The Perils of Lights' Attraction

I can feel the sun spread across my shoulders as I sit here with my eyes closed. The ceiling fans buzz softly overhead. I place my elbows on the bar, clasp my hands together and rest my forehead. It looks like I’m praying, but I’m not. Somewhere behind me I can hear ice cubes whistle and pop in a tall glass of something sweet. Over to my left someone breathes deeply through a cigarette. There’s a leather strip with bells on it hanging from the door. It jingles merrily as they walk in; a happy young couple looking like peas and carrots. They make their way over to an empty table for two. She smells like oranges with cinnamon on them. So does he.

“Here, let me help you with that.” He pulls out her chair. I stare down into a half-finished drink that was mostly water to begin with. Standing up and throwing a few bills down I realize I’ve got to get out of here. “I love you,” he says.

“Really?” She smiles. “I love you too.” Somehow I manage to make it through the door without the bells making a big deal of it.

Walking home I stare at my shoes listening to the hollow sound of my footsteps. It doesn’t take long to put downtown behind me. There are far fewer people out here and I venture a glance around. The sun rides low in the sky and all the smells of evening meals and back porch cookouts with family and friends play on the breeze. Before I know it, I’m at the steps to my flat.

There’s a tiny little spider living in my mailbox. I don’t know which is more futile. This poor bugger looking for food in there or the quickening flutter and pause I feel each time I check it. “Oh, it’s just you.” I smile and let myself in.

I toss the keys somewhere I’ll be sure not to find them and hang my jacket on the back of a chair. Crossing the room a vivid sunset grabs my attention and I move out onto the balcony to take it in. There’s something about the endless cycle of rising and falling that strikes me as meaningful and profound. But, I just can’t put my finger on it. Streetlights start to flicker on across the city and vague shadows appear.

I find some leftover pizza that hasn’t been in the refrigerator too long. Leaning against the counter, preparing to wash dinner down with a cold glass of water, the doorbell rings. Maybe the squatter in my mailbox fancies a slice of pie? Turning on the porch light and opening the front door I find that my visitor is a peculiar looking old man with silver white hair and dark and gentle eyes. He is dressed smartly in a suit and a cleric’s collar. “What can I do for you?” I manage something between being polite and genuine curiosity.

“My son—,” he pauses. “What you can do for me is to no longer be as the shadow of the tree, which increases it’s length upon the ground day-by-day but never reaches towards the sun! It matters not if you’re a blade of grass or a mighty oak. Just grow, in your own way and as you are able. Be a blade of grass if that suffices. Be a flower if you choose. Be a vine if this comforts you. Be an oak if you dare. Be the first to reach for the suns rays each morning and the last to hold them as they sink into the sky. That, my son, is what you can do for me.”

He places his hand on my shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. He looks deep into my eyes and I can see the beauty and the truth of his care for me beaming from his face. A strange warmth in my chest radiates outward to my hands and feet. The old man smiles. He sees that I understand. Turning without saying goodbye, he walks off into the night. As I watch him disappear from view, the porch light catches my attention. Gathering around it are a number of flying insects. Some seem to be delicate lacework come to life while others are miniature ornaments of blown glass. Every one of them is madly dashing itself against the light as if all life depended on breaking through to its source.

I can’t sleep. Light’s on. The old man’s words are ringing in my ears. I whisper them under my breath and write them in my heart. He must have seen me walking to and from work. All my dissatisfying stops and quiet exits from the pub. My careful study of people’s feet. Morning and evening, day in and day out. My shadow advancing and retreating back-and-forth along the pavement. A feeble tide, consistent and unalterable. I realize how like a shadow I’ve been, depending on the sun for life, but ignoring and taking for granted the life it gives. Worse, I’ve forsaken it; surrendering it to that which brings and binds all shadows together. I reach over to put out the light. A tiny moth flutters around the lampshade. It swirls, rising and falling, enraptured. I switch off the light and fall asleep wondering what that moth will do now.

I’m up early, well before dawn. By time I wash up, get dressed and have some breakfast, the sky is a rich and brightening shade of blue. A full-throated chorus of birds, resplendent in gold, red, and green offers a prelude for the day. The sky blushes warmly as the sun peeks over the horizon, its light stretching out to embrace the waking world. A paper boy rides by and I give him three dollars for a seventy-five cent newspaper.

It doesn’t take long to get back to the city. Only, this morning it’s not so choking. The idle engines, busy footsteps, and the dull murmur of final scores, season finales and weekend plans are not so deafening. I get to work early. The day flies by. It’s time to go home. I push myself away from my desk and feel as if I’ve just woken up from a nap. All the way home I look people in the eye and smile. There are even a few who stop to chat. You know, I couldn’t, for the life of me, tell you what color shoes I’m wearing.

Back home, I cook up some spaghetti and open a bottle of wine. My grandmother carefully perfected and preserved a family recipe for spicy meatballs. She’d be proud. The doorbell rings just as I’m wiping the last bit of sauce from my plate. I hurry to the door, half-hoping to find that it’s the priest again. Turning on the porch light and opening the door I find instead two men in neatly pressed hospital uniforms. They are a good bit taller than me and a little rough looking.

“Hello. May I help you?”

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” says the one with a mustache. “Have you, by any chance, seen this man?” He holds up a picture of the priest who stopped by last night. Instead of a dark suit and white collar, he’s wearing blue-and-white striped pajamas.

“Yes. Yes, I’ve seen him. Why? Do you know who he is?”

“That all depends on when you saw him,” the one without a mustache says. “He’s a patient at the state hospital who walked out on us a few nights ago. We have reason to believe he’s been through this neighborhood. When did you see him?”

“Uh… Well, I don’t suppose it could have been the same guy I saw.” My voice goes a little thick and I feel as if they’re starting to squint at me. “I saw someone that looked a little like him. But, it must have been more than three weeks ago. Sorry.” They don’t react at all. Do they believe me? Have I just gotten myself in trouble? I hold my ground. I hold my breath, and they each take a half-step back.

“Thank you, sir. If you do happen to see him, please call this number.” He hands me a card. “And, please stay away from him. He could be dangerous.”

“Yes, certainly. Thank you. Have a nice evening.” They walk off into the night without looking back. Evening has enshrouded the street and I notice my porch light is once again an object of feverish devotion to a little flock of bugs. Turning back inside, I reach for the light switch without thinking. Something stays my hand. Somewhere deep in my heart there’s a battle being fought between fear of the dark and hope for light. It’s not going well. “We’ll just have to see what tomorrow brings,” I whisper as I turn off the light and close the door.


“But who do you say that I am?” -Mark 8:29