Progress on Sandy Cape: Greatful days

I’m not entirely clear what’s happened. Or where I am. Or what day it is. Or where I’m going. I imagine I must be going somewhere, for I am walking along a street. Huh… I’ll say what I see. It’s all I can ever do.

The day is sunny and bright, warm and pleasant. I’m in a small town, and this is Main Street. Main streets in small towns always have a certain feel that totally marks it as not-city, not-suburb. There are no strip malls here. There are no Escalades. There are small family cars. Occasionally a mini-van drives past.

There are no chain retailers. There are no brand name shops here. Everything is local and bespoke. The signs are not professionally made, and are often handpainted. Apostrophe use is atrocious.

There are benches here and there and all along the street there are trees. There are people walking along the sidewalks and stopping to chat with people they know, or waving to acquaintances across the street. It’s a small town Main Street in every possible way.

I hate small towns.

Bigoted folksy twatbags who think that somehow, this way of life is worth preserving at all costs. Towns like this all end up the same: the population ages, the old people get older and more vocal. They demand bylaws and rules which make sure nothing ever changes; they also make sure that the young people will leave and never come back. In this way, little by little, the town dies. This is how small towns work.

But these happy peons think that it’s all fine, just fine, that restaurants downtown must close by 7pm, that no bars are allowed in town, that the movie theatre, small though it was, was forced to close because the older citizens thought that movies today are too raunchy for their neighbourhood. That nothing is open on Sundays because we must definitely all go to church together PRAISE BE TO JEEBUS.

Absolutely fucking retarded.

But I shall walk on, and I shan’t tell them how futile their attempts to preserve their little town are. I shall walk on, until my destination presents itself in whatever way it may do that.

This part of the street is aspirational. None of the businesses here will last out the year. Someone thought that if they just made a nice, expensive store and had good service and high-grade products, people would come. They won’t. You’ve wasted your money by starting your big-city business here in Podunk.

I’m standing outside an office now. Slightly out of place here in that it is well-appointed. The glass doors are polished, the vestibule large, and there are colours, so many colours inside. I enter.

The vestibule is two storeys tall, with a large sculpture-cum-chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The walls are red, and the floor clothed in a gaudy carpet that somehow fits. Ahead is the receptionist, a tall, statuesque African princess. Looking up from her work, she smiles.

“Oh, you made it! I’m so glad. Did you have trouble finding the place?”

“I… no, it was fine– I’m expected?”

She titters. “They told me you’d be funny! Right this way, come, come!” and she beckoned me behind her standing desk and through a door. We entered a hall with nondescript pop art hanging in frames on each wall. At the end, it opened up into a broad room, with a large white table at one end (matching chairs), a sofa, an aquarium, and a few potted plants. “Now you just wait here, it’ll begin shortly. Ooooh, I’m so glad you came!” She tittered again and I watched her make her way back to the vestibule from whence we’d come.

I still don’t rightly know where I am or why I’m here. I was expected? I suppose that’s a good thing? Could be. That lady recognized me? I’m not sure why. Or how.

I take a seat at the table. This must be the meeting room, or a work room, or something. The table is quite large and would be well-suited to many sorts of tasks. I sound like a furniture catalogue.

I wait and I wait. I start to doze off, just a little bit. No stimulation, you see. But then I registered movement in the hallway I’d come down, and swivelled my head for a better look.

Oh, nothing much. Just a crocodile. Just a crocodile walking down the hall, on its own, as if it belongs there. What is this I don’t even.

The door at the far end of the hall opens and the lady from before starts dancing towards me, grooving to a song only she could hear. I would have warned her to watch out for the crocodile, but she’s taken the precaution of dancing on the ceiling, as you do. Fair enough, I suppose.

Wait, something else has changed. Someone else is here. I turn to the sofa, a strange affair with holes here and there, as though someone just took an eraser to parts of an image of a couch.

And, of course, sitting thereupon, is She.

Oblivious to both the ceiling-dancer and the crocodile she is avoiding, She begins.

The season we’ve longed for has arrived, She sings, and the wind flutters through town as the street comes to life.

Morning arrives earlier than usual, She sings, and just because of that, I feel I can carry on easier.

These days, She continues, I know I ramble on about my own worries a lot, but for the sake of sadness, let’s not run away from the fun times.

The short summer has come and begun, She sings, so I want to make lots of good memories with you. The sun is simply splendid, and the waves forever break on the shore.

Looking up, we can see the sky through the crooked gaps between the buildings, She sings, and that sky goes on forever.

I’ll be beside you even on the days when clouds cover your heart, She sings, and I’m grateful for your soothing smile.

That’s not to say that everything is straightforward, She goes on, but I think it’s inevitable. There is certainly a thing that I want to protect; I don’t want to forget this feeling.

And when the end of this short summer comes, She sings, I’ll come meet you at that moment, too. Definitely, every day, has been dreamy.

The short summer has come and begun, She sings, so I want to make lots of good memories with you. The sun is simply splendid, and the waves forever break on the shore.

The song over, the crocodile hanging out near the aquarium and the ceiling-dancer no where to be seen, suddenly the door to the vestibule opens again and a crowd of people run in, dancing to some unheard melody. As they come, one of them holds a lighter up to the fire detector and the sprinklers go off. They gather around She at the sofa, dancing, grinding, thrusting, and we all get wet from the sprinklers.

And the water level rises higher and higher.

And I sit in my chair, and She sits on the sofa, and the water rises and dancers are oblivious and now they’re swimming but still She and Me sit and look at each other across the room. The water rises above our heads and still we sit.

The dancers evaporate into stardust suspended in a moonbeam caught in a unicorn’s mane, for they never actually existed and I promised them a magical exit from the story.

She and Me dissolve and that is the end for now.