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elionwyrThe meeting tonight wasn't bad, nor as long as I'd feared.
We just got a new crow today. I requested that we put a picture of a mallard - a picture complete with a bullseye painted over the duck's face - in the crow's cage, and just start teaching it now that Ducks Are Evil.
..No, they didn't take me seriously.
(More's the pity.)
(edited to add: Though there WERE people who DID witness Baby Crow in the dang duck pond with Duckie, valiantly defending herself against the duck's evil drowning attempts...! Oh, how maddening..)
And I left my damned purse on either the subway or the bus.
So. Stupid.
There wasn't much in it, thank goodness. Lots of business cards, so - ya know - in THEORY I should get a phone call. I also called Septa as soon as I got in the door, so the time lapse was minimal.
Now, all I can do is trust in the kindness and honesty of strangers.
...HEY! Stop laughing! It's possible!
So - yeah. I was distracted by exhaustion. And by this twiddle, which owes some of its creation to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
seanhtaylor. (Not, of course, that this is something to brag about...)
~~~~~~~
The Life Peddler
We are fascinated by the underground.
Whether it be mafia or manmade, the darkness has an inexplicable allure. Not that the beauty of underground structures isn’t obvious. It’s there, hidden in the musty scent and covered in the unexpected beauty of graffiti.
In a time when pride was taken in city construction, tile work was cemented onto these tunnel walls. It’s hard to imagine caring enough to invest so much time in art that now is stained with grime and urine.
But Once Upon a Time, Someone cared.
++++
Subways have a culture independent of anything found above ground. There are vendors wandering the length of the subway cars, hawking their wares in soft voices – CDs, incense, alternative newspapers.
You can buy anything underground. Even a new life.
Not that I believed, when I first heard the offer. The man was nondescript – dark skin, baseball hat, sweatpants, a sports jersey, a black gym bag flung over one shoulder – the kind of person we in the city are conditioned to not see. He stood beside me, taking my baffled stare as a sign of interest, and repeated the question that had initially caught my attention so hard.
“New life, Mister?”
Guessing at his game, I answered, “Not interested. I stopped looking for God a long time ago.” I tried to match the flippant response with a practiced eyeroll – and stopped in mid-glance when I saw the expression on his face.
“I don't deal in gods. I deal in lives.” He pursed his lips. “Rewrites, guess you could say.”
What a con. What a perfect fantasy. And maybe my momentary longing showed a little too strongly in my face, because the stranger leaned in closer and smiled at me. “Sure would be nice, bein’ able to start over.”
Start over. Get away from a life where I hated my job, my lover – hell, just about anything that touched me. Geographical cure be damned...what if I could just wipe the slate clean?
“What exactly are you selling?”
Another smile. “Not sellin’. Not exactly. You give me your life, and you get to pick up where someone else left off.”
I stared. “That’s insane.”
He shrugged, and moved to leave. I grabbed his arm. “Wait. Just..wait. Explain to me a little more.”
The man shifted his bag, unzipping it partway to reveal its contents: various bottles, most looking to have once contained small amounts of liquor, all now containing bright shiny bits of fog. “A life for a life. That’s all.”
“This is a little too Devil and Daniel Webster,” I grumbled.
“Never had the pleasure. Though I hear Danny was alright.”
I took another long look at the man waiting patiently before me. He was crazy. Obviously. Or he was working for the enemy of the God I didn’t follow in the first place. Regardless...There was just no way I was going to take one of his bottles. And I guess my decision showed, because – without a word – he closed up his bag, brushed a finger against his hat, made his way to the next subway car.
That was a few weeks ago. There’s been no sign of him since. Which is a little unusual – we who ride public transit become a small family of sorts, because we follow the same travel schedule. You get to know the faces that share these thin metal walls with you. You know who belongs...and who doesn’t.
No, the life peddler hasn’t come back. Maybe it’s because you only get one shot at trading in your life. But if I see the man again, I don’t think I’ll resist his sales pitch twice. Because maybe I understand better now exactly who it is that cares about the underground. And maybe I was wrong about not seeking a god. And maybe - just maybe - I'm ready to make a trade.
Truth be told, now I’m curious what another’s life might taste like.
We just got a new crow today. I requested that we put a picture of a mallard - a picture complete with a bullseye painted over the duck's face - in the crow's cage, and just start teaching it now that Ducks Are Evil.
..No, they didn't take me seriously.
(More's the pity.)
(edited to add: Though there WERE people who DID witness Baby Crow in the dang duck pond with Duckie, valiantly defending herself against the duck's evil drowning attempts...! Oh, how maddening..)
And I left my damned purse on either the subway or the bus.
So. Stupid.
There wasn't much in it, thank goodness. Lots of business cards, so - ya know - in THEORY I should get a phone call. I also called Septa as soon as I got in the door, so the time lapse was minimal.
Now, all I can do is trust in the kindness and honesty of strangers.
...HEY! Stop laughing! It's possible!
So - yeah. I was distracted by exhaustion. And by this twiddle, which owes some of its creation to
seanhtaylor. (Not, of course, that this is something to brag about...)~~~~~~~
The Life Peddler
We are fascinated by the underground.
Whether it be mafia or manmade, the darkness has an inexplicable allure. Not that the beauty of underground structures isn’t obvious. It’s there, hidden in the musty scent and covered in the unexpected beauty of graffiti.
In a time when pride was taken in city construction, tile work was cemented onto these tunnel walls. It’s hard to imagine caring enough to invest so much time in art that now is stained with grime and urine.
But Once Upon a Time, Someone cared.
++++
Subways have a culture independent of anything found above ground. There are vendors wandering the length of the subway cars, hawking their wares in soft voices – CDs, incense, alternative newspapers.
You can buy anything underground. Even a new life.
Not that I believed, when I first heard the offer. The man was nondescript – dark skin, baseball hat, sweatpants, a sports jersey, a black gym bag flung over one shoulder – the kind of person we in the city are conditioned to not see. He stood beside me, taking my baffled stare as a sign of interest, and repeated the question that had initially caught my attention so hard.
“New life, Mister?”
Guessing at his game, I answered, “Not interested. I stopped looking for God a long time ago.” I tried to match the flippant response with a practiced eyeroll – and stopped in mid-glance when I saw the expression on his face.
“I don't deal in gods. I deal in lives.” He pursed his lips. “Rewrites, guess you could say.”
What a con. What a perfect fantasy. And maybe my momentary longing showed a little too strongly in my face, because the stranger leaned in closer and smiled at me. “Sure would be nice, bein’ able to start over.”
Start over. Get away from a life where I hated my job, my lover – hell, just about anything that touched me. Geographical cure be damned...what if I could just wipe the slate clean?
“What exactly are you selling?”
Another smile. “Not sellin’. Not exactly. You give me your life, and you get to pick up where someone else left off.”
I stared. “That’s insane.”
He shrugged, and moved to leave. I grabbed his arm. “Wait. Just..wait. Explain to me a little more.”
The man shifted his bag, unzipping it partway to reveal its contents: various bottles, most looking to have once contained small amounts of liquor, all now containing bright shiny bits of fog. “A life for a life. That’s all.”
“This is a little too Devil and Daniel Webster,” I grumbled.
“Never had the pleasure. Though I hear Danny was alright.”
I took another long look at the man waiting patiently before me. He was crazy. Obviously. Or he was working for the enemy of the God I didn’t follow in the first place. Regardless...There was just no way I was going to take one of his bottles. And I guess my decision showed, because – without a word – he closed up his bag, brushed a finger against his hat, made his way to the next subway car.
That was a few weeks ago. There’s been no sign of him since. Which is a little unusual – we who ride public transit become a small family of sorts, because we follow the same travel schedule. You get to know the faces that share these thin metal walls with you. You know who belongs...and who doesn’t.
No, the life peddler hasn’t come back. Maybe it’s because you only get one shot at trading in your life. But if I see the man again, I don’t think I’ll resist his sales pitch twice. Because maybe I understand better now exactly who it is that cares about the underground. And maybe I was wrong about not seeking a god. And maybe - just maybe - I'm ready to make a trade.
Truth be told, now I’m curious what another’s life might taste like.
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Date: 2003-04-17 12:07 am (UTC)Re:
Date: 2003-04-17 05:14 am (UTC)Thanks for the feedback. :)