Citizen

Here is a short story I wrote as a submission to a surreal on-line short story site. They didn’t want it so I am posting it here. Something different. No tongue-in-cheek humor this time, but rather a poignant view of a man and his quiet life. Give me a comment!

Citizen

He walked slowly down the endless street, his hand clutched tight on the curved snakehead of stiff cane that bit into his hand with every step, fangs flashing like the screaming lights of the faceless police whose car had pulsed authoritatively by moments ago. The old man ignored the biting as best he could, knowing that the suffered venom would ease the greater wound gashed into his leg a lifetime ago that was still shooting bullets of wartime memory into his every step. He had been quite young and idealistically envisioned, the day it had happened, ready to set forth upon the morrow to a first battle and glory in the name of the King, smiting enemies and cursing their blasphemous philosophies. He was standing near a street, full of energy and righteousness, when an importantly chauffeured vehicle carrying an Officer of Consequence to a social luncheon, sped around the corner and angrily kicked him into the edge of a nearby brick wall, which in turn savagely lashed out at his leg, breaking the bone and opening a wide gash with its masonaried claws. He lay there on his back, looking up in surprised pain as people scurried over to give conflicting advice, seeing the unblinking, deep eye-blue sky staring down at his shock whitened face while his blood cried out in deep, patriotic red. He had subsequently been situated in a nearby healer’s institution, the back and forth business of succor and death moving all around him with occasional attentive blessings from Angelic Beings who nursed him away from the Dark Gates of Oblivion and otherwise left him on his own. A full frontal charge from a Ranking Officer was held in ceremonial dignity and pomp, with a stiff, “Tough luck, kid,” offered as gruff obligatory fulfillment of responsibility, followed by a quick retreat. It was never made clear if this Officer was the same whose vehicle had taken such a spontaneous dislike to the man, or if it was a randomly performed mission, met and checked off a list of many such actions, by whoever had had such duty at that time.
He was sent home, discharged with a ‘Job Well Done’ citation and a token monthly stipend, then otherwise forgotten by his country. He convalesced and lived with his mother in the house where he had been raised, in a neighborhood just outside the moving streets and towering aisles of The City. His father had died years ago in an industrial accident at the factory where he worked, sacrificed to the Gods of Progress on the Altar of Efficiency, revered as an Example of Safety Reform Implementation by his co-workers and enshrined as a bland statistic in a corporate filing cabinet. A representative of The Company had come by the house soon after the accident, said that her husband had been a good worker and had not complained, proffered deep and sincerely memorized scripted sympathies, handed her an envelope with some money in it collected by his co-workers and left. Since then she had reverted to Nature to support her small needs by growing flowers in the back yard and selling them to nearby restaurants and stores.
The man stayed with his mother, offered sacrifice of his time and labors to the same local factory to which his father had been obligated, and had given his life. Although his wounded leg would occasionally cry out for mercy and distract him he was able to fulfill his Duties as Citizen and was thus ignored by the Powers that Be. He took care of his mother when she became too old and frail to sell her flowers, giving the Authorities no reason to take notice, and after she died he lived alone in the house. He worked at the factory for many more years until, as the times changed and the needs of society focused on new diversions, the factory closed and he was let go. His leg had begun to complain to him more often and so he wasn’t terribly disappointed. He had saved a little money and he still received his monthly stipend from the government, and so, since his needs were few, he was able to keep the house and continue with his life.
Over time, the neighborhood had gradually changed and evolved as The City had grown, spreading like a concrete, steel and glass garden without a conscientious gardener to guide, cultivate or weed, until the towering, lifeless plants and shrubs of urbania engulfed his neighborhood with progress and development. Most of the other houses in the area, yielding to the needs of the moment, were torn down and replaced by high rise buildings, shops and parking lots. The scenes of the comfortably familiar city became less comforting and less familiar as he grew older, became more and more a place of confusion, motion and noise that scared and intimidated the man. The people he once knew passed on and disappeared, and the people that now surrounded him, that flowed and passed by him like water around a protruding rock in a cold stream, were ever changing yet always the same, strangers who would look at him with suspicion or contempt if they noticed him at all.
And now, decades later, he was an old man walking down the endless street that stretched from the past into the future, coming home to the house which was momentarily held in the stasis between stability and progress, familiarity and change, where he had a last bastion against the encroachment of civilization’s impetus. He had been to the park a few blocks away where his parents had taken him as a small child to run and play in the wide open-spaced sunshine. The park was now trimmed, folded and tucked neatly into a small triangle between busy streets and haughty buildings, but the afternoon sunshine still found its way to gaze upon the small patch of grass, trees and lone bench where the man would sit, soaking in the bright, comforting warmth. And when the sun would all too quickly move on to its business further west, the man slowly, painfully walked back home, hobbling slow and steady, with his stiffened serpent in his hand, biting and gnawing yet giving support against his shrieking leg. He paid little heed to the city around him, the children who made fun of him, the prostitute who laughed at him, the others who, for their own reasons, ignored him in reflected self-absorption. Night was coming and they all would be lost to inconsequential significance in the encompassing darkness.
The man came to his house, walked up the front steps, fished in his pocket for his key, fumbled a moment with the lock, turned the handle, opened, stepped inside and closed the door behind.
The door looked out at the endless street, snarled once and was quiet.

Realization, A Moral Story

Today I have a short story taken from Making Sand, which is the title of my collection of stories that, for the most part, have a semi-spiritual basis. I employ various made-up personalities in many of these tales, several of whom are simple and rather foolish characterizations of Zen monks. Part of the posting from last Wednesday, April 8, about Bishu and the Genie, was also taken from this collection. I generally try to convey a tongue-in-cheek offering of positive note in most of these anecdotes, with some kind of spiritual, moral or practical lesson about life. But I also write some just for fun!

I enjoy Zen koans, which are a kind of verbal puzzle in the form of a story or question, which a Zen teacher will give a student in order to create the mindset for the student to reach a particular awareness or realization. The answers are not found through logic or deduction, but rather are understood through intuition and insight. One well known such koan is, “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” Another one, in story form, tells of two monks who were arguing about a flag.

The first says, “The flag is moving.”

The second says, “The wind is moving.”

The Master of their monastery happened to be passing by and he told them, “Not the wind, not the flag, mind is moving”

These two koans are meant to inspire the student to step outside his comfort zone of experience, to see things in a non-traditional way and realize that what is taken for granted is not necessarily in line with the Zen view of the world. My purpose in sharing these is not to attempt to explain them, but to give you a perspective into where I find the inspiration for my own stories. Of course, I usually have a more broadly appealing variation within my stories.

And so with that, I present this sort of ‘koan’, in hopes that the lesson, or moral, I attempt to impart might touch your mind and perhaps broaden your perception of the world around you.


Realization, A Moral Tale

There once was a man who had everything anyone could ask for in material possessions, but no matter how much he acquired, he still wanted more and he was not happy. He was wealthy, handsome, had a wonderful wife and family, many friends and a very successful business. But still, he did not feel satisfied with his life, it wasn’t enough. So one day, when he was downtown in the busy city where his business was located, he went across the street to the office of his favorite Guru (this is a fictional story, for convenience).

He was welcomed into the small room where this spiritual master received those seeking his guidance, sat in respectful silence until the Teacher ended his meditations and said, “Now, my son, what troubles you?”

“Oh Great Teacher, I am a wealthy man in the prime of my life. I have a beautiful wife and loving children, I have many friends, I have a successful business, I am handsome, healthy, intelligent and respected, but I am not at ease and feel dissatisfied with life. All my successes are not enough. I need to find some kind of peace within myself. Can you help me?”

The Teacher looked at him for a moment, then smiled and said, “All your treasures, your wealth, your material possessions, your family and friends are nothing if you do not live for each and every moment of your life as it is happening. Feel yourself in the now and do not think of what you own or have. See that whatever you are doing at any given moment is the most important thing you have ever done, see each instant for the unique and unrepeatable experience that it is. Your will not find inner peace by chasing things, but only by appreciating what you already have. It is okay to work toward goals, but be aware that it is within this eternal moment of now that happiness resides. This is the key to a fulfilling life.”

The man thought it over for a minute, realized that the Teacher was right and that he had been living by working toward things to come, anticipating instead of enjoying what he actually had. He understood the teacher’s message, took it into himself, felt a great rushing surge of joy within his heart and finally smiled.

Understanding that he had found a satisfying peace and great happiness, he thanked the Teacher very warmly and made his way out of the office. He went down to the ground level, smiling at everyone he saw, strode through the lobby, stepped outside, looked up at the clear blue sky, took a refreshing breath of cool morning air, threw his cares to the wind and, still smiling, stepped off the curb into the street where a bus ran him right over dead.

The moral of the story is: Look both ways before crossing the street.

And so, please do accept the moral of this story and, if you are able, apply it to your life whenever you feel the opportunity arise. I thank you and wish you a most pleasant day!

Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-14-09