Her Many Faces

November 10, 2008

The rocky earth trembles beneath me as I lay on my side, the night black and roaring around me. A blanket of foggy clouds shroud out the stars. A red flash illuminates my companions faces for a breathtaking moment, and casting a startlingly black shadow in the shallow trench behind me, drags behind it a piercing crash. The new boy winces and squints his eyes closed, gripping his rifle tight like it were his own baby. He is probably sixteen or seventeen. He allows a faint whimper and then opens his eyes again. Someone behind me whispers a terse syllable, reprimanding the boy. I breath shallow and feel the cold sweat beneath my arms and on my hands. I think of my own boys for an instant. An automatic rifle pierces the night in bold metal hiccups. I can feel the nerves beneath my temples tremble. I roll over onto my stomach, my own rifle tucked beneath my body, and duck my chin close to the ground, pushing my forearms and my stomach flat to the earth. I crawl using my elbows, one then the other, so slow that I don't make a sound. I take my air through my open mouth, quick and silent. In, then out. Just an arms length to go and I can peer over the earth at the field beyond. Two more rifle shots, and then that vibrating quiet that is so disorienting. I push an elbow forward, and then another. I force the desperation deep deep down, below my stomach where it gently rises and falls, like the swells of a vast ocean. I push an elbow forward again, and then the other, pulling my rifle along with me. The silence is oppressive. Sliding the wooden stock of my rifle out in front of me ever so slowly, I bring its butt to my shoulder, and then creeping, like the rising sun, I bring my eye up to the site and look out into the field. I stop breathing. Another wild flash, followed by a thunderous crash, illuminates the silhouettes of three armored trucks just a stones throw away. The desperation in my belly rises to my throat like a flash flood. I let my head sink down, and use my elbows to crawl backward, adjusting my weight from side to side to let my body slip back down towards the trench. I start breathing again, barely noticing how my body aches for air. Rolling back over onto my back, I hold three fingers up to my companions, wide apart, hoping they can see them. The new boy closes his eyes tight again and bites on his lips. I grasp my face with my hand and squeeze my wiry beard like wringing out a wet rag. I peer up at the gray light of the moon, just visible above the black and silver fog.

The fluorescent light hums down from the long, cheap fixtures on the tiled ceiling. The light ends abruptly at the windows, a fortress keeping the night out. I drum a pencil against my desk and look at the little clock on the computer screen. Ten twenty-five. Just five more minutes. I've been told before that the difference between an industrious employee and a lazy one is whether it seems there is not enough time in the workday, or it seems like it drags on forever. I suppose I'm not an industrious employee. I yawn, waiting for ten twenty-six. One more minute, and I can begin to put things into my briefcase, and start closing down programs on the computer. I can usually make that last two minutes, and by that time if I get up and stretch and straighten my desk, nobody can fault me for leaving. I think about Jessica at home. She'll be waiting up for me like she always does, even though she has to work at six in the morning. She'll want to talk about her day - which will have been like every other day for the past two years. Little things, what the girl at work said to her, how the customers acted, she'll want me to be interested. I suppose it's my fault. In the beginning, I always acted interested in her life. That's what you're supposed to do - that's something a girl really needs. It's gotten harder and harder to pretend. What's worse is I'm pretty sure she knows I don't care - but she still wants to tell me, still has to tell me. It's like we're stuck as second rate actors in a bad play. All I want to do is have a drink and go to bed. I could have sex with her, but I'll have to do everything, and she'll just make it seem like a chore. Then I'll go to bed irritated and lonely, facing away from her and wishing things were different. Ten twenty-seven. I straighten my tie, and push my rolling chair out a little ways from my cubicle. Joe is in the cubicle next to me, and he's packing up his briefcase. I don't talk to Joe much. Past Joe, the windows wrap pane by pane around the entire building. I know once I get home and have a drink, I'll want her. I wish I wouldn't. Sometimes I resolve not to. I let a deep breath ramble out, and look at my watch. Still ten twenty-seven. Beyond the window, twelve floors down, traffic is still pretty heavy. I won't be home until nearly eleven probably. I look outside at the crescent moon sailing crisp above the city, white with a silver halo wrapped gently around it. Ten twenty-eight. I run my hand through my hair, take my car keys from my pocket, and tell Joe I'll see him tomorrow.

Riding home on my black bicycle, the orange dusk glowing around me, I see an old man standing in the middle of the street. His limbs are stiff and he's swaying gently and looking at the ground. His backpack is on the road next to him. His pants are unzipped, and his clothes are muddy and disheveled. A car pulls around him, honking. I slow down a bit. The next car, stopping directly in front of him, lays on the horn then whips around him - the car itself looking angry and frustrated. I stop riding and set my bike down, about ten yards away. Another car pulls around him, and he still shows no signs of moving. Taking my cellphone from my pocket, I dial 911, and explain to the woman that answers that there is an old man in the road. She says they will send a policeman. In the meantime, I walk up to him and offer my hand. It takes him a few moments to understand, and then he suddenly lurches at me and grasps my hand with his own, dry and leathery. His movements are twitchy and uncontrolled, and he still hasn't moved his feet. He lets out short, successive whines through clenched teeth, still looking down. I look at his thin hair, and at the wound on his arm with a piece of cloth taped over it. I pick up his backpack and tell him we should get off the street, and he whines through his teeth again, looking down distractedly. Then he looks at me with his eyes, his head still leaned towards the road. His eyes look alarmingly like my brothers dogs eyes - bewildered and completely resigned. In a jerking motion, he swings his other arm and grabs me by the shoulder. With great effort, we begin to move out of the road. Twice I have to reach down and take hold of his legs - moving them for him. His whines are high pitched and sharp, like it's hurting him to move. Either way I think, it's best to be off the road. After nearly fifteen minutes, we get to the sidewalk, and still no policeman. When I try to let go of his hand, he grasps onto me desperately like a terrified monkey to a vine. I don't know what to do. His whining becomes slightly louder and begins to hiss airy words. Thank you sir, thank you sir. Oooh uncle timmy. Ooooh uncle timmy. Suddenly his whines stir me. A drifting melancholy hardens into stone in my middle. He suddenly lets go of me, and sits down hard on the ground, stiff like a corpse. The sun is disappearing behind the mountains. With his face still looking down, he peers up at me again with his eyes, golden and piercing, deep set and vacant. His hissing whine is biting out words again, so high pitched they're hard to hear. Leave me here sir. Leave me here. Something feels sick between my throat and my belly, I want to cry, but mostly I just want to be home. Leave me here, sir. Leave me here. I help him lie down in the dirt, his head atop his backpack. His eyes roll back to gaze wistfully at the violet mountains, and his wounded arm tears distractedly at the grass. I walk back to my bicycle. The sun is down and the sky is purple. The silver moon, still flat gray like a huge meteor, gazes down at me disappointed.

Tags for this piece: fiction strange sad violence moon office

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