short story beginnings

29. November 2008

It’s cold. I stuff my fists deeper into the pockets of my coat, turn the collar upwards to shield against the wind’s stubborn attacks. It’s only a short walk, I tell myself, and push onward. My fists burrow, seeking depth that will only increase if the seams tear, which I really don’t want. This jacket is my favorite. It’s been through the good and the awful with me. I ought to respect it.
I don’t need to remind myself where I am going. My feet, at least, will never forget. I’ve made this trip countless times, back and forth, forth and back, constantly pivoting the days away. This is a constant. Schedules change, friends change, conceptions and priorities and ideals change, but this won’t change. It’s physical- one block east, five south, two east, and so forth. Until I make it to his office, his pretentious, ivy-covered-windowed, encyclopedia-lined, leather-upholstered office. He will be waiting, predictably, for our weekly conclave, our clashing of ideas, our hebdomadal posturing of eager idealism and senescent cynicism.
I must keep my feet spinning, but focus instead on steadying my thoughts. The battle ahead is not one for the weak of heart. I tell myself I am approaching this incorrectly: I ought not view it as a battle. He is the elder, the knowledged one. I am here to learn, not only the intricacies of my question, but the fundamentals of receiving and processing thoughts. In fact the concept of a battle is disappointingly inopportune, the more I wrestle with it. I imagine two soldiers approaching each other on a sweeping plain somewhere in northern France. There are thousands around them, but they see only each other. Tunnel vision takes over, the sounds of men falling and mines exploding are crafted into an eye of the storm. The men approach, guns aimed suggestively and eyes piercing through the dusk. Their boots hit the mud in accidental unison. They shiver with cold, excitement, anxiety. One seems utterly in charge, relaxed even, a true veteran and professional. The other approaches brazenly, blinking like an idiot. Soon their guns are close enough to touch- but they avoid any physical foundation for their relationship. As the ghosts of their fallen comrades swirl around them, the young soldier kneels in the mud, feels the wetness quickly seep through his camos and onto his skin. He looks up at his enemy and asks for advice. The old soldier laughs.
I am torn. I know that this cannot be a battle. My own daydream mocks my attempt at implicating that motif. Part of me is aware of my shortcomings, eager to improve, to learn from the greatest. But the other part of me, the one trudging with brow-furrowed intensity through the chilling cold, wants fireworks, wants an explosion of Hegelian dialectical intensity. Part of me carries that confidence. But the other recognizes what forces me to kneel in the mud. My walk carries overtones of this reconciliation.
I look up, finally. While walking my head has a tendency to drift downwards, towards the cracks and imperfections of the sidewalk. I play games with the breaks in the pavement- skipping the line, intentionally landing on it, counting the steps between. Childish games that permeate me. At least some see it so. I regret my addiction to these games, but not for the sake of my maturity. People fill their days with much more mundane time-wasters. I find my game has the benefit of protecting those I walk with- warning of large cracks or other impediments. What I worry, though, is that the world passes me by as I undertake this noble pursuit. Or maybe we all have our purpose.
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I apologize for my tardiness, and for the blinding fog thrown in front of my eyes as my glasses acclimatize to the radiating warmth.