Published 10/20/2009 at http://galleryofwriting.org/writing/157232

Snapshot, a Short Story

by Michael G. Watson

04/18/2005

    The fly was quite at home in the metropolitan environment of the big city. One would think a more rustic, natural setting would offer more opportunity for survival, but the fly didn’t know the difference one way or the other. He merely followed his instincts and found nourishment and shelter without ever leaving the two city-block radius he knew as home.

    The city in the late morning was fully awake, with pedestrians crowding the sidewalks and clotting the intersections, businesses displaying their wares from fruits to magazines to cameras, and vehicles idling and honking as they moved nowhere in a gridlocked hurry. The sky was bright, although one entire side of the street was shadowed due to the sun-blocking effect of the surrounding skyscrapers. A brisk wind was blowing and people gathered their sweaters tighter around their bodies in response to its persistent drafts.

    The fly did not discern one day from another, or even one moment from the next. He just sought food, avoided being swatted to death, and rested between efforts.

    This particular morning was no more or less memorable than any other. As always, the fly was wary, searching for new food sources. As he  made his rounds down the block, his attention was suddenly captured by the fragrance of fresh meat.  Its odor was distinctive, and he circled closer, watching through his many lensed eyes for danger. The meat was big, bigger than any he had seen before, and he was wary as he approached it. Finally, he alighted on the new-found feast and began to eat.

    This meat was different than any in his recent, albeit scarce memories. It had a different smell, texture, and flavor than he was accustomed to. It didn’t matter to the fly, because he did not concern himself with such matters. The food was different, but it was good. This was his life.

*          *          *

    The shopkeeper was seldom in a favorable mood. In his opinion life could have treated him better overall. His immigration to America from China had taken place decades ago, and the transition had not been easy. He set up his small grocery and general store on the outskirts of Chinatown, not far from his point of entry into the country. San Francisco was oftentimes cold, both in its climate, and in its reception of its new residents from foreign lands.

    The shopkeeper was in his early sixties and quite alone, because the bride of his youth had long ago left him behind when the handsome young doctor, new to the neighborhood, had captured her heart and made available to her a life different from than harshness of her husband, and the poverty fate had previously relegated her to. The shopkeeper’s bitterness was subtle, having been refined by decades of nurturing and contemplation, and he resolutely held the world responsible for his isolation and lack of prosperity.

    Business had been slow this morning, which was not out of the ordinary. The shopkeeper walked to the entrance of his store and reviewed the trays of produce on display without. He noticed a gap where an orange had previously lain. He cursed as the realization of the theft dawned on him. He began to carefully rearrange the fruits to rebalance the display, his movements characteristically contemplative and deliberate. Over the noise of the nearly noon-day city he detected in the back of his mind a strange popping sound. He heard a small group of pedestrians across the street exclaiming and murmuring loudly. They began to gather in a circle, as the shopkeeper shook his head at the lemming-like behavior, musing to himself that nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd. Whatever the disturbance might be, it certainly wouldn’t improve his life, so what did he care? He shrugged indifferently and re-entered his store to soak in his complacent misery. This was his life.

*          *          *

    The seagull floated with some difficulty against the gusts, trying to avoid the tall buildings on either side of the narrow street in the massive city. He was very near the seashore, but the feeding in town was so plentiful due to the incessant littering by the humans that he found himself in the heart of the metropolis frequently. As he navigated between the tall monoliths of yet another street he sensed a danger from above. Quickly he veered sharply to the left, just as a large blur nearly missed him on its rapid trajectory downward. The emergency having passed, the seagull continued on his quest for the discards of humanity’s excessiveness. This was his life.

*          *          *          

    The policeman stood in the dead-center of the San Francisco intersection directing traffic. The signal lights had malfunctioned earlier during the morning rush hour, and the repairmen were no closer to a solution than they had been when he arrived more than three hours ago. The sun was shining brightly, but fortunately a strong merciful breeze was intermittently cooling him; merciful because the surrounding skyscrapers offered no shade whatsoever in his current location. 

    The motorists were frustrated because of the delays, and they all seemed to blame him, as if it were his fault the electronics had failed; as if he weren’t right there in the middle of it all trying to help. He was used to being unacknowledged, since being a police officer did not endear him to the local community very much. Even when he answered calls he was seemingly blamed for not being able to do enough. It was a thankless job, but it was what he did.

    The policeman thought San Francisco pedestrians to be unusual creatures. They become stone deaf and bat-blind when crossing a street. They do not hear horns honking, people yelling, or traffic cops directing. They do not see yellow lights, red lights, obscene gestures from motorists, or emphatic motions from cops. They just plod onward, oblivious to all but their destinations. To hear or to see would necessitate a response, and a response might inconvenience them; disrupt their flow, make them fall another millisecond behind schedule.  This unthinkable consequence makes walking in front of traffic a seemingly reasonable action to them. The assumption vehicles will just stop and let them pass; relinquishing their right-of-way in lieu of the weaker adversary is predominant, and oftentimes sadly inaccurate, as his piles of pedestrian accident reports attested to.

    The policeman found Chinatown pedestrians to be even more unique. Being second generation Chinese-American himself, he was intimately familiar with the culture specific to his nationality and ethnicity. Chinatown pedestrians, although temporarily deaf and blind like their other San Franciscan counterparts,  are by no means dumb. Their conversational tone is yelling, whether walking about, on the job, or in the home. One voice tries to drown out the next, and nobody listens to anything other than their own sound. The resulting chaos amazed the policeman, despite his exposure to it from infancy through adulthood.

    He recalled an old woman he had spoken to recently at the patio restaurant just at the next corner. She had seemed sad; very detached, but he had been unable to get her to open up to him and tell him what was really bothering her. She told him she had lived near there many years ago, but hadn’t been back since she left. He asked if there was anything she needed; she seemed sad but sweet, and he had wanted to help. She politely declined, and told him her path was clear.

    The sun continued to do battle with the wind gusts, sometimes prevailing, other times relinquishing its supremacy for a moment until the wind tired and stopped to catch its breath. The policeman surveyed his domain, not particularly happy, not particularly melancholy; just complacent with his position in life, and trying to manage the intersection until the signals finally began functioning again. The cars idled, the horns beeped, the people chattered, the busses whistled as their air brakes released built-up compression, and the banners and tablecloths on and in front of the various businesses flapped in the breeze.

    He heard a scream, and out of the corner of his eye he became aware of a gathering crowd halfway down the block. Torn between his need to investigate and his responsibility for managing the traffic in the busy intersection, he decided to call the disturbance in. He pressed the transmit button on the microphone clipped to his collar and requested assistance, giving the location and describing the incident as “unusual activity”. He heard the pedestrians complaining and the cars honking as he stopped directing traffic long enough to radio the call in to dispatch. These people wouldn’t care if he were administering CPR; they were all so buried in themselves. It was okay. This was his life.

*          *          *

    The three young Chinese women were walking down the sidewalk on their way to lunch. They hadn’t much time, because they had to be back on the job at the bank on the corner before their lunch hour had completely expired. Today they had selected the patio restaurant near the opposite end of the block from their place of employment.

    Their conversation was noisy and animated. It appeared they were more than mere co-workers, perhaps friends as well. Their skirts fluttered in the wind, and their dark, thick hair kept flying into their faces as their hands reached up and unconsciously brushed the wayward strands aside every time the wind blew.

    The banking industry fostered a conservative environment, bereft of gaiety and loaded with posturing and solemnity. This oppressive atmosphere compressed the personalities of the young ladies so that their lunch hour escapes had become a wholly liberating experience. The destination was unimportant; it was the freedom to laugh, talk, be frivolous and silly, and blow off steam that they relished so much.

    They were nearly at their destination when the body hit the ground two feet in front of them. At first they just stopped walking, unable to process what they had just witnessed. They looked at the strange posture of the person, discerning it was a female based upon the dress she wore. Her legs were bent in an almost comically unnatural position, and were flattened in a rubbery configuration. Her skull had burst open upon impact, and grey and red matter had splattered all over the young ladies’ feet and legs. A growing pool of red blood, thick as paint and spreading like a disease emanated from the crushed head, and dripped into the gutter nearby.

    The three women gasped simultaneously. One screamed, and began to vomit. The other two gripped each other’s hands and tried to steady themselves from the dizziness and shock that threatened to overcome them. The pedestrians directly in front ignored them, and continued on their journey to destinations unknown. The people behind stopped and began to gather around the body, murmuring among themselves. The traffic continued to honk and idle. The shopkeeper shrugged and re-entered his store. The policeman sighed and radioed for a response team, not knowing what had just occurred. The fly landed on the ruptured tissue and hesitantly began to feed. The seagull continued down the street. And the three young ladies stared in horror. This was bizarre. This was unthinkable. But, this was their life.

*          *          *

    She stood on the roof of the building looking down at the noisy mid-day city. She remembered every crack in the sidewalk, every reflection off every window at any given moment of the day. She had lived there long ago, but had left with a young man who promised he would love her forever and end her loneliness. She believed him, and she left her husband, her family, and her life behind to go with him.

    At first things were like a fairy tale. He was young, successful, wealthy, and doted on her every whim. But as the years passed he began to act differently toward her. He started to resent her lack of education, her dependence, and her insecurity. She  complained, and he became more distanced. Eventually he stopped coming home at night, and frequently would disappear for days on end. The day she followed him from his office to the hotel, saw him laughing and holding hands with the young woman with whom he worked, and watched as they both entered the elevator and vanished from sight she became most despondent. Twenty years had come and gone, and she was desolate. She knew her time was past, and her happiness with her lover had ended.

    She spent the next ten years trying to ignore her misery. She became involved in philanthropic activities and established a name for herself in her community as a woman of the people. She spent her lover’s money well, and helped many less fortunate with her resources. But she never recaptured her happiness. And one day, she woke up resolved to set things straight.

    She began with morning tea, as she always had. Finishing, she selected her favorite sweater, a delicate yellow knit with flowers intricately embroidered in the collar and sleeve cuffs. She walked out her door, and took the bus to her old neighborhood. She found her way to the office building across the street from her old home above the store, the place she had left behind so many years before. Taking the elevator to the top floor, she located the service exit to the roof. Opening the access door, she walked outside into the breeze and sunshine.

    She stepped to the edge of the roof. It was a nice day. There was a cop directing traffic at the intersection below, presumably because the lights had stopped functioning, there was a pretty seagull swooping between the buildings, there were cars all about, and there were pedestrians everywhere. Looking down, her eyes fell upon her husband, the man she had left thirty years ago. He looked old, and frowned at everything he saw. She thought he hadn’t changed much. Closing her eyes and turning her face skyward, she felt the sun on her face and the wind in her hair. It felt nice. She wanted this moment to last forever. How could she possibly return to the sadness that permeated every moment of her existence? She needed serenity. She decided to seize it. She took one final step forward, for this was her life.

END

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