Cur

Here's the thing...

I'm home, sick, right now. And I'm just a tiny bit buzzed on cold medication. I re-read the story from yesterday, and I kind of liked it. So I thought it would be fun to write a bit more. I've never done the whole science fiction/fantasy thing before, so this is turning out to be a good exercise for me.

Anyway, enjoy.

Jim Out

***********

“Hey Douche-bag...nice jacket. Does it come in mens’?”

“HAW HAW HAW! GOOD ONE, ZEKE!”

The pigeons were deriding him. He had been told to expect this. Pigeons and humans had been cohabiting for years, and had never really gotten along. Since he looked human, Achiel knew to expect a bit of grief, once he entered the park. He wasn’t worried. Once he revealed himself, they would leave him alone.

The humans, however seemed not to notice the hostility. This was confusing. Achiel cocked his head and listened to the endless warble of insults, emanating from the birds.

“These bread-crumbs SUCK, old man!”

“Hey, Dross...let’s fly up on that lady, when she comes by. Scare the shit outta her!”

So obnoxious, and yet not one single response, from a single human being. Achiel knew that humans could understand the language of all Earth creatures. He could. And since being stripped of his Miracle, he was an equal to all humans.

Why didn’t they react to the birds’ truculence?

Then he had an epiphany.

It must be because of that thing that Atheis kept talking about!

Evolution!

Obviously these birds had been belligerent for hundreds of years now!* That must have been very irritating for the humans. So they used their Evolution to be able to tune the pigeons out.

And now they can’t hear them at all!

Achiel was very proud of himself. He had only been on the planet for 15 minutes, and already he felt an abiding understanding for his hosts.

“Hey...watch yer step, fuck-nut!”

He looked down to see a young Blue Bar, sneering up at him. It was time. Achiel muttered an apology under his breath, and stepped around the bird. The pigeon eyed him as he walked off. This was what he was hoping for. He slowed his pace, hoping that the pigeon would follow after him. Subtlety was key here. He needed to show himself to a pigeon without the humans catching on.

The bird strutted a few metres behind him. Before long, he was joined by a few more. For a short while, they stalked behind him in silence. But then the teasing began.

“Hey dick-weed! Where you going?”

Achiel decided to make like a human and ignore them.

“Goin’ to see yer boyfriend?”.

Achiel found pigeon snickers surprisingly irritating. He strolled on. The pigeons chattered endlessly behind him. Achiel closed his eyes and made a quick prayer for Evolution, but it went unanswered. The pigeons made reference to all the shortcomings he had learned the humans were guilty of. He wasn’t used to being treated this way. He was an Other! He strolled to a secluded area of the park, and turned to face his persecutors. He stood stock still, staring into tiny faces. They weren’t the least bit intimidated.

“Hey, Dick-nut...what are you just standing there, for?”

“Yeah...keep standing there, we might just think you’re a statue. And you know what we do with statues...”

Achiel decided he had heard enough cooing for one day. He glowered down at the flock of persecutors, speaking in the sternest voice he could muster.

“Shut. Up!”

The pigeons stopped. They all did. For an astounding 37 seconds or so, every single pigeon in the park stopped speaking, and turned to stare at Achiel. It was a remarkable natural occurrence...had anyone noticed it. The humans carried on with their business, as oblivious to the silence of the birds as they were to their belligerence. When the 37 seconds ended, the pigeons turned on each other and started to bicker.

“An Other! He’s mine!”

“Bullshit, buddy! I saw him first!”

“Not if I have anything to say about it!”

Achiel watched the avian brawl with a small smile. Even where he came from, it was kind of nice to be fought over and made a fuss of. It didn’t last long, however. The rough, squat pigeon he had almost stepped on proved more than a match for the rest. After chasing them back to a safe distance, he flapped over to Achiel and landed just shy of his toe, squinting up at him.

“So, you’re new and you want a bit of help, huh?” he pigeon planted his feet and puffed up his chest, as if daring Achiel to take a kick at him.

“Yes. I’ve been told....”

“SHH!” the pigeon held up a wing, then began waddling around in circles, a facade of normalcy for a man and woman, strolling by.

“Go find some place where we can be alone.” the bird whispered as he continued his laps. “You got the note?”

Achiel patted his front pocket.

“Good. I ain’t sayin’ squat unless you got the right thing to say on that paper.” the pigeon leaned in conspiratorially.

“If the Big She-He found out our little outfit, down here, S(He)’d probably be a bit pissed. Besides, not all you Others are so nice, are you?”

Achiel nodded and swallowed his indignation. He knew what the pigeon was insinuating, and his kind considered it a base accusation.

The pigeon gave him as much of a smirk as his beak would allow. “I’m goin’ up, now. You go and find some shade. I’ll come down to you when I know the coast is clear.”

The pigeon flapped up into the air, calling out to his species-mates as he flew off.

"Beat it, ya bums! I got this one!"

Achiel made a beeline out of the park, and marched down the street, looking for a place for them to talk. He settled on an alley and ducked in, making sure he was completely out of the sun’s rays. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of parchment, softly going over the phrase that had been anciently scrawled on it.

A few minutes passed before the pigeon made his assent, perching on a nearby garbage bin. He stared up expectantly at Achiel, who stammered the words off the parchment.

“Hail Pigeon, squire of Mercury. Hail pigeon, child of the turtledove once burned in offering to the Almighty. My name is insertnamehere, and...”

Pigeons very rarely roar with laughter. In fact, this is the only recorded incident of it ever occurring. It did happen, though. You’ll just have to take my word for it. When he finished laughing, the pigeon wiped a beady eye with his wing tip and introduced himself.

“I’m Cur.” He offered up to Achiel. “And you don’t need to finish the oath. It’s a relic from the old times. Personally, I’ve always thought it was pretty wanky, anyway. Welcome to Earth.”

Achiel wasn’t sure whether he should shake hands, or not, then decided not. Cur hoped down from his stoop and waddled in circles in front of him.

“You make sure you get that oath to the next guy that comes to Earth, though” Cur warned him. “The next pigeon might be more of a stickler than me, and things would be a lot tougher for one of your lot if we didn't help them. We’re pretty handy allies to have, you know. We’ve been around the humans so long, most of them ignore us. We’ve learned tons of stuff about them, over the years, and we don’t like them, so we’re not afraid to dish. As long as...”. Cur paused and grinned up at Achiel. “...you brought the currency.”

Achiel reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of linen. The pigeon eyed him intently as he unwrapped the package.

He had been told about this transaction when he had chosen Earth as his Destination. It was hastily whispered to him by his Brethren that had already been. He could scarcely believe it, when he heard it. It was a deal that had secretly existed for eons and the benefits it offered to any Other bound for Earth was beyond estimation. All at a laughably affordable price.

The pigeons provide light scouting duties, an efficient line of communication, and access to potentially valuable pieces of information.

And all they ask for, in exchange, were a few crumbs from the Table.

Achiel held the heel of Manna close to the pavement, allowing the pigeon a good view of his wares. Cur slowly sniffed the air, separating it’s perfect aroma from the stench of the garbage and shit that surrounded him. Achiel pulled a generous portion from the heel, and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. Cur’s head bobbed in circles, following the process.

With a flick, Achiel sent the pill into a small pop-fly. Cur took to wing and snatched it from the air. Then, in midair, he stopped, hovering and savouring the taste of Hallelujah.

“Shit that stuff’s tasty!” Cur warbled as he sunk, contentedly to the ground.

Achiel folded the parchment carefully, and placed it in his pocket. Cur gave him the rundown.

“I’ll let the other ones know about you, and they’ll keep an eye out. Just make with the manna, and we’ll take good care of you. Right now, follow me. I’ll show you how to get to the Outersphere.”

Achiel looked at him blankly.

“It’s a bar.” Cur told him.

Achiel continued to stare at the bird: a monument to bewilderment. Cur sighed.

“A bar is where humans drink Ambrosia.” he told Achiel. And the lights went on.

“Ah!” Achiel nodded excitedly. “They DO drink Ambrosia here!”

Cur ruffled his feathers, and prepared to take off. “Yeah, they do. But they don’t call it that. They have all sorts of names for it, even though the effect is the same.”

Achiel found this fascinating. “What sorts of names do they have?”

“I don’t really know, to be honest.” Cur called down, already in the air. “There aren’t many bars around here that patronize pigeons. Just follow me to the place, and order the same thing somebody else does.”

Cur circled into the sky, and fluttered to a nearby lamp-post.

“Once you get to the Outersphere, ask for Eva”. He chirped down to Achiel, before flying ahead, to the next post. “Your kind has been going to her for decades. She’ll make sure you see the travel guide.”

Achiel watched as Cur spurted from lamp-post to window ledge and from traffic light to tree. He picked up his pace, trying to keep up with the bird. But it was also from a growing excitement.

He made it! He was really here, on Earth! And he already found a travel guide!

This was going to be the best trip ever!


*Not really hundreds, actually. It had only been since 1914, when the passenger pigeon officially went extinct. The rest of the pigeon world never really forgave humans for that, and they’ve been trying to pick a fight with us, ever since.

Landing (Finished Business)

..Achiel didn't even realize that he had begun his fall until he landed.

Heavily.

He even managed to slide for several feet after he hit the ground. He went through a telephone pole, through a bicycle chained to the telephone pole, through a partially opened door and, apparently, through a human being.

Achiel stood, pulled his gore-filled hair out of his eyes, and did a quick scan of the room. He was apparently in some sort of workshop.

A sculpture of sorts sat in the corner. It was made of bicycle parts. Achiel looked down at his leg. A spoke was sticking out of his calf: a souvenir from his landing. Achiel pulled it out of his flesh, and added to the work in progress.

He seated himself on a nearby stool. A pad stood near his elbow. He skimmed over it and scoffed..

"Dilettance isn't even a word, dumbass." He informed most of the corpse, which was now adding a whole new oeuvre to the mural on the far wall.

Achiel wove a hand over himself. Pieces of sidewalk, plasterboard,and Greg rose off his clothing and hovered, waiting for his command. He swung them into the corner, and looked directly up into the sun.

"I'm here." He called out. "And I'm afraid we've made a bit of a mess."

The voice that replied wasn't low, exactly, but that's the only word that comes close to describing it. Some who have heard the voice have done their best to create a better term for it, but it simply defies adjective or verb. The closest that anyone has ever come to depicting it was a 90 year old German woman named Amelia Gerzhuite who, on her deathbed, recalled the one time she heard it, at the age of five.

“Allesvoll” She said.

"Full of Everything".

Anyway, that Voice is speaking now.

"I'll clean it up later." The Voice replied to Achiel. "Don't worry."

"What now?" Achiel asked.

"Take a look around". The Voice told Achiel. "And tell me what you think,when you get back".

Achiel nodded and started to leave. The voice phrungled* after him.

"You get nothing while you're here. Save for one miracle, to be used whenever, and however you choose."

Achiel knew this. He could feel it, twinkling in the back of his mind. At Home, his head would have been buzzing with Miracles. But down here, he could only feel the one.

Also, some of the Others had told him of this arrangement. It was a well-known clause, where he was from. When you get to Earth, you get one Miracle. So it had been written, and so it was so...blah, blah, blah...

Plenty of the Others that had gone before him had gone the whole trip without needing their Miracle. But all were in agreement that simply having it was a great comfort, during the experience.

The knowledge that, at any time, they could call out, And (S)He would reach down and pluck them out of this existence made the place much more tolerable, they told him.

This had always kind of baffled Achiel. Why would he want his experience here to simply be tolerable?

"I'll spend it now", he said.

The pause seemed eternal. But it really wasn't. Sometimes pauses just seem that way.

"Are you sure?". The Voice asked, confused**

"Yep". Said Achiel (who really wasn’t sure at all). "I want to live down here,like they do. I think it’s the best way to learn."

The clouds pondered.

The horizon shrugged.

The heavens smiled a little bit, but not so much that Achiel could see it.

"I like you, Achiel. Do you know that?"

He blushed. "I always had a feeling."

"I always have."

The Voice got back to business. "How do you want to spend it?"

Achiel pointed to the gruesome addition to the pastoral apocalypse on the wall.

"Give it to him."

Achiel turned and strolled off into the street. The cosmos waved behind him.

"Have a good life, Achiel. And have fun."

A chuckle seemed to roll through the Universe, as Achiel walked away. An instant later everything was back to what it was before. You would never have known that someone had just landed heavily on the Earth.

* * * * * *

Greg shook his head. He must have blanked out for a second. He did a small mental evaluation. All systems seemed normal...save for an odd, unfamiliar twinkling in the back of his head.

He stepped through the door and blinked in the sunshine.

He made an important decision.

No more procrastination. From now on, he was going to finish all the stuff he started.




*This word was created in 1819, by Bertram Harvey, a bookseller and pamphleteer, who had heard the voice in boyhood, and hoped the word could serve as an adequate reflection of the Voice that is currently speaking. It doesn't, however, so it never caught on. That always made Bertram a little bit sad.

**I don't really know very much about the Voice, but I do know that it's possible for Him/Her to get confused. How do I know this? From the memoirs of La Bok Chin, a Chinese Noblewoman who heard the Voice in 1905. According to her tale, when the Voice spoke to her (S)He said "I Am Confused".

Unfinished Business

Greg’s atelier was a testament to his total non-commitment.

There, in the corner was a collection of bike pieces, the bulk of which were welded together, forming strange, pining sculptures. One wall sported a half-finished mural of a pastoral apocalypse. A disregarded banjo slumped moodily beside a dusty music stand. A pad of paper sat by his wrist, covered in doodles and bad poetry.

Half-done novels (both written and read) mocked him from the bookshelf. Unopened mail lay piled on the table by the door. His answering machine blinked impatiently from across the room, waiting to deluge him with unheard messages.

Greg heaved a heavy sigh and shifted on his stool. He surveyed his domain of dilettance. He decided he liked the term “domain of dilettance”, and scribbled it down on his pad.

He took a sip of coffee, and winced. It had grown cold.

He stood up, stretched, and involuntarily checked his fly. It was, of course, at half-mast.

He sort of tucked in his shirt, and ran a hand through his thick mop of hair.

He needed to shave, but didn’t.

Finally, Greg decided to go for a walk. He shuffled to the door, opened it partly, and looked outside.

It was raining, but only a little bit.

Greg put on his coat, buttoning only the first three buttons.

He was halfway out the door, when suddenly…

R!

So I found a lovely little website that will give your blog a parental guidance rating for you.

This really shouldn't come as any surprise at all...but guess what rating it gave Jimmy Kayak.

Mingle² - San Diego Singles

AHHHHH HA HA HA HA!


Apparently I say "fuck" too much. Oops! Fuck...I did it again! And again! Fuck!



Jim Out.

Nice

I really hate it when people expect me to be nice.

I’m not nice. I despise nice.

Oh, don't get me wrong...I'm not mean, or anything. In fact, for the most part I’m downright amicable and friendly. I harbour a genial goodwill towards my fellow human beings. I don’t wish anyone any harm (most of the time), and I treat others with the level of respect that I believe everyone should be given.

But that doesn’t make me nice. It makes me good.

And there is a WORLD of difference between being nice and being good.

Being nice means that you don’t rock the boat. It means that you lay down for people because you don’t like conflict. To be nice means you hold back from telling people how you really feel, or what they really need to hear.

To be nice is to be cowardly.

That’s why nice guys finish last. They’re too scared to finish anywhere else.

To be good, however…that’s a whole different story.

Good guys are like the tortoise in the story. They may not lead the pack, but they run a good race. They don’t take shortcuts. They don’t do steroids. And they don’t club the hare to death the night before the meet. They race fairly, but fearlessly.

This may not always get them first prize, but at least they can look in the mirror when it’s all said and done.

Good guys don’t go looking for a fight, but they won’t back down from one, either. When they see someone in distress, they’ll help. But they’re not suckers. They’ll lend a hand, but won’t give hand-outs.

Here’s where all of this is coming from.

In the past, I’ve been told that I’m confrontational. I’ve been given nicknames like “Snaps” and told that I’m “full of rage”. All because I don’t put up with other people’s bullshit.

This baffles me.

Why would I sit there and take it if I’m being antagonized? What does that gain? Isn’t it better to be honest with people when I don’t like what’s going on? Doesn’t speaking my mind actually prevent me from being filled with rage?

Aren’t we taught in kindergarten that we’re supposed to tell the truth?

I thought so.

So here’s the truth. For the most part, I think the world and the Universe it sits in is a glorious place. I am constantly fascinated by my fellow human beings. There are people in this world that I love with my whole heart, and who I would do anything for. I think that my life is a gift, and I’m tremendously thankful for every moment I get of it.

But sometimes, the world pisses me right off.

And when it does, I’m want to talk about it. I promise that I won’t complain at length. I will rant, solve my problem, and move on.

I won’t take my frustrations out on other people, or be a bully to anyone who is at a disadvantage.

I won’t go looking for trouble, but I’ll certainly deal with it, if it comes looking for me. I will deal with the bullies of the world with a firm but fair hand. I won’t start fights, but I’ll finish any that come my way.

I will speak my mind, and listen to others when they speak theirs.

In short, I will always be good.

But please don't expect me to be nice.

Okay…rant’s over. Time to get back to my regularly scheduled life.


Jim out.

Haiku

I spent my lunchbreak sitting in a park, drinking coffee, and listening to music.

It was so nice, that I wrote a haiku about it.

Sitting on a step
The Smiths are on my ipod
I’m very content


Jim out.

My Life: The Soundtrack

I don’t normally do surveys. For the most part, I consider them a bit pedestrian. I mean, who really cares if your favorite colour is red, or that you believe in ghosts, or that your favorite food, when you were a kid, was a fucking peanut butter and banana sandwich?

Man, I used to love those…

But I digress. Normally I don’t do surveys, but I found this one kind of interesting.

It’s called Your Life: The Soundtrack.

I actually took my time with this survey. I tried to picture what it would be like if my life was, literally, made into a movie. How would it be shot? Would it be a big budget spectacular, or a scrappy independent? Would Cameron Crowe write the screenplay? Or Spike Jonez? Could we get Michel Gondry to direct? Or would I have to settle for his non-union equivalent? Do I get royalties? And, most importantly, who would play me?

Please don’t say Jason Priestly. I have nothing against the guy, but I really don’t think we look that much alike…

Anyway, here is what the soundtrack would be like.


Opening Credits: Hello – Oasis
Waking Up: Get it Together – The Go! Team
Average Day: Habit over Heart – Novillero
First Date: Beautiful Ones – Suede
Falling in Love: I’ve Just Seen a Face – The Beatles
Love Scene: Race for the Prize – The Flaming Lips
Fight Scene: Life on Mars – David Bowie
Breaking Up: Twisting – They Might Be Giants
Getting Back Together: Phantom Limb – The Shins
Secret Love: Young Folks – Peter, Paul, and Bjorn
Life’s Okay: The World is Full of Crashing Bores – Morrissey
Mental Breakdown: Downer – Nirvana
Driving: Don’t Make Me a Target – Spoon
Learning a Lesson: Never Going Back Again – Fleetwood Mac
Deep Thought: Secret Meeting – The National
Flashback: How Soon Is Now? – The Smiths
Partying: Do You Remember Rock and Roll Radio – The Ramones*
Happy Dance: Oh Mandy! – Spinto Band
Regret: Alone With You – Sufjan Stevens
Long Night Alone: Builds the Bone – The Hidden Cameras
Death: Ramble On – Led Zeppelin
Closing Credits: (Nice Dream) – Radiohead

Hmmm…something tells me that the royalties might eat up the budget of my life story. Oh well. Go big, or go home!


Jim out.

*The DEMO version, found as a bonus track on “End of the Century”. Not the radio version. I like my Ramones before Phil Spector fucked with them…

Random Lyric Poet

I’ve decided that, if yesterday’s poem had been composed by somebody, this is what that person is like, and why they wrote it.

He’s a guy…a little older than me. Maybe, like 34 or 35, or so.

I picture him as white. He has longish hair…maybe down to his shoulders. He also has a beard, but he keeps it neatly trimmed. He favors khakis over jeans, and usually wears a t-shirt, with a short-sleeved button shirt over top.

He’s definitely a sneaker/sandal guy.

He creates websites for a living, and is pretty good at it. He likes his job, but he doesn’t love it, or anything. But it pays him well, and he can make his own hours. He has a desk, but he can work from home, if he wants to. He gets along really well with his co-workers. They sometimes go out for beers after work. They even get together on weekends, occasionally.

He plays piano. He used to be in a band, but he didn’t really want to pursue it. He doesn’t particularly enjoy touring, and harbors no desire to be famous. He just plays and writes songs for fun.

The poem is for his ex-girlfriend. They broke up a year to the day ago. They had been together for 5 years. They had shared the apartment he was living in for three of those years.

It wasn’t a horrible break up. It had been in the works for months. It was one of those situations where they simply drifted apart. At some point they lost the desire to speak to one another. He found himself staying up late at night, only going to bed after she was asleep. Eventually, she moved over to the spare bedroom. The title kind of refers to this...the way they began to avoid each other at night, and ignore each other in the morning.

He felt awful, but couldn’t muster up the strength to put things back on track. The first verse of the poem is about that. The “taste in his mouth” describes the doom he felt for the relationship. “Desperation takes hold”, but he’s helpless to act on it.

They had traveled a lot together in the early days. They even hitchhiked together. That’s why he mentions Interstate 91. That was a tough day. They had been thumbing for hours, with no luck. They had their first real fight that day. That was also the day he realized how fiercely he loved her. He remembers thinking, that day, that this was the girl he’d be with forever. But God had other plans…

The second verse deals mostly with his feelings after they broke up. It was a rough time for them both. After five years of monogamy, he dove into the dating scene headfirst. But he had no idea “who was wrong” and “who was right” for him. This was the time that he realized just how much he missed her. She knew him, and loved him, despite his flaws, and as hard as he tried, he just couldn’t find anyone to replace her. Eventually, however, the days got brighter. He thought of her, often, very fondly. He wasn’t willing to accept the fact that she was moving on, though. He still preferred to think that she was pining for him…”crying behind the door”. “Sunday’s Clown” refers to the goofy, relaxed way they used to make each other laugh. He missed the little world they had made for themselves, in amongst a city full of people who didn’t love life they way that they had.

The third verse refers to their new dynamic. They recently got back in touch, and he’s forced to accept the fact that she has moved on. She sent him an email, asking him out for lunch. He accepted, and they met in a food court, one year after she moved out.

She has a new job that requires her to wear business attire. The first line is a snarky (kind of bitter) reference to this. “It’s a long way back to Germany” refers to, once more, to the traveling they once did together (they once had sneaky, quiet sex in a hostel in Bonn). The third line is a bit of a melodramatic lament on the death of romantic love. The final line of this verse asks why they even bothered to have a relationship, if it was only going to end.

In the final two lines, he wishes they could go back to the old days, but knows it’ll never happen. Then he asks for his sweater back. He loves that sweater, and their apartment was always a bit cold…

Poor guy. He’ll be okay, though. Personally, I think he should buy that piano he found on Craigslist. He’s got the money, and it would totally fit in the spare room…


Jim Out.

Random Song Lyric Sonnet

Hey,

Sometimes, when you’re stuck behind a desk for hours on end, you make up little activities to keep yourself sane...er...amused.

This is one of those.

I call it the Random Song Lyric Sonnet.

It works like this:

As I was sitting here, I’ve been listening to iTunes, and I wrote down a single lyric from 25 of the songs that came up. Then I put all the lyrics into a bowl.

And now, I shall compose a sonnet, by drawing 15 lyrics out of the bowl. Lyric number one will be the title, the other fourteen will form the body.

Here goes:

Put On Your Nightshirt and Your Morning Gown
- By Various Artists

Got a taste in my mouth, as desperation takes hold
Never to part since the day we met, on Interstate 91
Don’t get much sympathy, hanging out the 15th floor,
But God doesn’t always have the best goddamn plans, does he?

Who is wrong? Who is right? Yellow, brown, black or white?
The wind is low. The birds will sing.
She’ll turn once more to Sunday’s clown, and cry behind the door,
Stealing past the windows of the blissfully dead.

You’re looking pretty smart in your chicken skin suit,
It’s a long way back to Germany.
There’s nothing left to life but a pair of glassy eyes,
Remind me once more where this is going, before I fling it all into the ocean.

After all the sin we had, I was hoping we’d turn back.
Now where’s the sweater you mentioned in the letter?

Huh…that’s kind of a weird one.

Hope you liked my random lyric sonnet.

Jim Out!

I Was Bored, So I Took a Stab at Writing A Morality Tale

Todd stared at his coffee, oblivious to the confabulation that swirled around him. He rarely paid attention to the babble that ebbed and fell in public places. Todd had only ever wanted one thing from other people.

He wanted to be left alone.

At the next table, a young woman stared at her laptop. Her boyfriend stared at his phone. Both looked vaguely familiar, but he supposed it was simply the familiarity of their habits. Todd sipped from his mug stared out the window. His server came by to see if he needed a refill. He completely ignored her until she walked away. He took a large bite of his bagel.

Then Todd made the following realization.

Something wasn’t right.

To the untrained eye, the view from his seat would have been unremarkable. Just the common scene of a regular, busy street. But, eventually, Todd came to know that something was amiss. He scanned the storefronts and pedestrians, searching for a clue that would unravel his mystery. It was when he actually stared into the faces of the passersby that Todd realized, with a jolt, what the hitch was.

He knew. Every single. Person walking down the street.

Todd gaped as old college professors, former roommates, and ex-lovers passed in front of him. Across the street, a friend of his mother’s bought fruit from a co-worker he once shared an office with. A police officer rode by on his bicycle, not even looking at the man he once gave a warning to for public drunkenness.

Surely this wasn’t real. It had to be the figment of an over-caffeinated imagination.

Todd lowered his head and took a series of deep breaths. He looked back out the window, in time to see his great-uncle Rich, panhandling for change, just outside the coffee-shop. A gaggle of members from Todd’s old Boy Scout Troupe marched past, duly ignoring his uncle. Todd knocked frantically on the glass, but the beggar merely gestured angrily, before shuffling on his way.

Todd looked around the café. Each booth was occupied with people had met. Every table housed someone from his past. He had taken over a paper-route from the barrista. He had had a one-night stand with the cashier…

The next few moments were a jangle of throwing change on the table, grabbing his jacket, and rushing out onto the street. Todd stopped on the sidewalk, and took in as many people as he could. All of them acquaintances, kin, and friends from his past! None of them paying him the least amount of recognition! A knot of panic formed in his throat and worked it’s way down to his stomach. As he stood, stock still, his elderly kindergarten teacher pushed past him, rushing to catch an approaching bus.

He struggled to make eye-contact with anyone who came remotely close, hoping for just a glimmer of recognition…from anyone. But it didn’t happen. He was an island of ignored indifference. He spoke out. At first with polite “excuse me’s”, but his entreaties grew gradually more desperate. He recalled aloud, to everyone he saw, just who they were, and how they knew him.

Nobody listened.

Todd had never been more terrified. His panic had ballooned inside him, threatening to burst, screaming from his mouth. He covered his face with his hands and plopped himself down on the curb, rocking back and forth. He was afraid of looking at anyone. He didn’t know who he would see, or what he would say to them. He wanted to reach out. He wanted to touch one of them. He craved contact from somebody!

He knew who they were. Why didn’t they know him?

Todd peeked out over crossed arms, hugging his knees to his chest. A parade of acquaintances flowed in front of him, but there was no acknowledgement. To his horror, the faces in the crowd became more intimate. Old friends swept by, completely ignoring him. Family members went about their business on the street, not realizing just who it was standing next to them. Todd could stand it no more. He scrambled to his feet, took in a deep, ragged breath, and roared as loud as he could.

“LOOK AT ME!”

It was as if he hadn’t said a word.

Todd collapsed on the ground, gasping out sobs that were too big for his body.

An ambulance screamed to a halt in front of him, and two childhood friends, wearing EMT uniforms rushed into the restaurant.

Inside, a small crowd was gathered around a table near the window. They parted to let the paramedics through. A man lay slumped on the table. A mug of coffee lay spilled beside him. The server who found him was weeping.

“He choked on his bagel”. She told the paramedics. “Nobody noticed until it was too late. He was just sitting here, all alone.”