Luxuries of Artifice

 

 

And I awaked therwith, witlees nerhande,

And as a freke that fey were, forth gan I walke

In manere of a mendynaunt many yer after,

And of this metyng many tymes muche thought I hadde:

First how Fortune me failed at my mooste need,

And how that Elde manaced me, myghte we evere mete;

And how that freres folwede folk that was riche,

And [peple] that was povere at litel pris thei sette,

And no corps in hir kirkyerd ne in hir kirk was buryed

But quik he biquethe hem aught or sholde helpe quyte hir dettes

-Langland, Piers PlowmanPassus XIII ll. 1-10

 

The bus pulled in near midnight, under a Friday sky. With a squeal of the brakes, it came to a halt and a large silver door opened on the side. A few audible words escaped from the hatchway, some of the exchange or transaction between the bus driver and one of the passengers. Then the increasing sound of descending steps escaped, foretelling a man under forty with a backpack slung over his shoulder and a gray overcoat blowing about him. He stopped and looked around the bus stop. With the slightest of awkwardness, he looked oriented and began walking down the street. His name was Robert, and it was his first time home in six years.

            Robert walked down the sidewalk a few minutes. He had spent a few years away from home, but the streets hadn’t changed. They were the same poorly paved roads running downtown, and the same split sidewalks he had grown to hate in his youth. On the other hand, he didn’t understand why the bus station had been moved so far away. Robert figured it has something to do with the broken glass in the windows, or the occasional guy sleeping on the bench. Maybe the bus company had moved it further away to save some cash.

Robert pulled his coat tighter. It had grown colder than he remembered, but he made his way on foot down to five-points. No real alternative, no cabs and no one to call for a ride. No, all his friends had fled the city as fast as they could, and the rest got jobs in Pittsburgh. He couldn’t blame then. There hadn’t been much hope for anyone else around the area for awhile.

            Robert walked the quarter-mile or so towards the hotel he remembered being there. He had enough money on him to stay a night, then it was on to Mt. Lebanon to visit his family there, or what remained of them. He couldn’t say he looked forward to it, for he was only going because he, too, was down on his luck. He had thirty dollars to his name, a coat, and some books in his bag. Everything else was in storage until he could afford to get it out. At least the guy wasn’t going to sell his things until he got back. Just a little bit of time and he’d be fine. Robert knew he always had a job if he needed one working with his family in their business. It changed occasionally, but always stayed on its feet. He only need a few days to get some cash together, then a money order to the storage owner…maybe borrow a truck or something to pick it all up, and back to work. Maybe the guy would keep his word, maybe he would sell it. Chances were good for one, and time against him on the other.

            Things were as they always were: hard. As for him, the past few years had been fair. He hadn’t aged anymore then he thought he would, though he could hardly control it. Physically, he was all together, all those arms and legs still working. No, he was a little different. Robert felt that the beard suited hiding the scars of a less-than-handsome face. Not that he wasn’t attractive, just that he knew his looks would only get him a glance at the bar, not a job. He traveled down the road and, as if in agreement, the wind pulled gently at the whiskers hung from his chin. Childlike, it made him feel like a grandfather.

            The Valley Vernon Inn, a place owned by his friend’s father some ancient time ago, was just over the bend. He knew he’d see it shortly enough. It was late and he could not wait to rest. His back was not used to carrying his bag anymore. In fact, he hadn’t strung it since he graduated years ago. A different time, he thought, when the bag was newer. The worn cloth straps swung with the steps carrying Robert up the hill. He crested the top only to stop half way across the street. The hotel was not there, but instead a massive pharmacy was where it once was. Confounded, he walked into the pharmacy, the hum of its neon lights already annoying him.

            A Cashier heard him enter, and an elderly woman hollered over a cardboard banner of cigarette advertisements. “Can I help you?” She asked, timidly eyeing his book bag.

            “Yeah, Um, I’ve been out of town for awhile. Where’s the Valley Vernon Inn?”

            She brushed the air away from her, “That place has been under concrete for years. Owner sold it to the store,” she paused as if to recall some lost passage, “years ago. Maybe, 5 years back?”

            Robert took a moment to compose himself, “Well, anywhere I can stay for the night?”

            She nodded, “Sure, just head up the hill some more, down 40. There’s a bed and breakfast up the hill.”

            Robert said, “I thought that place was closed?”

            She laughed, “Yeah, there’s been one there off and on since my son graduated high school some twenty plus years ago! Nice owners over there, they might even be open tonight.”

            Robert thanked her and left rather depressed. He had banked on staying closer to downtown, incase he ran into someone he knew. Slim chances in that, but he had nothing really else to do but hope. His hometown had always been good for bars and churches, just like an old western. Now, it seemed to hate bus stations and hotels. With a rather sullen shrug, he reslung the bookbag which had unconsciously fallen from his shoulder, and began his trek up the sidewalk.

            The landscape had not changed so much outside the city. The barber on the right, the yellow vinyl-sided house he saw going to the grocery store, and that weird looking house that always had a “condemned” sign were all still there. In fact, the bright orange of the “condemned” signed burned on the oak door. With a cold chill, he ignored the building. He had read one too many King books to trust the place. Regardless, he saw the promised bed and breakfast on the left, just behind some shrubs. A slim white light announced it through the forestry and shades.

            After crossing the street, it became obvious his night would be cold and unsheltered. The gold lettered sign seemed jovial enough, especially with its “rooms as low as $59.99…” emblazoned in gold leafing.

 Robert rolled his eyes in defeat and spoke allowed, “Who the hell builds a bed and breakfast in this place?” With no where else to go, he went back to the pharmacy. The elderly lady greeted him warmly enough that he felt comfortable to again talk to her. “I’m sorry, but that’s too expensive. There anywhere else I can get a room?”

            She nodded, quickly responding, “Well, there’s a few places down the road. All your bigger hotels and the such. You know where the mall is?” when he nodded, she continued, “it’s out there past the strip, by the new car dealer. About 2 miles or so down the road.”

            The thought of walking four miles was and paying 30 dollars for a room just was too much. “There’s no all-night places downtown are there?”

            She scrunched her face up, thinking for a few moments, “well, there’s Jim’s, but I wouldn’t go down there. My nephew Benjamin used to own the place, but the owners stole it off him. Even after he put the money for it. The guy is a real jerk too.” Robert smiled. She had that honest quality that made older people more interesting in conversation.

            “I’m sorry to hear that. I never liked the place. You sure it’s still open?”

            “Well, hunny, I’m not positive. I don’t drink coffee anymore. Except for in the mornings at Eat ‘n Park.” The conversation was ended, and she meddled with a new registers (it protested loudly). Robert gave his pleasant farewells, and made his way back out into the cold. Even if the Pharmacy had leveled his night sleep, he enjoyed their employees.

            Back downtown he went, back into the cold. Robert felt rather awake and motivated anyway, and it was only a matter of 10-or-so hrs before his bus to Mt. Lebanon. If he remembered correctly, Jim’s place was down Beeson, just above the new firehouse (which was about a decade or older by now). He had been young when the old firehouse was leveled. A tall yellow brick building, the It had always looked more like a hotel, especially in the winter when they would hang green fur and white lights over the red doors. Before his family had moved out of the area, his father had a yellow brick from the building. When they moved, Robert remembered seeing it buried in the yard. He wasn’t certain if his father was capable of the metaphor, but the symbolism of it made him sad. His frigid progress suffered as a result, because He had to stop and look at the new police/fire house.

            The building laid just off the railroad tracks. Not that there was a railroad, just rails. Occasionally, a car would bring lumber down the lines to the hardware store/lumber yard by his house. Now days, it was probably closed as well. The new—now old—fire house seemed as pleasant as always. It had gone volunteer some two or so years after his father had quit. The city no longer wanted to pay for fire service. Instead, they sank it into more pointless investments or squandered it amongst their bickering leaders. Or, he thought to himself, they used it for other, past and nefarious practices. Robert had heard rumors of the beatings and violence done by some unknown minions. He figured it was probably to pay their fines or lawsuits, but he wasn’t in the mood to speculate ill about the only building he had familiar connections too. His memory was already strained with the “what’s still here” and “what’s not” aspects of its faculties.  

            The winds picked up as he crossed Beeson and Main, pulling the gray overcoat frantically about him. Some cold tempest rushed down from the mountains to the east. Somewhere, in the hollering, he could swear he heard the sounds of rejoicing, as if some distant camp celebrated its own existence. Robert paused to hear, but the winds rushed on him violently and made cognition impossible. With his introversion interrupted, he approached Jim’s coffee store for a little coffee to ease the night into memories.

            The store was, of course, closed. A black sign with orange letting hung impotent on the doorway. Behind the glass door, stood three men arguing. Robert peered out of curiosity. They all wore pin-striped business suits similar to those Robert had seen in the random mall windows. Either way, they were not cheap suits. Even at the distance, Robert judged the fabric expensive. Despite the low light, Robert noticed one was smoking a thin cigarette pressed gently between his ring and middle finger. Seductively, he pressed the flaming tobacco roll to his lips and pulled a soft draw. Robert could not help but watch the awkward habit of the three men. The cigarette smoker wore a fedora and held his hand firmly on his hip, with his coat spread dashingly open. A large man in a blue suit tapped his foot on the floor, and played with the knuckles on his right hand. The third had plainer characteristics. He stood alone behind a counter and seemed distracted by the two men, obviously hopping they left before too long. Robert thought of knocking on the door, but was interrupted by a disturbance off to the side. Two men dug violently through the garbage, swiftly pulling out aluminum cans, before placing back into the can.

Robert watched them. He was familiar with the practice. Metal scrappers would pay a few cents for an aluminum can. Bare cents on a can, but enough of them and you could a warm meal. These two, though, simply gathered the cans to put them back where they got them. Like broken machines, they continued in process only to forget the final steps. Sadden, he sympathized with them; he, too, had taken to picking broken parts from the garbage. Salvaging or dumpster diving was romanticized in college as a practice for those willing to live without money. Somehow, they claimed it was noble.

Neither of the men bothered to look up as Robert approached them, “Excuse me,” he asked hesitantly. Gasping, both jumped away from the can. Giving him a quick once over, they calmed and returned to their gathering. Robert thought immediately that they were homeless. Then again, he thought to himself, so was he. “I was hoping you could point me to the coffee shop that’s open all night?”

“Yeah, like we would know,” said one quickly looking up from the can. He was shorter than his companion, with a grey toboggan and a tattered, tight red coat. His pants were the semblances of a camo uniform, and he wore a black glove on his right hand. Robert felt worse for having immediately cataloged their inventory, but he knew that they had done the same to him. Somehow, he felt like that made them equals, separated by their age. Seconds past, and no one spoke. Robert found himself again feeling awkward, for he had nothing else to do but watch them dig through the trash. He felt as if he was invading on their practice. A thought came to mine, “I haven’t been home for awhile. Lots changed?”

The silent one spoke, limping up to Robert and outstretching a dirty hand, “Frank Burten. This is Mike O’Donnell.” Robert shook his hand. Frank hobbled back over to the can and pulled out a box of tampons before throwing it back into the can. Robert could not help but wondering why they didn’t simply pull the cans out of the garbage and put them into bags, as he had seen countless others do; As he had done. Instead, they gathered the cans at the top of the garbage and carefully moved to the next can. Oddly, there was a garbage can every few feet on the road. Robert did not remember them and they gleamed new in the moonlight.

“I think there’s a shopping bag in this can if you want it,” Robert said, pulling a white Shopping Land bag from the can.

Mike laughed, swiftly going through a distant can, “Yeah, you haven’t been around here recently.” He didn’t readily volunteer any information on the subject, causing Robert to grow impatiently. Frank seemed to notice and urged Mike to speak with a cough. Impatiently, he began, “Few weeks ago, new guy named Stevey came into town. Poor guy was from the outer areas of Brownsville. Lost his job, lost his wife, lost everything. In fact, a fire took all three, since he lived above the lil’ pizza place he was workin’ in. Anyway, he wanders around asking about for a job, but no one will hire him.” Mike continued speaking, head down diligently going through the can. “Well, he runs into Frank and I while we’re down in the park, throwing pinecones. Nice guy. Anyway, two days later they found him in Smock, with a broken jaw and covered in bruises. Not dead, but beaten enough that he might as well be.”

Frank stopped working, and walked over to Robert. “Mike O’Donnell is a great man and honest. You listen to him and you’ll make it here kid. That guy Stevey was a good guy too. You know how it goes though,” he patted Robert on the shoulder. “We’re headed over to the park. It’s far enough south that no one really bothers us.

Robert shrugged in the cold weather, “Any warmer there?”

“Not really, but no one really goes down there, and its dark enough for us to get a good enough rest.” Frank began waddling pathetically down Beeson. Mike diligently followed behind him. Robert, with little else on the mine, stood patiently watching. With the way the night was going, He didn’t have anything else to do. Besides, the odd garbage picking had him intrigued. Jogging up next to Frank, he asked, ‘Well, why did Steve get beat up?”

“Stevey,” Frank corrected.

“Okay, why did Stevey get beat up?”

“Great question,” Mike answered. “We don’t know. Frank and I don’t get involved in the politics of this place. They have understood rules, and our present livihood doesn’t allow us the opportunity to understand them.”

Robert furled his brow, “the cops?”

Mike shrugged, “We don’t ask these questions here, but I don’t think so. Some private party.”

Robert continued his inquiry, “Frank, what’s with the leg?”

Frank wobbled some more, “Not ole’ frank. Oh no, he was crippled before this place went to shit. Ole Frank the Cripple.”

“What happen?” the winds roared about the city. Mike shook his head no, and Robert felt stupid for even asking. The question was moot, considering it was doubtful Frank even heard it. Robert thought he wore a distant gaze reserved for literary characters who looked inward instead of outward.

They walked silently for about a mile. It wasn’t that Robert didn’t want to talk, since he hadn’t had much time in the last few days to communicate (outside phone calls to his grandmother). He just felt it was best to be silent, or at least reserved. The night was obviously a time of reflection. Neither Frank or Mike looked at him, but it was clear that both were thinking about him. Despite the darkness, Robert did not feel fearful of his new companions. Had it been Pittsburgh, or even his home of years ago, he might have worried for the two bills in his pocket and the coat on his back, but it seemed that both were useless to the two lost hopes wondering above ground; they had, he thought, already been put past need.

No, he thought. They were at home in this paradigm. This was no longer his home at all, but a tomb of past thoughts. It was clear enough now. The bus ride promised him enough time to think these thoughts out completely, but idly he had wasted his intellect in books and poetry, empty words strung together with empty meanings. Now, in the cold foreign winds of his birthplace, he realized that no artifice was his home; he did not have the luxuries for it to be. Home was locked within the wreath of his chest. It was the quick inside his passion.

Now, Robert knew home was where he was, not where he was going. What was this connection, though, with the thoughts of his former self? He had been part of this small city for many years, and he thought it was to home he was returning. How it had become the illegitimate shadows of his past. All the memories of baseball, boy scouts, bike rides, and countless other alphabetical listings of past pursuits burnt into a fading background. He thought himself composed of these memories; yet, he had never dreamed that their very physical landscape could be corrupted. What had happen to his former abode? Unwisely, it had been turned over to something guileful, a sly assault best reserved for mythical creatures. Robert felt passion urge under his tongue, the bulking pressure of subconscious made conscious. He determined to dedicated the night to the discovery of this new darkness.

“Frank, Mike, I have to get going. I remembered I have something I have to do,” he extended a hand. “Good luck with the pine cones.” They shook his hand, confused or perhaps distracted, Robert could not tell. “I hope things work for you.”

As Robert walked away, Mike urgently yelled something unintelligible, but the winds tore the words from Robert’s ears. He paused, but when he turned to ask what Mike had said, they were both gone. Heedless, Robert pushed back down the Beeson, towards Main street. The city was empty enough of traffic, though occasionally a parked car would shimmer light and appear to move, an optical allusion distracting Robert from his contemplation. The world appeared differently, he thought in his waken stupor. Logically, he couldn’t very well go to sleep. There was no way to wake himself for the next bus. No, it tonight was destined to be a sleepless struggle.

It was within these moments that Robert first noticed something odd before him. Heeding eastwards down Church Street, he saw a black man jogging. Within moments, the man would pass. Oddly, the man stopped, hands away from his body as if ready to protest an assault. Like a cornered, feral creature, the man backed away from him. Fleeting, Robert saw his legs pulsing. What had stolen the humanity of this man, turning him bestial in the nightlight? They watched each other until Robert, perceiving the man’s fear bettering his own sympathies, called to him. “Hey?” The man didn’t respond, but he nodded acknowledgement and took off down the alley. Whatever demons pursuing him were invisible to Robert’s eyes, but he observed wearily that they might target him instead. Only the cold wind poured through the concrete valley, and he felt safe enough to continue on.

 It wasn’t long before he made a right down Main Street, where the Court House stood above the old jail. Robert saw the building from a distance, remembering the gruesome stories of his childhood about men being hung from the rafters. Supposedly, two nooses still hung in the uttermost rafters, where they had waited patiently to be reused. Robert suspected they were eaten by rats long ago, and only remained as some discarded metaphor for the old story tellers to scare the new listeners. After all, no one had been hung in PA for some time. That’s what chemicals are for, he thought.

The winds picked up and a flapping echoed down the hill towards him. Hesitantly, weary of bats, Robert snuck along the sidewalk. He was not afraid of them, he assured himself, but the noise was rather gothic in sight of the Victorian structure. Half excepting some were-beast or dire-man to crawl out of the darkness and attack him, he snuck wearily up the hill. “No,” he spoke allowed, “not bats.” Instead, it was a long read banner hung from the courthouse roof. Some sort of lettering pocked the sign, but he could not make out. Cascading down the stones, Robert thought the banner was rather contrasting next to the stonework. Then again, the grey had also been lightened since he was home last. There had been whispers of sandblasting and re-polishing, but he had ignored them as idle talk from his family. Was it true? Why would they go out of their way to remove the age, when the soot lent the tower such a noble air? Robert shook in frustration but continued around the courthouse nerveless.

Slumberesque, he meandered along the sidewalk, briefly stretching one foot after another. The cramped shoes on his feet were not made for all-night pursuits. The polished leather had been the only shoes he never wore and, unfortunately, the only readily available to wear. The others looked more like those hung from power lines on the Eastend of town. In spite of his families’ annoying taste for class, Robert felt more comfortable in a chair with some coffee then in an office. He was not the office type. Out in the chilled night winds, his coat was more suited for this office climate. With the coat and shoes, he was ill prepared for his new occupations as a night wanderer; yet, the hills climb was rapidly warming him. Still, the relentless winds would not allow him warmth. The buildings seemed to arch the wind inward rather than blocking any of it. In the end, he hugged the overcoat tight to his chest, and hastened his walk.

Finally, he crested the small hill running along the side of the courthouse. Again, a red banner was frantically waved in the wind. This one, unlike the other, had a spotlight aimed on it. Robert arched his neck to view the sign fully. In great yellow letters were the words, “God Bless MR. HARVEY” and a picture of an aging white man who Robert had never seen. He wasn’t certain about this Harvey fellow, but the fact it was hanging on the side of the courthouse building assured him it was a local fellow. Not since George Marshall had the local area rallied around someone, and he had fled as an infant, and died without any real approval of the place. There were other old white men, but most of them had just been famous for donating money to the hospital and the parks. “This guy’s got to have done something truly fantastic to earn himself a crimson banner, and a blessing from the almighty” he said allowed. Something imperial wafted down form the sign, something he unconsciously likened to the Romans. Something vile.

“You’re not from around here,” came a voice from behind him. Robert turned subtly around, still focused on the waiving banners. “Are you?” the voice was uncertain now.

“I was,” Robert saw it was one of the guys from the café, a young guy about his age in a nice suit and fedora. Some distant shadow of recognition fluttered in his mind, but he could not place his face. Yet another changed façade, or just a mistaken notion? “I haven’t been home in six years,” he finally answered. He wasn’t certain it mattered either way, since the city was big enough that he barely knew anyone in it when he did live there. Something familiar about the guy haunted him, something personal. The feeling past him, and they both gazed at the banner.

            They stood there, looking at the waving banner. Twice, Robert turned to say something to him, but the suit was looking lovingly at the banner. Robert thought for a second he was muttering some arcane words, perhaps a prayer, but he passed it off as just a gust of the wind. The suit stood with his arms straight at his side. He didn’t move, hardly even to breathe, but his fingers rolled the fabric of his suit gently, as a child might to a stuffed animal.

            Becoming unnerved, Robert sidestepped away from the man, “Anyway, I’m gonna get going. It’s been a long night.”

            “Where are you parked?” the suit asked, with a little too much authority to his voice. Robert blinked and the man repeated what he said, only gentler, “Where are you parked at, I’ll walk with you.”

            “Oh, I don’t have a car. I rode the bus into town.” Those old fears came into his mind, of walking at night and what it meant to be too open. “But, I should prob’ get out there, it will be here shortly.”

            Still gazing at the banner, the suit continued, “That’s a long walk. I’ll go with you.” Yet he didn’t move, or even act as if the comment involved an action. Instead, he gazed.

            “Oh, that’s cool. I know how to get there,” Robert turned, briskly walking back down Main street. He made it only a few steps before another suit came out of the shadows.

            “Oh, it’s okay, we’ll walk with you.” He was a blue suit, with three gold rings on his right hand. Robert watched them glimmer a distracting, dancing gleam in the moonlight. He could not help but wonder at the mass of the rings. There were reasons, he thought, that men wore such large rings on their hands.

            A movement of winds announced the Gazing suits’ approach, the silent puff of smoke parading before him. Sensuously, he smoked the thin cigarette between his two, surgical fingers. Robert thought he knew which of the two did the hitting, and which the talking. He was in their hands, so to speak, and it was a place he did not want to be. Robert thought to run, but, his backpack would have slowed him considerably. Instead, he played the game.

            “Oh, sure, at least I won’t get jumped tonight, right?” he elbowed the Gazer in the ribs, just light enough to still be in jest. “So, you guys work around here? At the paper, maybe?”

            “No, we don’t,” said the Gazer. Both men started walking; Robert understood he was to walk as well, Soon, they marched in unison down Main street. He wondered if he was the flute player, the drum boy, or the flag bearer. He hoped for the flute player, but lost his sense of humor when the Gazer began to talk again. “What do you do for a living, mister…?”

            Robert said, “John, John Forest. Well, I just got out of school a few years ago. You know, trying to find my footing an all.” He was at loss as to where this was going. It was the worse interrogation he had ever undergone. Then again, he was inexperience in it.

            “What school?” The Gazer asked.

            “Does it matter?” Robert answered.

            “No,” the blue suit answered.

            They walked silent from then on. The Blue Suit was honest. There was no point to the talk. They had already gotten whatever information they needed from him. It had been registered within the few minutes it took before he even spoke; his words had only confirmed it. Robert wondered to himself how long they had followed him. Had they lost him at the bus stop, or when he doubled back into the pharmacy? Maybe when he had walked down Beeson towards the park? Detached as he was, he thought of Stevey, the man who lost everything in the fire. He wondered if the man had gone to school or what he hoped for in coming to this place. He wondered if they even fixed his jaw and how much it hurt to break. Robert had the sinking suspicion these were questions would not survive his asking.

            The Blue Suit and the Gazer walked him down Main, only to walk him in front of the State Theater. Robert stopped; they stopped. How grand it looked now, all lit up with the marquise brightly displacing some play he’d never seen or read. Spotlights arched this way and that, and beautiful black luxury cars were parked outside, each with shining, polished rims. Special lines had been painted for them to park, and even the buildings near the theater had been leveled for parking lots. Across the street, a fancy new restaurant pounded with pop music and bass. Old and young like joined together in festivities, and some hipsters played their guitars for the masses. A large black signed rocked in the wind, shaking the majestic lettering. The special caught his eye, some food with accents, served with tender, red potatoes done ‘UT style’. He wasn’t certain what any of it meant, but he understood the small numbers on the side: “$39.99”

            Robert frowned, “What happen to the steak place down here? The one with the one steak, the one salad, and the ‘Coke or Pepsi’ sign!”

            “What are you talking about, there hasn’t been a restaurant down here in years,” the Gazer responded.

            “No, I mean down the road, on Pittsburgh street. There was a place that served steak and salad and pop!” Robert turned on the two of them. “And where’s that lil’ place that served eggs and bacon in the mornings! And had lunch for under 5 and dinner for under 10!” he hollered at them. The Blue Suit touched his arm. Robert pulled violently away, “Come on man, what the hell’s up with this place!” he felt lost.

            The Gazer caught up with him, realizing the problem, “Few years ago, Mr. Harvey donated some money to city to clean the place up. That’s what you’re upset about, isn’t it? You’re one of those spite the hand that feeds you.”

            “Who the hell is this ‘Mr. Harvey?” Robert demanded. The Blue Suit seemed to grow even more agitated. Robert pressed the issue, “And why the hell is he hanging from the courthouse wall!”

            The Gazer, “he’s our benefactor and a local councilmen of fine standing. He’s a successful businessman that has stepped into the area to repair the damage done by time.”

            “Damage? Done by time? You mean the sandblasting? You mean how we have parking lots and small parks? How the place looks like some bizzaro New York? Just because you take the soot off the buildings and throw some paint on the walls, doesn’t mean you’ve cleaned the place up.” The Blue Suit took a step towards him, but Robert maintained his ground and the Gazer put a hand up. “Six years isn’t long enough for you to have sold this place out.”

            “I believe, Mr. Forest, you were not here. You don’t live here anymore, and you don’t understand the situation. Business is business. Mr. Harvey has returned the City to its past continence.”

            “Continence? You mean he’s painted up the ole girl and is taken her out for a spin?”

            “Don’t confuse the issues, Mr. Forest.” The Gazer said. “The city is interested in making money, and the local store owners as well. Mr. Harvey has guaranteed us the clientele…”

            “What clientele? And what store owners? Where do they live? Here? Why’s that place on Morgantown street look like some Victorians’ baby funeral home! Why does that place,” Robert pointed down the street at some clothing store, “Have a sign up for pants that for ‘under $200’ I haven’t seen 200 dollars in a month!” his began to grow louder.

            The Gazer, understanding the situation as spiraling out of control, talked softer, “Mr. Forest, keep your voice down. Because you cannot afford a pair of pants hardly justifies your screaming. I can’t afford a mansion, but I do not hate people that can afford them? Do you understand what Capitalism is? Do you know about trickle down economics and how the local economy will better when the business do?”

            “No,” Robert confessed, “but then again, I understand scare tactics. I understand corruption, and I understand avarice. I may not know your names for showering the top to get to the bottom, but know that the bottom is where the roots are, and I know that the flower dies when they die. Good luck keeping your blossom alive when your roots are all dead!”

            The Gazer grew agitated, “Mr. Forest, You do not understand what we can afford to do to the area. It will prosper because it has too. I may not be able to keep these ‘roots’ alive and moving, but Mr. Harvey can and will. He has their best interest at heart and they will love him for it.”

            “Is this before or after he’s purchased the city? Before or after he plays John Bull’s Other Island and parks a hotel on every small house in the area, maybe put a golf course over top the entire county!” Robert screamed at him. There was a moment reprieve when the winds calmed, then a tempest ensued. Slyly, a Velcro rip tore through the chaos, the round of sounds, which brought about his fall. Before Blue Suit hit him, Robert was sure he saw the bar’s clientele look over at him. Regardless, the rings did there work and he passed out on the sidewalk.

           

Robert awoke on a stool. The world rocked as if on a ship, and his vision came back to him spotted. There was a creaking groan of asbestos on metal, and a large blur fell before him. Some yelled, “you headed to Pittsburgh?” then nothing a few seconds. “Hey, buddy, you headed to Pittsburgh” Robert wasn’t certain, but he think he nodded…or fell over. There was some scrapping, and he felt himself floating up the bus stairs.

Someone spoke, “he’s headed that way. Little too much to drink last night, poor fool.” Robert felt a pressure in his pants pocket, someone was pulling something out of it. “Here, here’s his ticket. See that he gets off at the Mt. Lebanon station.”

“I can’t let him on here if he’s going to be like that?” There was the shuffling of paper. “Well, I guess I can make arrangements. Have a good one!”

“You too. Best of luck, kid.” Something slammed, and Robert was drug into a seat.

“You got some nice friends, son. Just sleep it off and don’t puke everywhere. We’ll be there in an hr or so, depending on traffic. Here, here’s a blanket.” He felt someone covering him over. “Must have been some night to be partying without a coat! Ha, where’d you leave your shoes?”

Roberts blurred vision focused, and he realized he was on a bus. Somehow, he thought, he was on the bus. He slumped hard against the window and passed out. Robert slept. The bus pulled out of the station, slumping side to side in the winds. Thankfully, the winds died down somewhere outside the city limits, just a mindful breeze thereafter.