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    June 26th, 2019

    Greenwood Cemetery, New York

    3am

     

     

    The stairs were endless, nameless faces from every side making the trek up the steel fire escape a forbidden path.  He wasn't supposed to know it existed.  He wasn’t supposed to be there, he couldn’t make that path.  He didn’t belong.  Snow began to fly, hastening his travel up the stairs, coming to the top of a building that was built in a square, the courtyard below also square.  No way in from any side, only a five story drop from his perch into the broken brick center.  Windows lined the inside like portholes, nameless faces jeering at him, trapped in the building with no doors, in a square around an empty courtyard.  Looking back, the stairs were gone, the wind and snow looming inward… he would jump, or he would be pushed.  A powerful swell in his gut fluttered as he jumped, and the billow behind him commanding enough to squash the terror.  Silence from the portholes.

     

    Feet landed with power in the middle of the emptiness, looking upward at the building that now surrounded him… the portholes of faces reverent to the ethereal wings of light that had billowed a parachute and then tucked once toward him as he turned to cast eyes on the objects that had saved him from death.  Gone as he turned, a doorway behind him that hadn’t been there before.  Doorless and dark.

     

    He stepped through, rows of red velvet seats arching downward toward a stage.  A man sat smack center of the seating- pale, sickly, resting in the chair with indifference.  The stage was busting with life, café tables full of characters from everywhere, acknowledging him softly as he walked up the steps to the stage.  Red curtain closed behind him.  He paused, then sat at a table in the center.  To his left, a woman tattooing into a shadow, eyes and stringy fronds of several peacock feathers stuck to her right forearm like decorations, twitching as the machine buzzed it’s ink.  In front of her, unrecognizable- a burnt face wearing old western movie racist stereotype First Nation clothing, the figure getting up and offering everyone a nip from a whisky canteen. To his right in the corner shadows, stalls… bathroom?… blood on the walls, suits and old men with white hair.  Small pieces of red tape in a circle on the black-washed pine stage floor.  A man pied-pipering students in a music lesson. 

     

    His glance away and back was brief… now green tape in different shapes, a woman and new children.

     

    Behind as he dared look over his right shoulder, a hallway… dark, nothing… brought back to the curtain in front of him by chatter and excitement; the cast of characters peeking out through a small part in the curtain to the audience.  The sickly man in the seat still alone.  Whispers of his fate. Would he join their stage party?  Small flakes of snow had sprinkled the red velvet seats from the  doorway he’d entered. It was spilling in, rivers of drifts creeping closer and closer to the stage... closer to the sickly man catching all their attention.

     

    Then he was gone.  His fate?  Not their stage.  The slight part of the curtains closed, and all went back about their business.

     

    “You are not supposed to be here.”

     

    He looked up with hazel eyes, twinkle of gris-gris on his wrist.  A large woman hovered over him in his small café chair, setting down an iridescent pink mother of pearl plate, the four corners decorated with white pearls that were crumbling apart. 

     

    “Tell her,”  a voice was commanding.

     

    Brows furled, looking from the woman to a man with white hair now sitting at his table to his right where there had been none before.  Tan shirt with tiny white pinstripes and khakis, a thick almost undetectable gray and snow white shock of luxe hair.  He placed another plate on top of the woman's broken one.  Identical and perfect.

     

    “She looks for diamonds.  Diamonds to fix it.”

     

    Eyes under snow white hair were hollow, never looking into the hazel that now stared at him quizzically.

     

    “To put it back together.  She doesn’t need to shrine to me.  Tell her I’m there, I give her signs.”

     

    The man swiped the back of his neck to indicate the tickle he would give whomever he spoke of, whoever was the recipient of the need to know he was there.  Black eyes fell to the stack of broken and perfect plates.

     

    “I would have given her a better one.”

     

    “You are not supposed to be here,”  it was the large frizzy gray haired woman again, looking straight into the hazel eyes and then the black hallways everyone was avoiding.

     

    He got up, moving in the opposite direction toward the curtains, parting to step back into the audience seating. It was buried, sand dune-like never-ending drifts of snow.  Impassible.  Jumping in, a tiny path parted as he pushed through at first, then walked…beyond into a sea of white and fierce blizzard.  Finally, yellow grass…a road… a twinkle of glass and silence from the howl of wind.

     

    Body jerked awake, the twinkle of a bottle as his fingers had unconsciously let go in a buzzed doze pulling him from his often rampant, metaphoric dreams.  His nanny said he was a sensitive. He just thought he drank too much.  He leaned his head back, the angel above him on the mausoleum steps he’d perched on still swathed in darkness even though the east horizon throbbed with a pale blue light to chase away the depths of black everywhere else.

     

    That was fucking good bourbon, bottle was lifted to check the name again.  Never heard of it before, and he'd heard of everything.

     

    The magus stretched, gris-gris twinkling at his wrist, reaching to rub the other around his neck between his tailored suit shirt and collarbone with his thumb.  The jazz, had been someone good.  Finally.  Bourbon even better.  Left sometime after 2am for home.  Too drunk to drive.  The cemetery was now his friend, it was always the nightcap that kept his sanity intact.  Others might see him unusual.  The Cajun was far from ordinary, but definitely sane… to most anyway.  His dreams though,  with the world the way it was could never be wholly believed or dismissed.  He couldn’t tell her the message that the "ghost" in his odd dreams wanted her to know, she was also dead, and he knew the man would have "given her a better one".  It wasn’t the first time he dreamt of his father, or his father's need to give his mother the best of everything, but it was the first time the dictator had mentioned his mother.  They were never in love.  Ever.  The rich could never be in love, it was marriage of dynasties.  Dynasties gave their own the best of everything, because that's what kings and queens of did.

     

    Interesting change in his often strange dreams, his father mentioning his mother.  The plates recognized as the ones he'd broken as a child. The shrine? His mother had taken his father's things after his death and tried to "fix them", "like he would have wanted".  She was lost without him, not because she loved him, but because she was always searching for his love even in his death.

     

    The gesture to the back of his neck?  He was stumped on that one.

     

    Getting up, he shrugged off his jacket and lifted his bottle, tapping the nearest headstone and clinking a few bits of change down near the gate on the mausoleum he’d spent the night sitting and leaning against.

     

    5am maybe?

     

    Feet hit the cobbled path as he made his way through the thick cemetery, on his way home. Car was close, and he was sober enough now to make it home.

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