Man Who Had...

E. Larson Gunness 2 Hope Court Barrington, RI 02806 401-433-2938

Approx. Word Count = 4,200

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The Man Who Had a Singing Heart

Ah, but wait. Our man awakes. Meet Frank. Dear, gentle Frank. Watch as he rolls to the edge of his bed, drops feet to floor, and sits up. Wriggling toes into carpet, he thinks about vanilla. Vanilla. It was the landlord who’d first named the hue, had been addressing Susan, assuming the detail would enchant the spouse. But she wasn’t enchanted, wasn’t even listening. She was too busy churning her neurons upon private concerns. But Frank listened. And liked what he heard. He liked the color, liked the carpet, liked the way it spread throughout the apartment, every square inch, save for the smart shiny slicks of linoleum in the kitchenette and bathroom. It was so soft and bright, elegant was the word that came to him. And, though now the apartment is all his and his alone, he continues to feel its magic. He walks from his bed to the door of the bathroom. He’s a bit groggy and disoriented - he’d been dreaming of music and gardens. He pauses and, in what has become a sort of ritual, he rests his hand on the door jam and turns outward. Frank’s wee morning vesper, I call it, his moment of reflection. Because from

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where he now stands, he can see through the living room to the cityscape outside. It’s a vast and inspiring vista: rooftops and river and the neighborhoods beyond fading into violent-gray before the blue hillsides on the horizon. It’s a view for the wealthy, or so he might say. And each morning when he sees it he experiences a new sense of his own success. It is evidence, you see, tangible evidence of accomplishment. In years past, he used to dream of such a place: an apartment high atop the Hill at the edge of the financial district. And now, the view is daily proof that he’s turned aspiration into reality. Some days, if he’s lucky, that sense of achievement carries him through shower and breakfast and down into the streets, where he joins the busy throngs. Today is such a day. See how he walks: head held high, such purpose to his gait. He’s chosen the charcoal suit with the fine nap and fit. In it he’s broad-shouldered and athletic, his gradual thickening not easy to discern. Whomever he comes across, tourists especially, regard him with an intensity that borders on awe. For it is rare that regular people come close to the finance elite, those super-numerate who dwell in towers and wreak fortune from the intersection of complexity and cash. Today, Frank looks the part, walks the part, and for all intents and purposes, he is as he seems. His journey brings him to the lobby of the most glorious of conglomerate fiefdoms. He waves his badge for the tan man in uniform behind the marble desk, waves such that anyone nearby can see the logo that adorns his laminated card. Then it’s on to the elevator for the morning ride up and perhaps my favorite part of Frank’s day. I love the irony, the absurdity of it. As his body rises, literally is hoisted up toward the heavens, everything else about him begins its daily decline. Watch how he scrutinizes those

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who ride as well. There are six others onboard today. He recognizes most. But none of them will speak. And as they ascend, he assigns each a value, assesses worth based on where they get off. Those who get off first are the most inferior, to him; the next off are less inferior, and so on. Those who are still on when the lift reaches his floor are exasperatingly his betters. But he reassures himself that he’ll outlast them, just as he’s done with so many others. Though of course none of this matters, because as soon as he gets off at his floor, he’s into his next world, his real world you might say, or one of his realest. Because now he’s at work and that’s where the game’s played for keeps. No more pretending, no more idle judgements. Here is where judging is institutionalized, consequences tangible, where honor and disgrace are measured and broadcast. He steps down the hall and enters the kingdom of cubes. Subtlety’s the rule here, frivolity is discouraged outright. Here, there is serious work to be done. Frank is early today, but not early enough. Several young squires are already scurrying about, in their hurry to find favor. And, just there, did you notice Frank’s sigh? It was subtle but deep, almost a heave. Now his gait lumbers, his chin drops and his jawline is buried into the girth of his neck. Some colleagues say hello, and the time of his entrance.... It’s the game of the elevator all over again, only now it’s another version, played over who gets to work first and who comes in after. Frank swings into his cube, slings coat onto chair. And so begins another day in the life of our Frank. It’s so boring, so normal. I could scream with disgust. But I keep to myself, remain concealed. No need to spoil it all now, for the fun is about to begin.

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I know you can’t wait for the rest of Frank’s day, so you’ll have to excuse me for spoiling the surprise: he checks his emails every ten minutes, he picks away at the projects that have drifted into the flotsam that is his workload, his boss berates him to “care more,” Susan’s lawyer calls about post-divorce logistics. In all, it’s a normal day. Normal for Frank. Normal for most of the other slobs and scriveners that people this floor. Normal for the hundreds of thousands, indeed millions, in cities both great and small throughout this prosperous and preposterous democracy. But don’t shed a tear for our Frank. His life is poised to change. Tonight is the night. His night. Tonight’s when Frank and I begin our flirtation. Tonight, Frank takes steps toward rapture.

***

I imagine that as you behold this drab and humble flurry, you must wonder who pray tell am I? It is a fair question. Easy enough to answer. I am not a who, or even a what - but let’s not get into all that philosophy. Think of it like this (borrowing from the Great Schizophrenic): if all the world’s a stage, Frank’s not a player. Surely no Hamlet, not even a Reynaldo. In fact, he spends his time wondering whether he’s even been written into the script... which leaves him searching, always searching. And for those who search, there’s always a me. And if you’d prefer an alternative metaphor: what if Frank’s life were a film shown at your local cineplex? Frank, the only patron to purchase a ticket, gets to watch it in real time. Oh now spare me your well-schooled-seen-it-all sigh. It’s Frank’s fantasy, so go workshop him.

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I’m merely the tech up behind the small window, running the projector (in adherence with union guidelines... well, mostly). And so it goes, day after day, year after year. Frank watches as his drama unfolds and, though some of it makes him almost feel something, he’s mostly bored, wishes he could watch something more exciting. And before long, he begins to look forward to the end. Until at last! I come in from behind the wall to sit in the row behind him. I talk too loud and put sonic wet Willies in his ear until he’s so distracted that he actually turns away from the screen. Think about it: he turns away from the screen and toward me. And to his everlasting astonishment, he sees that I am lovely - so much so that he cannot help but reach out to me in hopes of one climactic cinematic embrace. And so it shall be... or sort of.

***

Enough about me. Let’s get back to Frank. And don’t you know, he’s still at the office? Still sopping up his flotsam, wasting precious life force on projects and tasks that no one will notice or remember. He’s in quite a deliberate mood tonight. He’s staying late - determined to be the very last doobie to leave the office. An “I’ll show them” bit of bravado. He stands, surveys the tight grid of cubes before him. He stretches his arms, yawns, and wipes his weary eyes. The cubes are finally vacant of colleagues. He prints out his work - a maze of typos and illogic - sneaks into his boss’s office and sets it neatly on the empty captain’s chair.

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As he walks back home he encounters virtually no one. He’s no longer the triumphant poseur. Now, he’s the victim. Defeated. Deflated. Insignificant. He enters his silent apartment, drops keychain into dish, and kicks off shoes to dig tootsies into vanilla. He spends a moment before the window, beholding the glamor of the city at night. Out there is where raucous and sexy lives are lived - out there, away from him, behind those warm windows. He shows his his back to the scene and goes toward bed. He hangs up suit, shirt, and tie. Then into the bathroom where he pees and brushes teeth. He won’t look at his reflection in the mirror: thinning hair, sagging face, the knowing look of loneliness and desperation. That is no sight to see at the close of day. He lays on his bed and is joined by truth. At times such as this I’ve heard him sob. But tonight he seems numb. Visions come to him, of Susan, the absence of her body next to his, the sounds of lovemaking they once generated here in this very room, the harsh efficiency with which she decided against him. Thus, we arrive at the perfect moment. I insert myself into Frank’s life. And what better way to reach out than through the magic of song? Music speaks to us all, penetrates even the coarsest callus. I slip out one slim note, a plaintive falsetto. He’s almost asleep when I call. He’ll blame it on exhaustion. He hears me and wakes, props up on elbows. He listens, but I don’t call out again - not just now. Sirens in the street below are the only noise to break the roaring silence of his bedroom. He lays his head back, perplexed but dismissive. Within moments, he is asleep. Our romance is set.

***

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He finds himself in a vivid dream. He is standing, outdoors. The air is humid but not hot, it’s like the inside of a greenhouse. He looks down at his feet; he is barefoot. His toes work into a thick mat of grass. Droplets of dew and tiny white petals speckle his arches. Before him is a wall made of field stone and irregular lengths of granite. In the wall is a space, a doorway. He steps forward and through the doorway. He is now in a passageway that leads between hedgerows. The grass beneath his feet is thick and even, slightly worn. The hedges on either side are dense vertical walls. The sky is clear and bright, but the sun is not in view, it is like those few moments at dusk when everything becomes sharper, more brilliant and rich. And across all of it, song settles like mist. The song is feminine and intimate, certainly familiar though he’s not heard it before. The song is so inviting - almost mournful, yet full with certainty and purpose. He loves this music and this place. He follows the pathway until it makes an abrupt turn to the right. He continues along in that direction until he reaches a juncture. He can go either right or left. It is a maze, a labyrinth. He realizes the song has a source. It comes from a specific location, just ahead. If he chooses the right path, he’s sure he will find it. He turns right, and walks on. He’s closer now, that much is sure. There’s another turn, and another. The lengths of passage become shorter. He does not think. He responds. He has a knack for this. At each decision point, he knows what to do, has sense for where he should turn. Then finally, he has almost arrived. Down there, just beyond that final row. He can see light shimmering on the hedge walls, as if reflecting off water. And the song, the singer, is just around the corner of this final wall. A few steps and a turn and he will be there, ready to behold.

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He reaches the end of the hedge and begins to round the turn. He’s blinded by brightness and song. Excuse me now, while I address him directly.

***

Ah, my dear Frank, how disappointing this must be. You almost made it, didn’t you? You were but steps from reaching such beauty... only to find yourself back here, in your same old bed in your same old room with your same old body and same old life. But wait. Listen. The music endures. Can’t you hear it? It’s muffled and close, not the same loftiness as before. But it is the same same song. What nonsense is this? You’re awake! This can’t be happing. It’s absurd! But it is happening. You can hear the music. You sit up in bed, lean against the headboard. You are wide awake now, you’re sure of it. This is no dream. This is real. The music seems to come from deep within your own self. You put your hand across your flaccid breast. And you can feel it, actually feel the music, as if the musician were now some sort of spirit bird that has come from dreamland and now twitters away using your ever loving self as its birdcage. This is crazy, you say. You swing your feet to the floor and walk to the bathroom. You flip the switch for the harsh white tube. Hear its crude buzzing. You splash tepid water onto your face. Confront yourself in the mirror. There is your same old face, staring back out at you, flushed but not

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florid. The expression you see is one of relief. What a strange dream. You share a grin with yourself and then flip off the light. Back in bed, you sit for a time, slumped back against the pillows. It all seemed so real. Never had a dream like that one before. It’s left you with a dull ache that throbs in your trunk, pulses out through your armpits and inner elbows and wrists. As you lay back onto your pillow. You touch your face and find that you’re crying. You miss this lovely songster, don’t you. A sweet presence alighted onto your life. And before you had a chance to know it, your fear drove it off. You turn onto your side and curl around your miserableness. You are exhausted and, just before you blunder into the subconscious, you hear. A soft, precious sigh leaks from your chest. It is a sigh that says, I am here, you haven’t lost me after all. Your spirit musician is with you to stay.

***

Day breaks and Frank arises. Adorns himself in the brightest his wardrobe can offer: olive suit, pink Oxford, and loud floral tie. It’s the outfit Susan picked out for last Easter, the one he’d refused to wear beyond just the once. He skips along to work, much later than usual, but happier than ever before. The world seems renewed, delicate and fresh. Passersby don’t fool him a bit. He sees right through each armor-like scowl to the tender soul guarded within. He wants to stop each of them, to say it’s okay, they can let go, let it all be.

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He is alone during the ascension, which gives him time to sing and gurgle with his brassy version in the polished inner panel. And when his floor comes, he feels thankful to the elevator and all the people whose labor produced his rise. But of course he cannot thank them - they are too far gone. So he turns to the day ahead, to the field of cubicles and their earnest occupants. The drabness of the scene startles. Clearly this is wrong. How can anyone flourish in a place such as this? He, Frank decides, will be the color that brightens the space. He is full up with joy, and will share of it freely. Like a virus of bliss, he will infect this floor. He stands for a moment, breathing all of them in. Then sets to work. Each person he visits needs something different. He understands and delivers whatever is required so that they might smile. Some need whispers, one needs a hug. Several cannot be coerced out of the role they’ve become; so for them he becomes their clown, their own court jester. And if he becomes their brunt, then so it shall be. He leaves them smiling, every one. Frank’s boss, the man’s named John, tries to quell this rash of foolishness. But Frank sees John for what he is: an overlord, bent on reinforcing conditions in these data mines. There are rules to this culture, and Frank knows them well. John wants to reach Frank, but John will not run, will not yell out, nor walk quickly, nor even lunge. Frank can easily stay out of reach. The floor is big. And Frank moves fast. After systematically making his way to every cube about the vast floor, Frank circles back. Eventually his job here is done. He’s touched everyone. They are all standing and watching and laughing. Well, most of them. He makes for the exit. He turns and, as they watch, he bows and bids them a fond and loving farewell. John demands that Frank stop. Nosiree, cries Frank. He’s beyond all of that.

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He turns and leaves to a muddy roar from the ranks. Some clap, others laugh, a few call after him with well wishes and words of denizen wisdom. A moment of silence in the hall of elevators. Frank pushes the down button and then the up, then ducks out the fire exit and into the stairwell. No one will catch him today. He’s too crafty by half.

***

Down on street, he’s like a love struck teen who’s stumbled upon a carnival. The vendors, street performers, even the vagrants and abusers, all seem like intimates who understand and put on their show in his honor. It’s as if they’ve been waiting for him, for this day, this moment, when he’s finally recognized them and their lively circus. He pretend-begs for roasted peanuts, shadow boxes the jugglers, curses with the vagrants, whinnies alongside mounted police, joshes with the man at the newspaper stand. The day is pure. The air clear and light. His bright garments become soiled as the day wears on. But that doesn’t matter; he’s not afraid to show the same grit as these alleyway performers, these sidewalk artisans. And, much as he enjoys himself, he’s merely biding his time. Because he’s figured something out, something important. He’s come to understand. My song is his. It is from him, of him, and exclusively for him. But it is not complete. Though it compels, it lacks it’s most important contribution. My song lacks him.

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Tonight, when he finds his way back into the dream, he will once again seek the source of the song. Only this time he will seek it with vigor and purpose. He will hurry through the maze, fast as he can. To find the voice, find me. And I will let him succeed.

***

It is night. All lights in his apartment are off; ambient light from the city below lends depth to his bedroom. His apartment key, his entire keychain, still hangs from the lock outside his closed door. He lies in bed. His shoes are off, one beside him on the floor, the other one out in the living room. His tie is loose. A button is gone from his shirt, revealing a wedge of pale belly. He is asleep within minutes, back once again at the stone entrance to the labyrinth. It is the same as before. His bare feet knead at thick grass, the corridor of hedges opens before him. The air is humid and close. All is pervaded by song. He steps forward through the space and into the maze. He moves ahead on the path and feels nimble as he makes his way. He knows each turn, he’s correct in each decision. This is familiar territory and the complexity of the pathway doesn’t slow him a whit. And then, he arrives. Before, when he reached this point, he was blinded and sent back to his bed. Tonight he is wise. He keeps his gaze low as he makes this last turn. He feels warmth, like he’s nearing a bonfire. He hears the singer turn toward him. All that is left is for him to behold. And then to join in.

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He lifts his eyes slowly, savoring each moment. A small patch of shimmering grass. Then a cylindrical stone altar of fine stones fitted together. An effervescent cumulus gathers just over the stones. And above this mass, dancing atop this celestial pyre is Frank’s sirenic temptress: the ineffable moi. But Frank is surprised, shocked, you might say. For he never expected to find me in chains. Lovely chains. Golden chains. But chains nonetheless. I am, you see, trapped. Here, atop this font at the center of this horrid maze, trapped for millennia. Until. My song. It is all that I have, my only tool to break this magic that holds me. My power lies not in an ability to gore flesh, but in song. And my task? I become free only after I fill an empty heart. No mean task - but then I am under no mean spell. Find the heart I can fill. Lure its owner to me. Make it surrender. All of this through song. And who cast this spell? Why, that hardly matters. I don’t even know - for sure, that is. But think on it: who has power enough, a cause so impenetrable, as to justify such a sentence? The greatest, that’s who, the highest of high, the composer of all, the mythic I am. And don’t you dare ask why, or it’s your name I’ll send to him, or “Him” I guess I should say. There isn’t a why. There is only now. Forgive me if I’m being stern, but I’ve been at this for ages. I’ve come across myriad candidates - there is no shortage of empty hearts, slowly expending themselves upon the earth. I’ve come close before. I’ve lured many to my gates. Led several into my corridors, some have even beheld me. But none has ever taken the final step, none has joined in. And without that step, they all became lost, of use to me no longer. But in Frank, my salvation approaches.

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Truly I say to you I almost weep for him now, for the vacant expression of rapture that he wears on his face. I could turn thunderous and fierce - send him yelping back to his bedroom in horror and shame. For the cost to him will be great if he indeed follows through, much greater than failure. And after he accepts? I know nothing about it. That’s his fate not mine. So I, as they say, close the deal. I turn full toward him, strain against my tethers, and open wide my bechained arms. I no longer look upward, projecting out over the dimensions. Now I sing only to him. With wet tears of supplication, he draws near. For him we are halves, each joining its other. He steps up onto my altar and for an eternal moment we dance. And then he lolls open his gob and offers up his meek warble in harmony to my ancient call.

***

My chains fall and are ground to golden dust beneath our dancing feet. Frank, as we’ve known him, dies.

***

Cruel, you say? Ghastly tricks? What do you know of such things? What possibly could you? I think it all went rather well. From where I now perch, like a boa lazily digesting a fawn, I’d say it was all for the best. Frank found rapture. Not such a bad fate, is it, to stand on

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an altar and sing with your soulmate? His is a garden beyond. In a matter of days his earthly concerns will be, I presume, all wrapped up. And as for me, a mother to be is just now undergoing the exhilarating pains of her first labor. I’ll soon be born to her, cast out from this garden that held me. And because of Frank’s sacrifice, I’ll possess what, in the vernacular of the time, you call an old soul. I suppose I won’t remember any of this once I am delivered. I’ll forget before I can learn to explain. But I’ll carry my knowing of it within my heart.