Through the Stained Window
In the empty apartment stood Henry leaning his head against the window, like a fallen branch, solemn eyes watching the world go by.
He looked out as one hand dangled unceremoniously to the side letting the other hand steal all the glory by bringing the glass of rum to his lips.
It was Friday, five minutes before midnight, half the bottle of rum was gone already. His apartment, once a comfort, had now become his prison. The self-made cell was the glaring white walls and the stained window.
When he decided he was sufficiently drunk and full of melancholic longing, he watched the busy intersection three floors below him. He listened to the dull hum of the engines and the men going about their serious business wondering where they were all going. He saw the silver cars shimmer under the pale moonlight, night dwellers roaming the cement roads in search of something. The object of the search was never the important thing. The important thing was to be searching, always searching. Henry felt at home with those seekers but conceded he’d never be like them. Fears of grandiose ambition lead to the easier path of apathy. He found the rum to be an adequate companion for his only undertaking of window watching, letting the time tick by, lounging around, decomposing, dying a little every day.
He looked across from him at the parking lot and the restaurant with the patio. He envied the jubilant attitude of the patrons, drinking their beer and whiskey, smoking their cigarettes. He looked down and saw a party of people clinking their glasses, celebrating, placing their sincere heavy hands on welcoming shoulders. Henry caught up in the excitement, lifted his glass of rum and clinked it with his stained window, envisioning himself with the crowd, and his hopeful eyes turned into a grimace. His room was empty, he wished even to be among strangers, to be amongst some rowdy laughter, or even to smile at clueless lovers locking hands under the yellow patterned lights. He relented his silly dream, pursed open his lips and let the honeyed rum wash down his bitter throat.
At the striking of midnight came the mysterious message. Deciding to go back to his desk to pour another glass of rum he saw the conspicuous piece of paper laying on top of the wood. He closed one eye, thereby enlarging the other, squeezing his chin into his neck like a turtle, or an old man trying to read without his glasses, getting the blurred letters to become clear:
“Twenty-four-hour time limit.
Flight.
Instructions: Concentrate and levitate”
Henry thought long and hard about the meaning of the message. After thirty seconds of strenuous concentration he decided to go back to his window and draw up the mysterious paper to some previous drunken stupor.
He dragged his sorry legs back to his favorite spot, and let the sweet honey colored rum pour down his throat, and stared longingly once again through the muddied glass.
He imagined what it would be like if he could truly fly. Oh, all the places he would go, all the things he would see and do. It was a momentarily cheerful thought. He closed his eyes evoking that soaring flight, dreaming of being far away from here and then he felt weightless. He opened his eyes and saw that he truly was flying! He levitated only a few inches off the ground, but it had surely been done.
He tried it again and he flew even higher and it was easier to control his movement and direction. He floated down to the ground and his heart was pumping, his mind racing. He had to go somewhere. He couldn’t waste this gift just flying around in his room if the twenty-four-hour time was to be believed.
He went to the window, stains be damned, and pulled it open. He put one leg out getting ready to go out into the world feeling a blast of cold air which made him stop. He wasn’t sure where he was going to go. He put his leg back in and slumped back on his bed.
Henry thought first of that strong river in the valley where he went fly fishing all those years ago with his father. He hadn’t been back since, but it was the first place he thought of. He remembered that long drive at dawn, father and son exchanging yawns and anticipation at the catching of fish – a friendly competition. They stopped at the riverbank and hauled the boat into the stream right as the sun was rising, giving an unprecedented glow to the silver water, now turned gold. They never spoke all that much during the procession but relished in each other victories and laughed at the inevitable failures. He didn’t miss the fish all that much, or the wintry river, but it was the remembrance of the face his father made that burned a hole in his chest. He never saw that look anywhere else but there on that river. It was a serenity, a shining sternness and acceptance of the river, basking in that glorious valley amongst nature, amongst kin. It was the flowing of the rapids making them pure again. He wanted to go back to the place and remember that face from so long ago.
It would be dark now, he thought. It was hundreds of miles away, he thought again. And the father he longed to see was dead and buried far away from the river.
Henry decided to go for more rum. This time drinking straight from the bottle.
Another place to go then, he decided.
He thought then of those docks, walking side by side with her. She was young admittedly but there was something about her that made Henry full of life once again and hopeful.
They walked from one end of the docks knowing it would be the last time and so he cherished every smile, every flowing strand of hair, he admired. They laughed, distracting each other from what they both knew was coming, that fateful goodbye.
“We should steal a boat and sail the seas”, she said.
“I don’t know how to drive a boat. Do you?”
“No but we’ll become pirates and make enough money to hire a captain. Then we can lounge on the deck and be fed. We’ll make a trip of it”
“What’s the plan then?”, he said
“We’ll go where the wind takes us, taking all the gold we can. During the day we’ll catch fish and at night we’ll make love. If we can’t sleep I’ll curl up in your arms and we can count the stars, and we’ll go home as soon as we’ve counted them all.
And they made their imaginary plans, laying fictional paths where they could pretend they had more time. That’s how they spent their last moments, wishing they had more time. Then the bright orange light of their short-lived love started to turn gray until it was completely black. Her face melted into the crowd and he never saw her again.
He thought maybe he could go back there, to the dock, and smile at the pretty lights of the city, and the quiet reflections on the water.
Henry found out she got married recently and was expecting a baby.
He didn’t see the point in going back to the dock anymore.
And that was how the next hours went by for Henry. The whole time holding a spectacular power that came only once in a lifetime, the power to roam freely, unencumbered, and follow his heart’s desires but it had changed nothing. He found a place to go, a magical moment that he held dear in his heart, a sacred moment, a sacred face, and decided against it because the memory was too pure.
And that was how the night went for Henry until the dark became alight with the rising sun and the rosy petal dawn.
“I can’t remember the last time I saw the sunrise sober”, said Henry aloud
He promised himself the next sunrise would be without his faithful friend, the rum, but that day would never come. At the sun’s rising midway through the morning Henry fell into a deep and restless sleep lasting over twelve hours going in and out, drinking more rum and smoking a cigarette before he fell asleep.
He finally decided to get out of bed when it was close to midnight again with his pounding headache and wishing he wasn’t alive. He went to his desk to smoke another cigarette when he saw the note once again, granting him the power to fly.
Leaping from his chair, desperate to do something with his flight he leapt from the window, remembering the time limit, and flew into the night. He finally flew through gentle skies and when his time was up, he closed his eyes and thought of that strong river and the shimmering dock ready for the end.