charlie

Definitely very cold, the thunderous rushing of the water has blocked out all other sound. A large granite fountain filled with icy water. How would it feel to plunge in to the cold water? To let it rush over his face and fill his lungs. A cool mist plays across his face, tempting him. Charles sits in the center of the cold stone bench. He gazes into the glassy depths of the fountain. Pennies sit as if frozen on the bottom. Countless wishes washed over, faded and forgotten by time. He leans down to gaze at his reflection in the pool. There are nickels where his eyes should be and the rippling water seems to curl his straight hair.

Nearby is a woman in a yellow sweater, smoking a cigarette. She is nearly run over by a delicate oriental man on a green bicycle. A handful of children in bright colored jackets run by, screaming and singing. Their tiny voices are muted by the thunder of the fountain. Cars whiz past, stereos blaring. Only the rhythmic pounding of bass lines is intelligible over the roar of the water. An orange and white bus caked with dirt turns the corner, its passengers oblivious to Charles. He sits alone and discontented on the hard granite bench. The bus belts out black smoke as it passes, raping the air of its purity.

Pivoting on the bench, Charles turns to look at the building behind him. Its huge metallic body rises to block out the sun. The glass paneled structure looms over him, its clinical neatness colder than the frosty water of the fountain. He gazes in awe of the sheer magnificence of the edifice, and feels a need to be inside the bowels of such a marvelous creature.

The revolving doors dizzy him. He turns in an infinite circle until the building spits him back onto the pavement. He lies motionless for a while, staring up into the gray sky of an early autumn afternoon. Birds fly overhead, flapping their wings. They beat the air in an eternal attempt to remain airborne.

Growing bored of the feel of pavement against his back Charles climbs the stone
steps at the right of the building. He counts them as he ascends, 35. . . 36. . . 37. . . 38. . . 39. People look smaller from his vantage point. There is a young woman standing near him. She is wearing perfume, a warm, musky scent. She smells of sweat and amber. He can sense her closeness. She disgusts him. She is a whore, pretty and painted. She stands too close. He moves away.

Sitting now on the steps Charles admires the warm red brick, the stark contrast with cold metal and glass. Next to the stairs is a ledge, extending out over the sea of cement below. He lays flat on his belly, looking down, dizzied by the height and the wind whistling through his ears. The rushing air ruffles his hair as he shuts his eyes tight and thinks. He calculates the distance between his inert body and the ground below. Charlie the angel does this too often.

Climbing back over the railing and down the stairs, he goes through the revolving door once again. The sickly sweet smell of buttery popcorn fills his mouth and nose. He can almost taste the salt on his tongue. The floor is slick under his feet, smooth like ice. The walls are paneled in wood, warm and soft. Fuzzy memory clashes with harsh reality as they kissy kiss in the mirror. The scent of butter and salt grows stronger, thicker, choking. The foul odor fills his lungs, pouring into him. He feels the saliva rise in his throat. Turning, he runs out into the briskness of the afternoon. Retching onto the sidewalk, the very essence that is Charles.

He has cleansed himself, purified, justified, come alive.