Haunting the Streets

The city is alive with excitement. It is early afternoon on Christmas eve and the streets are overrun with gleeful residents bustling around, brimming with determination to get those last few presents before many of the shops close in anticipation of the holiday parade set to trace the streets after dusk. 

Off of the main street, like an estuary, runs a lonesome alley wrought with debris and dumpsters. The alley catches and intensifies the wind coming off of the river. Curled up along the foundation of a towering skyscraper is a weary man. He coughs uncontrollably as his body shivers from the cold. He struggles to breathe. Rolling onto his back he opens his eyes. Everything is dull and blurred, so he taps his suit coat and within his interior breast pocket, he feels his glasses. As the man positions the frames before his eyes nothing is improved. The lenses are broken and had been knocked out some time ago. He keeps them on for familiarity.

The ailing man extends his hand and digs his nails into the mortar between foundation blocks and strains to pull himself up into a seated position. He pauses for a moment and thinks. Then he pulls a small notepad from his other breast pocket and opens it up. Scrawled on the top of the last page are the words Surprise! You’re dead. The sickly man coughs and laments over the cold that has painfully infused his bones. He feels the burning insatiable hunger in his gut and recalls the final moments of his life. Right there on the paper, he sees it all spelled out. Left the office. No cabs in sight. Cut through alley to try to catch a cab heading uptown. They cornered me, three of them. I was hit so hard I blacked out. When I regained consciousness I couldn’t speak, no one could hear me. Everything was a blur now. No one could see me. I’m a ghost haunting the streets – I don’t know what to do. The weakened man closes his book. He can’t remember anything before that. For days or possibly years, he’s wandered these city streets. Everything is familiar, though offers no clues to where he had worked, where he had lived, or if he even knows anyone. The phrase ‘You can’t take it with you when you die.”, comes to mind, but he didn’t think it was so literal that he’d lose his memories, sense of self and all he’d remember was how he died. The only place in this city that he feels connected to now is this spot, the dank alley where he was beaten so severely and returns to each night. This is his home. 

After closing and securing his memory notebook back in his suit coat pocket, the weary man reaches into his vest and retrieves his pocket watch. The only thing the thieves didn’t find. One of the blows he took to the abdomen caused the watch to break. On the backside of the watch is a worn out and aged engraving. All he can make-out is what looks like the name Conrad. He thinks that must be his name. As he opens it, he sees the cracked glass and bent minute hand. On the underside of the pocket-watch’s cover is a mirror. Though cracked too, the reflective glass is still intact. Conrad raises the mirror in front of his face and hardly recognizes himself. He thinks about the grotesque depictions of ghosts and ghouls in the books he read as a child and how he always imagined a ghost would look exactly as they did the day they died. His face was covered in grime. Black dried blood stained his hairline and his left eye could only open halfway. Conrad winced every time he tried to move his mouth. His jaw no longer worked from dislocation. The pain was only partly dulled by the cold.

It takes a lot of effort for Conrad to stand. He drops his pocket-watch back into his vest pocket and then habitually runs his hands down the front of his suit coat to press out any wrinkles. He feels for the buttons but finds that they are missing. A cold breeze blows his suit coat open so Conrad digs his sore hands into the front pockets and forces the coat closed. He stumbles and remembers that there is something wrong with his leg. It hurts to walk and Mr. Porter limps out of the alley. 

The first thing Conrad notices when he reaches the main street is the welcoming aroma of freshly baked bread and apple turnovers. The 5^th St. bakery keeps its door open year-round. The heat from the ovens wafts out onto the street and customers crowd chaotically behind the pastry display case. Conrad can’t help but follow the scent and warmth. He blends in with the crowd. Somehow the counter clerk knows who is next in line and calls on the woman to Conrad’s left. “Demi-baguette”, she says as she pushes forward. As she digs into her purse for cash the clerk calls on the gentleman behind Conrad. He says, “Cherry turnover, a dozen black-pepper biscuits, and a marble rye.” This gentleman pushes forward with his cash clutched in his raised fist. He drops it on the counter and adds, “Keep the change.” A child asks for a powdered donut. An older woman collects a sourdough boule with rosemary. 

Conrad waves his arm and tries to speak but his mouth won’t form the words. The counter clerk never looks at him. The patrons push past him. Everyone gets bread and Conrad goes unnoticed. He thinks to himself, ‘I don’t know how I’d chew that crust anyway.’ Defeated, Conrad leaves the warmth of the bakery and heads back out onto the street.  

Unintentionally, Conrad zig-zags as he walks down the sidewalk toward the city center. His equilibrium is off and first, he stumbles toward the curb, then leans and stumbles back and bumps into a mailbox. He assumes he floats like a lost ghost. Everyone rushes around him as if he were parting the sea. He feels oddly powerful. The stone-faced passers-by see right through him. With a chuckle, Conrad moans and menacingly raises his arms to startle a woman walking by but her expression never changes. He detects he thinks, a glimpse of recognition as if she momentarily notices him, but then she looks on ahead and doesn’t stutter a step. 

As dusk approaches Conrad takes a seat on a low wall that borders the park and faces the city’s market square. He feels weak. His frustration with being invisible fades as he hears a marching band’s booming bass drum and fire-cracking snare. Perfect white snowflakes slowly descend upon the gathering crowd. Conrad notices a woman radiantly smiling when she sees the man she’d plan to meet rushing down the sidewalk to meet her. He can’t hide his excitement and neither can she. Conrad wonders if he was ever married. There’s something so familiar about how they interact; the way she smiles with her eyes and how he longs to hold her attention. Conrad feels an emptiness more severe than the burning hunger in his gut. He longs to feel that closeness. If only he could remember if he ever had love like that. The faintest memory would warm him enough to make it through another night. 

From this vantage point, Conrad can see the whole market square. Shop windows are decorated with cotton snow and cut-out paper snowflakes. Deep green wreaths with red bows are affixed to street lamps and an oversized tree, chopped alive while standing comes from a northern forest and stands with blinking lights and glossy reflective bulbs. 

Conrad knows he had to have been a child at some point when he was alive. He strains to recall some glimpse of waking on Christmas morning, rushing to the tree with excitement and shaking wrapped gifts. He can envision all of this, but he knows these aren’t memories. He can’t picture his parents or if had siblings or children. Poor Conrad’s head droops for a moment. Had his parents outlived him? Has he a widowed wife weeping quietly enduring lonely nights and unsure of how to raise their children on her own? Conrad wonder’s if he’d been gone so long, that his imaginary wife has already invited another man in her life who advises his imaginary children about throwing curveballs or sits with tiny teacups for make-believe tea parties. If his heart could beat it would have stopped by now. 

The marching band reaches the market square. A Santa and elves parade around passing out miniature candy canes and individually wrapped chocolate Santas with decorated foil. Everyone is cheering, clapping, and laughing. A choir encourages bystanders to sing along, bellowing, “Joy to the World…” and everyone joins in. Everyone except pitiful Conrad. He can’t feel the joy. He can’t feel the hope and anticipation. He can’t feel the familiarity and love. He can’t feel the community and brotherhood. He can’t even speak. As the caroler’s sing, an MC shouts over noise and encourages everyone to embrace their brothers and sisters in merriment. Conrad watches as strangers extend mittens and take each other’s hands. He watches elbows lock and arms thrown over shoulders. These citizens, days before might bicker over cabs, parking spaces, and line-cutting; but right now they let it all go in the spirit of the holiday. Looking to his right, an unbroken chain of spectators stretches as far as he can see. To his left and around the corner stretches more joyful hand-holders singing. A woman standing just feet in front of Conrad glances over her shoulder toward the empty park and notices a shy older gentleman reservedly standing a few feet back. She smiles, walks past Conrad, and invites the old wallflower to join in with the group. No one sees Conrad. 

As the crowd breaks their embrace and Jingle Bell Rock echoes through the square, encouraging spontaneous dancing, Conrad slides painfully off of the wall. He can’t handle feeling so left out anymore. All he wants to do is go to the only place he knows as home, the alley. As Conrad limps through the parting crowd a voice calling out over the boisterousness of the carolers catches Conrad’s attention. He turns and hears a woman shouting, “Mr. Porter? Is that you Mr. Porter?” Conrad can’t see who is calling out, so he turns and keeps walking. 

“Please, wait up. Mr. Porter!”

Conrad turns again and this time he sees a woman rushing after him. He stops and faces her as she comes right up and looks him in the eyes. She says, “Oh my, Mr. Porter. What has happened to you?” Conrad can’t speak, he just looks at her with amazement, surprised she can actually see him. The look on his face is confused. The woman says, “It’s me, Paula. Don’t you recognize me?” Paula reaches her hand to Conrad’s shoulder but he steps back. “Oh, dear.” There’s something familiar about Paula but Conrad can’t place her. Paula looks passed Conrad, then to the crowd, and calls out, “Donna! Donna, over here!” Conrad looks but can’t see who Paula is calling to. He stands there stunned and confused. Then, as the bystanders shift Conrad sees a woman pushing through in a hurry. Suddenly, standing before him is the only face he’s recognized since the night he was ambushed. 

Donna weeps with pain and happiness. She mumbles, “Oh, Connie, you’re alive,” and momentarily covers her face. 

Two strangers had followed Donna through the crowd. The gentleman says, “You’ve found him? I can’t believe it.”

Donna wipes her eyes and embraces Conrad. Her perfume, the feeling of her body against his and the sound of her voice shake Conrad to his core and his knees buckle. Donna strains and fails to keep Conrad from collapsing to the ground. Lying on the wet sidewalk, Conrad looks around. Memories are coming back to him. He remembers cozy nights by a campfire with Donna and his two daughters. He remembers sending Paula, George and Kim home early the night he was attacked so they could have a few extra days off before Christmas and how he stayed later at the office than usual. Conrad remembers coughing up blood onto the payment and holding onto the thought of his family as his consciousness faded. Tears stream down over his temples and his quivering lips strain his broken jaw. 

The music stops. Over the commotion, patrol officers are called to help. Suddenly, everyone notices Conrad. Suddenly, the nightmare is over.