Dead end street

As he cornered the narrow street, he decided it was time to go through the vast wall of his personal sadness. Bewildered he saw the light flickering among the few distant trees and took a thought about how soon this would be over and how he would be forgotten from all friends and foes. Two or three raindrops fall upon his bald head. Rain was always present but he kept avoiding it by walking in and out the pillars of the covered sidewalks.

Was it him or the city was no longer the same? He kept wondering when it was the last time he had a good time by simply walking the gray streets, walking in and out different stores, books, cds, papers, boardgames passing in front of his wide opened eyes. He tried many times to recreate this somehow old ritual, but he kept failing. An empty space was the sidewalks and black holes were the stores, the rain was nothing more than a disturb where it used to be a reason to go out and wander in the city.

He knew that over a certain age limit surprises were absent but he kept insisting on finding them to all the spots he had been through the last fifty years. Deep inside he wished he met again, suddenly, at the next corner, his first love, the one that had painted his youth in one color over the other, believing that this could be the solution into not getting older than he was right at this very moment.

A dark haired person walked by him rolling a bicycle, an old bicycle, a wreck of a bicycle, that made all kind of metallic sounds plus one more, the clicking of a plastic bag filled with something knocking again and again on the rusted bicycle. He step aside letting him pass. Wasn’ t him cold, wasn’ t he wet, wasn’ t he all alone making these steps so far from his fatherland? The only thing binding the immigrant to his home was this bicycle, same as the bicycle he has been riding until that awkward moment that life turned into something else.

He then entered the old building, crossed the small entrance hall, on Saturdays it was completely empty, offices were closed and the few singles from the deserted neighborhood were about to come and take away some hot food two hours later, walked into the canteen where a pleasant smell of well cooked food was filling the air. He breathed deep and took a seat next to the exit door which was facing the backyard of the building. From here the rain was more than acceptable, the droplets passing through the opened door were keeping him from falling back on his chair and start pitying himself on his fifty years loss of a lifetime. He forced himself to have one more sip of the free red wine that the canteen was offering with every Saturday meal, a teaser to attract customers on a silent day.

Feeling a little comfort he left the building and walked to the bus stop remaining intentionally out of the shelter. A ten years old boy and a wife were at home waiting to have lunch with him. He switched off the phone and entered the first passing bus without even noticing the destination. Thirty minutes later he was at another bus stop, riding another bus to another unknown destination and he kept doing this for more than two hours.

The last stop was outside a large university building. The guard of a private company was looking at him confused. He walked against him only to see him getting up from his chair and sliding the window open, then he changed direction, passed him by and cornered an unknown street in this unknown neighborhood. Wet eucalyptus trees were infusing the air with their odor and two bicyclists passed him by driving in colored clothes to the adjoining mountain.
A strange mark of the man he used to be.

He counted the years to his last ride with his friends on this same route. Eleven. The number was relentless. Eleven. No one was to blame on this. He had choose to present himself as a busy part time writer and left everything behind. Or better, aside. Everything disturbing his peace, the newly created peace that was important for him in order to write the subdued high end masterpiece. Work was no longer a worry. He kept on spending eight hours a day in his office spending most of the time imagining himself as a successful writer cocooning inside a dull company office.

He turned right following the smell of freshly fried potatoes. The low houses with only four squared meters yard in front of them took him to a place he never had been, to a village beside an unknown seashore, to a neighborhood he never resided in, to mothers and children he never had met, to a loss he only had heard of.

The third bicycle was simply standing against a wall, all wet, all vivid, so vivid as he never had seen a bicycle again. He rang the bicycle bell. A child munching something probably delicious came out of the kitchen door looking at him puzzled.
“Mom” he yelled “There is a gentleman here!”. A woman wiping her hands came out of the door putting her head right over her son’s head.
He invented a question. Was Mrs. Anna living here or has she left or he is mistaken on the exact location? Mrs. Anna wasn ‘t there of course, he saluted with a smile, the two fourths of that family disappeared in the kitchen with a polite smile, too. He stayed there for two more minutes. He then rung the bell again. The woman came out with her husband this time, but always smiling at him. “May I have a fried potato or two?” he asked at a low voice. Raining had stopped.