The boy is now a man. He stands, feet upon the pavement of a bustling Manhattan street. He is successful. He turned his nothingness into purpose, bringing to bear a wealth of skills and emotional detachment to the field his father had excelled in. A floor of a building in downtown New York now bears his name, and he serves on the board of an advertising agency. He makes decisions about what the rest of us want. He is a dreamweaver, a craftsman of desires. He tells us what we need, and we obey, without question.
Some time ago, he wed a bright young woman, herself poised as the fashion iconoclast of the 21st century. Together they would rule, serving twin roles as the other’s muse, determining the course of American culture and the future of taste.
Things at home are not going well.
She has found solace in the arms of another. A striking young model 23 years of age. The model has not only made him a cuckold, but is about to make her a mother. They play it off, of course. Pose as the happy couple when cameras demand it. He finds his own comfort in the bottom of a bottle.
The man stands squinting into the sun, thinking of the feeling of grass between his bare toes. He misses those days of college, of innocence. The days he still feels his father stole.
His father is in a home now. His mind and body failed quickly in old age, retirement stealing what vitality he had remaining. His lungs filled with fluid, his brain became increasingly unreliable. It’s now been four years since he began his slow decline into obsolescence, function after function being stolen from him. And it’s been three years since the man went to see him. To bear witness to the decline. After a while, the vengeance came too slowly. The old man simply wasn’t dying fast enough to satisfy his son: a disappointment as always.
The son stands on the corner, and he thinks. Thinks of his father, thinks of the silent home in which he grew. Thinks of that visit, now over a decade ago, when the old man had arrived and shattered his soul as though it was nothing. It wasn’t the loss of a loved one. It was as though someone had pulled the floorboards themselves out from under him. He lost his footing. Lost his grounding. Spun downward into uncertainty and mindlessness. He had wandered through the dark recesses of his own psyche, finding here and there the tattered remains of childhood happiness. Remembering the seeming magic of his own smile.
It had been years since a sincere smile had crossed his face. They just never came anymore. Even in his wedding photos, he had borne a forced wince, exposing the whites of his perfect teeth to reflect the camera’s flash.
But here he stands. A sunny morning in the fall, feeling the comfortable breeze passing through his silken suit as the warm light caresses his upturned face. The light before him turns from a white silhouette of a walking man to a flashing red hand, and he feels tears in his eyes. He thinks of his wife, of the growing betrayal in her body. Of the physical beauty the model father will have given to their child. Something he himself could never give. He hasn’t felt this pure, this happy in years. Their dishonesty has freed him.
A smile teases at the corner of his mouth as the red hand materializes and stays. A stern warning.
His lips part and the beam shines forth: his unadulterated happiness for all to see. He is finally free. Finally empty. No attachments. No responsibility. He forgets work, forgives the cheating bitch he’s married. Forgets the shadow of his father, wasting away in a room that smells of disinfectant.
The toes of his six hundred dollar shoe hang off the curb as cars rush past.
Tourists on either side of him chatter about Ground Zero, about life and about the majesty of the city.
He wonders, idly, if they know who he is. Probably not.
His right foot lifts. Another car rushes by, a taxi with a camera sticking out of the window, snapping pictures of a famous skyline from a useless perspective.
The smile on his face broadens, and he steps off the curb. The tourists, unknowing, basking in the happiness finally released from the prison of his self-control, step forth in unison.
The cars rush towards them, an unruly chorus of horns blaring atonally into the sunny sky. Brakes squeal.
In the end, it’s all ruled an accident. And no one is there to correct that.
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