Closet Empty Of Occult Joy

The doors swung open, many men and women, dressed in the various civilian attires, tennis, dress shoes, sandals, wool, cotton, gingham, rough ties, worn leather belts, day stained eyes, dusting needing hats, old style glasses, commoners most; the wooden doors opened into a room filled with musty darkness, within it contained a closet, which, unusually, started halfway up the wall off the floor. They all, about thirty one in count, climbed into the closet, all dressed like that, and all made their way in, doubtful it looked that they would fit, but I was unpleasantly wrong, the last few in stood facing me, and closed the doors, and I stood there, in this empty room, with a closet full.

You try not to mind your mind when you see things like that for the first time, but this was the sixth time that I had seen this strange behavior, and I doubted it was rare, having I only been in this town for a month, I went to my hotel room, sat on the bed, and wondered what had happened to the world that I might have missed?

The next day I woke up a little earlier, trying to catch the show, I made it towards that green house, with dark brown carpets, scene of last nights closet room bunching, and I peaked through the window, fences near by, strangers walking by, and just as though timed for my experience, the closet doors opened and the normal gallant quietly migrated out of the closet almost as if to be able to get in again later on that evening. It was an entire group, but no sooner out than they did disperse, and were so quickly thinned into the city I could not follow them from lack of trace material.

I went back and saw the closet doors shut, silent, empty inside, I yet dared not enter, you don’t know what property rights you are violating, these people deserved their privacy just as they had afforded me mine by ignoring me. Why, as they passed by they did not even acknowledge that I was dumbfoundedly staring. It must have seem normal to them, or they were not willing to irritate themselves over my bad manners, but I could not help being surprised at such strange happening.

I ate lunch, the same food was served today that was served yesterday and the day before and so on backwards through time since my arrival, so dedicated to the mashed potatoes and fried chicken were the cooks that I doubted that before I came anything else could have been served. Somewhere near this town had to be a huge farm, full of chickens, hens and roosters, four o’clock in the morning must have there an air of blasting beaks.

I took my book out of my pouch, “The Gentry In The Slum”, the first chapter was rather dull, something to do with some dignified family falling into hardship, their blue bloodedness surprised at the unsqueamished hardships trouncing on them oblivious of their origins. There was a little girl, Sarah, she was somehow untouched by all the calamity, somehow she always looked like a thin tall glacial and gracious ballerina; even as her entire world collapsed, trees were being ripped apart to warm the house, the beautiful garden had given way to flourishing weeds, determined to get to the sun first, never mind the roses and the atmosphere. That was the first chapter, knotting along a rather proverbial plot.

The afternoon went away, and I made haste towards the green house, I took notice of the lack of cars, few here and there, but they had the periods of comets, they came unexpected in long cycles because they had been forgotten. These comet cars were all old, so you could imagine that there was no large factory outside of the city building them, they had to have come from far away, maybe even another planet, how else could they remain so faithful of old looks and in such good working order. Maybe if a place is far away it is better not to introduce new models, these automobile executives could look at a century of product life cycles.

At evening break I was there, by the window, then I noted how they did not seem to mind that I went into the house yesterday to watch them, so why would they mind today. And sure enough, there they came; I would describe the scene but you can just reread the first paragraph for nothing changed but for the repetition which one could count as one more time, one more time.

From the distance you saw no definitive pattern, then suddenly you see them bunching up into about thirty one, how they know I don’t know, how they time it all so well who knows, but there is a rough and misaligned precision that could easily enter with honorable mention in a parade.

I decided to skip lunch the next day, maybe it was something in the chicken, besides having had eggs for breakfast, that is I ate two chicks, then, needed not I to continue such a white meat diet, a break in my room, I lent some nutritional credit to some chocolate bars, and helped them out with a dull glass of oxygenated red. My eyes poured over The Gentry In The Slum, the ballerina continued to hold my attention, but the book did not promise a happy ending and I was beginning to bother myself more over my seemingly fictional reality. How could I be witnessing what I am witnessing and reading this boring phycomycete simply because of a young slender filly?

The bunching evening events began again; I had my mind made up, I was going to interfere. There the huddled mass, moving towards me, belts, nylon, wool, coats, eyes sore from the day, and I noticed a young one, could not have been more than twelve, green dress with little tiny flowers all around it, her hair curly blond, and she stood out so well from the bunch that I silently punished myself for not having noticed her before. Of course it could be that she was new to the bunch, but this I doubted because she did not show the type of curiosity or insecurity of movements that all new members to a group generally display. She had done this a few times, or was genetically programmed to go inside of a closet, and thus pass the night with all these people that never took their clothes off.

I had been so amused by her appearance, that somehow I did not feel alone anymore and so I took the first garbage can I found as a fine opportunity to throw away the boring book. Thinking only for a second, am I throwing away Sarah, but instead I quickly named my new friend Sarah too, so that it would seem that the ballerina had traveled from the fiction in her world into mine.

The next morning I skipped the chicken egg breakfast, and went to wait for Sarah to come out. She did come out, and I was rather happy to see my new found companion. I followed her, she never looked back, she never noticed me, but she was such a flower, that she did not need to look back for me to love her. While perhaps, looking at the heavens with adulation and joy emanating from her, I lost sight of her, and despondent I remained all rest of the day.

The evening came, and again, there she was, I sighted her just as she was bunching with the bunch, her eyes were light blue and though she did not smile her face always layered some occult joy, some occult joy. I did not dare interrupt the march towards their closet, instead I figured dawn would help me arrest her attention and steal a few words.

Dawn did not fail to arrive and so did I, as soon as I saw Sarah part with the group like a slice of cake that still resembles the whole, I was determined not to let her disappear into the horizon so I called her name, “Sarah!” And I called it so loud and brusquely that I again silently punished myself for being so out of character; Sarah did however stop and turn to look back at me, green beautiful dress, blond cutie, I just stood still. Robbed of friendly impact I repeated the same only with a more subdued voice, “sarah,” and she searched my eyes, searched to find a relative or a father or maybe someone from the bunch, and I sensed her inquisitive energy entering through my defenseless eyes, she started probing with her subtle blue eyes, and I felt so like the brightness of her stare might do my corneas damage that I placed my hand partially blocking her view and mine, and when I went to gaze again more calmly, she was gone.

Neither the next evening nor the next dawn, nor the next and next after that did I see Sarah, I really felt alone again and, inexplicably remembering Sarah’s green flowered dress and blue eyes, wished to god I had not thrown away the book.

Exasperated, I had to leave that chicken town in a comet car.

RC