DOUG BAKER

The music came on softly and caused him to stir, though it had to fight its way through the darkness of the basement room. It was a very quiet part of the song and it was probably the strings that made it so. He popped his head up, peered right at the clock and saw that it read only 6:30 am. His eyes closed immediately and he was out before his head hit the musty pillow. The alarm was always set an hour and a half early to a classical station. In his half-awake mind this created the effect of a two-hundred year old dream world. The gentle strings would ease him along, as the other instruments joined together until it reached a loud and fantastic crescendo. Suddenly his head would pop up again and he would lift his bangs out of his eyes to see the clock. The numbers would quietly spin on their electric discs past 7:05 am and so forth. This cycle of inspired panic would go on until his was quite sick of the whole process. By 8:00 am he would be back in the dull world of the present and reluctantly drag himself out of bed.

Each day he rose and walked into the bathroom and each day he saw a stranger in the cloudy mirror. Even if you got rid of all the cock roaches and water bugs, the place was still pretty nasty and more than depressing. The daily stranger met his glance each morning with a sideways look. It was obvious that they were afraid of each other, but they moved on through the day, tolerating the another. He shook it off, wet his hands, pushed his hair back, and rapidly brushed his teeth.

As the staleness of time progressed, this phenomenon grew more troubling. Eventually his days passed as though he were caught in some dark ally with an approaching stranger. He felt himself slinking along the walls and ducking behind cracked garbage cans. Even from a great distance, there was an awkwardness that was overwhelming. Nothing was said between them and as they grew closer, both searched for something to focus on. By no means did their eyes meet. They both quaked as the other grew closer. They grew so completely absorbed in themselves that they tripped upon the smallest flaw in the alley. Brisk fingers fished in their pockets for something at which to glance, to focus upon. The darkness closed in around them both and with a cough and clearing of the throat, they were past each other. They showed more interest in a dead rat in their path, than on each other.

He snapped out of his bathroom trance to find shaving creme on his face. Looking, it seemed as though the skin around his eyes was whiter than the foam. The mirror was soon steamed over completely and he shaved without it. It was as though he had come back from a point one thousand miles away, but the reality lie right outside his back door, in the alley that waited. A fire engine howled by in the streets outside. Someone was helping someone else. He jumped back from the mirror and tried to avoid touching the cold cement floor on his way to the shower. Gingerly, he balanced on the small scrap of rug as though he would have fallen into icy depths otherwise. Once in the shower he glanced down at his body. It appeared as though a novelty photo to him. It was there, he could touch it, but it did not feel his own. He couldn't piece himself together. There was a time when every inch of his flesh was his vehicle, his oiled sled to life. Now he tended to grope and stumble as though in an unfamiliar darkness. Even with the strange awkwardness, each day he showered and continued forth. As he dried off, he looked down and noticed his bodily hair. It was slowly making its way up from his genitals and to his navel. "A hairy invasion", he thought. "I didn't even notice it. Surely no girl has noticed it either. I'll have to pay more attention to my body. Cuerpo. 'Body' in Spanish is 'cuerpo'. Camion. 'Truck' in Spanish is 'Camion'. I really must keep up with my Spanish". On and on it went. There was no real reason for him to brush up on his Spanish. He never really used it, and his first introduction to Spanish culture was a trip to Barcelona. His first night in the country he got drunk on wine with some new friends. These friends had left him high and dry when he got clobbered by a bunch of pissed spiks. He had also got punched-out in Denver trying to befriend a mob of young latinos (he was drunk again). Hell he'd rather forget the language. It just belonged to a bunch of cheesy...fucks. These were tiny insignificant thoughts that belonged to a meager man.

In a flash he was back in his room, keeping to what little carpet there was and shivering to make up for the lack of heat. There were footsteps above him and he hadn't packed his lunch. He reached over and plugged in his christmas lights. They were left over from about three months previous and adorned a pipe in his room. They cast a kind of melancholy yet colorful glow about the space. It was quiet now in the few moments he had to himself before heading out into the city. He looked at the clock out of habit, but never saw what time it was. Walking up the stairs he swore to himself, "Damn, I should packed my lunch", but he swung the door open and walked out of the house. There was someone up and about upstairs and he didn't like dealing with people in the mornings. Pretty much, he couldn't deal with them all day. He had to though. At least he tried to do it his own way, which often left people bewildered (amused) at his behavior. His mornings were his preparation times. During this time he would convince himself that this was his life, and he must go to work. He tried but always fell far short of believing that shit. If that were the case there would be no point in this tale, and he would just become another non-sentient being in the american pig corral. He deluded himself just enough to make it through the day without freaking-out, shedding all of his clothes, and run screaming forever to the mountains. This was a good practice. He hung in there just enough to survive, but stuck true to himself. It had its difficult moments. He could never really be part of anything and was always some distance removed. A third cousin to the world.

Two rows of houses grew along the alley. They seemed alive somehow, definitely more than the trees. They wanted him. He could tell. Any moment they may slam together and squanch him. To be sure the world would speed on. In fact, his greasy little self would probably lube its rotation. He got by safely this time. People were milling about the urban mire, their heads thrust blindly before them, as though they couldn't quite smell the day. "All these people. You gotta wonder where they're all going and why. Me included", he thought to himself. It was the question "why?" that gave him the shivers. When he was smallish and in grade school, he always wanted a T-shirt that read "WHY" on the back. He thought that would be funny and cool. Not funny now. It really hit him, that question. Only now did he realize how much that question troubled some people. In the long run he was only a smart ass to himself. Picking up his pace he glanced at the treetops that lined the streets. Cars were rushing by, dodging one another and racing for some coveted parking spot. He must have avoided the glances of 5 or 6 people so far. Only a couple more hundred to deal with and the day will be done. He was obedient to the pedestrian crossing signs and leaned patiently against a nearby pole as the orange hand flashed his way.

He looked fondly upon the individual of this world, but bigger inside of him was confusion and an on-going nausea of the human situation and trend. He did not want it, but there was a coldness at his core. Somehow though, he felt the feeling temporary and if he tried he could tell it was moving on. He concluded that this time was twisted, but necessary. He hoped happiness was on the opposite bank of the river and he had but to wade across. It was these times that he thought of the woods. Trees had always been close to him as he was growing up. Taking long walks in the woods neighboring his home, he would pretend he was young Arthur, growing up in the Forest Savage. He dearly missed the woods. Trees welcomed all and shunned no one. Their boughs were cool umbrellas as long as they continued to exist. They were dirty and bastardized in the city. In the city, the tallest things were buildings and monuments to man, belonging to the ultimate destroyers of this world.

He heard a horn coming from what he thought was blocks away, but jumped back to realize a cab had nearly smacked into him. The asian driver begrudgingly swerved to miss him. He felt like a big cinder block in everybody's way. The cab whizzed by. It was purple and black and had big letters on the door "Rapid Cab Assn". To him there was no doubt that the "Assn" stood for "assassin", not "association". It wasn't only the cabbies, it was everyone, even him when he was behind the wheel. Nobody could remain peaceful in this city. It took some kinda weird hold on a person. Even Christ, driving along in a station wagon, would have let a couple profanities fly in this place. Everyone drove like they were the living end or that they were heading toward the living end. His daydream stopped once again as the white man flashed in the immediate sky above him and he safely crossed the street.

The rain had stopped and the world dried slowly like a big, wet dog. He took steps ahead when he'd rather be taking leaps backward. Edging around corners and turns, he tried to avoid bumping shoulders like everyone else. The metro was one block away. The underground vents were howling. Before descending below, he dropped a letter into the mailbox meant for a friend on the west coast.

He found himself in line and the metal stairs chugged downward. The air continued to burp up from below, pushing his hair up high. He looked like he was dropping from the sky, an angel from above discharged into this world. The trains were rumbling metal worms in the caverns below. He knew they were coming for him. This was not one of his better days, and it was just beginning. The escalator grunted and jerked along as he buttoned his shirt up to his tie-less neck and slipped from under the gaze of the damp, hazy sun. Looking at his hand, he wondered what all it would do that day. Probably scratch his head a hundred times and rub his weary eyes. He looked to other escalator rising from beneath. All the people he would never know. It would be nice to run away with any of them. Just to hear one of them say, "C'mon man, let's get out of here. All this bullshit aint worth it. You can do anything. Do what you wish. This isn't the only reality. All these people are cattle, without the honest grace of the bovine." "Bovine", he said to himself. "Babble, dabble, dabble...on and on and on". He drew the conclusion that cities just grew and grew. There was no argument otherwise. In the end, only an endless metropolitan awaited us. Megapopulus. Globalpolitan. This was the darkest scenario imaginable to him. Naught but concrete underfoot, with little paths of trees and grass to tease. Zoos dedicated to showing us what a woods was like. Babble dabble. On and on and on. His pulled himself out of the daymare.

When he came to himself his knuckles were white on the escalator rail and he saw a book. It was black. Plain black. Wet and soggy, but striking. He had no idea what it was, and before he knew what he was doing, he reached over the railing and snatched the book from the escalator gutter. His hand shot past the spent matchsticks and crumpled flyers for salvation. In an instant the book was safely tucked in the crook of his elbow. The eyes around focused on him indifferently. They could care less what he did. This activity simply gave them something to look at. It was sorta like the people in cars when they rolled slowly by the scene of an accident. He looked hungrily at the cover, to see what he had scored. It had a simple embossed "P" on the cover.

Down, down, down he continued under the city. A black man was at the bottom of the escalator, singing hymns in a rich and powerful voice that portrayed his faith in what he was doing. This faith, so pure and simple, made the young man's skin crawl. Could he stand another day exposed to so many paper-clips, photocopies, and controlled air? A crippling noise filled his head as though he were surrounded by a million metro trains. These thoughts were syrup of ipecac to him, and he felt like vomiting forever. Just walk around casually through the day, spewing potatoes, meat, and broth (in their chewed forms) at the world. Bbrrooottkkkk. Cough. He was a stallion that could not stay put in this stable. The days in the office were like all those days in the american pig corral. No feeling. Those at the office could feel it. Only a few could talk to him and keep a steady eye. Most just avoided his glance. Overall he felt that, on any particular day, he may implode from the weight of the shit around him. "No", he said to himself, "I won't do it again". When he was at the office, his thoughts were elsewhere. The office would no longer hear his footsteps, nor his cheesy jokes. He quit and never thought of the office again. "Just because we are not in some sweatshop or meat-packing place, it doesn't mean the Jungle isn't there anymore".

He reached the bottom of the escalator. The booming voice of the metro singer filled his voice and the young man pitched one of his last pocket-pennies into the singer's coffee can. With no need to continue on, the young man turned and went back up the escalator. He was free. This thought troubled him deeply. He was in a nation where all were supposedly free. The reality was that so few were really free. Just as soon as you grew up and were out of reach of your parents, you were then to sell yourself out for some business or trade that you pretended to believe in. What's with that? Freedom? People in this place were tied to things such as government, debt, and the brain-implant-value of the pursuit of worldly possessions. There is no hope of extrication, only maybe flight from it all. He was totally free and totally alone.

So he blew off work and his way of life. He was free. Big deal. He wanted to have fun. The skies reflected his troubles back upon him and grew colder. The rain began to fall again. Then he thought of the book he had found. The day was totally his, so he decided to read the book. There was a Krusty Kreme donut store across the street and he headed for it. The day had appeared better from the basement window of his bathroom. Come to think of it, any day look good from the vantage point of that gloom. Soon he was sipping from a large black coffee. The steam lifted from the cup and traveled around his face, as though he were moving forward into a fog. It carried him off momentarily, but he soon returned. He set the black book upon the table, opened it, and began to read.

Down went the coffee and quickly the pages turned. A rich blackness filled his body and caressed his soul. It was a soothing black. It was good. Black was never-ending, though the light may chase it far away. He held the dark to be necessary. Too much was seen in the light. Sometimes the sun exposes far more than needs to be seen. His mind was the only light that was needed. It was meant to probe the dark. It could pervade any crack it wished. There were some crevasses that needed to be explored. He drank more coffee and continued to read.

The pages went by faster and faster. It grew dark. He rubbed his thumb knowingly across the embossed "P" on the cover. The book spoke kindly to him and taught him to purge all the bitterness from his heart. It flushed his discontent from him like someone flushing sparrows from a hedge. The day passed by him like a river and he was playing in the current. People moved in and out all around him. How he liked coffee. His mind skipped here and there, thinking of all the people that he had met thus far in his life. Some would standout like actual figures before him and lead him to others in his past whom he had forgotten. He caressed the good, but some of these were bad memories and he spat, laughing, in their direction. They would not bring him down. Good and bad wrapped itself into one memory and was now a big part of him.

The donut shop had great french fries. "Happiness comes so easily sometimes", he thought as he piled high the salt upon his hot spuds. He could care less about the health-conscious neurotics that crammed into every corner of the city. High blood pressure could be dealt with in due time. To go through life second guessing everything you put in your mouth would be less than sweet. Life is here to live, not to resist, come what may. He thought it a silly notion to go into each day holding a measuring cup, carefully selecting the correct proportions of life to ingest. There was no worry on his brow. He went head-long into life with a shovel. "Live it up", he thought.

By the time his arteries had hardened a little, he was done with the book. The embossed "P" was on him like a brand of hot iron between the eyes. He felt it glowing and lingered on for quite a while in the donut shop. He lingered on enlightened, waiting patiently for the thick sugar at the bottom of his cup to moisten his throat. The tap of the styrofoam sounded less than intimidating, but conviction was there nonetheless. For a moment he could almost picture himself in some movie role. Those around him gave him some attention, but only for a second. There was nothing left to do but tie one on and then leave this city.

The March weather was playing dank tricks on everyone. At first it appeared warm and only a little cloudy. Now the day was evening and the air grew cold and it rained and rained. When he first stepped out of the coffee shop, the air was so full of water that he could nearly gulp it down in mouthfuls. His face grew wet and his hair thick and full of curls. He enjoyed this feeling. It brought out the animal and deliberate wildness in him. The essence of raw existence. All dirt-christ and nighty, the wind pushing his person to the surface of his skin. He continued the thought and passed time dwelling on the harsh and extreme climates of the world. Places where people were very alive. Places where, if you showed any weakness at all, you would be swept casually away. He hoped someday to live in the hand of weather full of ultraism.

The section of the city through which he now walked was "Eve's Organ". He never quite got the reason why it was labeled such. The rain kept coming and he was wet to the point of stifled humor. People noticed him with a mixed expression of pity and security. At least they were not cold and wet they thought as they slinked by. "Don't acknowledge the needy, they just may need you for something". He could care less what they did or how they handled things. He just greeted them with a smile that made them wet their pants and race home to their brass and potpourri. Blah.

Soon he was close to one of his favorite bars, "Million Owls". He slipped into the bar and began the long process of drying off his body and his thoughts. Not many people were there, but the ones that were talked and raged easily. He didn't fit right in and kept to himself, working quickly upon a pitcher of Milwaukee's Best. He had 40 bucks, which usually was spent on metro fare and pop. Now it would get him drunk and hopefully out of the city.

It was past dinner time and his stomach growled a little. He motioned the bartenderess and order a hot dog and french fries. His movements were becoming vague and overdone as the beer quickly slipped into his system. The food was soon in front of him. Meat was good and helped him sustain energy. He heaped the dog high with choice condiments like dark mustard, sour relish, and sour kraut. Rotten german ground cabbage. Couldn't be better.

Glass after glass was put to his lips. His body grew more and more numb, but his mind grew more and more focused. People have always said that good old alcohol did nothing but dull the brain and stuff like that. This was true, but that normally happened to him after far too many brews. Until then though, he could drink and drink, and he found that his thoughts became creative and spontaneous. Some people value this and others don't. He did. He sat at the bar stool and looked at all of the bottles. "All the different bottles in this place. There are as many different reasons why people find themselves in a bar as there are bottles on the wall", he thought. He wondered why he was here. "Must be Jaegermeister", he concluded.

He licked a piece of dried mustard from the corner of his mouth, then looked down at the cheese that hardened on his fries. He really felt alone. Looking at the nasty food, he compared it to his feelings for the city. Dried mustard and hardened cheese. Spent food gathering dust bunnies upon the table. He felt like so much muenster sliding on through life. Cold, disturbed 'queso". Spanish for cheese.

People began to pack in. It was Thursday night and for whatever reason, it was going to be busy. Bodies packed into every open niche and jostled him this way and that while he tried to have a smoke. Little, in the way of dignity, was going on in that place. Some stoopid band picked up their guitars, put on their attitudes, and began to play a bad feel.

Then, just like a spy walking up to knife someone, he began to think about love. He recalled what he had read in the book earlier. It wasn't like that book, or any book, was going to save anyone's life, but it gave him some pointers. Anything is possible. All that needs to be done is to focus the will. Love was on his mind, and all the commotion around him was far away. Trendy guys and girls still kept bumping into him, but it was like he was rocking peacefully on a boat.

He assumed the role of any poor blighter in a bar gone-drunk. Only two years ago he had a lovely girl to spend time with. They made love and gave it out. Most that they met said that they were meant to be. He left her. It was like he wanted to be alone, to taste the sourest lime of all. He did alright. Now, in the midst of this sorry dump, he realized he had had enough of the lonely. He turned his will toward her and said a prayer. He prayed that she come back to him. That she would at least allow him to speak to her.

A girl worked her way up to him on her way to the bar. He gladly made room for her and gave her a smile, hoping to strike up some conversation. She smiled back, but didn't say anything. He decided to say something. It was loud as hell in there and he knew he would have to yell. He hated this but did it anyway.

"Have you been here long?", he yelped.

"No. Just got in. Looks like you've been here awhile though," she said as she gave him a funny look.

"Yeah. I quit my job and came in here to get out of the rain." He thought for a moment, then added, "and get drunk."

"Appears so", she laughed a little.

He looked into his beer glass and didn't know what else to say. She finally got through to the bartenderess and placed her order. Nothing else was going on so she looked back at him.

"So why did you quit?", she asked him.

"Well it wasn't so much the job, but it's just that I hate this city. I think it's fucked-up. Today I decided to leave this place."

"Fucked-up, huh? Why do you say that?"

"I don't know.....It seems that everyone here is just trying to save the world...or build their world higher and higher, so that it's invincible.", he hesitated and looked at her to see what she thought. She wasn't exactly being contrary or difficult, but began to listen, though he could tell that she had heard this before.

"Every city has something fucked-up about it", she said and looked away.

He couldn't tell if he was right or wrong. This is they way he often felt and concluded that that's just the way it is.

"Listen", he got her attention one more time, "Is it still raining outside?"

"Yeah, and it's gotten colder."

She seemed to have chilled out a little bit, but pretty much blew him off. Before she walked off, he called out to her, "Hey, let me give you this." He was swaying this way and that. It was kinda sad, but he didn't know what he was doing.

"What?", she asked.

"Take this book. I found it in the metro gutter today."

He worked his way through the sweating obstacles as the lights and throbbing pulse of the band beat him lower and lower. The evening was becoming a blur and escaping him. He bumped into some big brute that gave him a hard time.

"What is it?", she asked him.

"It's a really good book, you know, just read it."

He was no stud at the moment. There was no trace of suave mannerisms in him. He used to be able to do that, but now didn't have the time or the desire to wear any masks.

"Okay, I'll read it."

That was that. The evening was over and walked back to his seat and chugged the last little bit of his beer. He waited a long time for the bartenderess to find him and take his money. He was wasted enough that he couldn't remember if he tipped her or not. The bar was hot like a bread bag. He could hardly breathe anymore. All that was on his mind was getting back to Pennsylvania and finding his love. He squeezed through the people like it was some denim-covered orgy.

He made it to the entrance and saw all the coats. He knew what he would do. He even took his time doing it. Spying a fleece-lined jean jacket, he plucked off the wall and put it on. Everything smelled like cigarette butts and his mouth felt like barn-yard creatures had slept in it. The door was before him and he swung it open and stumbled into the streets. The water was already washing around his feet.

The night was his friend now and he talked to it. "I know there is kindness in this city, but I just don't fit in. I want to smell the cutting of hay as the sun goes down. In this city I am like a rabid beast wandering in the sun. I am tired of pulling a Walden in life." That was a favorite expression of his for someone who wants isolation.

Somehow he was on his way back to Pennsylvania. He crossed traffic light after traffic light, only occasionally thinking about where he would spend his night and nights to come. He wanted the mountains, far from any "People's Drug". He was following the path which he was creating in his mind. The path of who he thought he was. Right now, he thought he was a drunk stumbling through an unwanted city. Who ever invited it anyway? Couldn't we ask it to leave? His path curved around the litter and under the moon. So as the camera of life lifts from him, we seem him in the bigger picture. The larger, cheesy picture of us all. What a family.

From a distance above we see him pause for a thoughtful moment at one of the intersections. Then in a sappy way, adopt a symbolic gait and stride off into the pickling barrel of tomorrow. "I'll be in the mountains if you need me," he says to the night and crosses the street when the white man begins flashing.