All Ears in St. Mashtots’ Square
I was none too happy with myself this morning, I must say that to start. Only twice before in my adult life have I arrived late to my destination and neither time had been for work. Frequent tardiness is a characteristic, I have found, shared chiefly by only the least ambitious and most retardant dregs of society whose slack the rest of us must shoulder as we trudge our way toward progress. Why, it was likely some form of absenteeism or tardiness that lead to the power cutting out sometime last night, as I slept ever too soundly following a day of honest-to-goodness effort, thus resetting my alarm clock and leaving me untethered from the docks of reality and responsibility as I drifted through delightful dreams of whimsy and repose.
What a cruel trick of fate to have been awoken only when the sun finally arose and the song bird on my windowsill graciously thought to call out and summon me from my slumber. ‘Sun,’ I thought, scurrying from my sheets as if they’d turned to ice water around me, ‘on a day like today? Whatever could be the meaning of this?” I shot an immediate glance to the alarm clock, insolently flashing its meaningless flush of eights, and then to the calendar above it and knew at once I had erred. My astonishment congealed into anger and my anger hardened to shame and I wear the latter still like a scarlet letter this half hour later as I finally come into view of the rail station, three hours past the time I’m accustomed to arriving.
The foot traffic in Saint Mashtots’ Square, outside Neu Lonsbourg Station, I notice, is of an altogether different density and description at this time of morning - when only the jobless, shameless, aimless and queer would dare to be wandering the streets rather than being clocked in to some respectable station of employment. It’s as I come to the corner of Rue de Maison and 6th Avenue that a mangy beggar, lying against the cornerstone of Saint Mashtots’ Cathedral, reaches out to grab at my pant leg whilst being questioned by two upstanding policemen.
“Can you spare me a coin or two, sir,” he inquires, looking up at me with want and turmoil in his eyes as if he’s my personal burden and not society’s as a whole, “I’ve been waiting for a friend for days now and I…”
“Leave the guy alone,” one officer, the mustachioed elder of the two, mercifully cuts in, “can’t you see he has some place to be?”
I avoid eye contact altogether and, with much relief, take the pedestrian signal up on its offer to cross. When I look back, upon arriving to the other side, to see the time on the clocktower of the cathedral, I happen to see the officers attempting with much difficulty, each with an arm in hand, to raise the man to his feet. 9:15, I see the clock reads, I’ll have to wait fifteen more minutes, barring any tardiness on the part of the conductor, for the next train. If only I’d had an officer to get me on my feet this morning, I think, returning my gaze to the station in front of me, what a wonderful boon that would have been.
But the police these days seem to be the busiest of bees, for there are queer folk all about. When the patrolmen finish apprehending the loiterer they’re currently engaged with they’ll surely be brought, in my wake, to confront the garish goon I now stand watching at the bottom steps of the station. A peculiar man, indeed, wearing a shirt of black and white stripes, black slacks and a black beret atop his painted white face. I’ve never before been subjected to such oddity on my way into work, but alas I’ve never been so delayed. The man raises his white-gloved hand without a word and, though I cannot explain why, I stop in my tracks, as if to hear him out. But no words, nor sounds, escape his mouth as he makes a face of surprise and points back across the street where I see the homeless man is now scuffling with the two officers.
I look back to the oddly dressed man, and he has a rueful smile branded upon his face as he begins a bizarre mimicry, with great flamboyance and dramaticism, acting as if he were trapped in a box which was invisible to my eye. I look back to the clock and see a minute has passed. I know that I should walk right on past like the few people around us who paid no mind to the man in my midst, and make my way inside so as not to delay the start of my day any further. But I cannot seem to budge, as if an adherent force has me in its grip. For, despite myself, I find the performance altogether captivating.
“Let go of me you cretin,” I hear from across the street but my eyes remain on the mute before me as he’s finished establishing the invisible box he is inhabiting and has now moved on to handcuffing his wrists with unseeable restraints. The shouting in front of the cathedral grows louder and, though I can’t seem to compel myself to move, I look back once more in the direction from which I came and see now the police have handcuffed the disagreeable miscreant and begun collecting his blanket and bag from the ground.
“I have rights! Somebody please! I’m waiting for a friend,” he shouts in anguish, “don’t let them take me!”
I look away and again to the strange man in the invisible box and I see him shouting silent words across the street, shaking his fist above his head in protest. But, with his soundless exclamations having fallen on deaf ears, this is not enough. He takes two steps back and proceeds to propel himself into the wall of his transparent cell which sends him stumbling to the ground, arms still bound by invisible restraints and unable to cushion his fall. “I won’t let you take me,” the voice booms from the other side, “you can’t…”
“Hey!” Cries the voice of one of the officers and my gaze returns to the scuffle, “what the hell did he just…”
“Stop it! Wait!” The other says, as I begin to realize the homeless man has slipped out of the handcuffs and managed to place a loop on the wrist of each officer tethering them to one another, “How in the world did…?”
As if for some form of reassurance that what I’d witnessed was no figment, I look back to the man standing next to me in a cage I cannot see and he’s smiling wide as he shows me his hands, both now apparently free from his own bindings. But his attention, too, returns to the scene unfolding as the officers cry out again, “get the key out, idiot, he’s going to get away!”
The wiley miscreant has collected his blanket and bag and now sees fit to spit on the officers as they stumble after him, a farcical endeavor which I admit elicits a snort of amusement from my nostrils despite my concern for social order and safety. He sets off across the street, ignoring the pedestrian signal which has not, as in my case, offered a right of way, and the queer fellow in stripes is suddenly full of motion beside me. Banging on the box I cannot see, he bellows words I cannot hear but understand nonetheless as an ear-piercing duet of sounds pulls my attention away from him once more.
A screech and a honk cry out in concert and immediately thereafter, like a downbeat percussion, comes a thud as I see the blanket and bag go flying. After but a fraction of a moment I identify the man’s airborne body in time to watch him slam face first into the pavement with a second thud. The striped man screams another silent scream, takes two steps back and lurches forth as he did before only this time continues his momentum until he’s sprawled on the sidewalk with an audible cry of agony, the unseen container having apparently not held up to the second attempt at escape.
“I’m here my friend,” I hear him say, with a baritone voice I had not expected, as he stumbles and crawls into the road toward the man on the ground. “I’m here, I’m here. I did everything I could, but I was held up, you see.”
The paint on his face runs as he sobs, holding the homeless man’s limp body - from which a cough makes way for a meager reply. “You…” he says with great effort, his eyes opening ever so slightly, “I’ve been waiting for you…” he trails off once more and his eyes close as he musters his last morsels of vigor, “…you’re late.”
“Late,” I utter, “my god!” With that I look up at the clocktower and see it’s been five more minutes. I hurriedly make my way up the steps of the station and hope the train is running on time, it doesn’t do to be tardy.