James Wall arrived to the tapas
restaurant at around 7:00 pm. The night was colder than it used to be around
that time of the year – mid September – maybe because it was about to rain
after a long drought or maybe because that particular night was somehow special.
He sat and reviewed the menu with
clinching curiosity as if he had never seated on that chair. He liked the
suspense, the little details that made his regular visit to the tapas
restaurant a unique experience every single time.
Habits, they say, are formed out
of menacing self-awareness and in his case even more so. James carried a life
full of dangerous habits and questionable company. His time, it seemed, had ran
through him faster than it should have and his hopes were all like reflections
on turbulent water.
His eyes, watery and weak met the
doctor’s eye when he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. His nights became
gradual nightmares of which he couldn’t wake up from and his ability to carry
out a normal adult life degraded to the point where James found himself alone,
shivering without control.
He knew that his disease was
product of the irony of this, our world. Maybe if he hadn’t spent so much time
complaining and being trapped by his own trivial demons, maybe if he could relive
those moments he could act differently and not tempt the sadistic master of
destiny. Maybe he could develop a pattern, a healthier, minimalistic conduct
that would cast a defense against the Gods of luck.
Every Friday of every week he
went to the very same restaurant, he examined the menu and acted impressed and
delighted by all the options that were set in front of him.
The night was cold and then the
place started to get more and more crowded. He used to hear the continuous banter
that went on and on at the tables next to his. He could see those like him who
were just passing by and being sentenced by their own mischief. But that night,
he noticed a different thing, a new thing.
Across a couple of tables to his
right a large group of what seemed to be work buddies had set a long table and
they invited women, the count was nearly one girl for every guy, nearly – I reiterate
– because there was a woman who seemed to be alone. She was there, she engaged
in conversation with the others but her mind was elsewhere, or else James Walls
thought.
He would start, as always with
the Colombian potatoes and a glass of Duckhorn red wine. Then he would wipe his
mouth twice trying to hide his aggravating shivers and follow up with a nice
filet mignon, bloody but tender in the core, medium rare, like the folks use to
call it.
The woman, fragile and soft
mannered kept sliding her hand across her short straight hair, almost showing
her vulnerable stance or her inadequacy amidst the whole situation. She carried
a small purse and wore a skirt (not too short or too long) just a skirt that
looked as appealing and interesting as sober. She smiled a lot too but not to
catch any guy’s attention but more to fit in.
James Knew those smiles, he understood how it
felt to be dislocated from society, he knew deep down what that woman was going
through and felt an urge to let her know that the Gods of luck do not hesitate
to cash in all the insecurities. But he couldn’t do anything about it, his
hands shivered, even more now that he was nervous and processing all those
feelings at his usual table in the far back.
Hours went by and with the strike
of a lightning the cold still night transformed into a loud and menacing
monster. Pouring rain fell and fell as James Wall observed the soft mannered
woman, and then, it happened. The girl stood up and started walking toward the
exit.
“Had she arrived in a car?” James
asked himself.
She walked out and started walking
across the flooded street, right past James Wall’s window. He almost felt she
could feel his gaze hunting her path and intentions. She just walked, soaking
wet, under the Georgia rain.
He stood up, reached for his
wallet and left a couple of hundreds on the table, then he rushed toward the
exit of the restaurant and started following the woman.
Gargantuan explosions roared
within the black sky. He could barely see her from the water that poured down
his temple. He was freezing and so was she. They kept walking for at least a
mile and half or two before she turned at an alley on Peach Tree Road and
entered an alley. He followed and found a door illuminated by a flickering
white light.
He reached for the door knob and
entered.
James Wall found himself amid an
elongated hall that had enormous paintings left and right. At first he wouldn’t
advance for the floor was entirely covered with a burgundy rough carpet. That
place seemed far too elegant for a chump like him, but there was not a trace of
the mysterious short haired woman. He took his shoes off and put them next to
the entrance and started walking ahead. The sublime paintings hanged adorned
with the most magnificent frames James had ever seen in his life. He could even
smell a unique aroma in that dark Hall of the arts.
But what was that place?
He sat at one of the benches and
saw one particular painting along the hall. A painting of a field, a field of
red grass and heavy black clouds. A storm it seemed to portray, a storm pouring
down on a field where a modest wooden cottage stood and a man trying to resist
against the forces of nature, carrying a dog inside, rushing to escape the
might of space and time. A man that reminded very much of himself. His hands,
they were calmer, his pain, somehow relieved. He sat there and felt peace.
He stood and tried to continue
walking but he couldn’t, she was there. The woman he saw at the restaurant stood
there soaking wet and with her sight fixated upon his. “Hi, I’m James” he said.
She advanced toward him and
turned to face the painting. “Hi James, I’m Emily” she replied.
“I followed you here because…” Emily raised her hand and interrupted James
before he could enunciate his reasons, “The man, he seems frightened. He seems
to be someone who doesn’t understand what’s happening around him and yet he
tries to help that dog, I’ve always found that fascinating about this painting
too”.
“Yeah, I thought he was… brave” –
He commented.
“Ignorance and bravery are often mistaken
by one another. This Gallery is my nightmare, James Walls, and you are part of
it now”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re cured”.
James Walls didn’t know how to
respond to such a statement. He felt rage at first but then he let it go and
felt a chill that went all around his body and ended in his eyes, in a tear
that went down his cheek.
“I’m cured?”
“I took something from you and
now you’ll have to exit my nightmare and go back to the world as a new man, a
different man. This is not my choice it is more like my…curse”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the storm and the rage and a
dreamer who occasionally dreams about sorrow and pain. This is your reckoning”
Emily smiled and turned her head
towards James who was now pale and petrified. He started walking away from her,
fast, fast as he could, running even toward the door. He reached out for the
door knob, turned it and exited the building. He fell on his knees; his eyes
were watery the storm has ceased to rage. He was alone on a sidewalk, his hands
were perfectly fine, his shivers had disappeared.
A man who happened to be walking
his dog approached James. “Sir, sir, are you alright?” – He asked
“I think so” - James replied.
Thinking of Atlanta, Georgia
