Date:         Sun, 10 Jan 1999 18:23:49 -0500
From: "a bibliobibuli! beware, beware!" <mbarker@MIT.EDU>
Subject:      [WRITERS] SUB: Pilgrimage (Captivity - 6) [1]

[First entry in the Pilgrimage Contest!  See
http://web.mit.edu/mbarker/www/pilgrim/ for more details... and send your
submissions to mbarker@mit.edu ]

Captivity

I suppose many lonely souls have sat at their windows many nights looking
out into the flood of moonlight, sad with a sadness that knows no comfort, a
sadness underlined by a beauty that is in itself a pleasant kind of sorrow
-- but very few ever have seen what I saw that night.

He was at least forty, perhaps fifty, with deep wrinkles on his face that
showed the hardness of his life.  I watched him from my window every night
as he made his way home from the bar, most often alone, but sometimes in
the company of a bright young lady of the night.  He must be lonely too, I
thought, but I couldn't know for sure.  I only met him twice.

The first time was in the stairwell.  I was going out as he was coming in.
I never knew who he knew in my apartment building, but there he was,
practically in my arms before I knew what was happening.  He looked at me
directly with his piercing blue eyes, and smiled a hello.  That's when I
think I fell in love with him.  No, he would never know that.

Even then, fear kept me captive.  I seldom left my small apartment.  Only
the need for groceries drove me out once every week or so.  Nobody knew me,
and I was sure that if I died, only the smell would alert anyone of my
passage.  The enemy was everywhere, ready to do me harm, just for the hell
of it.  The time I was beaten by the local hoods was as much proof of the
truth of that as I ever needed.

I never knew why they thought I had anything of value.  Since I usually
spent all my cash at the grocery store, and I was on my way home when it
happened, they only got some small change.  This angered them, so they
started beating me.  I don't remember anything else, until I woke up in the
hospital.  I was no fool.  I gave them a phony name and address, and as
soon as possible, I sneaked out of there -- no way could I pay for any of
that.

Most of my time was spent doing handwork, embroidery mostly, and some
fillet lace.  It didn't cost much, and it was something to do.  Then I
always watched for my Curly.  That's what I called him, because of his long
curly hair.  My heart did jump when I saw him on the sidewalk every
evening, headed for Jake's Bar and Grill on the corner.  I thought he must
eat his evening meal there.  It was better than thinking he was just a
drunk, and who knows, maybe it was true.  I'm not going to expound on the
thoughts that peppered my dreams of him.  You would think I'd be too old
for this foolishness, but I guess there is no age limit on it.

I saw them that night, from my window.  They were following him, my Curly.
He was walking... ok, he was weaving a bit, down the street, apparently
oblivious to the jackals on his tail.  Well, I couldn't just sit there and
watch, could I?

All I did was race down the stairs, as fast as I could, and holler at him.
When he came over to the door I was holding open in the crisp night air, I
asked him if he knew he was being followed.  He said he did, but he hadn't
decided what to do about it yet.  His breath didn't smell too bad, so I
said, "Would you like to come up for some tea?"  I'm sure I must have
blushed, but he took me up on my offer.  I felt better when the security
door closed behind us, and I think he did too.

I wasn't ready for company, not having a reason to expect any for the past
several years.  I put on the teapot, then went into the bathroom to brush
my hair.  I saw more than the disheveled hair.  I saw an old woman, with
sagging skin, dressed in rags.  There was nothing there for a man.

He was looking through the stack of finished handwork on the table.  He
said he liked my work.  I didn't have much to say; I wasn't used to
talking.  He wasn't anything at all like what I imagined him to be, but I
liked him anyway.  Perhaps it was his admission that he'd over-indulged.
He had a soft, low voice that sent shivers up my spine.  I hoped he didn't
notice any of that.  He left when the tea was gone, a little more steady on
his feet, and certain the coast was clear.

Now, he looks up and waves at me every day when he passes.  There aren't
enough shadows to hide in anymore, and every day feels like rejection,
though I know it's just in my head.  I'm sorry for leaving such a mess, but
I really can't keep on like this, you know.  I had saved the pain pills
from that time when I was in the hospital for just this occasion.  In a
moment I'll pull the shades and retire.  I just wanted to write this first.
I'm not sorry I rescued him, it was all my heart would allow.  It was fear
that kept me here, and fear that closed my door.  Fear that made me open it
one last time, and fear that locks it now, forevermore.


"Take me up into your mind once or twice before I die (you know why: just
because the eyes of you and me will be full of dirt some day).  Quickly take
me up into the bright child of your mind."  Edward Estlin Cummings

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