Seneschal

It was late. It seemed a little odd, his being here and all, considering not just the hour, but that he wasn't from this part of town. He moved quietly but with purpose, as if he had been here before and knew his way. Most of the rain had dried, but the potholes threatend a turned, wet ankle. He stopped outside the door, the darkness of the alley enveloping him, he turned his head looking both ways. Not nervously, not as if he expected to see anything, he just sort of looked askance, then returned his gaze to the door.

"Murphy", he said, not demanding, not loudly, but with that same sense of purpose. In a moment  light went on over the door, it opened after the chink of a chain and a lock or two. The shadow within moved aside. He glided in without so much as a swish of his coat, disappeared into the dim light, the darkness remaining outside afraid to come in, the door closing with a whisper. 

That was the last anyone heard or saw of him. Gone, just like that. It took a while for anyone to notice, no clue was left behind, and he owed no one anything. They just sort of noticed his absence. Nothing bad happened to him, he just suddenly didn't exist anymore. Spooky, the kinda stuff that makes you leave a light on at night spooky.

It made me wonder why he was ever even here. He came, he went, nothing happened, but you were left with the sense something did happen, something very important, so much so it changed you, and maybe you were the only one who didn't notice what it was that did or did not happen, and you're too afraid of looking the fool to ask.  And every now and then a glimmer, a piece of memory stuck to the wall of your head, enough to make your heart beat harder, because YOU KNOW, but then its gone, before you can see it, hear it, feel it clearly. Sometimes you think you hear someone mention his name, but everyone seems not to have said anything at all worth hearing.

Yeah, spooky like that spooky... just gone.

Differences between friends

We sat outside the coffee shop, the slight breeze ruffling the umbrella that shaded our table on a pleasant sunny morning.  He held his coffee to his lips, pensive, his gaze far away, his  mind turning.

"We are different, you and I, and yet we remain close friends..."

Curious, I simply smiled.

"Why don't you hate me?"

"Why would I hate you?", I replied, a bit taken aback. Where was this going?

"I am Christian, against abortion, and I dislike homosexuality, the Holy Trifecta," he said smiling, "the polar opposite of your blasphemous positions."

"I think you would agree that's stating things a bit simplistically, " I offered, laughing, "but yes, I dislike those things about your beliefs. They are not who you are, they are merely parts of the whole. I enjoy the whole, even if I disklike some parts. I recognize that your beliefs form who you are to some degree, but I like you still for the rest."  After a moment, I added,  "I would counter that I dislike you no more than you dislike me for being, as you say, opposite, on these things. You are entitled to have these beliefs, as I am entitled to have an opposing position. If those beliefs were to become who you are, than yes, we would likely have little common ground."

"Hmmm... How is it you don't believe in God, accept abortion and are not abhorred by homosexuality?" , he asked, "Can't you see how wrong these are?"

"It would be easy to return the question, why do you feel as you do on these things, but I know you can't answer them in a way that would satisfy me. I have no reason to believe in god, certainly a god as defined by Christianity, and I am troubled by what religion brings to the human equation. I don't like abortion, but I do not think it is an issue for us men to debate with any integrity, and while I don't find homosexuality attractive, I would offer it is not for me to deny. I could not care less about someone being LGBT. It simply doesn't bother me.", I replied. "I wonder how different you might be in your thinking and feelings without your god; who would you be without god?"

"I can't imagine life without God."

"And I am diappointed in a world with god...", I said. "And I think this is really our only difference."

The Thomas Problem

Wendell came in nervously, for nothing was more annoying than a good example, according to Mark Twain, and Thomas was quite annoying.

"You've upset her", he said, without tremor, unknowing fists of fear forced deeply into his pockets.

"I suppose I have."

"You drove her to tears."

"Easily done", Thomas replied, unmoved, continuing his work.

"Thomas, she says you berated her publically, humiliating her!"

"I am sure it could happen no other way. She picked a public argument".

"And you..."

Thomas, having heard quite enough, interrupted Wendell's planned diatribe. "Wendell! This is a Mary problem, not a Thomas problem. You may continue to try to fix your perceived Thomas problem, but it will remain a Mary problem no less."

"Thomas, you have created problems before..."

"Again, with making your Mary problem a Thomas problem. Who was it before me, Wendell? I believe it was a Duncan problem? You brought me here to solve problems. I am trying, desperately, to no avail. This game of Mary's is quite old and familiar. Truly addressing your Mary problem means admitting you have made some terrible mistakes, something you are clearly not wont to do, for as I discover them, you beat me with them. I tire of being your and Mary's scapegoat on whom you write all your problems, such that by solving your singular Thomas problem, you will have solved all of your myriad problems". Thomas stood abuptly, causing Wendell to step back. Thomas pulled quickly at his waistcoat, and walked up to Wendell as he made for the door.

"Wendell, your failings have created quite a morass. I suggest you find your courage, admit your failings like a man, confront Mary's childish behavior, and we can all get on with our lives. No one cares except Mary, and anyone she cries to, who seek to cover their own failings. Good day, sir."

Wendell watched him leave, mouth and mind agape. He had never known a more unreasonable man.

The following morning Thomas was sacked, and Wendell felt profound for having solved all of his problems in a singular stroke. He was quite proud of himself.

 

Potato chips

"You have come in from the darkness."

I nodded. He waited. I sat. He remained seated. 

"I wearied of discussing potato chips."

Vezio's expression remained expressionless, "Potato chips".

"Potato chips."

Vezio remained as he always was, hands lightly clasped in his silent dignity, no agenda other than to understand, patient to a fault, waiting. I sat as quietly, subdued by my trials, weary of my travels, and not entirely sure I had learned anything. He waited some more. I whispered.

 "A woman walks into a bar, sits, and without a word, the bartender passes her a ginger ale with a twist. He grimaces at the new bruise on her face, much like the older one on the other side. He moves away. She sees his discomfort, and unlike before, this time she talks, 'My husband beat me, and our children again'. A man, one of several in a suit, sitting a few seats away glances sideways at her, knowing her and this despot of a husband of whom she speaks. He pushes a half empty bowl towards the bartender and says without intent, 'Chips...'. 'BBQ or regular'? 'Regular. The BBQ taste like Tabasco'. He gets his chips, she finishes her drink, she leaves, the bartender removes her empty glass and wipes her place." 

Vezio sat for a moment, then ever so knowingly nods his head. "Potato chips."

"Potato chips."

On dying...

This is my end. It is a good end, to a life well lived in service. My reward cometh! He closed his eyes, feeling less with every moment. Archdeacon Ferrand and Father Ferdinand were annoiting him. A wave of fear and uncertainty passed through him. He shook inwardly as he heard Father Ferdinand plead, "Father, take our brother, Tomas de Torquemada into Your loving embrace, forgive him his sins, and give him life everlasting!"  Yes, Father, forgive me my sins.... He felt a profound grief with this for he no more wanted to die than he had wanted to suffer these end of days, and he had suffered geatly. He found this awkward, as he should be filled with the ecstasy of his rapture, but instead of looking with joy to being in heaven with the Lord and God he felt anxious, fearful. He was afraid of dying as it came upon him.  He was ashamed... surely this was no last moment loss of faith after a lifetime of sacrifice?  It was becoming hard to remain awake, the room beginning to fade, focusing into a bright light that came upon him, and took him in. With it he felt calm again, peace and warmth, no more suffering. He felt drawn into it, and lifted! He was on his way!

And suddenly, there was darkness, nothingness. Then nothing at all.

He felt a deep sense of disappointment...

Schoolyard

It was meant as a moment of derision. Outwardly it was insulting, inwardly rather farcical, but he had said it with such earnestness that one's attention was captured. One might have mistaken him for a six year old, were it not that he was clearly a man of seventy or so.  The others in the room awaited my baited response. At the moment I was concentrating gravely on not bursting out in laughter, so wasn't able to sharpen my witty reparte quickly enough, and the moment was lost. So I merely smiled and nodded, for it was all I could muster. This was seen by the muckraking watchers as an acknowledgement that his ludicrous statement bore merit, and I became less than to them in their small game of thrones. For the more thoughtful in the room it was seen for what it truly was, an unintentionally humorous engagement with an entirely humorless and angry old man, of whom thinking less would be ill mannered. And so the conversation moved on. His stare spoke that he felt robbed of an expected response from me, and was about to demand it. Alas, no one cared for they had already judged as they were inclined and nothing really changed. This is what passes for honest discourse today. We rearrange our prejudices, thinking we have given the notion much thought.

Monsieur Cuivert

A sharply dressed gentleman of means satchel in gloved hand, he walked along the clean, well lit, deserted train platform as an heavy snow renewed its fall. It crunched frozen where the cover allowed it to collect, and blanketed the city.

"Winter in Ghent is better than winter in Bruges, oui Monsieur Cuivert?"

"Robert, I will know when I get to Bruges, eh?", coins tinkling in exchange for the morning paper, "The train is still running?"

"Ah, we will know when it gets to Ghent, eh", Robert laughingly replied. As the seasons changed, so did this familiar conversation between gentleman and stationer, in temperature, if not in comfort. Cuivert glanced at the front page which told of the death of some Archduke in Sarajevo, folded the paper and began to walk to the end of the platform so he could board the train in the first car, usually the warmest. The large clock overhead read 5:30, behind it the dawn began as a thin blue line beyond where Bruges lie to the north. The train was late. The snow seemed to fall with passion, but thankfully there was no wind.

He took but a few steps when he saw a well kempt handsome boy, what you could see by his eyes, which alone could be distinguished wrapped as he was, sitting under the lamp next to the stationers fire. The stationer was burning yesterday's papers and some scrap wood for a token of warmth, the aroma of hot coffee hissing over it. The boy's bench was under the cover, the boy yet sprinkled with snow, unmoving as if not to dispel a layer of warmth hovering about him. Cuivert stepped over and stood before him.

"May I sit?"

The boy looked up expressionless, and after a moment realizing this man was speaking to him, nodded, returning his glassy stare to the quickly disappearing tracks. Cuivert looked at the stationer, the man replying with a smile as he poured a coffee. Cuivert sat familiarly against the boy. One could hear only the snow, the crackling fire, and soft breathing as steam rose from behind the boys collar. He was wrapped warmly, a knitted hat beneath a woolen cap, his scarf pulled up snug outside his collar, a brown shabby velvet coat buttoned over a thick sweater such that it seemed he could not move if he wanted to.

"You missed your train?", Cuivert asked to the same tracks. The stationer now stood before the boy, holding out the coffee. The boy hesitated, then reached with a grateful nod to the stationer, who smiled and walking back to the warmth of his booth, rubbing his half gloved hands together.

"I know your father died... I'm sorry to hear of that." The boy sipped the coffee, Cuivert shook out his paper. He continued his soliloquy as he read.

"I suppose that puts you in a bit of a pickle, no?" The boy continued to sip, his bare hands drawing the warmth from the porcelain, warming him inside and out. "Did you know I too am an orphan? Funny thing that, once an orphan, always an orphan, so one day you too will still be an orphan." He turned the page, and after a moment continued, "Monsieur your father was a good man, and one of my best friends. He worked for me for 22 years, Claude." Cuivert paused, turning the page. "I saw Madame Evereau at the funeral. She told me you were going on the train last night to somewhere in Serbia... I think I would miss that train too, given what I read in this paper."

"I do not want to go to Serbia, Monsieur Cuivert", the first pensive wisp of a voice escaping the scarf.

"Hmm... and what is there for you here?"

"It is more that there is nothing for me there. My mother and my father are buried here, at the cathedral. There is nothing for me there. Perhaps despair, I hear they are morose."

Cuivert, smiling, did not gaze up from his paper. Distantly the light from the locomotive of his late train struggled to make an appearance.

"Your cousins?"

"Yes.... they are Islamists, they are morose"

"Ah... I think you have them confused with Papists.", Cuivert replied, followed under his breath, "They seem always concerned someone, somewhere might be happy..."

"Go to my house, Claude", the gentleman speaking gently to his paper. The train whstled, its light burning through the snow competing with its own distant cacophony for attention. "My carriage is waiting out front of the station to take you to my house. Miss Vivian is expecting you, and my children will keep you company. We will talk when I come home tomorrow from Bruges." The train was now forcing its way into the station, all light and noise, it would not be ignored

The boy remained still, his coffee becoming cold. Slowly, he stood, picked up his suitcase, and walked wordlessly, exhausted, towards the station house. Without changing pace, his hand held out as he left the cup on the stationers counter. A few steps more and he stopped with tears beginning to brim, turning wordlessly back to Cuivert still reading his paper.

"Go Claude. There is always hope, as long as you do not eat more than one of my pain du chocolat. They are my favorite." The boy watched as the train stopped and Monsieur Cuivert stood gracefully, gathering his satchel, tossing his paper into the fire and without a glance at the boy boarded the train with a private smile and a shake of his head saying to himself, "I do love my pain du chocolat".