Routine
It is not a habit of many to dispense much concern with those they converse with and brush by in passing. People tend to walk with their head low and a passive disposition; taking the unconcerned appearance so as not to cause a disruption. The heart does lap its own pace when two strangers, each approaching from opposite directions, travel along the same path. Their proximity edges closer, they meet for one brief moment where perhaps, maybe, some automatic pleasantries instilled in childhood are exchanged, and then any nervous tension is broken as their concurrence dissipates. They drift further and further. The danger has gone, leaving one's mind to resume its procession.
This behavior can be seen in childhood and early adolescence in most. A child will desire independence and wish to roam about without parental accompaniment. This need for independence will often lead to them experiencing insecurity and a caution of strangers. Without an authority figure to defer to, to clutch for support in this new territory- les they commit some reprehensive social faux-pas or even worse, are committed violence upon- the child will put on a facade. An act.
Children often, for amusement, will take on the role of some imagined character, usually with blithe, benign naivety. Children are peculiar in their seemingly intrinsic imagination, as most can attest. They will invent tales and perform them as if in a theater production, even if no one is present to watch them. They try with such conviction that it's almost admirable, to convince you of a lie they thought of with a relatively paltry amount of effort. They will try with as much persuasion they can conjure, to show the validity of their emotions. What I mean by this is a child will often create a scenario, a fabrication of haphazard emotion, and try to convince themselves and others that the scenario is true. Though, the child will never outright explain their fiction and instead leave it to others to decipher; all the while hoping that the scenario they've concocted, including the emotions and actions of the other parties involved, play out as they've scripted in their minds.
This imagination is often used as a coping for many of the social experiences they face. Though, as adolescence approaches, the child becomes more aware of how to act in the company of others, provided they've had regular social interaction. The child will adopt the more non-confrontational stance when dealing with strangers, often due to fear of violence or social consequences. The threat of social consequences is considered a far greater hell than that of violence, to many in their developing years.
So, many social factors in this day and age cause to suppress imagination and leave that for more fanciful thought done when one's work is completed and all the tasks have been carried out and met with the satisfaction of one's authority. For humans must be groomed to align with a work ethic, thus the imagination is tamed.
Now they stare forward or distract themselves with their environment as they walk through the streets. All while painfully aware of the other people around them who're also trying to get from place A to location C. Some adults even adopt a persona when traveling alone. They will act scattered in thought, darting eyes across the ground, mouthing words and muttering incomprehensible gibberish to themselves to convince others to pay no attention to them, as this helps them cope with the stress of traveling from one place to another. When two or more persons are traveling, they will usually act as if they were so engrossed in each other's conversation that they are unaware of other people, all to protect the ego from unwanted anxiety. Now not all adults may do most of these things, I realize that. But I've found it evident that people tend to distract themselves by putting on some form of behavior and attitude when traveling outside their homes, which is, at my current perception, a truthful observation.
There was once a man – once – who would walk home from work every day at the stroke of midnight. In his work space was a large grandfather clock of some antiquation. The clock would signal midnight and the man- who for the sake of convenience we will call Alan, because simply referring to him with such a vague title as I have been doing so will get us only so far.
So Alan would tidy up his work space for the next morning. Then he'd put on his coat, kicking his toes against the ground to adjust his shoes as he did. He'd clasp the door handle and pause to sigh with exhaustion before giving some mental reassurance, perhaps to brace himself, then he'd proceed out into the cold, as is to be expected of the midnight weather. He'd make his way through a series of alleyways and radically disparate neighborhoods, using a route that would be much akin to a two year old's scribbling for as well as you could discern it on a map. One had the suspicion that he was a terrible judge of location, as he would stop frequently, rubbing his face in deliberation of where to head next.
His first stop was at a local deli. He'd pick up two small pumpkin pies. Small talk was exchanged but he was never the prompter. If no source of conversation was supplied by another party, he would limit his vocabulary to grunts of affirmation, accompanied by nods. He'd keep his gaze averted, occupying himself with wall fixtures. The cashier would bag his purchase and he'd already have his wallet out, eager as it were. Once the transaction was completed, he would give rough gestures of something akin to "Thank you." Or "I'll see you later." Again, with stilted sounds to help convey his message. This was the only time he would look the cashier in the eye. After that he would traverse back alleyways and dirt roads, always keeping to himself, never acknowledging the presence of strangers- making an effort to do so.
Eventually, he'd found himself in an austere, middle-class neighborhood. The houses had an architectural motif that reeked of ordinariness. The homes were typical: painted white, shrubbery cut precise. It was a garish sort of ordinariness that it brought one to an almost visually induced sickness. Though, despite my derision, there was a certain beauty in the simple and ordinary, I suppose.
Alan would cross two cul-de-sacs and turn into the third. Moving with a rigid hastiness, he would pace a line back and forth until he'd summoned enough courage to head towards the house of his purpose for being there. He would approach the door and wait a moment before knocking. He would prepare himself so as to make his appearance presentable. Fidgeting with his hair, his shirt, posture, really anything he could before knocking on the door. After he'd knocked he would continue adjusting himself up until the door opened. On the other side was a beautiful young woman of an absorbingly cute nature. A captivating beauty not of the traditional sense. Truly, a rare vision. I paused to wonder how these two had come to be acquainted with each other- him being quite shy- and under what circumstances would it lead them to converse at such an hour. After a moment of pondering, I'd decided it was serendipity and resumed my study.
Again, he seemed not to illicit the conversation at first. However I did note a more concentrated effort to use speech when communicating, however stifled the words were, rather than relying on sounds and gestures to assist. They'd spoken a few words before she'd offered him momentary refuge from the outside. It was indeed quite cold out, fog forming with every breath, & anything not in immediate presence of a light source was inarguably atramentous. She spoke to him with a charmed expression on her face, as if she'd seen through the surface of what most viewed as a socially reprehensible clod. With an open arm, she helped him inside, accepting his pumpkin pie for her. I checked my pocket watch at this time: a quarter past 1 in the morning.
Something I should like to note here has nothing to do with the story; it's more of a brief aside. I've always thought of 1 O'clock to be the changeover. The general consensus is it's 12 O'clock that decides when shifts of the day occur, but I believe it to be 1 O'clock. This thought has always been with me. An image accompanies this idea, however, and I shall elucidate it here for you so you can better understand my thought process. I imagine my front yard. There's a tree sitting to the left, shrubbery tucked just behind the fence, etc. The shadows on my front yard at 12:59 PM are static, but at 1:00 PM they shift clockwise significantly, as if each shadow were the hour hand of a clock that skipped ahead 3 hours. But, enough about my neurosis.
Alan and the woman, whose name I cannot seem to remember, talked for a brief time. I managed to glimpse them conversing, thanks to an un-obstructed house window. As the conversation progressed, he seemed to show more initiative. As I'd been observing him more and more, he'd become more confident, as demonstrated in his body language. I watched them eat their pie, laughing and talking as it were. Finally, their discourse had finished and she saw him off. At this time I'd checked my watch. Fifteen minutes had transpired.
I followed him from here as he headed down the dank streets, corners and fences serving as structures for concealment. The chilled air struck my face with a gentle caress. I'd always enjoyed nights like this. The endless black sky. No stars to pollute it. The shadow painted structures. Street lamps serving as gradient luminance. The cadence of shoes gently aggressing the pavement. tonight was quite beautiful. And due to the hour, my time with it was not sullied. No interfering parties to discolor these fleeing moments. Well, almost. As I've inferred before, there were people occasionally. One example that comes to mind is when two young teenage girls, each dressed in what today would be considered a costume, as was the style then, were walking along without care. I couldn't help but appreciate their beauty as they passed by. Luckily they'd not noticed me, for they were genuinely engaged in each other's conversation, thinking themselves alone. Of course, once they'd turned a corner far off in the distance, I resumed my shadowing of Alan.
Alan had progressed for some time, through a series of offbeat paths, before stopping abruptly. This caught me in alarm for a moment. My own hubris I'd been feeding had left instantly and, thinking fast, I'd taken front behind the fence that I'd just emerged from. I waited until I heard him resume walking. I decided it best to wait a moment so as to give extra distance between us and, also, to counter my arrogance.
His next stop was a small second-hand store called "Rogue bargains". Its sign was dull red with a white border and large white printing for the store name. Rain had been pouring for the past 10 minutes, though this did not impede me. I've always enjoyed the rain and that crisp smell after is merely an appreciated addendum. One of the better things about rain is, usually, there's no one outside to ruin it.
Here, at the second hand shop, he'd regularly browse the store for roughly twenty minutes, taking a moment to sift through the stack of cheap, lurid novels stacked haphazardly in the corner, and then make his way through the trinkets laid out on the tables. Whistles, bells, little toy soldier men constructed of wood & glossy paint are a few of the things he tended to view more than once. Perhaps he had an affinity for them. Then he'd peruse what adorned the walls, fidget with some items, view items on the shelves, fidget with those. Finally, after exhausting his curiosity, he'd purchase what few items struck his eye that visit and deposit them in his jacket pocket.
After exiting the shop, he would hop the fence behind the building. The boards were old and dark with black streaks running along the grooves of the boards. They looked as if someone had smeared charcoal on them, they were of such a darkened complexion. Next he'd make his way up a very grassy incline that lead up to a thicket. Brushing the vegetation aside, he'd come to another home. The home was less of an eyesore than a majority of the previous ones. He'd spend an indefinite amount of time here – it varied from day to day. He would usually exit, waving to the shadowy figure that inhabited this dreary place of dwelling. I never investigated who the inhabitant was or what Alan's purpose was for visiting, but I lost no sleep over it.
Next, through a long winding path, over an arching wooden bridge with a pleasant view of some willow trees, he would reach a streetlamp along an empty desolate dirt road. There was but a single street lamp along the dirt road which seemed to extend endlessly in both directions. Across the road was a forest line that seemed to follow the road in parallel. Here, next to the street lamp, Alan would read. He'd imbibed countless novels under this street lamp. I suppose he'd found solace and serenity in this location, which is why he chose to read here.
I looked to the left and made my way out through the wilderness I was viewing him from, and onto a connecting road. I travelled 40 paces down this small road which then merged with the road Alan was on. As I rounded the corner, I saw that startled look in his eye as he tried to feign attention toward the book; just as I expected him to act. I too put on an act at this time. I took the persona of a blithe wanderer.
I approached him with an ebullient temperament, expecting him to acknowledge me with a vague amorphous gesture and stammered words; and he followed through in my prediction without deviation. After he greeted me as I approached, probably expecting me to continue walking, I took position to his left side, just a few steps behind him. Despite this, he did not look back to acknowledge my presence. He merely continued reading his book.
I smiled and took a step closer to him. I was now within arms reach. As I advanced, I could feel he knew. He knew I was watching him. If only he could see with what fixation I was watching him with.
"Hello, friend!" I started. He turned to face me. Our eyes met for the remainder of our conversation. He obviously had time to see the warm smile and jovial mien I'd put on. I continued. "Forgive me, I'm just passing through, perhaps I've taken the wrong turn. I'm trying to reach an old friend of mine. He goes by the name of Gunther Owens. I was told to reach him by travelling down a route he'd relayed to me, but I seem to have taken the wrong passage somewhere down the line. Could you direct me to red river?"
His social discomfort had dissolved somewhat when I'd finished. He extended his left arm, holding his book in his right hand, and pointed down the road, making sure to look the direction he was pointing so as to avoid eye contact. He had an intake of air, but paused to compose what he wanted to say. "You head down-" he started.
As he was too occupied answering me, he hadn't noticed the blade I'd produced from my coat pocket. It was the moment I'd grabbed him by the front of his jacket to pull him into the blade that I'd felt bliss. Euphoric memories flooded my chest with a bright sense of happiness. In the span of time it took me to simply grab his jacket I was greeted with all these wondrous memories of others I'd followed. Oh how I've always enjoyed watching their eyes fill with disbelief as they reach oblivion.
But something stopped me. I was quite perplexed on this matter as I looked at Alan. His unassuming posture, state of shock and immobility was to be expected, but what caused me to hesitate? Why'd I not driven it through him? Why did I stop? As I questioned myself, his fear became more apparent. Surely this must look both odd and terrifying to him, though more so the latter: A man he'd become acquainted with only a moment ago had now arrested him by the front of his jacket, had a blade edged into position- ready for perforation of his chest- and all the while he'd only had my perplexed face to stare at. My intensely focused eyes, my lowered brows giving sharp expression lines, my mouth ajar.
After struggling for some semblance of what to do, I'd withdrawn. Oh what terrible moment to succumb to empathy. I tried to play this act in my favor as altruism, so as to sooth my wounded ego.
I decided to chastise him for not being more confident with that woman I'd seen him with earlier. I informed him of my shadowing habits and that if, within a week's time, he did not improve himself, I would return to finish what I'd stopped. As I relayed this to him, I couldn't help but feel that he would look back on this with both thankful acknowledgement and paralyzing fear. Taking note of the hour, I released him forcefully and disappeared into the forest.