If he was standing next to the walls of the room, no one would have seen him as his suit was made to match, perfectly, the new wall covering the proud owners had just installed, or so might say. Yet there was something suspicious in how he stood near the center of the room, under the skylight, seeking his level in the pool of darkness, the only spot where the room's track lighting failed to reveal everything in a blaze of gilded glory.
Oh, I don't mean to say that he was a fop. A fop must have some history, or some substance, anyway. And when you looked at him, closely, there seemed that faintest hint of insubstantiality in him. ,Faintly more minutely than would be possible if I had been imagining it, he seemed to shimmer ... or perhaps waver, or dilate or something. Anyway, he wasn't all there, if you know what I mean.
Ok, why did I notice him, this one who should have merged into the plaster and never been heard from in our place? Quite simple, really, ... though in some ways it is an embarrassing confession. I ..., well how to put it? Well, I sort of tripped over him. I was heading toward the table Larson always uses for drinks, the rickety one that always seems to be just ready to fall down if you disturb even one of the jiggers, let alone the few bottles of good stuff that ... well, ok, I was tripping, Yes ...
He said, "Excuse me," with a particular emphasis while preventing my fall, as if he was barging in somewhere that he really didn't belong and was trying to apologize in advance while continuing to barge. The patterns on his suit were strangely disturbing ... but then, suddenly, they weren't at all.
I hadn't realized he was there when I moved forward. In fact, I had realized that he, or really no one, was there, and had started forward, only to end up nearly on my face.
"I really had to leave in a hurry or else I would have been here sooner," he said into my disconcerted eyes. He carried something strangely, ... well certainly not comfortably, in the crook of his arm. There was a small satchel slung over one shoulder and suddenly, I realized that his shoes were very muddy.
"I guess the point is that I am here now, and you almost fell because of me. I'm so sorry," He nearly wept (I could see water in the corner of his eye). "If only I could have gotten here sooner ..., perhaps ...," he sighed in a way that caught my breath, almost making me offer it to him.
There was more to him than just a suit, of course, there was the satchel. An the awkward thing, ... the dark object that he kept shifting in his grip, as if it were coated with grease and very heavy, ... or perhaps alive?
"Every time I come here, it is the same. I can change nothing. If I hadn't been so careless but I ... can't ... change, ... oh I can't change ...,"
What should I have said? That I was OK. Everyone is clumsy. Everyone has that moment of carelessness that has more consequences than mere embarrassment. I somehow, didn't say a word. We looked at each other's shoes, his muddy boots, my shiny black pumps.
Inspiration struck, ... escape really, the need to flee such sorrow. "Can I get you a drink?" and before he answered, I turned away toward Lawrey's table, but not before I saw, as if watching film of an explosion in reverse, his spirit, ... resolve, maybe even courage, crumble inward to reveal a horror so deep, I could not remember light without standing under one for an age.
As I turned away, I heard him say through his teeth, as if in pain, "She offers me a drink, every time, she offers me a drink. And I did it...," but that was all because just as I regained enough courage to turn back (or was it the sick attraction of the inevitable shark attack), he was gone. Not lost in the crowd, not turned away, or even simply closed off. No he was gone, leaving only two muddy footprints on Lawrey's rug.
I can't help but wonder what "it" was.
***
Copyright 1996, Robert G. Werner