Dei came out of rusted wrought-iron double doors set in a white-washed brick fixture of an old structure, looming up and looking brittle but it was cold and hard to the touch. Laughter curled from inside (obnoxious, high-pitched squeals that were too feminine to be realistic coupled with deep, throaty bellows of ungentlemen that had obvious connotations with hard liquor – you could smell those sins from outside through the open windows) but Dei didn\'t comprehend the sound anymore; it’s false, sifted in the sifter so that the heart and soul of it could be dumped or swept under the rug. Whichever is more convenient. He frowned and sat on the stoop, leaned against the wall and pushed his forehead against the gritty stone with the hope that the small pressure would release the inner ache that he couldn\'t understand.
He didn\'t understand a lot of things. There was something particularly wrong there, though – that those are the voices he fell asleep to.
It’s nothing classy. It’s pretty sleazy. Awfully cheap.
Even the name was just a number on the street:
487 NorthEast Elmore Hotel.
The smell of sex made him want to vomit.
Wanted to ask every customer, consumer, benefactor and employee, “Are you sure, Stranger? Are you sure you want to enter this place, this domain where you are liable to come into contact with Men who will want you? stare at you? reach to touch you? Are you sure you want to see the sights here? Please, be sure! Be sure to understand what this means – expose yourself, be vulnerable, be ready to be eyed and goggled and groped and outraged and humiliated and shameful and dirty and roughly, maybe, a few good green bills,” but he couldn\'t; he didn\'t have the mind or words to form what he felt, but that is what he feels. Instead he could only utter something small, unintelligible, a guttural expression of gloom.
He left, abruptly mastering the stairs downward with a small messenger back slung over his back and half of a blueberry pie on a thin, tin, pie-shaped bowl between two hands.
It was always the oddest feeling when walking away, when the touch of instinct led him from where his body and mind were physically ill to where he could breathe. It was walking away from an accident, a train wreck, or waking from an intense dream that you realize hours after was ridiculous and absurd. He shook his head, shivered, didn\'t look back, because back ten minutes before he was in the crowds, passing through the halls and avoiding eye-contact and shielding himself from the open door’s presentations (he knew those women and young men, and they knew him) with awkward gazes at the ceiling. He\'d been in the musty smell of men, the overwhelming perfumes of prostitutes, the combined mixture meeting in one-night-stands and actions of doing things you wish you didn’t have to, but did anyway. Brief touches were felt when passing experimental newcomers, and he held all his sanity on how his booted feet felt on the floorboards that creaked and groaned beneath his weight, ignoring the garments and fluids that hadn’t been cleaned yet. He’d been there, but it was the oddest feeling to be walking away. Most of his time was spent trying to walk away, going to work and finding new places to wander – the quiet little coffee shops or the deserted parks, because it felt like people didn’t care for calm anymore.
Now, he was nearly a block away but one hesitant turn, one look over his shoulder would grant him a view of that corner place, and he would be mystified by how innocent it looked, all shabby and humble like someone old should live there and serve cookies.
He didn’t turn; he didn’t look.
A dream, it must’ve been. It must be. All of it. His mother, Mary – had she never existed?
More walking led to white houses that were quiet and quite expensive, boasting up in elegance in vineries and gardens all fenced in and lush. Unexpectedly, he put down his dessert, reached into a black-gated fence, and plucked some pink and white-type flower on a green, skeletal stem, ripping it with such unknowing that the roots came up and made its neighbors shift. Those streets were so tame, so inviting, and here and there he could see orange, honey-colored lights gleaming out from the frosted, night-stained windows. He wondered what it was like inside there, such a shelter of fine, oaken wood or imported ceramics or stone, and having given into the bare walls that forced the thought of hanging pleasant things – paintings of frowning old men or still-life fruit. There must\'ve been beds with down-comforters and feather-fluffed pillows, and cushiony carpets and animal-skin rugs.
The boy stuffed the flower into his bag and took up his pastry again, walking slower around these parts so he could count his fortunes.
He wasn\'t sure if they should be envied.
When away from home and towering elegances, the memories hazed over into vague outlines, the intensity docked or overshadowed by the feeling nature presented. Under a tree, near a bench, he sat and spread out his belongings with his pie, especially, set out for company. A sheet of white paper was torn from a small, worn sketchbook and placed in a heavier volume titled “The Holy Bible”, between both of which the flower was lain. In one fluid movement, as if he’d done this many times before or as if the flower would run, he closed the book and sat on it, applying more pressure. Dei looked utterly content, then. He had no goals, no particular worries, and only carelessly shoveled his company’s sweetness into his mouth with sticky fingers.
Honestly? blissful.
Once in awhile he\'d lick his fingers and glance up with curious, green eyes from his sitting position at the people passing by at a far, far distance. For his contentment, we might call him fortunate.
