36

Denny’s was a Godsend. Open all night, he made a home in a booth there. Piled his regular people jacket in the corner and leaned into it waiting for his burger and fries. While he was waiting he slipped back in time.

Nightclub.

It might as well have been called The Golgotha Club. This is the place where dreams came to die.

He was feeling good, so he decided to go talk to the trees. They looked just like people and they had drinks in their hands, but they were trees.

“How’s it going?”

Silence. The would pull out their cell phones and start texting, or just play around with them.

The establishment of good rapport with others is essential to sanity.

He awkwardly moved on, double fisting, to the next trees. Silence. The wind blowing through their ears.

Eventually he found people who would talk. He didn’t like small talk too much, but as soon as he got off it, that’s when the conversation fizzled out.

“… I wonder what kind of effect advertising really has on these people. Everywhere you look there’s people flaunting brand names, like it’s their own name …”

“… see, most people here fit into my six categories of obnoxiousness and uh, I’m having a hard time finding anybody here who fits into my six categories of charisma …”

“… I mean what is a soul, right? Let me tell you, there is life after death, you just have to make sure somebody clones you …”

“… I know Henry Falconer …”

Each time, he tried to cut the crap and have a real conversation, it was nullified by bored glances around the room, raised eyebrows coupled with slow nods, and cell phone play.

Just people being people, he guessed. Real conversation, it appeared, was no fun.

***

He ate his fries one at a time, each one bringing him a sliver of infinity closer to the present.

Gallery.

He was the one there who just had to have something interesting to say. There was a taker.

They were talking about art.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that artists these days are so cynical. They think everything’s already been done so they don’t try to push the boundaries. They don’t try to find new genres and new mediums to express themselves in.”

“Maybe,” the taker said, “they’re happy expressing themselves in the medium they’re working in. Maybe they don’t need to create new genres, new mediums and new classifications.”

“But, the audience needs it, don’t they?”

He didn’t get an answer. The conversation moved to film. The taker was caught up talking about his favorite scenes from Star Wars.

“… and then when he shoots Greedo …”

“… and then when …”

“… and then when …”

“oh man … that was awesome!”

It seemed he was missing the whole point.

“I know Henry Falconer.”

The conversation was put to bed, where it died, surrounded by loved ones, became one with infinity.

Otherwise it was mostly the same. A whole lot of dressed up people avoiding eye contact.

***

He started in on his burger.

A group of young men were making a big ruckus, laughing, goofing off, twisting off salt shaker caps, mixing condiment ingredients. They were giving the waitress a hard time about beer. They just wanted to keep their buzz going. People being people.

The pub was quieter than this.

The pub where people acted like people. It too, was a Godsend, but people were still obnoxious there too. Puking and cussing and spitting and punching, people dressed down but still on display.

The city was a zoo whose big attraction was people. Different dress codes, different style of speech, but all basically alike.

***

By the time he got to the metro station he realized it was eight in the morning. It was a new day, for most it was just beginning for Adam it was just ending. People shuffled into the underground station in waves of three, waiting to ride the river of steel, all it costs is a token.

There was a three headed attack outside the station doors, three people working, doing their job. Two of them were handing out newspapers, Adam walked right past them, the third, he handed Adam a pamphlet about the exciting new religious group called the Adamites.