Waiting
By Brian Rosenberger
Summer, temperatures rise, thoughts of ice cream and days spent pool side, cloudless blue skies as you walk to work, the same route 5 days a week, so familiar you could do it blindfolded.
Past the coffee shop, past the post office, past the pet grooming salon you once thought read saloon, past the bench where sits Gus, expressionless, eyes heaven bound. Gus the Gargoyle, Gus the Statue, Gus the Petrified Man. You don't know him, have rarely spoken to him, only a cursory polite Hello or Mornin' with no acknowledgment. He is a stranger in the truest sense of the word. You don't know him. You don't even know if Gus is his Christian name but he looks like a Gus so Gus it is. He reminds you of high school, make out sessions at the movies, your old boyfriend James who loved Judas Priest. The song The Sentinel - "The figure stands expressionless, impassive and alone." That's Gus to all right, a black hole impersonating humanity.
Leaves turn brown and gold and orange. Pumpkins endure carved smiles. The temperature drops. Shorts are on sale half price. Air conditioners fall silent. You dress warmer for the morning walk. No slave to fashion, Gus' clothing does not change. Flannel work shirt, black converse, faded blue jeans patched on both knees. Once you saw him sneeze like the Sphinx hiccuping, like a thunderclap. Gesundheit you offer, getting silence for your politeness.
The first snowfall. Sniffles followed by trips to the drug store for cold and flu medicine. The White Death beckons if you believe the radio. You still walk to work but sometimes are fortunate enough to catch a ride home with a coworker. Gus is still there, a gargoyle sloppily dressed. You wonder where he works, if he works. Snowflakes look like melting dandruff on his broad shoulders.
Spring comes and with it rain. You arm yourself against the elements with an umbrella. You hate arriving at work wet and soaking. For the first time, you realize Gus is missing. He's like your favorite TV show that was canceled unbeknownst to you. You wonder if he moved, bought a car, died, wondering if you'll ever know the answer.
You won't. As the skies split and the Earth cracks and reality as you know it becomes an unlisted number, Gus is forgotten, work is forgotten, all is forgotten as fear becomes the only constant, the prime number, the only zip code left in what passes for existence. Fear and his companion Death. Where walks one, the other isn't far behind.
The bench remains, a tombstone, unmarked. Bus schedules a distant memory.
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. A collection of his poetry, And For My Next Trick ... is slated for a July 2010 release and a collection of his short stories awaits release in October.
By Brian Rosenberger
Summer, temperatures rise, thoughts of ice cream and days spent pool side, cloudless blue skies as you walk to work, the same route 5 days a week, so familiar you could do it blindfolded.
Past the coffee shop, past the post office, past the pet grooming salon you once thought read saloon, past the bench where sits Gus, expressionless, eyes heaven bound. Gus the Gargoyle, Gus the Statue, Gus the Petrified Man. You don't know him, have rarely spoken to him, only a cursory polite Hello or Mornin' with no acknowledgment. He is a stranger in the truest sense of the word. You don't know him. You don't even know if Gus is his Christian name but he looks like a Gus so Gus it is. He reminds you of high school, make out sessions at the movies, your old boyfriend James who loved Judas Priest. The song The Sentinel - "The figure stands expressionless, impassive and alone." That's Gus to all right, a black hole impersonating humanity.
Leaves turn brown and gold and orange. Pumpkins endure carved smiles. The temperature drops. Shorts are on sale half price. Air conditioners fall silent. You dress warmer for the morning walk. No slave to fashion, Gus' clothing does not change. Flannel work shirt, black converse, faded blue jeans patched on both knees. Once you saw him sneeze like the Sphinx hiccuping, like a thunderclap. Gesundheit you offer, getting silence for your politeness.
The first snowfall. Sniffles followed by trips to the drug store for cold and flu medicine. The White Death beckons if you believe the radio. You still walk to work but sometimes are fortunate enough to catch a ride home with a coworker. Gus is still there, a gargoyle sloppily dressed. You wonder where he works, if he works. Snowflakes look like melting dandruff on his broad shoulders.
Spring comes and with it rain. You arm yourself against the elements with an umbrella. You hate arriving at work wet and soaking. For the first time, you realize Gus is missing. He's like your favorite TV show that was canceled unbeknownst to you. You wonder if he moved, bought a car, died, wondering if you'll ever know the answer.
You won't. As the skies split and the Earth cracks and reality as you know it becomes an unlisted number, Gus is forgotten, work is forgotten, all is forgotten as fear becomes the only constant, the prime number, the only zip code left in what passes for existence. Fear and his companion Death. Where walks one, the other isn't far behind.
The bench remains, a tombstone, unmarked. Bus schedules a distant memory.
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. A collection of his poetry, And For My Next Trick ... is slated for a July 2010 release and a collection of his short stories awaits release in October.
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