Sunday February 26th, the evening steadily approaches but has not arrived just yet. But, of course, it is always approaching, except when it is presently there.
It has been on its way since early morning. He woke up broken, his eyes cracked and lips chapped. He dreamt of being late. The clock would not work for him and tragically he suffered a mental break in his sleep. Nothing waking up cannot fix. Have a shower, have a coffee, forget. He spent the rest of the day memorising the thing he wrote earlier that week.
In the late afternoon he sits on the edge of his bed until he can leave, watching the clock, until the time comes to go. Then he leaves in a hurry. Locks up and goes, forgets something, comes back, unlocks, realises it has been in his pocket the whole time, locks up again, goes again. He then struggles to remember if the door was locked in the end. Usually it is. Every time it is the same, like a ritual.
Many divorced gloves litter the street on his way. He thinks of the many bare hands wandering the many streets in these last moments of winter sun.
He leans into the door with the large sign over it, which reads: The Sunset Room, From Dusk till Dawn Seven Days a Week Live Entertainment. The door shuts itself behind him.
It feels like a hundred degrees in here and despite it being early, the air is already thick like there is a storm on its way. All the surfaces are polished slick with human oil, steadily secreted over many moons. Here the patrons’ ungloved hands uninterruptedly pass over door handles, counters, edges of tables, backs of chairs. All edges carry a crescent shimmer in the endless night sustained in this bar. The source of the shimmers is found all the way down the barrel. The stage is a circle and the spotlight’s beacon traces its outline to the very edge. It extends three inches above the floor, just enough that a newcomer might trip over the lip. This is something to know for those who know.
It perplexes him how patrons find their way in this space that is practically pitch black. They dart around the scene in a kind of choreographed dissonance, as if they have always been here, as if they never leave. They belong. If you know you know and there is nothing more to it. It is not quite a conspiracy but there sure exists common interest.
He takes a moment, to allow the clay he is made of to reset, rehearses his body, and puts on the mask of his own face, which he had kept in a tight fist at the bottom of his pocket. This room holds a secret too, he thinks. And if it is in here, he will find it tonight.
Out of nowhere, the Hat appears. The Hat always wears a smile. Sometimes a grin, other times a grimace, but it is always ear to ear. As if crazed, as if compelled. Everything out of his mouth sounds like a riddle, like there must be more to it.
Hits him with some trifle wisdom, quips: “Let a smile be your umbrella,” and disappears again.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? He takes the stage. Time to untie the knot in his stomach. His time to shine has now come, it has finally arrived. Shuffling feet, clinking glasses, tipped bottles, and the steadily lowering rattle of rhubarb conversation. All the sounds you would expect are present, as the crowd begins to acknowledge the new presence on stage.
It is always sticky, being caught in the spotlight. Like a hot shower it weighs down on him, keeps him nailed to the floor. Now go knock them dead.
“All the lies I’m about to tell are true,” he starts, uninterested in how we are all doing tonight. “I come here in disguise, so that you will never be able to catch me, not you lot anyway.” You know what they say, no face no case. “But don’t worry, I also come bearing gifts.” Only so as to discourage them from shooting the messenger, which is the role he has decided to play this evening.
The young orator says his piece. “Isn’t it telling we live in a world where our clothes are rarely made to truly conform to us? Who do my clothes really belong to?” I will not reproduce the whole thing. It is out of laziness, yes, but also you had to be there really. I think sometimes it can be better to acknowledge things as not being reproducible in another form. Just trust me when I say it was phenomenal, you can believe me. Or don’t, suit yourself. It’s just a story.
The forked tongue of the translator enacts the change within exchange. He stands there as the knot in between crossroads, or now it is, perhaps rather, a loose ribbon, if you understand me well. Holding his tongue just enough, measures the perfect ratio of water to wine, and steadily finds the music in his words. And the crowd goes wild.
When the crowd settles again, he also comes back down from the stage. Now that he is in good graces, it is time to find out what there is to know. Now it is time to go beyond the edge of the board and play the bigger game. The Hat approaches once more.
“You did good kid. Here, for your trouble,” he says and hands him an unmarked and unsealed envelope. There must be something in there.
The kid slips in his fingers, a quick glance too. “Well, it ain’t money, but who knows.” Some change would have been good, but sometimes you have to take what you can get.
Hands pass over his shoulders, as shows of approval. He shakes a bald man’s hand, who whispers something in his ear. It is too loud around to make out what exactly, but as the man pulls away it looks like he has something resembling a worm in his ear, or maybe it is a worm.
He suddenly feels very ill. He feels the violent urge to leave, but there doesn’t appear to be anywhere to go. He is stuck and can’t think of what to do next. What is going on?