Hymn
"We need a car."
Mark’s voice is mater of fact, not at all harried. Not at all like what you’re feeling. Still Mark is moving swiftly, the clacking hard soles of his shiny black shoes promising a swift break into a run as the mob behind you closes in.
“Yeah,” you agree, increasing your pace to move in stride with your roommate. “These shoes aren’t exactly made for escaping a mob of angry villagers.”
Behind you, you can feel the horde edging closer. You. You think you can smell kerosene and matches as torches light up. You think you can smell the manure stuck to rusted pitchforks. You have the urge to duck from the possible onslaught of malotov cocktails.
You round a corner and leap over a toy poodle as Mark quickly sidesteps the sleepy woman letting her dog shit on the sidewalk once more before she goes to bed. The woman hears the coming crowd too, and quickly gathers the dog into her arms before rushing into her apartment building.
Mark grasps your collar, pulling you into the alley-styled walkway lined with dumpsters and blue recycling bins from the program the city decided was more expensive than the environmental impact. You lean against the aging brick wall with your hands on your knees, arching your back in a moment of temporary reprieve. You open your mouth to speak and Mark silences you with a stern glare.
In the shadows of the alleyway, tucked out of sight from the pouring gaze of the streetlights, you let your eyes adjust, your pupils dilate.
The tuxes Mark picked out for the two of you are sleek and narrow. Vests versus cumberbunds. Pinstriped. And though both are mostly black with soft thin bands of white, in the dimness of the alley, you can tell your stripes are centered directly opposite Mark’s.
Details.
Your eyes follow Mark’s to the mouth of the alleyway as a gaggle of sharply dressed men and women rush past. The men, too, are decked out in formal wear, though nowhere near as suave as you and Mark. The women, sequined and red, glinting like mating fireflies in the lamplight.
You hear the rustle of a flint against metal and turn to the sparking flame as Mark ignites the Lucky Strike perched on his lips. He gives you a wink as you deny his offer to join him in a smoke, still trying to catch your breath. He begins angling toward the main street and you join his gait.
“Why are they chasing us anyway?” you ask, realizing for the first time you have no idea where you had been or why you were there.
“Why does anyone ever get pursued?”
This is not the time for Mark’s proverbial life lessons.
“I know,” he says. Mark says and smirks and you as you find your bearings on the sidewalk, craning your neck to try to make out the street sign on the corner. “But even a night at the opera can hold a lot of truths you need to learn.”
The opera?
Your eyebrows raise, and you peer over Mark’s shoulder at the trim, short man moving closer at a rapid pace, his cufflinks flashing as his arms swing at halftime with his legs.
“They’re back here!”
You spin on your heels at the short guy’s words, taking in the well-dressed horde beyond you pushing into a U-turn and closing in on you much faster than you would have imagined.
Mark. Mark tips his head to the short guy who’s slowed to a brisk walk as he moves within five feet from where you’re standing. Mark takes your hand unexpectedly and drags you out into the street, sidestepping the oncoming traffic before quickening his pace.
“We need a car,” he says again, still calm and collected. “Follow me.”
The two of you push down a side street, leaping over the Oak and Magnolia roots jarring and cracking the sidewalk. You listen to the growing rumble of panting and clacking high heels navigating the path behind you.
“They’re heading to the park!”
You blink suddenly as you see that they’re right. The houses beside you look familiar now as you move down the street toward the open pasture tucked into the center of Midtown. You wonder what Mark could have in mind as he leads you into the inline skaters and behind-the-tree blowjobs abounding in the after-dark park hours.
You quicken your stride, more comfortable in your step now that you have realized your familiarity with your surroundings. As you near the edge of the park, you set your eyes on the downward sloping bike path before feeling Mark’s grasp on your wrist tugging you away from the opening. He slows to a walk and places a hand on your chest, urging you to bring balance to your breathing.
There are more people on the street now and you notice a line of traffic slowing as sharply dressed valets exchange car keys for numbered cards and smiling men escort their dates toward a dinner that will no doubt buy them a quick lay for dessert.
Mark signals for you to stop, his left cheek tensing as he heads toward the entrance of the restaurant. Two of the attendants drive off to safely park the vehicles of new money patrons already grown too lazy to fight for the limited city parking available. The third is busy angling himself away from the thin glass doorway so, if the manager happens by, the burning cigarette resting between his middle and index fingers won’t turn into a pink slip.
Mark motions for you to move to the rear of the restaurant where the valets are pulling the vehicles into neatly packed rows. You turn to move, perking your ears toward the growing sound of footsteps closing in behind you as your eyes catch Mark’s hand reaching into the cabinet of unwatched keys.
Mark’s voice is mater of fact, not at all harried. Not at all like what you’re feeling. Still Mark is moving swiftly, the clacking hard soles of his shiny black shoes promising a swift break into a run as the mob behind you closes in.
“Yeah,” you agree, increasing your pace to move in stride with your roommate. “These shoes aren’t exactly made for escaping a mob of angry villagers.”
Behind you, you can feel the horde edging closer. You. You think you can smell kerosene and matches as torches light up. You think you can smell the manure stuck to rusted pitchforks. You have the urge to duck from the possible onslaught of malotov cocktails.
You round a corner and leap over a toy poodle as Mark quickly sidesteps the sleepy woman letting her dog shit on the sidewalk once more before she goes to bed. The woman hears the coming crowd too, and quickly gathers the dog into her arms before rushing into her apartment building.
Mark grasps your collar, pulling you into the alley-styled walkway lined with dumpsters and blue recycling bins from the program the city decided was more expensive than the environmental impact. You lean against the aging brick wall with your hands on your knees, arching your back in a moment of temporary reprieve. You open your mouth to speak and Mark silences you with a stern glare.
In the shadows of the alleyway, tucked out of sight from the pouring gaze of the streetlights, you let your eyes adjust, your pupils dilate.
The tuxes Mark picked out for the two of you are sleek and narrow. Vests versus cumberbunds. Pinstriped. And though both are mostly black with soft thin bands of white, in the dimness of the alley, you can tell your stripes are centered directly opposite Mark’s.
Details.
Your eyes follow Mark’s to the mouth of the alleyway as a gaggle of sharply dressed men and women rush past. The men, too, are decked out in formal wear, though nowhere near as suave as you and Mark. The women, sequined and red, glinting like mating fireflies in the lamplight.
You hear the rustle of a flint against metal and turn to the sparking flame as Mark ignites the Lucky Strike perched on his lips. He gives you a wink as you deny his offer to join him in a smoke, still trying to catch your breath. He begins angling toward the main street and you join his gait.
“Why are they chasing us anyway?” you ask, realizing for the first time you have no idea where you had been or why you were there.
“Why does anyone ever get pursued?”
This is not the time for Mark’s proverbial life lessons.
“I know,” he says. Mark says and smirks and you as you find your bearings on the sidewalk, craning your neck to try to make out the street sign on the corner. “But even a night at the opera can hold a lot of truths you need to learn.”
The opera?
Your eyebrows raise, and you peer over Mark’s shoulder at the trim, short man moving closer at a rapid pace, his cufflinks flashing as his arms swing at halftime with his legs.
“They’re back here!”
You spin on your heels at the short guy’s words, taking in the well-dressed horde beyond you pushing into a U-turn and closing in on you much faster than you would have imagined.
Mark. Mark tips his head to the short guy who’s slowed to a brisk walk as he moves within five feet from where you’re standing. Mark takes your hand unexpectedly and drags you out into the street, sidestepping the oncoming traffic before quickening his pace.
“We need a car,” he says again, still calm and collected. “Follow me.”
The two of you push down a side street, leaping over the Oak and Magnolia roots jarring and cracking the sidewalk. You listen to the growing rumble of panting and clacking high heels navigating the path behind you.
“They’re heading to the park!”
You blink suddenly as you see that they’re right. The houses beside you look familiar now as you move down the street toward the open pasture tucked into the center of Midtown. You wonder what Mark could have in mind as he leads you into the inline skaters and behind-the-tree blowjobs abounding in the after-dark park hours.
You quicken your stride, more comfortable in your step now that you have realized your familiarity with your surroundings. As you near the edge of the park, you set your eyes on the downward sloping bike path before feeling Mark’s grasp on your wrist tugging you away from the opening. He slows to a walk and places a hand on your chest, urging you to bring balance to your breathing.
There are more people on the street now and you notice a line of traffic slowing as sharply dressed valets exchange car keys for numbered cards and smiling men escort their dates toward a dinner that will no doubt buy them a quick lay for dessert.
Mark signals for you to stop, his left cheek tensing as he heads toward the entrance of the restaurant. Two of the attendants drive off to safely park the vehicles of new money patrons already grown too lazy to fight for the limited city parking available. The third is busy angling himself away from the thin glass doorway so, if the manager happens by, the burning cigarette resting between his middle and index fingers won’t turn into a pink slip.
Mark motions for you to move to the rear of the restaurant where the valets are pulling the vehicles into neatly packed rows. You turn to move, perking your ears toward the growing sound of footsteps closing in behind you as your eyes catch Mark’s hand reaching into the cabinet of unwatched keys.
Hymn is Coming Soon!
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