Read Shotgun Wedding: Unfinished Stories With Not Much in Common Page 1
Shotgun Wedding
Unfinished Stories with Not Much in Common
by
Kevin Tilley
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Contents
Lost Resort
Population: Unknown
Destination Boulevard
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lost Resort
Day One
Mean darkness settles on the horizon. Surrounding the entire scene in nothingness. Out on this lonely stretch of sand. Standing in the shade of a poorly constructed shelter. Glancing out at infinity, or the closest thing these failing eyes can substitute for endlessness, wondering if there exists some point along the seemingly unchanging spectrum where things began to go terribly wrong. Was there some sign?...some barely perceptible interruption? Would I, had I been able to feel it happen, have had the nerve to stop the presses and rewrite the day's events?
Things are strange here, though I can't put my finger squarely on the source. Nothing is too far from the ordinary, but everything seems deeply amiss. As if I had stepped onto the stage during a play I'd seen a hundred times, recognizing immediately the familiar characters and situations, but everyone was speaking in some nonsensical verse. Leaving me to my own devices of interpretation and slighted expectation. Smiles are strained. Gestures exaggerated. Friendly voices keeping measured distances. Neutral faces turning in long looks. Sending underhanded hints that I am indeed not what they were expecting. Haven't I always been the master of assimilation? Leaving me to wonder if I have dropped in inadvertently on an annual convention of sharp eyed con men...fresh from hour long sessions on the best methods for sizing up the score. Placing their secret bets on how long I can keep from talking to myself.
This should have all been stopped before. It's gotten out of hand. Bad visions are floating in the sky. Elbowing out the clouds. Weighing heavy on the vista. Foul winds blow through the day, carrying with them the discarded debris from every corner of this forsaken earth, broken down versions of their former selves, unwanted, out in the cold -- piled up against sea walls, stacked in a haphazard fashion in any number of out of the way hovels, looking so lost and pitiful as they skid down the road. Sound familiar? Oh well, we all have a story to tell. Who's to blame when you're left with an unpleasant final few chapters? I'm just here to see how this thing ends. I've stuck around this long. Haven't I? And if you find it too much to bear, then I invite you to join your average fellow man and do your best to ignore my very presence. If only I could join in. Oh well...
How long have I been here? It seems like years, but it must be only hours. The carriers are lining up on the shore. Conveying open-lipped messages I perceive with ill intent. My hands are cracked and bleeding. The map of my face has taken on disorienting contours. I'm running out of time. But it doesn't seem to matter. At least, not to me.
I happen to have lost my way. I'm stranded on the deserted back road of an poorly conceived universe. My accounts are settled and I am full of dirty promises.
I arrived easily enough. Rolling to a halt on the blind side of one final dead man's curve. Seems I'd had enough. And my old six cylinder wasn't doing me any favors. I've reached the end of my line. At this middle point on my way. I've searched the barren terrain of my soul and come up on empty. I'm taking stock of my situation. I am ill at ease.
The tides roll in at sinister intervals. As if they are taking me for a damn fool. It's not my fault I have no place left to go. I know where I am supposed to be and I understand where I've been. And I have no particular desire to entertain either. Perhaps this is as it should be. I'm taking up time. I'm listening to the crashing waves. I'm too tired to offer the slightest assistance to my own cause. It's always easier to simply hang everything up for a while and see what happens. Push the old jalopy into the first parking lot you can find. Square your shoulders and make the best of things.
I'd like to remember the faces that have shared the kindled moments leading up to now. I'd like to think I'm worthy of this life I've been granted. But I'm having trouble. I'm making up stories to keep myself alive one more day. I'm full of plump sadness. I have secured a modest room and a pillow for the night. What else could possibly matter?
The walls are rising against me...surrounding my peripheral vision. Dark figures make their presence well known. An entire world is going about its business in the corner of my eye. I've surely gone hopelessly mad. But it never matters as long as you've got enough currency to pay your way. And I'm loaded with seashells of every denomination. Treasures beyond my wildest imagination. Lying in full view for all to share. The world is giving us another shot. It's letting us know we need to try harder. I'm listening, and I'm going to do my part to spread the wealth. Starting with that bellhop. Slipping him a multi-colored handful of still-wet coins. Giving a wink and an assurance of plenty more where that came from.
He seemed a bit taken aback. But that is to be expected.
Out here.
The end of the road. The point from which there is no easy return. You'd like to move forward. You'd like to make your peace with the past. But it all just runs down the drain. And you wake up one murky afternoon to find yourself on a misty seashore with a passkey in your hand and an open tab at the bar. You make your bed and leave everything else to chance. Misery will be there with its morning wake-up call. Don't you worry.
My version of history is going up in flames. Just one of the many beach bonfires burning in the night. I've got a bottle and my feet are safely buried in the sand. I'm warming myself against the millions of tiny explosions. Grand releases of unspent potential, within and without. I'm keeping as still as possible. The world is swirling around me. Colors tracing luminous paths against the void. The stars are dancing in unsettling patterns. The constellations are moving about, exchanging their parts, letting me know that I have been charting my course with severely bad information...having a little fun at my expense. But I'm beginning to enjoy the madness. I'm actually feeling part of this foolhardy production.
And I don't have a single place in all this vast expanse of universe to be tomorrow. So I'll take another drink, and lay my head against a piece of driftwood.
And keep my eyes open as long as I can.
I think I'm going to like it here.
…
Middle Ground
It occurs to me that there persists a fatal gulf in my reasoning. A distance I feel in the depths of my heart. A falling out. Of sorts. I use the word fatal because I have of late become terribly aware of its destructive potential. This thing I carry inside. This barrier between what I believe to be true and what I choose as truth. I'm bending beneath the weight of subtle persuasion. Explosions are firing on the periphery of my perception. Hopeless victories are waiving their flags on the torn battlefields of my fevered consciousness. I am sleeping through the mounting minutes. I am trembling at the thought of negotiated silence.
I had a dream on this happened-upon night. Though I am reluctant to call it my own. It was a dream of someone I do not know. A doctor. He dreams he has discovered a cure for cancer. He holds it in his hand. A concoction that will ease the pain of millions. He wakes up in the furious quiet hours of absence. His wife stirs and he fears his motions may serve to disturb her slumber. So he lies still and tries to remember the details of his dream. But all he can piece together is a seemingly meaningless shopping list. Perhaps a re-creation of the contents of his well stocked pantry. Vegetables, fruits, spices, herbal extracts, soy products, juices. He writes it off. And settles back to sleep. Unaware that his subconscious, fueled by a combination
of extensive research in the field and an extramarital association with a nutritionist -- who dropped by his office a few weeks prior to supply a handful of informative leaflets -- was telling him the ingredients of a magic potion that could indeed stave off, and in some cases even reverse the corruption of healthy cells. A discovery of phenomenal historic magnitude that melts away with the early morning hours.
I woke before I grasped any hint of realization from the doctor. Whether or not he understood the implications of his choice to roll over and ignore the special-delivered message. Sitting bolt upright in a haze of severed sleep and polished whiskey. Filled with a sense of muted clarity...something to do with the fertile nature of human ignorance...the seeds of destruction which grow so strong with meticulous tending. Letting out a sound to remind myself of my own indiscretions. Reaching for my half empty pack of cigarettes (feeling no immediate inclination towards optimism). I lit up and took stock of my unfamiliar surroundings. Experiencing the wave of inevitable panic that always strikes when sleeping in an unfamiliar bed. I gathered myself and remembered where I was.
I can hear the sea. Such an amazing thing. The way it moves so thoughtlessly of its own volition. The sound of the ocean. Or a thunderstorm. The whistle from a slow-moving locomotive carried across a desolate valley. Wind through the leaves. Why have I become so removed? Where was I when this all began? What have I been taking for granted all this time? Am I talking to myself. No, not yet. These are just thoughts. Early morning thoughts. 3am thoughts. Nothing to get all worked up over.
Rolling with the waves. A bedside seasick memorial. Light the candles and watch their flaming shadows. Licking up the sides of neglected flowers. Dreams escaping through the cracks in the walls. Filtering through the maelstrom. The wonders of mankind going up in smoke. A hand reaching out in the darkness, searching for a sense of comfort. A warmth that left town when nobody was looking. Tokens of unending love thrown into the depths of a brick lined well. A shared promise departing in a glorious moment of thoughtless absolution. Gone but never forgotten. For what it's worth.
What is anything worth? These days. I'm afraid to look in the mirror. I have no interest in what information it has to offer. I see myself in the dark. Features displaying their scars with scarce thought to roll-called displacement. Still, it stands there across the room. Waiting for me to cross its path. Filled with an over-inflated belief of value. I've lived enough years to know what I look like. At this hour. And I'm in no mood for interpreted reflection. There's already more than enough negative energy flowing through these broken times. My internal bleeding takes many forms. Better left to funhouse representations. Or the padded silence of a state institution. But those days are behind me. Existing at some point over my shoulder -- the one you won't catch me looking over.
Who said that? Have I been followed? Or am I just following myself. Six of one... Heel, toe. Half dozen of the other.
Shaking myself back to sleep. A few more hours of rest. If only it were that simple.
I remember why I woke. In the first place. All great mysteries boil down to a single click. A simple sound that shatters all stillness. I can still hear the echo of knuckles against the door. A knocking in the night. A wakeup call in the foggy ruin of my sequestered hallowed ground. A deafening single-minded tap. Nothing more. Lights hung with exposed nails. Electronic hues ministering to my fumbled cognition.
Must have been that Night Porter. A strange fellow. From what I gather. And I do possess a certain expertise in these matters. There to remind me of things I can never forget. Paying me a routine visit. Making his misdirected rounds. Doing his part to keep all us homesick guests in line. Crossing off one more name in his vest-bound book. Here and there. Gone before you can ever hope to confront his dutiful inflection. Leaving you to lie in the aftermath of his wake. Knowing full well just how much you're paying for the honor.
Can't even get a slice this late.
Coming up empty one more time. Nothing new. Not even in the ballpark. But they've torn them all down. All the great monuments to our human yearnings. Brick by brick. Erecting palaces in their bloated image. With names that stick in the back of hard working throats. Nobody is ever ashamed anymore. When they never had more reason to be. So...
Where was I? Smoking the last segments of my cigarette. Don't ever let them tell you these things are bad for you. Unless they're willing to roll out the big list. Roll your own. If that is your fancy. Or snap the cellophane. I don't care. We're all on a one way ride down a rickety roller-coaster. Might as well enjoy the trip. Eh?
Okay...
All bets are off. I'm talking to myself. I should know. I'm a long-time subscriber to this particular wavelength...
And the room turns upside down. And right side up. Again. Crawling to dizzying heights. Plummeting into the mouth of a bottomless pit.
And there he is. Sitting in bed. Across the room. Looking straight into my eyes. Framed in glassy euphoria. Mocking my movements with perfect precision. His cigarette burnt to the filter, held in place by an inhuman smile...plastered to his face, which I presently find terribly unsettling.
…
Day Two, Part One: Slow Rising
The mythic demands of restoration are taking their brutal toll on the emotional state of our sequestered innocence. Such a seemingly benign set of circumstances. Whiling away the while. Tools of an obsolete trade. An incision through the tender tendons of discretionary allegiance. Filed down to the barest of minimums. Packed to the roof and sent off amid a firestorm of verbal misunderstandings...to fend for their down-and-out selves. Everything has been systematically smoothed down. Taken to negligible extremes. Removed from the equation. For its own good. And the children run harder and harder...towards a forest that disappears before their yearning eyes.
You might think you'll never understand these thoughts which I am taking time to commit. But you'd be wrong. They are not without precedent. Shelved beside the simplicity of a rainstorm. Offering the same options. You can take shelter. Or shrug it off and cover your head. Or just dance around like an idiot and dig the soaking. The only thing you can never do is shake your fist at the clouds. What would you ever possibly gain?
I am waking to a new day. I have fallen hopelessly in love with an angel I'll never hold to my shoulder. She visits in missing moments, those clearings in the fog, when I take up the cause of every beaten down derelict whose jagged path I've happened to cross. With hands on my hip and chin to the wind. I've saved the tribes with names we never bothered to pronounce. I've flown with monkeys and sat at the side of kings. I was the one who whispered into the ear of the greatest leader this country has ever known. I rode shotgun on a century's misguided journey through the barriers of speakeasy undercurrents. But I was left behind. Forgotten. Left to my own devious devices. I am nothing more than the ghost of a wounded empire. Everywhere you turn, in all those darkened alleys, beneath the pealed layers of progress, that's where you'll find a part of me.
But I have pulled my great trick. Existing far into the depths of obsolete relevance. Skulking off into the far corners of time as the gathered crowd waited patiently for the smoke to clear. One of those off-the-cuff, up-my-sleeve type performances. Executed with a certain daring, and no insignificant amount of misanthropic bravado. Allowances made in spite of better well-being. Perfection takes many forms. All our great minds escaped through the trap doors when nobody thought to look, at the precise point of our greatest need -- a scientific method to their madness. Shrouded in fool's gold and a ticker-tape fallout parade.
But I am speaking out of turn. I must take more care. The walls are surrounding me in silent insurrection. I can't think my way out. I must resolve myself to this reality...grab it by the throat, for everything its got. I can see the bandits joining forces. I can feel a bad storm forming on the horizon. In my bones. The same ones that have weathered a million times worse. So give me your best shot. I'll be waiting. I'll be ready. And more than willing.
&
nbsp; I'm running out of words. Repeating myself like some poorly tended record. Skipping along those notes we just couldn't bring ourselves to move beyond. Scripting my categorical denials. Refusals that blur the lines between simple ignorance and all-out resistance. I can hear the buzzing beneath the floral-printed paper. I could tear up the floorboards but I'd just find another set of unkempt footnotes. It's not worth the damage to my fingernails. There's more than enough dirt to go around.
So I climb out of bed with a headache and a thought that the world might have ended some time during the night. The light streaming through the curtains seems other-worldly. Much too bright for this polluted sky to let through. But I am just seeing things. A floodlight painting the terrain with disturbing, all-too-clear intentions. Better lay low for a while. Order some of that room service. Get a few cups of coffee in the old system. Listen to the chorus of snaps and cracks as I rise to the occasion of this new day.