The Walk

It’s Friday night in anywhere and everywhere America. This moment in time finds him sitting in an old well-worn chair on the front porch. His body appears relaxed, but the face alludes to some other state. His brow is somewhat furrowed, the eyes have a glazed intensity to them, and the mind is in overdrive. He’s thinking, searching, and not finding the answer. There he sits, dwelling on the question that has often puzzled him.

Slowly he gets out of the chair and starts walking, seeking the answer to his thoughts. He passes by the corner grocer, gazes into the local liquor store, crosses the street while the “do not cross” signal is flashing. The quiet movements of his worn and tattered sandals mark his progress. He walks on looking but not seeing, listening but not hearing. Finding the answer is the single focus of his absentmindedness.

Arriving at the gigantic cinema he crosses the bustling parking lot. Boisterous high-schoolers, love-struck couples, and the middle-aged emerge from their cars. He goes inside. After buying a ticket to the latest blockbuster he finds a seat in the crowded theater. The mingling of butter saturated popcorn and slurp of sugary sodas identifies this place. A piece of gum has attached itself to his shoe. He watches the movie searching for the answer. The film contains all the necessary tears and triumphs, love and loss, life and death. The movie ends. He walks out in silence. Outside the wind brings fresh air. The cinema did not contain the answer.

A few dollars poorer and a bit deafer he wanders onward. In the distance a train whistle blows. At the next corner he looks first to the left and then to the right, or was it first to the right and then to the left? For no reason he starts walking to the left. He passes some nondescript modern art sculpture and pauses at a streetlight to read the posters. A few minutes later he is walking up the marble steps of the local library. As he enters the librarians look up from their reading; it’s uncommon to find someone in the library on a Friday night. He walks past the long tall stacks of science-fiction, self-help, Westerns, and religious books. At the back of the library he browses through literature in its truest and most revered form, the classics. He turns the pages of Dickens, Shakespeare, Allcot, Vern, and many others. They all write about interesting things in interesting ways, but it is not what he is seeking. The intercom announces the library is closing. He walks out empty-handed, his question still unanswered.

The night outside has taken on a slight chill and he raises the collar of his jacket against the cold. Except for a few passing cars the streets are quiet. Through the drawn curtains of the houses he passes can be seen the dull blue glow of televisions; the people inside watching some manufactured reality until they become tired and go to bed. An ambulance speeds past, its siren blaring. He hears music coming from a bar and steps inside. The bar has the familiar mix of stall beer, cigarette smoke, and sweat. The atmosphere is loud and energized. After a few minutes he has a glass of overpriced cheap beer. Some band is playing and he makes his way towards the stage. Around him the young and pushing middle-age sit or stand in small clusters. Bits of their beer-altered-state sentences reach his ears. Most of it doesn’t make sense and all of it is meaningless. He finds an empty seat. It’s not difficult to find a single seat anyplace these days. The band is good, but not great. He finishes his beer and orders another from the scantily clad waitress; less clothing equals better tips. The music stops and another band begins their set. Their music is more slow and sultry. The dancers begin to swing and sway with the rhythm. A girl turns and begins to talk to him. She is mildly attractive and they talk. He orders two shots and another round of beers. He’s getting buzzed and she’s drunk. In her alcohol induced state she thinks he’s sweet and sensitive. She communicates this through touch. After a few more rounds she suggests they go back to her place for a “wild fun time”. He leaves, but alone. Bars and romance don’t contain the answer to his question.

It’s early in the morning and he’s drunk. He walks on a bit unsteadily. He passes by a quaint stone chapel. He goes up to the door, opens it, looks in, and turns away. In a roundabout way he begins to make his way back to the chair on the porch. His route passes through upper-class neighborhoods, nondescript subdivisions, and rundown trailer parks. A dark forest lies ahead. He enters it along a small dirt path that leads to a small grassy meadow. He’s no longer sure if this is the way back. Drunk and tired he lies down beside a creek. His head falls back and his body sprawls out on the dewy grass. His alcohol glazed eyes gaze into the starry night sky. Beside him the movement of water over rocks creates a rippling sound. Except for these things the night is dark and silent.

Beside the rippling creek in the quiet grassy meadow, staring into the starry sky, his tired mind and body continue to search for the answer. He has been asking the question for a long time and has not found the answer. He may never find the answer. He does not know what he is looking for. As he lays there, his intoxicated body sprawled out on the dew soaked grass, he finds the answer. He finds what he has been searching for. No one else is around. He can not share the answer with all the others who search for the answer. He simply lays there.