Holocaust of Souls

Holocaust of Souls

He was perched on an apple crate like a pigeon standing above a recently discarded chilidog, His eyes bulged; reminded me of a frog I once knew. The words erupted from his mouth tinged with molasses. He held a book in one hand and an old copy of Gideon’s bible in the other. He was dressed in bib overalls, his plaid shirt tucked neatly under its shoulder straps. The collar, although stained with the remnants of a hurriedly eaten lunch at Saint Abagail’s Mission on 135th street and Clandestine Avenue, adequately encompassed his worn paisley tie. I couldn’t help but wonder why he chose this particular corner to preach; possibly two people a day wandered by; one of them more than likely lost, the other being me with little to do.

I could tell he was possessed by the cold. The wind off the river in November can be duplicitous. He held his Good Book in one hand, and in the other a tattered copy of “From Where the Winds Come,” a story of indentured love in the throes of an upcoming depression. Every so often he’d shudder as if it were his last breath. The wind blew the leaves, candy wrappers, and unread newspapers down the street, accompanied by the dust of eternity from beneath unmade beds, and placed by design on the walk upon which we stood.

A periodic trumpet blast of wind would cause a cloud of swirling regret to shroud him. He’d dab at his eyes with a kerchief, but not betray the cadence of his message. He appeared impervious to the conditions, while his eyes focused on the roof of the building across the street. I could see nothing dissimilar from what has always been- a backdrop for Norman Rockwell’s nostalgic penance; a rusty water tower, a parapets cement cap resting precariously on what remained of its moorings, and a flock of Tumbler pigeons attempting unsuccessfully to tango with the wind.

His words, rising and falling with the intent of his message; falsetto and bass dissipating into the silence, disturbed only by the rustling of fallen leaves. Despite the visible wind he continued to look to the roof top, as though expecting a miracle to find the street. I had turned my back to avoid the sting of revenge, watching his words articulated with the precision of a maestro with a broken baton. I looked into the scene mirrored by the glass from the abandoned building across the way, and could see the reflection of a slice of my world; the old woman lulled by his words asleep on a bench, the apple crate, its faded wood, and busted slats, leaves dancing to the unseen music of motion and time, and my perplexed image searching for the colorless image of a street corner preacher.

His words continued to find me as I turned to the soft purr of the sleeping woman, and the last image I remember; a wind that was, and then…wasn’t.

His words ended abruptly accompanied by a triumphant snort from the old woman, she shook her head like a dog after leaving the waters of unclaimed bodies, in an attempt to rid herself of the reality of her dream. She pushed herself from the bench and stepped incrementally toward the corner, turned, and disappeared, leaving only the echoes of crushed leaves and the imprint of his voice to keep me company.

I do not believe spirits should waste their time on me; I have nothing to offer but indecision and skepticism. I heard no complaint, and assumed I was correct about assumptions that are self-serving and unpredictable, sometimes prophetic just to spite themselves. The words began again as the crate complained unceremoniously, becoming thunderous as the dust coagulated and began to form the image of a vision from minutes before; possibly two thousand years from the past, it made little difference to him or me.

“What is it you want? "His words regaining their previous confident stature; his voice now a melody of inquest and rejection, the words no longer hosting meaning, but questions.

What did I want? His query reminding me of my quest to define the difference between want and need.

“I want for nothing, I need nothing that I can’t possess, should I exchange time for substance, and believe the answer repeated so often, I can’t take it with me, although I’d like to!” My answer unashamed, knowing his thoughts had moved on while mine remained immoveable.

He appeared to stop his deliberate process of evaluation to question his own question; his eyes in search of the relevance we give any word that becomes the soul’s caddy. “You do not believe that destiny or fate represents you in the moment? One will lead you in search of the beginning of a circle, and the other will do likewise, but with more authority. You must choose which path to explore depending on what you seek. I would have you ponder the question, “Will the world end because you want it to, or they need it to?... metaphorically of course!”

His words and vision slowly dissipate as the high school band tuned from Obscurity and Vine street, marching toward me, their drums keeping time with my thoughts, the horns chasing reason into the alleys of doubt that now surrounded my quest. Was it a question, or a request? Often times I mistake one for the other, which alters the indecision in my answer, as it depends like the coordinated steps on the street, more on the rhythm than the noise. “The perception of all things depends on the freedom it is allowed to exert on itself,” the echo of an ecclesiastic proverb yet unwritten.

His words again conjuring dreams of mansions, limousines, and manicured lawns, leaving only the aftertaste of the timeless pursuit of an invisible dream which hangs like a Christmas plumb just out of your reach, unless you are prepared to trade something for it. But what is it I have to trade that is not a part of my want?

There are stories of a man who traded his soul for the ability to live through his music, only to have his life stolen on a dare, while others it is claimed have traded their essence to see a camel attempt to pass through the eye of a needle. Whether it be walking on water or having wine preform the miracle of turning bread into fishes, it appears to be a game of satisfaction, where you can’t always get what you want, but end up wanting what you need.

But what if I choose not to play? Will I be damned if I do, or damned if I don’t? Sometimes things become so unimaginably unmanageable that you leave the answers to the dice that appear to roll by the forces exerted by physics which dictate why we continue to revolve around a blinding sun that reminds us of beaches, luxury hotels, and boardwalks, when it is minus degrees Celsius in your mind.

Like the earth, we follow the reasoning that leads us back to where we began. Sometimes more appreciative, and at others reticent to join the need because the results are predictably the same, tumultuous, but with little chance of rain.

The old woman returns with the shuffling sound of a steam locomotive carrying a bag of fortitude and a question that I feel, although it deserves an answer, I may not be the one to ask. “But you are the only one here!”

The church bells ring as the climate breathes a contented sigh of resignation. A chariot of fire comes down the street hurtling toward me, us. The old woman remaining steadfast in her resolve to take whatever she can with her. “I’ve earned it!” she proclaims as she pulls her cart of unfulfilled wishes and disappearing determination toward the curb for a closer look her the inflamed chariot.

The bells have quit their appeal and the only worshiper has become lost in the holy water fount that suffices, when cleansing water for clarity is needed. The trenchcoated man finds a unoccupied confessional, where he waits for the confessor while contemplating the meaning of a chariot of fire on an Ash Wednesday afternoon. The consuming days of Christmas have become evident as the wanted posters arrive on a cloud, and the congested airwaves circumvent the celebration of Thankful giving, and fade in the thoughts of those hoping to pawn memories in hopes of winning the lottery, making all wants affordable and needs redundant.

The priestess has failed to arrive, the traffic snarls at the hacked semaphores who argue over their right to choose, despite the law that has been revoked because of outstanding tickets compiled by enforcers who believe heaven waits for no man, for the need for compliance is a personal craving that trumps those that go to the court of public approval for validation.

The street has turned to molten desires, and bulbs of many colors intermittently flash their approval as the chariot skids to a reluctant stop to ask, “Do you have need for any… and would it make a difference if it were free?” I was confused as to who the question was for, until the old woman at the end of the block raised her hand and shouted, “Armageddon comes to often to be considered an Emmy. I suggest we stay within the confines of want and need, wager on what shows up first, then declare the winner last, and the loser first! But there has to be someone clapping or how will we know who won?”

I have to wonder about old people, they seem to have seen too much, and remember too little to remain a barometer of whether it is too late to pray or act, or if we should simply resign ourselves to the fate we have interpreted to mean being human, exempts us from taxation without interpretation. There are no longer rules when social security has been labeled a thing of the past by those who believe the sky is falling, only on us, but never on them, according to the New Farmer’s Almanac.

The old woman has shuffled back and stands before me. She opens her sack and question marks jump into the skeletal dust and are swept into the church by the wind, where the man seeking absolution from his needs claims all he wants is to be left alone, but only when he can afford it.

The clouds have begun to darken, the rain has begun to fall, the chariot of skepticism is swept away by an over exuberant river as the ground shakes. A vortex of tomorrows sweeps what is left of our today into a nonrelevant future, leaving only uncashed memories whose shelf life has expired.

“You’d best get a move on. Don’t want to lose out on the opportunity…only 40 days till Christmas.” Black Fridays are once again abundant, and all’s right with the credit world. She calls to me from the kitchen, I force myself from the chair knowing, I’ve only 30 more years to endure the spell of normalcy, unless Armageddon hears my prayers and intervenes. “I learned a long time ago what a woman can do to your soul!” I respond, she laughs conspicuously. I no longer protest the words of the profit written on the subway walls, for all to see, should you be paying attention. You should consider doing that as well! It is nonfattening, delicious, and inspiring.