by Tebra Mekky
It was one of those nights. He already knew his feelings were only going to intensify as the night wore on and he would eventually skip work the next day. There was no use fighting it, so he simply put on his winter coat, turned off the apartment lights, and exited the apartment building.
His first stop was a shabby jazz bar only five minutes away from his apartment complex. He took a left turn off the corner of his street and walked straight ahead past the local supermarket before arriving at the short flight of stairs to the bar entrance. It was ten minutes before midnight. The neon JAZZ sign above the bar door was flashing blue, indicating that the bar was still open.
He pushed open the bar door and was met by the familiar dim lighting of the space. In the center of the bar was a circular stage illuminated by a spotlight streaming warm yellow light. Quickly surveying the area, he settled on the sofa of the booth farthest away from the entrance. The band of the evening was playing a blues tune he only distantly recognized. His eyes wandered to the bassist of the band, who was plucking the notes in a steady rhythm. He envied her ability to care enough to practice and perform in front of an audience. It had been months since he’d picked up his own instrument, and his perception of his own musical capabilities made him hesitant to begin again.
A waitress came up to his booth and took his order, and he returned his attention to the musicians, this time focusing on the lead guitarist’s concentrated face as he improvised over the steady chords played by the rhythm guitarist. The band performed as a singular, united entity, each player complementing the others’ playing. That’s what makes a good band: the players all being in sync with each other. He remembered hearing or reading about that somewhere.
The waitress brought him his order fifteen minutes later. Gulping down his drink, he continued to watch the band go through their set list. His eyes wandered from the drummer’s sticks hitting the snare drum to the singer gripping the microphone soulfully until his eyes finally fell upon a small bundle of light in a window near the entrance door. It looked like a small, pulsating flame. He was in no rush to follow it—in his experience, it would still be waiting for him when he was ready to leave the bar. After finishing his fries, he ordered the check, paid, and exited the warmth of the bar, welcoming the cold embrace of an empty street.
What little adventure are you taking me on today? he thought. The light led him away from the main roads of the city into a maze of alleyways and downtrodden roads until he found himself at the steps of a small Gothic church. The church was completely dark except for a little light from a window of its highest tower. He let out a sigh and sat down on the steps of the church. The light had disappeared, and he wasn’t quite sure where he was anymore. He didn’t mind being lost; however, it perplexed him that the light would take him to a church, of all places. Religion was something he had been resentful of for a very long time. Still, there was a certain serene quality to the church, so he lingered at the steps for a little while longer. As he looked up at the spikes surrounding the hexagonal roof structures protruding from the building, a feeling of melancholy washed over him. The building felt ancient. He wondered how long it had stood here—and how long it would remain after he and everyone he knew were gone. It evoked feelings of peace and futility in equal measure.
The church was surrounded by a multitude of tall, thin trees that created a path leading to the back of the church. Curious, he walked down the cobblestone path until he arrived at the gate of a cemetery that was illuminated only by a small lamp hanging on the wall of the church. Looking out at the tombstones, he felt his breath deepen.
“All you can do is pray for her now, dear. That’s the best you can do for her.”
That is what they had told him when she died. His grandparents, his father, his relatives had all said the same thing. He was young, so he prayed. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was praying for, but he prayed nonetheless. Remembering loss was something he tried to avoid at all costs. He didn’t believe he had the capacity to process it properly and heal, so most of the time he’d fend off the thought for as long as he could. At times though—times like these—the thought would creep up on him, and he wouldn’t have the energy to fight it off, so he was confronted with it whether he liked it or not.
The light reappeared at the foot of the path, signalling that it was time to go. It led him on a different route back to the city this time, and he proceeded to walk farther to the opposite side of where the church stood, toward the more suburban area of the city. The buildings began to shrink more and more, and the streets emptied except for the occasional person taking a midnight stroll not unlike his own. He went up a hill where the first townhouses started to appear, brightened only by lampposts situated on either side of the road. Soon he was guided off the main roads and found himself aimlessly wandering between the cluster of two-story houses. He’d never visited this part of the city before—there was never any reason to. Families with children mostly lived here, of which he had neither.
The light eventually led him to a quaint pavilion in the middle of a small garden before disappearing once again. He wasn’t sure why the light had let him here and didn’t bother trying to think of an answer. Tired from the walk, he slumped down against a marble statue of a young woman centered among the pillars of the pavilion. Reaching into the inner pocket of his coat, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Smoking seriously harms your health” was sprawled on it in bold capital letters. His father had always hated cigarettes.
During his teenage years, he’d often hung out with some friends in abandoned parking lots to smoke, and one day his father had caught him. His father hadn’t confronted him then; he had always hated making a scene in public. When he got home that evening, his father was sitting in the living room and didn’t utter a single word to him. He went into his bedroom and shut the door.
He pulled out a cigarette and lit it before turning around and looking at the statue. The figure of a young woman was situated on a marble square, decorated with a plaque inscribed with the following words:
someone will remember us I
say
even in another time
—Sappho, “If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho”
The subject of memory was something that had always caused him anxiety. Despite not particularly enjoying reminiscing about his past, he was often troubled by the idea of being forgotten by others. One day, he would be forgotten by everyone who’d ever known him. Not mattering enough to be remembered fondly by anyone was a recurring and deeply unsettling thought for him.
He waited for the light to reemerge, and soon enough it appeared by the lamppost closest to the pavilion, leading back toward the heart of the city. The light guided him on a path that he seemed to recognize this time—he knew where they were going. This time the light floated next to him, and they walked toward the city square together, taking a few familiar left and right turns until they ended up by the river. He would often come to sit by the river to read or watch flocks of ducks swim together and fight over the bread that was thrown to them by other visitors. He liked the smell of the air near the water and the greenery of the riverbank. In the evenings, he enjoyed the crowds of people that would gather by the bank to drink and dance and laugh. And when the evening finally turned into night and most people had gone home, he simply sat and enjoyed the moonlight reflected on the peaceful water.
The light was waiting for him by the bench he usually sat on when he came to the river. He sat down, but the light didn’t disappear this time. He had arrived at the end of tonight’s excursion.
The recurring thought of running away made its way to the surface of his consciousness.
He imagined a boat floating toward him, stepping into it, and being carried away. He imagined that running away this time would do him good. He knew it wouldn’t, but for a moment he wanted to conjure a reality where it could. After all, he’d come to this city in the first place because he was running away. Leaving his hometown had felt like the ultimate solution to his feelings of perpetual loneliness. But when the excitement of the new city and a new life wore off, he felt the familiar feeling of something not being quite right overtaking him once more. He wanted to blame the city for how he felt, just as he’d blamed his hometown for it. But this time he knew he couldn’t assign the blame on where he lived. The boat he longed for wouldn’t take him very far.
So he sat by the river for a while, with his little bundle of light gleaming beside him. As morning slowly crept in, and the sky began to light up, the bundle’s intensity started to fade. In the morning, he would have to check back in with reality and put his thoughts of escape on hold. The morning would bring with it the disconnect from reality he used to keep going. He savoured the few moments he had left before the sun would come up and his little bundle of light would disappear completely.
One day, he thought, maybe he’d be able to catch the light.