The Fog
A dense fog came in from the sea, poised above the houses just a few blocks away, hiding the rest of the world. Near the border, where the city became nothingness, Colin could make out the wisps of vapor, running like ghosts, as the fog negotiated with open air how far it would creep. He knew if he approached the fog his view would penetrate it. He just had to get there.
He scratched his sandpaper chin, surprised at the stubble. This place is terrible, he thought, it doesn’t even have proper mirrors. And this glass. He reached out and touched the window, his focus shifting to the surface itself, where a small grid of threads appeared, the hidden but not quite invisible strength of the glass. As he did this he saw a man outside, suspended in the air, a flying man who has escaped. First he felt excited, then a sinking feeling, when he saw the man was hovering, maintaining a constant height.
“Hello Colin,” a voice said behind him. Colin straightened, first afraid the person behind him would see his secret angel, then let down to realize that the speaker was who he’d seen, apparently hovering, in the window’s reflection. He turned around.
The guard that called himself Steve was rolling his weight back and forth between his heels and toes. Colin imagined his thoughts; “Heel, toe, heel toe.” Colin buried his thoughts of escape, lest his own thoughts could be divined so easily.
“Good morning, Colin.”
“Morning.”
“Nice Day.”
“Is it?” slipped out of Colin’s mouth.
“Sure. I like the fog.”
“Or course you do.”
“Love the fog, man, hate sunny days.” Mr. Davis’ high-pitched voice slipped into the room just before his body. Colin grimaced to himself, wondering how often he’d be snuck up on today. Mr. Davis was also the only person Colin had shared his plans with.
“Mr. Davis,” Steve held up both hands in a strange motion, as if preparing for a hug or miming the lifting of a box. He looked vaguely like a robot, his arms moving together. His programming revealed itself.
“You like the fog, Mr. Davis?” Steve asked
“Sure I do. I run hot and I don’t want to get burned. Hard being out there, connecting these I-beams.”
“Where do you think you are, Mr. Davis,” Steve asked, then gave me a malevolent wink.
“You should know Mr. Kowolski, I’m here laying the frame for another one o’ these high rises here on Madison Avenue. Don’t think I don’t appreciate the job. I hope you know I take it very seriously.”
“Who do you think I am, Mr. Davis?”
“Why, Mr. Kowolski, the foreman. But I’ll stop dillydallying as you like to say and get back to…” Mr. Davis looked down at the floor, and then around the room. “Where’s my hammer? Where am I?” He looked back at Steve. “I thought I was outside. I’m not though. And you aren’t Mr. Kowolski.”
“No,” Steve said.
“Course not. I see your uniform. You the mailman.”
Steve smiles. “No.”
“A doctor?”
“No, Mr. Davis.”
“Of course not. You’re Al Grayson, here to fix the plumbing. You’d think I could do it myself, but I was never good with pipes.
“No, Mr. Davis,” Steve said.
“Well, you must be my neighbor, Don.” He looked at Colin. “And his father.” Colin grimaced. He wanted to grab Mr. Davis by his shoulders and shake him and yell I’m not the old man, you are, but what would be the point? He’d forget the whole thing in a few minutes, as he had already forgotten his entrance into the room. The poor bastard was standing on a steppingstone over to sea of his memory, creating imaginary stones as he went along.
Steve’s lips stretched into a gargoyle grin. “My father? What an honor.” He winked at Colin, who quickly looked down, afraid to hold eye contact too long. “Well, I’ll let you two catch up,” Steve said, and Colin watched his shadow slide from the floor. Colin looked up slowly, afraid he might still be there, crouched and holding on to the ceiling. He was alone, except for Mr. Davis with his perpetual furrowed brow and half grin. Somewhere, deep down, did he realize how hard he was working to stay in the present, or did he only know on the surface, between his eyes?
“Freddy,” he suddenly said, breaking Colin’s gaze, “going to the pool hall? Wish I could but I’ve got work to do.”
“Yes, of course,” Colin replied. He saw no reason to hand Mr. Davis what would only slip through his fingers.
“Running away are you?” Colin’s eyes darted to Mr. Davis, then the hallway to see if anyone overheard, then back to Davis. Had he remembered Colin’s plans? Why had he been foolish enough to vent, prideful enough to boast?
“Have you told anyone?”
“Course not,” Davis said.
“Well, keep quiet.”
“Sure Jimmy. Wish I was going with you but I have to take care of my lil brother.”
“Your…brother?”
“I could pack you some peanut butter and jelly. Wait here.” Mr. Davis walked into the hallway, looked both ways, then vanished, in search of the kitchen of his childhood.
Colin’s eyes held to the last spot he’d seen the man, making sure he didn’t reappear, or maybe Steve or that other one. There were only white walls and linoleum, bathed in fluorescent light, and sounds whose echoes merged together. Colin closed his eyes, releasing the breath he’d been holding.
“I’ve got to go now,” he whispered. “I’ve got to get out of this place.” He looked out the window one last time, first at the ghostly wall of fog, then bus stop out front. He didn’t check his pocket for change nor grab an overnight bag. He simply walked out of the room and down the hallway toward the stairs with the last two words “this place” bouncing around his head. He paused at the door, his fingertips resting on the wood. An image flashed in his mind of a man standing just where he was, pushing away the guards and screaming for his parents. Was it Davis? No, one of the others. The apparition faded and he pushed the door open. The stairwell was as full of silence as the hallway of echoes. He leaned forward and saw, 2 floors below, the light coming through the window of the front door. He would be that light now. He stepped quietly, afraid of his footsteps, and soon was running through the light, pushing the door open, catching his breath at the bus stop. He checked his watch. All he had to do now was wait.
The shadows were lengthening. The afternoon sun had burned off most of the fog, and had now dipped below its frosty layers. Colin squinted his eyes. His sighed and leaned back. The wind was blowing and though he was protected by the kiosk, he watched it dance with the leaves on the trees across the street. Staring down into the pavement he suddenly realized that there were dozens of ants running around, seemingly randomly, fast and direct. Colin felt calm watching them, so calm he didn’t hear the hydraulics or the door, or the soft footsteps. A man sat down next to him.
“Hello,” the man said.
“Hello,” Colin said.
“Beautiful day.”
“Yes,” Colin said. “I love sunset.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Look how the sky turns orange, the sidewalk even. The skin on my hand…” Colin looked down at the orange tint on the back of his hand and his fingers. He became aware of the wind, not a cold wind, but not a warm one either, and the impending night. He wrapped his arms around himself, pulling his bathrobe tighter around his body.
“Want to come inside,” the man said. “Have some coffee.”
Colin nodded, but was looking down at the ants again, who were circling the man’s shoes, confused by the appearance of something new.
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