When the Light Flickers

When the Light Flickers

Author: Elena Balaguer

Chapter 1 - Who Stopped the Music?

Aris, short for Aristotle, has wandered the globe throughout his whole existence, a Mary Poppins of sorts, I’ll go where I’m needed. So with the next change of wind, he found himself in the world’s busiest city, New York.

It was a brisk morning, the kind that has you snorting out cold vaporous fumes, as Aris walked the early commuter-filled streets of New York. He excitedly let out, conversing with the morning air, "Time to infuse some magic," as he hurriedly went down the random subway steps, to take a random train, to a random stop, with a single mission in mind.

It was one of his favorite things to do, to cause a stir of uncontainable laughter in the train he was in, normally just filled to the brim with strangers who couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge the person sitting or standing right beside them, practically in each other’s faces but really just staring down their phone screens or engrossed in their inner tragic stories.

The wave of loneliness and individuality was so overpowering in these morning commutes that he got an extra kick every time he so easily flipped things around by whimsically contriving so that just a single commuter would crack up uncontrollably at something, anything, he was watching over his phone. Laughter is contagious you know.

Soon enough, the whole train would be in tears, laughing like they'd never laughed. Sometime later during the day, they would wonder what came over them and everyone else, how out of a single spark, the train became a chorus of giggles and laughter in unison, strangers became friends, smiles spread from face to face and the whole space just became an instant jukebox of laughter, good thoughts and blissful vibes.

That was his superpower, his mere presence connected people seamlessly in any given context, strangers ceasing to be so, disputes morphing into states of understanding, gossip and all ill-meaning thoughts dissipating into the ether, just like that. And in its place, a wave of love, cheerfulness, joy and kindness would blanket the space. If the word bliss could materialize and come to life, that would be it.

They would feel so damn good for the rest of the day and pass on the vibes to every single person they interacted with. “Isn’t it wonderful?”, Aris often thought. But that morning, as he crossed the opening doors of the train he decided to hop into, egad! Nothing happened! Not even a smirk.

Commuters wouldn’t glance up from their phones, the customary morning blues were in order, even more so than the usual. People’s expressions were dour and sour. “What? How is this even possible?”, Aris panicked. “Maybe I just need to warm things up today, give it five more minutes, it seemed especially cold this morning,” he mused, not really convinced of his own arguments.

He nervously checked his wristwatch for the time for what seemed to be every second, suddenly realizing that ten long minutes had lapsed and still… nothing! Not a single smile was offered by anyone.

There was this lady, standing at the further end of the train, who would occasionally glance up at Aris, perhaps more amused than anything else by the bowler hat he donned, giving him a bygone era look. That’s all Aris mustered, a look of amusement.

What was undeniable today was that his power was non-existent and had inexplicably vanished into thin air! Where did the magical ambiance he would create go? Why were people back to acting normal, strangers ignoring strangers, not a single soul smiling, not even from within?

Aris hoped that it was just a fluke and that his powers would soon be back so he could resume conjuring laughter on demand, call on good vibes at will and magically connect everyone, even if for just a few hours or maybe throughout the whole day.

The effects of Aris’s powers could last a whole day at best, depending on the person's prior mood. If the person was in a relatively neutral mood before the chance encounter with Aris, then even after a brief or distant interaction with him, they could still feel the music of laughter long after.

Chapter 2 – Bubbly at the Art Gallery

Last night, Aris attended - uninvited - a social event, opening night at a newly established art gallery downtown, promoting a young Asian artist, Missy Hanap. Missy, was in her mid-twenties.

She had grown up fatherless and throughout most of her childhood barely had more than a bowl of rice for a meal and, if lucky, whatever other accompanying food her mother managed to scrape for the day for her and her siblings. Sometimes, rice and some garden edible leaves was it.

However, on this evening, she was in New York, at an art gallery’s opening night featuring no less than her video collection. Her stomach was rumbling, not out of hunger this time but out of sheer excitement. This all seemed supernatural to her, like having stepped into another dimension. Maybe she did, she thought, for she had come this far as if some godfather was invisibly sponsoring all of her lucky strokes. But really, no one more gracious than her could be more deserving.

For almost half the night, guests were scanty, just a few friends of the gallerists were in attendance and it seemed that they were more entangled with their gossip, oblivious to any of her artworks. “No matter, mom would have been proud just with the fact,” she mentally cheered on.

A gentleman, who had just walked into the gallery, snapped her out of her reverie. The man, donning a bowler hat and a well-fitted black suit, definitely caught Missy’s attention. Oh how he looked just like the self-portrait image in The Son of Man by the Belgian surrealist painter, René Magritte, she thought. The same looking dark overcoat, the black bowler hat and the indistinguishable features, as if covered by the same green apple. Apples are in order, she mused, I am in the Big Apple after all.

Before she knew it, Mr. Big Apple was standing in front of her, enthusiastic, enthralled as if he had completely captured the heart and soul of her work, seemingly just a compilation of snippets of the hardship and life back home but really a message of how, with the right encouragement and spirit, worldly woes can be overcome and used as a propeller as much as a constant reminder of where you came from.

As Mr. Big Apple praised her, they were interrupted by a sudden gush of art enthusiasts streaming through the gallery doors. The ambiance livened up in an instant, bubbly flute glasses were soon raised, and laughter was all-encompassing, all so contagious.

Although indescribable, there was a palpable sense of warmth, openness and joy that connected everyone. Even the two gossiping gals' expressions were now the epitome of empathy and love, embracing some friends who had unexpectedly walked in.

Missy's artwork rightly so became the topic of conversation, as folks stood in front of the oversized video screens peppered through the gallery, nodding, as if in understanding. Small clusters of converted art aficionados formed around each artwork, waiting their turn to have a front view of videos to themselves for a while.

Aris stood by, pleased with the outcome and feeling complicit to it all. She deserved it, he ever so softly and proudly muttered to himself. Soon after, as the gallery was full to the brim with art fans and enthusiasts, on cue, Aris silently retreated, knowing that the magic wave would last the whole evening, no curfew, a slight improvement to the Cinderella time-restricted granted wish.

Chapter 3 – A Consult to the Music Box Elders

The morning fiasco train ride toppled over to the rest of Aris’s day. As he entered a neighborhood coffee shop, the whirlwind of laughter and easy chatter he would naturally whip up as soon as he entered, was nowhere to be seen. Again, nothing, just folks minding their own business, scrolling through their phones or otherwise engaged with their laptops. The lady behind the cashier was cranky and had a forced smile. "That's not it!", thought a more and more frustrated Aris.

Noon time, the same baloney at the random diner he walked into, busy servers, clients mindlessly and quickly ingesting their lunch and a numb and indistinct chatter as a backdrop. “This is definitely not it,” said Aris impatiently.

As each hour swirled by, it was clearer and clearer to him that this was far from a fluke. “Maybe I am not needed here anymore?” he argued. “Time to consult the elders,” he decided, so off he went to unearth the oracle music box that one of Central Park’s trees was safeguarding for him.

Aris had chosen one of the more secluded areas to entrench his music box, as the roots of trees were nurturing to the music, each tree giving a particular tonality to the tune every time he opened the box after unearthing it.

Today, as he opened the music box that contained a wooden carousel that would whirl in motion with the music, it no longer played a tune nor came to life. Instead of the intricately carved carousel horses that carried the elders coming to life and playing a tune that spelled out in his mind the advice he would seek, this time he merely heard a voice, foreboding yet gentle.

The voice, far from admonishing, opened Aris’s eyes to how he had allowed others to become reliant on him as a source of happiness and laughter, stunting their growth as angels on earth and interfering with their free will and how he had allowed his vanity to flourish, believing that he was a fountain of people’s happiness.

The voice reminded Aris that he was always meant to be no more than a nudge, allowing others to come to the realization that happiness is at their grasp every single time and that their merriment has always been within their nearby reach. “It’s all in the mind, you see,” said the voice.

Aris realized that his self-centeredness, albeit unintentional, leading to a disconnected inner belief that he was the source, had wiped out his gift. "How could I have forgotten?" Aris scolded himself in frustration. "The source cannot be contained, it is for all to benefit and enjoy, with no constraints of time and place."

Chapter 4 – The Knowledgeable Tree

As the realization kicked in, Aris's glow slowly began to diminish, feeling his colors fade. As he looked into his hands, he saw that he had turned into a black and white sketch figure, ultimately becoming irrelevant and transparent, unseen to the naked human eye.

Overcome with the weakness of spirit and yet still determined to recover his strength and powers, Aris retreated into himself, sitting for what seemed like days, maybe weeks, alongside the trunk of the tree that had nurtured the voice of the elders in his music box.

Until one fine morning, amply replenished by the tree’s unwavering support and nourishment, a light started beaming through him and soon his colors returned, his dark suit and bowler hat looking dapper than ever on him.

A lady and her little son walked by him seemingly out of nowhere. The young boy smiled and enthusiastically waved at Aris, the mother following suit, smiling along. “Could this be it?”, Aris thought as he felt he embodied a newfound purpose, although he couldn’t exactly pinpoint it yet. Animated, he egged himself on, “Let’s put it to the test,” looking around wildly for a crowd or a group of people to road-test it with.

Sure enough, soon Aris heard the wind carrying some faint music his way. He followed the lead and saw a crowd gathered round a young musician enraptured while adeptly playing the violin, as if for a select audience of angels. At the forefront of the audience, a young lad is moved to tears, unashamed. A friend beside him looks his way and gives him a sympathetic knowing glance, "I get it," his eyes say out loud.

Aris looked around and noticed, slightly separated from the crowd, an elderly woman in a wheelchair with her caretaker lovingly wrapping a scarf around her neck, the elderly woman gently swaying her hands as if being rhythmically entranced by the notes that the string instrument was releasing into the chilly morning air.

Everywhere else he glanced, Aris felt a subtle and warm connection, almost as if preexisting among everyone. Suddenly, the tune picked up, and a livelier piece was being played as two younger sisters, between fits of laughter, were dancing polka-like moves, prompting their mother to crack up as well. Others, amused, decided to join in.

“What a glorious scene,” Aris thought to himself. “They had it within them all along. I am but a gentle nudge, a reminder for them to look within, to look no further.”

Feeling the weight lift off his shoulders and sensing a sudden gust of wind make its expected entrance, as if on cue, with the lively ambiance as its stage, Aris was being directed to his next destination, knowing that the city he was leaving behind would continue to shine of its own accord, even if his music was no longer heard.