Funny Man

The steam from his breath collected into a condensation on the window and it would disappear and reappear every time he inhaled and exhaled. When it would appear, it encircled his face and mask the world outside.

His fifth avenue apartment view stretches across Central Park and out to the New York City skyline.

He presses his forehead on the glass window. Feeling the cool air that slips through the spiderweb cracked glass, gazing below counting the yellow taxis that drove by.

One. Two. Three.

But he lost count.

One. Two. Three.

His apartment, donned in white, was the backdrop for his art collection. Rothko, de Kooning and Pollack left lighter shades of ivory white where the canvases hung. The art that covered these squares were ripped, shredded and gutted and the paintings that were heavily lathered with paint couldn’t be ripped, only punctured by the serrated knife from the kitchen isle.

The floor tiles sparkled from the shattered crystal decanters and the walls were slashed with wavy lines that went up and down, up and down like a child tracing its finger on the shelved cans in a grocery store.

Only the framed photographs on the end tables lay flat like fallen tombstones. They were gently place face down covering the dust that collected beneath them.

Sitting in his flannel pants and white t-shirt. His face looked sunken in like a death mask. No color. No purpose.

He felt the taps of rain on the window from the storm outside. It’s calling to him, it’s a Morse code message. Tap, tap, tap. There or in here. But he couldn’t answer.

Standing up from his chair, he steps back from the window and takes off his slippers. It’s fifteen steps to the door. Each step, the shards of glass cut into his soles and shine like snowflake splinters.

The carpet in the Art Deco hallway is crisp and each step on the beige carpet smears blood into the carpet’s fibers. Every other step, droplets of blood fall and leave bread crumbs leading from his apartment.

Another door opens, J10, his neighbor. He puts on his hat, locks the door and slips his keys into his pocket. He’s startled by the bread crumbs and sees his neighbor.

“Elias,” he said. “Ar—are you okay?”

“I know you’re not okay,” he thought, “but I needed to say something. Anything really. We’re neighbors, no, we’re more than neighbors, we’re friends, close friends. Sometimes, it seemed like we were psychic or something. I’d leave my apartment and see you leave your apartment, too. Sometimes I imagined us as brothers, sitting at the breakfast table, fighting over the toy from the bottom of the cereal box. Remember our dinner parties? We’d have you over and you’d always toast to us and our health. I know Mary would want to see you, too. But we won’t. Maybe because we’d like to remember you the way you were. But beyond this wall, I can’t. I can’t see you. I can’t unhear your screams. Anyone else would have called the police. But I know why you scream. I would scream too if I were you. God. Say something.”

He glances at the elevator and sees the numbered lights. Floor eight. Floor nine. He snaps his fingers loud enough to echo and travel down the hall. “I knew I forgot something.”

He jingles his pockets for his keys. He finds it, slips it into the lock, turns it half-cocked and pushes through the door. And slams it shut.

Elias enters the elevator. It descends and opens to the lobby.

A bellboy stands at attention like a soldier by the door. His uniform pressed and gold buttons shine.

“Mr. Matthews, are you okay, sir?”

“I’ve never seen you like this,” he thought. “I haven’t seen you in a while. None of us have seen you in a while. We thought maybe because you started working late again. During our one-second conversations, you mention things were getting tough and your bills were ‘piling to high heaven.’ At the time, I didn’t know, but once I did, I knew you wouldn’t be okay. If it happened to me, I wouldn’t be okay. I’d probably would start drinking again. Maybe at that time, it would be okay to drink. No, it wouldn’t be okay. I know you wouldn’t want me to. You’d want me to smile, you’d want me to laugh. You’d say ‘Are you up for a promotion?’ I’d say no, and you’d say ‘Maybe when you grow up to be a bell man, they’ll give you that raise.’ Then I’d say ‘With these tips, I’ll stay a jingle bell.’ You’d hand me a $10 bill and say, ‘This will get ya started. Go buy some Miracle Grow.’”

“Mr. Matthews, I finally got that raise,” said the bellboy.

Elias gazes ahead and walks pass the bellboy without saying a word. His mouth is open but he’s using all his energy to control the fragile paper mask he wears.

The linoleum floor colored with flourishes of burnt sienna and titanium white looks like a dalmatian from the blood leaking from Elias’ feet.

“Call an ambulance,” said the bellboy.

Elias walked out under the awning and into the street. His clothes, drenched from the storm, attaches itself to his body like Saran Wrap. His steps separate the puddles in the shape of his feet but returns leaving no trace he was ever there.

To many people, he would go unnoticed in his Versace trench coat and Louis Vuitton minister derby shoes, but walking through New York City, barefooted in a white t-shirt and flannel pants, people would glance and then avert their gaze when they thought he would see them.

Crossing the street. A taxi cab driver hits the brakes, almost hitting him.

“What's the matter with you?!” said the taxi driver. “You’re going to get yourself killed, moron!”

The taxi missed his light.

“Idiot,” he mumbled under his breath. The driver did a double take, watching Elias cross the street.

“I hope he’s okay. Dis guy looks terrible. Like a disheveled bum. You know you gotta feel bad for these people. Sometimes ya just can’t make it. You work hard and make sacrifices. You miss your kids’ games, and then their lives. You work to death so you can barely make it. You want to leave, but you’re too poor to leave. You can either eat or buy a bus ticket. You can’t do both. You think he has anyone? Is he alone? He’s not even wearin’ shoes.”

The driver pulls over, parks his taxi, and gets out.

“Hey, buddy you alright?” said the taxi driver.

Nothing.

“Hey man. Can I give you a ride? Where ya going?”

Across the street and into central park. Elias passes a line of benches that surround the edge of the park. Their moss green planks rest shoulder to shoulder, blocking his way to the American elm that grew for centuries under the eyes of New York.

He’d leave work early to walk through the park. The open air floated and carried the scent of the street vendors into the park. Its trees muffled the city streets and preserved what New York was like in those days. He looked at these trees and knew that they were here before him and would be here after him.

A girl sitting on a bench holds her mother’s hand. She dangles her legs, swinging her Minnie Mouse rain boots, kicking the air as the rain washes down her yellow raincoat. She notices Elias stepping over the benches and onto the grass. He’s dragging his feet and soaks them in the mud.

She yanks her mother's hands to get her attention, but she can’t break her away from the new TikTok trends that feature faded haircuts.

“Look, mommy. A funny man. He looks funny in his PJs. I want to wear my PJs outside but mommy says I can’t. The funny man likes the rain and grass like I do. Mommy doesn’t let me get wet. She says little girls get colds from getting wet. Does the Funny man get colds? He’s old.”

Elias stops and his eyes look down at the rain water which settles above the soil, every drop causes swirls and curls like tea leaves.

He falls onto his knees and cups the mud into his hands and lathers his arms up and down.

The mud covers his arms like the pelt of a dead lamb that covers over an orphan lamb to deceive its mother. He cups his hands again and runs mud through his hair. Its pebbles and stones scrape his scalp and stiffen his hair.

His reflection is distorted and nothing about himself is recognizable. He clenched his fists, pushing the blood away from his knuckles, cutting off circulation, causing the colors in his hands to turn pale.

He strikes the puddle with his fists and spots of mud sprayed onto his face. Every hit is harder and harder until the pebbles cut his knuckles, then he hits even harder.

Dropping his hands to catch his breath, the blood would start to collect and run down like a river and break off into forks before dripping into the puddle. He feels a sting, like hands soaked in gasoline, raised to the sun and left to wither in the scorching heat.

Almost involuntarily, his thumb in his left hand traces the indentured circle on his ring finger. But something was missing.

He plunged his hands into the mud, wading through like a prospector searching for gold. Sifting and turning, he tosses fistfuls over his shoulder, hand over hand, searching through the rumble, feeling for the smooth texture surface. And then there it was, his ring.

Its gold shine turned matte years ago, and its fine edge was dull. But this was it. He tilted it to read the inscription and scraped off the mud that covered her name: Evelyn.

His face falls into his hand, and his shoulders begin to convulse. He tries holding his breath but the air in his cavity chest beats like a battering ram. He covers his mouth, reinforcing his lips to hold back but he couldn’t stop himself. His face curls and stiffens in place like a stone.

He screams. You wake up every day, it’s all over.

He wails. I’m going to you, but you’re not coming to me. It’s gone, and it’s over. It's all over.

He stops and looks at his reflection in the water. He sniffles and wipes his nose with his sleeve.

Splat!

A huge wet handful of mud pie smacks him in the face like a strawberry cream pie tossed from an unsuspected clown.

He pauses and collects himself and uses his finger tips to smear off the mud in his eyes and spits out the dirt that crunches between his teeth. He flicks off the excess mud from his wrist. Opening one eye, he hears a giggle.

The little girl holding and shaping another mud ball to fling at the man’s face. He sees her and she freezes like a squirrel holding an acorn. The mud ball still dripping. Hand caught in the cookie jar.

He couldn’t help but crack a smile.

She drops the mud ball, freeze framed in the moment.

They both chuckle and he throws his head back. Guffawing, a big belly laugh.

The girl picks up the more mud, flinging it at him like water in a boat. He returns and kicks the mud, splashing it on her raincoat and Minnie Mouse rain boots.

Nearby, EMT trucks wail and park by the edge of the park. The paramedics rush in, looking for Elias. The bellboy, the taxi driver and the neighbor follow close behind the paramedics and come to the edge of the grass near the big American Elm. They see Elias and the little girl distracted with their mud fight, unfazed by the gray sky, the rain, the city, and the noise pollution.

Elias, exhausted, lays back down to make a mud angel. He sighs and breathes in deep. Looking up at the sky. The rain falls on his face and he licks his lips, tasting his deluded tears.