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Seven Days
by Nihar Wahal Sunday afternoon. Zeph sat in the park, eating his hot dog. A violinist started playing at the other side of the park, followed by a flock of birds heading south. He stared at the change he had left in his hand. Fifty-three cents. He would need to get some more if he wanted to eat a dinner. Licking mustard off his fingers, he made his way down to the department store and sat down about a block away, setting out his cup. People scuffled by with mittens and light coats, heading to the store to cash in on the sale on blankets. He heard every "ding" as person after person walked through those sliding doors, but he refused to think about them. Now was not the time to fantasize about living normally as a part of society; now was the time to get another forty-seven cents to buy a burger off the dollar menu for dinner. He watched people from all walks of life walk by his life: teenagers with steaming cups of Starbucks, businessmen with folded umbrellas occasionally glancing up to check the clouds. Money fell into his cup as he watched them walk by with expressionless eyes and felt the chill as the sun slowly left to bring life to the other half of the world. Thirty-eight cents. Nine cents short. It had been a slow day. No food today. Zeph walked by the storefronts, making his way to spend another night in the house of cheap wine, stale bread, and an ever-judging statue. Monday morning. Zeph shuffled out of the church into the dark damp air, inhaling sharply, trying to guess what the day would be like from its scent. It would be another hour or so before the janitor came in to tidy up after yesterday's mass, another half before the sun came out, a quarter before mothers would leave the house taking the children to school and fathers would head out for a long day of meetings and presentations and powerpoints and good-job-on-that-report-Joe's... But Zeph didn't care. This time was reserved for him, for the birds hunting for worms to bring to their chicks, for the violinist in the park across town yesterday whose melodies carried through the still air and through the still time. Zeph exhaled slowly, feeling his chest fall as his lungs compressed and shoulders fell forwards slightly. The air lacked the humid smell of rain. Monday evening. Mondays were the worst. No one went out on Mondays. All the sales ended in the weekend, and no one ate out on Monday evenings. He looked down at his cup: one dollar, forty-one cents. Not bad for a Monday. He had a somewhat-full stomach and some money left over. Down the road, he heard the violinist busking. Perhaps he should try to save up for an instrument. Buskers could earn a lot more than simple panhandlers. People mindlessly walking by musicians still drop money for them. Picking up an instrument would be good. Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday afternoons were great. All business lunch meetings happened on Tuesdays, and everyone wants to look good in front of their boss. Zeph laughed inside; the same people who ignored him or rudely told him to get a job and stop being lazy suddenly put on such a charitable show. Marionettes dancing on strings. That's what they all were. Puppets putting on a show. Still, he kept his smile plastered on his face. They were paying him, after all. He provided a service - he made them look good, and they payed him in return. He glanced down at his cup: twenty-four dollars, eighty-three cents. He could eat a larger meal in the early evening and save the rest of his money, perhaps look into picking up a violin of his own. Or a jacket. Winter was coming, and he could probably pick up enough to buy a jacket during the weekend sale. Wednesday night. Zeph lay on the cold, hard, marble church floor. It was not a good day. He had fallen sick from yesterday's meal. Today was a blacksmith pounding away a piece of red-hot iron on the anvil of his head, the piercing blows and roaring forge penetrating his ears and mind, the spark flashes burning his eyes. His chest and stomach together tumbled like a pebble being washed down a river. Next to him lay a bottle of Advil and his cup with six dollars, eighty-three cents. Far off in the night, the violinist practiced a new song, a lullaby. Sleep would come soon and provide a temporary release from the pain. Thursday noon. The sun was high in the blue sky when Zeph awoke. The headache had subsided somewhat, but the churning in his torso remained. He took some Advil, went outside, and set up by the shopping district. People normally didn't go out on Thursdays, but he needed to get out of the musty church. The dead air inside did nothing to help his sickness; hopefully, some fresh air would do him well. Thursday early evening. Zeph's eyes widened as the sky opened up and drops of water began to fall. The few people who were milling around quickly went to their cars and left, and those who were still shopping suddenly found the store they were in particularly interesting. Even the violinist's sounds stopped as he stopped busking and packed up his instrument to protect it, but Zeph simply stared at the rain in confusion. The sky had been completely clear in the afternoon. He silently cursed himself for not noticing the clouds roll in as he hurriedly stood up to leave, bending down to pick up his cup. Twelve dollars, eighty-three cents. He had enough to buy food for dinner, but that would mean staying out even longer and having to walk back in even worse rain. Getting out of the wetness was more important, so Zeph sighed and reluctantly made his way back to the church. Friday morning. Zeph groaned as he dizzily stood up. Any good that the fresh air did for him yesterday was more than offset by the cold rain. Even now, its steady patter sounded off to him as a warning, warning him of the dangers of going outside again, warning him of the growing pain in his torso and head, warning him of the lack of money in his cup, warning him of the life he lived and the life he could have had, warning him of the insanity that slowly crept into his head each night he stayed in the dark, damp church. Zeph yelled out in frustration and collapsed. Friday afternoon. Zeph gingerly shook his head as he got up and struggled to remember why he was still in the church. He had heard the rain and yelled, and then emptiness. Shrugging and popping a few Advil, Zeph quickly headed out of the church and down to the main square. Even though there was still some light rain, lots of people went out on Fridays, and Zeph could not afford to stay inside and recover. As he sat down and set out his cup, Zeph eyed the clouds overhead. He looked at their varying shades of grey and shapes, observing them, trying to catch a glimpse into the future they held for him, how much more water they had left to give, how much longer before the slow front would finally push them away. His divination drew nothing positive, however, and drooping his head and leaning back against the wet wall, Zeph hoped he might get enough money by the end of the day to buy a warm jacket before the rain got worse. He needed that jacket. No matter how horrible the weather became today, he would stay out and collect as much money as he could and buy that jacket. Saturday morning. Zeph lay groaning on the floor. His head was exploding, his chest had an elephant on it, and his stomach twisted and turned more than yesterday’s winds. The bottle of Advil was uncapped and knocked over, the precious red pills spilling out onto the white marble. His cup held forty-two somewhat soggy dollars, enough to get a passable jacket, but Zeph could not leave the cold white floors to get the warmth. It was too hard to get up, too hard to get out, too hard to get on… so he stayed in his easy discomfort, in his small room, in his sepulcher. Sunday afternoon. The priest sat in the park, absentmindedly rubbing the cross hanging from his neck. A violinist played Amazing Grace across the park, making the priest smirk. No one would know who that man was from the morning. The police said he looked like a homeless vagrant who decided to end his life with some pills. A typical open-and-shut case. The priest oversaw his burial and prayed for his soul. The gravediggers stood silently by their shovels, watching the priest’s performance. No one from the church chose to stay for the unknown man’s burial. The only attendees at the ceremony that morning were the priest, the gravediggers, and the birds flying south overhead; the only eulogy was the sound of the violin carrying through the still air and through the still time. He stood up and made his way back to the old church, ready to prepare for the evening Mass. |
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