The circus: The conversation [II]

Once outside, I walked slowly toward the sidewalk, letting my body soak up the night and eyes adjust to the dimness. I paced a few more blocks, nursing my cola and swallowing hunks of licorice as I passed under the highway overpass, heading towards the strip - even though most, if not all, of those shops would be closed at this hour. There wasn’t an ounce of fatigue in my body. I suppose there was something in the air. A bottle clinked somewhere down an alley as I passed it on my right, and there arose some unintelligible exclamation of anger. With a more hurried pace, I crossed the street.

Up ahead was the least impressive of the strip malls, housing the tattoo parlor, some realtor, and Deb’s Suds laundromat. Deb’s was the only place lit. Inside, two dryers rumbled and shook, but no one was in sight. Three opened and half-drunk bottles of beer stood to the left of the doorway, and a laundry basket was left on one of the washers. But I wasn’t interested in this dead part of town; my legs were leading me down the side avenue, behind the storefronts and on the way to the park, to the left just past the strip mall.

Two soaring pines marked its entrance, next to the splintered wooden "Parsons City Park" sign. There were about twenty benches around here, each one engraved like a tombstone, always 'in loving remembrance' of someone or 'honoring' some unknown hero. The paved walkway weaved past each bench, and I sat on the fifth one from the entrance to finish off my drink and licorice. Some cat yowled in the distance. I looked around the park and its trees and playgrounds, places where I'd laughed and thrown sand and jumped from swings about a hundred times before. Something seemed awry in this limited lighting though, for it was not the old familiar sight I had grown accustomed to. I didn't recognize a thing: not the picnic tables nor the playing field, the climbing trees or the swingsets. I let it go - the darkness was thick and hallucinogenic, plus it was late and my mind may not have been functioning properly. As I sat so pointlessly, I thought I saw something rustling on a bench about four down from mine. I squinted steadily. It looked like someone was there. A pale hand slowly grew skyward, palm facing me – it was a greeting. Without considering the possible consequences, I got up and started towards the ninth bench.

"Hello," I productively began as I neared. I could already tell it was a bum – there was the expected crumpled newspaper acting as a blanket and shelter, and a nest of a head with natural dreadlocks of matted grey and brown hair. He wore an almost respectable but soiled navy green coat with huge pockets and large felt buttons. He was lying on his back, hands behind his head, eyes open, smiling.

"Company - how odd. What, pray tell, is a young lad like you doing wandering dangerous parks at this time of night?" He had sunken eyes, but a warm and welcoming voice, with a bit of a glow about his smile. Normally I am wont to turn and run in a situation such as this, but something comforting emanated from this homeless wanderer, and I decided to humor him with some conversation.

"I couldn't sleep," I replied truthfully. "The streets were so quiet, and I felt like something better than sleep was to be had. Plus it's a wonderful night. I love the nighttime."

"Ah, well something better than sleep is always to be had. You must be a thinking soul my friend. Your name?"

"Uh, Clayton."

"I am Sven. Glad to meet you Clayton."

"You too." I stared at my feet. What was I to make of this? This Sven, a seemingly kind vagrant, coincidentally here and awake on the same night of the new moon that I took to aimlessly walking the streets? Being a rather blunt individual at times, I gauchely began the conversation of all conversations, one that would predestine a great deal of my future choices, though I wouldn't know it for some time. "If you don't mind my asking, why are you here? I mean – well, in the sense of - why aren't you at home resting with your family, getting ready to wake up for the next hard day's work? Is this really your life? This kind of thing has always bothered me." I think it must've come off condescendingly, which wasn't what I intended, but how could it not have?

A pause. Not a long one, but a pause nonetheless. "An appreciable set of questions my young friend. And let me give you a word of advice before I answer." He drew up close as if his next words were a deathbed secret. His breath came whispered and his fervent eyes blazed. "Don't let this old fool influence your hungry mind any, as you have seen tonight with your own eyes what life may do to the seeker who fears the unknown and the path that leads one upon it."

Oh boy, two old crazies in one night. This guy was probably roommates with Gas Station guy. In a town I'd lived in most of my adolescent life, this was about as unanticipated as it gets.

He continued, "I was once like you – an inquisitive mind, a strong youth with high hopes and a passion for life and experience. My parents were immigrants who broke their backs with penny labor, painstakingly saving everything to build a small home for me and my sister, to always provide food, warmth and love, and to teach good values. They prided themselves on being able to send us both to a small private school with the best of rankings and the finest of teachers, even with all of our misgivings. As students, we were ridiculed because we were meager foreigners with odd names and of poor blood. But we did not mind. We studied and worked hard, gaining the respect of our teachers and the best grades in our classes."

He faltered a little, then cleared his throat and seemed to steady himself.

"Ah yes, but this is excess information. What I'll tell you, Clayton, is that my parents were killed in a granary, and it remains an enigma to this day. Murder, accident, suicide – I'll never know. I was about your age. Yes, right about your age, I'm sure of it, and I did not take lightly to this. Everyone and everything was criminal and conspiring: the world, my parents, my sister, even myself. I fell ill many times in those days, and in one of my fits of despair and rage I defaulted my small inheritance to my sister and took to a nomadic life, leaving all that I once knew behind."

"That all sounds pretty terrible. I'm sorry." I was being honest, but I was starting to finally feel tired, and what with all this sitting and storytelling and everything, I wasn't quite sure if I wanted him to go on. "Go on," I said anyway, reluctantly.

He detected my lack of enthusiasm.

"I'll make my point and I'll make it fast. That highway over there," he gestured, "is a grave you see, a grave that is open at both ends. You either die in this town, or you die beyond it. We're all walking towards death, each hour we approach it, each day is one less you have in your hands and one more the reaper has shaved off your existence. I've made my choices and it looks like I'm dying in this town. To you, my friend, I recommend dying outside."

I sighed, with a little smirk, and thought on this a second. "Yeah. Well that's great and all, but what do you say about all these people, you know, the merchants, their employees, families? Should they, too, die outside their town?" I motioned towards the first strip mall I had passed, and all the other buildings behind it.

"Some folks are content on stagnating, living each day peddling jewelry and insurance and fancy clothing, standing on street corners and barking at passersby to get that little shred of comfort that their successful selling buys them. That way of life steals the soul, my friend, and it is not for me. They can die in their expensive coffins, in rented tuxedos with formaldehyde faces, letting their empty bodies infect the soil in which they lie; I'll die here on a bench, with a smile on my face, in hand-me-down clothes, as pleased and full of life as a dead man can be!" He had raised his voice for this last part. He was obviously senile.

"Sounds like a little too much focus on dying to me." How's that for witty.

"Ah, my dear young friend, you have missed my point. Death is but the rind to be peeled off and cast away, life is the fruit that is hidden within! But this in time, you will see. You will see."

"Okay, okay. Well anyway, thanks, Sven, for your time. And it was nice meeting you. But I really should be getting back home now; I've got to get some amount of sleep tonight. So yeah, thanks again. Maybe I'll see you here again one other sleepless night." I said it sincerely but wasn't counting on it.

"Then go, young one, and be free. Come again if it pleases you, I escape during the day but am often here at night, especially when it is as clear and fine a night as this. Rest and be peaceful." He turned his head away and appeared to focus on the stars.

I took this as my queue to exit and turned around, backtracking my way out of the park. Our entire conversation had occurred with me standing and he lying down. I looked back once, just to make sure he was still there, and there he was, an immovable lump on his four-legged bench stallion.

That Sven, what a character.

Now that I'd started walking again, the drowsiness that was creeping up on me immediately faded. Straight ahead, past the rest of the park and the lighted business strip, was the on-ramp to the highway and not a car was in sight. My feet made haste towards it. It sure was a beautiful night.