A man on the street corner plays the flute.
I don’t know for sure that the black instrument he’s playing is a flute, for I don’t boast great knowledge in these matters; but for all practical purposes, it is a flute.
Is he playing for money? I don’t see a hat.
The melody grows louder as I approach. It sounds positively medieval, with its vexillarious upbeats, crenellated trills, and bucolic melodic lines.
If he’s playing for money, where is his hat?
The walk sign turns on, and the man begins to cross the street. He continues playing, showing that he isn’t playing for money. Something in his languid gait, his half-lidded gaze (I can’t see his face, but thought I caught a glimpse of it earlier), and his extraordinary arrogance in not conforming to the standards of behavior expected of people in public greatly disconcerts me.
I begin to overtake him, careful to avoid looking directly in his direction, though I can see that red-shirted, slightly obese blur pass by me out of the corner of my eye. The repetitious melody begins to grate severely on me. Were I given to such violent outbursts, I suppose I might leap at the man, and beat him to death with my fists; but I can do naught but walk back to my apartment as fast as I can, and beg myself to forget what I have seen and heard.
By now I suppose the space between me and that curly-haired bespectacled oddity has widened to a good ten yards; but the thin, slightly blunt sound of his loathsome instrument rings undiminished in my ears. I’m afraid to look back, lest I become possessed by the sort of violent anger described before, but am acutely conscious that I want nothing more at this moment than for the world to exert its restoring influence on itself, and to see the man deleted like a cancerous cell.
I cast imploring looks at the people I pass on the sidewalk walking in the opposite direction. “Rid the world of that unnatural presence,” I say to them with my eyes. I had high hopes that the man with the cigarette would find in his heart, next to his established crudeness, sufficient brutishness to perform this much-needed service to humanity; but the terrible melody continues to be heard.
I cross the street so that I can steal a glimpse of this flautist from Hell without being caught in the act of staring, and see that he continues to walk in his awful lilting amble down the sidewalk, playing the same bizarre measures over and over like an interminable nightmare. The people passing him appear unaffected by his profoundly odious presence and behavior, but I wonder whether they are not merely hiding their true feelings, which are in reality as tempestuous as mine. The girls passing him, normally lavish in expressing their delight at even the most modest exhibition of talent—especially in ugly people—, would never be so dishonest to their principles as to say something nice to that monster with the black pipe between his fat lips.
It is utterly beyond my comprehension how someone so naturally odious should be so insensitive to the opinions of the world.
Is he even of this world?
I pray that the people waiting at the bus stop jump on him, and snatch that wretched thing out of his mouth, and bludgeon him till nothing remain but a smear of blood on the sidewalk. But no such thing happens, and the ghastly thing continues on his journey from nowhere to nowhere unmolested.
That goddamned psychopath. Just die already, please.
I begin to wonder, with a shiver, whether I am the one with issues? I have a vision of myself sitting in a dark room, back against the wall and hugging my knees, and rocking back and forth in an attempt to block myself out. Is it I who am the Devil in human form, who feel threatened by the sight of a truly happy and insouciant person whom my evil will not touch?
I think I’m losing it. I think I’m going crazy.
Suddenly I see two shady elements appear on the sidewalk in front of me like twin apparitions of the Lord, sniggering at each other through yellowing teeth from under their hooded jackets—the sort of persons, in short, whom people will actively avoid. Who knows how many defenseless individuals they have mugged? Or whether they deal drugs?
On a different day I would have steered clear of them; but today the sight of them fills me with a renewed love for humanity. Never have I felt more akin to another human being than I do at this moment.
They stop sniggering, and turn to face me as I near them; and I point out to them the terrible flautist on the other side of the street. They instantly recognize their mission, of course, so it isn’t necessary for me to spell it out. Without a moment’s hesitation they advance across the street, their eyes steely and wolflike, to gratify their desire for a distraction; and I walk up the cobbled steps to my apartment, for I have reached it at long last.
I feel no need to turn back and ascertain whether my lupine brothers have done as they were supposed to. There are some things in this world that we simply don’t doubt.
Sure enough, the music is stifled mid-phrase, even before I have inserted the key into the door, and a blood-curdling scream rends the air. Simultaneously, peace surges through my body, and cool air fills my lungs, as if something oppressive that existed previously in the air and impeded breathing has lifted.
I smile.
The flautist was just an ordinary mortal after all, for all his extraordinary pretensions to transcendence. He was never immune to the stern laws that govern society; and like all things that have the conceit to believe themselves above those laws, he succumbed in the end to the natural order. The world has once again proven its innate beneficence.
Gloria.
I don’t know for sure that the black instrument he’s playing is a flute, for I don’t boast great knowledge in these matters; but for all practical purposes, it is a flute.
Is he playing for money? I don’t see a hat.
The melody grows louder as I approach. It sounds positively medieval, with its vexillarious upbeats, crenellated trills, and bucolic melodic lines.
If he’s playing for money, where is his hat?
The walk sign turns on, and the man begins to cross the street. He continues playing, showing that he isn’t playing for money. Something in his languid gait, his half-lidded gaze (I can’t see his face, but thought I caught a glimpse of it earlier), and his extraordinary arrogance in not conforming to the standards of behavior expected of people in public greatly disconcerts me.
I begin to overtake him, careful to avoid looking directly in his direction, though I can see that red-shirted, slightly obese blur pass by me out of the corner of my eye. The repetitious melody begins to grate severely on me. Were I given to such violent outbursts, I suppose I might leap at the man, and beat him to death with my fists; but I can do naught but walk back to my apartment as fast as I can, and beg myself to forget what I have seen and heard.
By now I suppose the space between me and that curly-haired bespectacled oddity has widened to a good ten yards; but the thin, slightly blunt sound of his loathsome instrument rings undiminished in my ears. I’m afraid to look back, lest I become possessed by the sort of violent anger described before, but am acutely conscious that I want nothing more at this moment than for the world to exert its restoring influence on itself, and to see the man deleted like a cancerous cell.
I cast imploring looks at the people I pass on the sidewalk walking in the opposite direction. “Rid the world of that unnatural presence,” I say to them with my eyes. I had high hopes that the man with the cigarette would find in his heart, next to his established crudeness, sufficient brutishness to perform this much-needed service to humanity; but the terrible melody continues to be heard.
I cross the street so that I can steal a glimpse of this flautist from Hell without being caught in the act of staring, and see that he continues to walk in his awful lilting amble down the sidewalk, playing the same bizarre measures over and over like an interminable nightmare. The people passing him appear unaffected by his profoundly odious presence and behavior, but I wonder whether they are not merely hiding their true feelings, which are in reality as tempestuous as mine. The girls passing him, normally lavish in expressing their delight at even the most modest exhibition of talent—especially in ugly people—, would never be so dishonest to their principles as to say something nice to that monster with the black pipe between his fat lips.
It is utterly beyond my comprehension how someone so naturally odious should be so insensitive to the opinions of the world.
Is he even of this world?
I pray that the people waiting at the bus stop jump on him, and snatch that wretched thing out of his mouth, and bludgeon him till nothing remain but a smear of blood on the sidewalk. But no such thing happens, and the ghastly thing continues on his journey from nowhere to nowhere unmolested.
That goddamned psychopath. Just die already, please.
I begin to wonder, with a shiver, whether I am the one with issues? I have a vision of myself sitting in a dark room, back against the wall and hugging my knees, and rocking back and forth in an attempt to block myself out. Is it I who am the Devil in human form, who feel threatened by the sight of a truly happy and insouciant person whom my evil will not touch?
I think I’m losing it. I think I’m going crazy.
Suddenly I see two shady elements appear on the sidewalk in front of me like twin apparitions of the Lord, sniggering at each other through yellowing teeth from under their hooded jackets—the sort of persons, in short, whom people will actively avoid. Who knows how many defenseless individuals they have mugged? Or whether they deal drugs?
On a different day I would have steered clear of them; but today the sight of them fills me with a renewed love for humanity. Never have I felt more akin to another human being than I do at this moment.
They stop sniggering, and turn to face me as I near them; and I point out to them the terrible flautist on the other side of the street. They instantly recognize their mission, of course, so it isn’t necessary for me to spell it out. Without a moment’s hesitation they advance across the street, their eyes steely and wolflike, to gratify their desire for a distraction; and I walk up the cobbled steps to my apartment, for I have reached it at long last.
I feel no need to turn back and ascertain whether my lupine brothers have done as they were supposed to. There are some things in this world that we simply don’t doubt.
Sure enough, the music is stifled mid-phrase, even before I have inserted the key into the door, and a blood-curdling scream rends the air. Simultaneously, peace surges through my body, and cool air fills my lungs, as if something oppressive that existed previously in the air and impeded breathing has lifted.
I smile.
The flautist was just an ordinary mortal after all, for all his extraordinary pretensions to transcendence. He was never immune to the stern laws that govern society; and like all things that have the conceit to believe themselves above those laws, he succumbed in the end to the natural order. The world has once again proven its innate beneficence.
Gloria.
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