know this back then, but the next night he would actually dream of the landing crafts.