Evening (Conclusion)

The Mask had started to slip—a demon’s face revealed in the terrifying visage and uncontrolled rage of my father. Cracks began to appear everywhere: the growing isolation, the fear and confusion, the complete blank of my future. I couldn’t imagine what I could possibly do in this world. Where would I be able to work or live? I didn’t feel capable of anything.

The familiar green face of the Q-20 bus started to rise as it came up the hill to my left. The Q-20!  The words “College Point” lettered across the banner on top of the windshield. Back in those days they used to have a roll of canvas set in the space above the windshield with the numbers and destinations in black letters that the driver would operate with a hand-crank. Yes, it was the Q-20, alright, there was no doubt about that. The Q-20 was the very first bus I had ever ridden and the name alone carried a weight of memories that stretched back to my early childhood. Slowly it revealed itself, like a ship on the horizon, the green and white colors assuring me of it’s identity, as it rose up the hill at the end of 14th avenue. It came to a stop right in front of me as the old, accordion doors opened up as the driver pulled a lever.

I took a seat near the back. It was half empty, just a few passengers—no one I recognized, fortunately. The raking sunlight blasted through the windows and created a flickering effect that seemed to hypnotize me. Familiar landmarks washed by my field of vision; the overpass, the small patch of woods by the highway exit. I had been down this street since ancient times—the route forever stamped into my mind. Now I traveled it in a fever, hardly able to focus on anything for more than a second.

A woman stared at me from across the aisle of the bus. She must have seen that there was something wrong with me. I averted my gaze and looked to the left at the scenery flying by. I could still feel her gazing at me and the tension became intolerable. I was pinned down like a lab specimen, unable to move as time slowed down to a standstill. I felt like screaming. I couldn’t concentrate. I heard murmuring from the back of the bus and I slowly realized that others had become aware of my existence. I thought I detected a mocking sound in the air. The traffic conspired against me—long waits at intersections, missed lights, passengers getting on and off— all prolonged my torment. This was not only excruciating, but it also interrupted my fleeting and precious experience of the transition into Evening. It just wasn’t fair—why couldn’t they just leave me alone in my misery and contemplation? I thought I heard the woman say something but I couldn’t be sure if it was directed at me and I was too afraid to turn my head to see.

Gears meshed, wheels turned, cylinders pumped back and forth. My neck ached from the unbearable tension. I hated this little town filled with sadistic louts with no minds to dream with. The bus turned right onto Union Street—just as expected—the corner bar, still there; onward past the empty lots and the Garden Jewish Center as the road forked at the bottom of the hill. Up the hill we went, bearing left as the apartment complexes came into view. Up ahead, the towers of Flushing High School loomed above the tree-tops. Then the wide expanse of Northern Boulevard, as we passed the familiar row of  stores that are forever etched in my mind: Robert Hall Men’s Clothing on the corner, Aqua-Pet Hobby Den, Gum Kew Restaurant, and the great, dark, gothic facade of the YMCA. All these are now long gone save for the YMCA. Up the hill, and then the right turn onto Roosevelt Avenue as the last stop loomed up ahead at the corner of Main Street. I was drowning in a sea of memories as all the old buildings floated by in a haze of atomized and illuminated dust particles.


THE TOWN

The ancient town of Flushing still retained most of it’s former character at this time, before the complete transformation of a few decades later. This was still the old town of Flushing that I knew from earliest childhood, still holding on as the decade of the 1960’s swept through everyone’s lives and altered things forever. In my state of near delirium, the intersection of Roosevelt and Main, the buildings, the stores, the people, all seemed atomized and daubed with a thick coat of crumbling, phosphorescent paint. I moved through this gauze of pain and longing, back there in this dream town, at once familiar yet unknown to me now. A thousand scenes floated in my mind as I struggled to tear my gaze away from all this. I heard the murmurings of voices long faded from memory, reverberating down the old brick and concrete, the tops of buildings, the cornices, turrets, and architectural ornaments from another era, long before my time. My Time! Stolen from me by a wicked jester! The Precious Time! Irretrievable Time! A fine, luminous dust: all that’s left now! Once taken away and then it’s too late. You can never get it back and it’s all too late, far too late in the day, as day turns into Evening, pulling you along, calling you: hurry up! You’re already woefully late! All your classmates have already moved on and left you behind—they’re somewhere else now, out of your reach. You failed at some point along the line—you fell out of step: you’ll never catch up! As Day turns to Evening and Evening to Night . . .


NOTES SOUNDED AND LOST

You’ll fall into despair! Roads deceive you, call you down false routes, back-roads to places long dead in your dreams. The corner of Nowhere and Nowhere, the Avenue of Deceit and Despair, Wrong-Turn Road, Somewhere-Along-The-Line Road. I return every night in my dreams: streets meld and morph—elastic roads take you where they want. The bend in the lane takes you back down that familiar route right back to unlived times and unsavored places and all the precious things that you missed out on are revealed to you now.

The drama was reaching it’s apogee as I surveyed the unholy illumination at the intersection of Main Street and Roosevelt Avenue. A fearful spectacle! I paused and looked back up the hill of Roosevelt Avenue, then down Main Street towards the great old face of the RKO Keith's Theater, still intact, long before they gutted the interior and locked the doors forever. I turned again and glanced up Kissena Boulevard, towards the library and the old Prospect Theater. No time!

The light was receding very rapidly now as I waited on Roosevelt Avenue for the Q-27 bus. Purple and blue now dominating as the oranges and reds and yellows were pulled by the retreating sun around the curve of night. I got on the bus and it headed down Roosevelt towards the fleeing red and orange sky, and by this I hoped to buy more time, but I knew that we would make the left turn up ahead, as the route was deeply inscribed in my memory. The apartment buildings loomed up ahead, with the taupe and clay-colored bricks that told me to try very hard to remember when I had first set eyes on them. When? Twenty-five years ago? Echoes of places that were maddeningly familiar, yet too vague to pinpoint and the bus kept moving and there was no time to rack my brain
trying to remember. We lurched ahead, past more tantalizingly familiar buildings—but again, no time to linger. The view spun out in a movie-reel projection, too fast to contemplate, too fast to recapture. People hurried on, scuttling here and there as if their lives depended on it. Up Kissena Blvd. we went, as a feeling of despair took hold of me. The scene was half familiar and half unknown as I perceived that many changes and alterations to the landscape had occurred when I wasn’t looking or perhaps I had been distracted and hadn’t noticed. Maybe these changes were made only at night, to deceive people, to make them not notice them as if it were possible to sneak the changes in so as not to unduly upset your feelings at being raked along with the inevitable destruction of all that you once knew.

On and on, through a darkening twilight as we passed the graveyard on Utopia Parkway, strange vistas and hopeless views, all jumbled up in my increasingly distorted senses. Drawing nearer and nearer to the college as the night grabbed hold of the bus and sucked us into despair and fear.


THE CAMPUS

I got off the bus into an enveloping, ink-black cloud: the deserted campus! I knew right away that my plan had failed. 

I walked into the wide, circular area that was the main entrance to the campus. A few stragglers were making their way down the hill towards the avenue as I stood in the middle of the circle. I stayed there for some time, slowly turning and staring at the deserted buildings on the now lifeless campus and looking up at a low-hanging and hostile night-sky that offered no relief from this emptiness and isolation. Even so, I kept staring up into the blackness trying to reach out to indefinable things, memories, forgotten hopes, familiar sights: but the sky was of a low and oppressive nature, no stars or constellations visible—just a gray-black swirl of  clouds that filled me with a vague fear and unease. It was time to go back home . . .


NIGHT CODA

The blackness of the bus windows was disturbing and nightmarish—all glossy, liquid-obsidian panes. I couldn’t see outside. I wanted to drink in the night-scape of the passing streets and houses but the black-mirror panes threw my own image back at me and caused an end to my rapturous views of the town. I was confronted with the starkness of my own pale and blinking image—framed by the glossy blackness and glare of the internal lights of the bus. I was revealed to myself and thrown into stark relief—forced to contemplate my own image: the observer becomes the observed and the duality was forced upon me.

The bus was cut off from the outside world—the magic light show had come to an end—only the stark and hideous reflections in the impenetrability of the glass remained. The bus had become a world of it’s own—a night-chamber cut off from everything else. I was turned in upon myself and conscious of myself as an object and hyper-aware of my own naked psyche reflected back at me, hurtling through the night-suburb, rushing back towards the house with it’s dead relics of my childhood and the fear of entombment in the
lifelessness of the now altered childhood home.

I am left with the deep fear of a black and morbid mirror that throws back at you the image of your pale and trembling face as you churn on and on through the dense night of a city known to some as Absentia, forty long and luminous years later...


 

/// loneliness /// nostalgia /// alienation ///

Evening

ll of my friends had fallen away one by one. They had all moved on—to college, careers, and activities that I could not be a part of. I had been left behind somehow, still half-stuck in childhood, unable to make the leap into young adulthood.

The objects of my childhood still populated my room: the comic books, baseball gloves, scale-models, science fiction novels, stamp albums... they all seemed lifeless now, disturbing, as if they had all died. There was no pleasure in them now, just a vague feeling of uneasiness about the future.

I was woefully out of step. In fear and despair I had slunk back to the trails and pathways of my childhood: the marshes, the rocks by the water’s edge, the remnants of the old railroad tracks down along the shore...

I sought refuge in the town itself, in the inanimate things, in the backdrops of life, in the faces of the houses, lit up by the red-gold light of the last, slanting rays of the sun, in the saturated colors of the purple and blue shadows. The faces of the old homes were familiar, yet somehow altered by my nervous condition. It was almost as if I couldn’t quite trust them anymore. Some of these houses had harbored me in times past, but entry was now forbidden, as all that was in a time that had passed.

I re-traced my steps through the winding trails of the tall marsh-grass, perhaps disturbing a pheasant which would suddenly burst out of it’s nest in a great display of noise and beating of wings. I sat on the rocks and stared out at the bay, thinking of the times that I used to go fishing with my grandfather years ago. He was gone now and I was alone . . .

There seemed to be a gathering of forces that day, meteorological and barometric, of wind and weather that rose up to compel me out of the house. I was lured out by a certain luminosity that I could see slowly forming in the sky and reflecting on the streets and buildings and on people’s faces.
   
THE ONSET OF EVENING
The hand of the Deity had brushed wide, slashing strokes of fiery, red-gold paint that streaked between the houses and yards and trees and splashed upon the faces of the old, familiar homes across our street. The supernatural brilliance and luminosity overwhelmed my senses and made a fearful spectacle in front of my troubled eyes. Lost in a luminous solipsism, tormented by the beauty of the approaching twilight, I wanted only to connect with life. To be a part of something—anything—before it was too late!

The window panes in the houses across the street had started to catch the falling sun and blazed like mirrors. They caught the dying sun and shone it back at me like a warning: not much time left! Hurry if you want to take part in the Eveningtide!   

I could not bear to stay in my room that evening. I had hatched the idea in a state of nervous agitation. It was a desperate plan: a plan, moreover, that would surely end in failure—a foolish plan, pathetic and childish even! The alternative was too grim to consider: an agonizing night spent in my room alone with my thoughts and fears. I was consoled by the thought that even if the plan failed, at least I would be on the move—I would have my illusion of purpose, of activity, of life.

All these things conspired to drive me out of the house and into the streets. A few people milled about on the street, their lengthening shadows stretching across lawn and pavement, their faces catching a scrim of reddish light from the inexorably sinking sun. I left the house and struggled to make my way up our street, which seemed to be slanted uphill in a peculiarly exagerrated manner. All things familiar, but now seen in a new, terrible light. My old friends, the trees, were lit from within by the hazy, yellow glow of the street lamps. The black asphalt turned to a purple-violet where the trees cast their shadows.

I had the feeling that the otherworldly spectacle was mocking me, torturing me with a luminous beauty that stood in sharp contrast to my desperate loneliness and isolation. “Here is the Pageant, the Parade, the Magic Theatre, and all the wonders and fearful beauty that serve only to remind you of your own impoverishment!”  I felt as though I were moving through an illuminated box, a strange stage-set, or miniature house, lit by an unnatural spectrum of hyper-saturated colors. But all this was fool’s gold, glittering false promises that were impossible to keep. A feeling of acceleration took hold of me and I hurried on as fast as I could.

A few figures moved slowly through this brilliance, as if in a trance, the contours of their forms indistinct, as if obscured by gauze. They were lit with the same fiery spectrum as the houses and trees but they seemed thin and vaporous, incapable of speech and were merely objects in this frightful and gorgeous tableux. I thought I recognized one of them and started to raise my hand in a greeting, but saw that I was mistaken. It was no matter as my gesture went unnoticed, as if I didn’t really exist. Why didn’t they scream out in astonishment at this spectacle?  There was a silence that saturated the whole scene, as if any sounds were unnecessary and would only distract from the spectacle. There was not the slightest breeze to disturb anyone’s reveries, just a stillness that enhanced the brilliance of this light and shadow play.

I felt shame—I knew that I wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny. A sense of desperation took hold of me, of time running out. After all, evening was fast approaching and the transition from day to night was the magic time: it wouldn’t last very long—like most things! 

But let me tell you about my plan! I had almost forgotten to tell you, distracted as I was by the Magic Lantern that illuminated everything around me in our old town, back there in the time of my sad and distressed youth. This was a Friday evening, and the normal routines of the weekdays gave way to the promises of the weekend. I no longer had refuge in my weekday activities of school and it’s related undertakings. I was faced, suddenly, with no structure, no prescribed route of activities and tasks, no foundation. I was on my own. No friends, no destinations, no ideas whatsoever as to how I would fill my time on this weekend, back there in that evening of phosphorous and illuminated dust-motes sparkling in the paintbox hues in that terrifying time.

But I keep digressing! The plan, I tell you, was pathetic and childish in the extreme. I knew this and it did not deter me in the slightest. Allright then, this was my plan: to go about my business as if it were actually a weekday, instead of the weekend! I would get on the bus and ride it into the town of Flushing and then transfer to the Q-27  and take the trip to Queensboro Community College as if I were going to attend classes as I would during the regular week. Ridiculous! I fully understood that, but I went ahead with it anyway.

I reached the top of our block, up the inclining street and stood at the top of the hill on 14th Avenue. I could see the bus stop a block away. I looked back down the hill at the sight of the old town, with the view of the water of the Long Island Sound in the distance, and the Whitestone Bridge on the right. The vantage point gave a very peculiar view of things and was astonishing in the way it seemed to transform the town and surroundings. I could see our familiar red-brick house with the green roof and white trim. It seemed unearthly, set into an impossible landscape, bordered by memory and regret and lit by the fearful hues of a disturbed and desperate evening. It is not often—maybe only a few times a year—that these conditions come into being. The light and atmosphere must be at just the right concentration; the barometer and temperature at just the correct levels to produce the awesome effect. When all these elements are in place, that is the time for the onset of Evening: a light and shadow play of great luminosity, of flickering images and a sped-up sense of time.

THE SPECTACLE
It was that time when the day and night are equidistant: that brief moment of grace that reminds you that your time on this earth is limited. You must hurry! Grab hold of life! The Spectacle won’t last much longer, night is fast upon us! It’s all going to go away and you won’t have anyone to share it with.

Time at once stood absolutely still and at the same time raced into the night. You were both suspended and hurtled at the same time into the terrible transition. You were caught, captured on a whirling film-frame, lit by an unearthly projector, trapped in the play of light and image. A panic sets in as you race against the fading light. So much to do, but no time! I was propelled along the streets by my own sense of panic and desperation. The entire history of the town seemed to play itself out before me as the transition into Evening inexorably played itself out. I wanted to linger and look back at the terrible and beautiful sights that enveloped me on all sides. No time! I saw a girl walking across the street—I thought I recognized her—I had a desire to both greet her and at the same time to turn my head and hurry away. No time!

I quickly roused myself from these reveries as I realized that precious time was passing by and the town was the past—the dead past—and I needed to find life! I wouldn’t find it here!
The hopelessness of the situation filled me with fear and agitation. I felt foolish and ashamed. I hurried on my way to the bus stop. I dreaded the thought that I might see someone who knew me. I didn’t have any explanation as to where I was going or what I was doing and I didn’t think that I could create a convincing lie—I had no faith in my ability to convince anyone of anything.

Guilt! I was doing something that was very wrong and I didn’t want anyone to find out about it. I was in a nether world and I was pretending to live, even though I had no idea how to do it.

THE FALL
The Past rose up from all the streets and sidewalks and houses and overwhelmed me with a flood of voices and images. The familiar telephone poles distracted me with their thousands of rusted staples from a lifetime of signs, notices, and flyers. The old blue and white mailbox on the corner . . . It was absurd to have this sense of nostalgia at such a young age, when I should have been embracing life to the fullest. But there it was, nonetheless. Every minute, every second, seemed to be inferior to the one preceding it. My Fall had not occurred overnight, but had progresed very slowly and evenly in well-measured increments.
I must have once existed in a pure, unsullied state, where I hadn’t yet made any mistakes—where things were still O.K. Where the family was intact
and doing all the things that families are supposed to do—all the rituals, all the activities. Before things started to go wrong . . .

Before Guilt and Shame had appeared and begun to cripple me. Before Confusion and Fear took hold. Before the odd stares of the neighbors
began to signal that something had happened. Before the failing grades and adolescent terrors of Bleecker Junior High School, when it was pointed out to me that I had fallen out of step. Before the mocking voices and chants of the Predators informed me that I was not going to fit in. Before my teachers started to regard me with a certain concern and pity . . .

There must have been a time when things were still right. But when was that? It was before all the trouble—before all the pain and longing. But it was a very long time ago and I couldn’t get back there and the memories were growing very dim. It all had seemed so glorious, so bright: blazing suns, and a wash of colors and lights and every street and avenue was designed and laid out to lead you to more riches and . . . There was a sense of wonder back then, a connection to Nature and the elements that started to slowly recede and evaporate. 

TO BE CONTINUED

/// childhood /// loneliness /// nostalgia /// loss