We were speeding rapidly up the central street of the city and it is well known that at every intersection there are signs, signs which state in large bold type, No Turns and how, I wished to know, how then would it be possible, to reverse the direction of a long bifurcated vehicle without turning it, without going around one of the city’s famously asymmetrical blocks, and even were I to circumnavigate one of these, how could I avoid breaking the law a second time when I turned back onto the central street, and how was I to convey all of this to these garrulous dissatisfied wormlike passengers without stopping illegally in the midst of traffic so that I could stand and face them and explain clearly and calmly the impossibility of undertaking such a time-consuming and illegal maneuver?
And this made me begin to wonder if it was my fate to be forced by necessity to always go in the wrong direction and to always go to the bitter end of the wrong direction, but after proceeding a mile or more during which time some of the forwardmost dissatisfied passengers had begun to touch my neck and even thrust their hands inside the collar of my shirt, I was able to back the double bus into a narrow alley filthy with tents shopping carts and other detritus (a nifty move) and we sped back in the opposite direction from which we’d come, back to the concert hall where I pulled in, parked at a legal bus stop designated with thick white lines just beyond the theater entrance and pushed the toggle switch that opened the doors.
I was back on the sidewalk before the unruly passengers could dislodge themselves and after taking three bouncing strides in the nearly forgotten style of richard douglas fosbury I leapt onto the ledge of the second floor of the closest building as I considered this the first in a series of steps that together made a shortcut that would take me back to the roof of the theater where I’d viewed the concert before, but the ledge was a little higher than I’d calculated before I made my leap and, after sliding down against the wall and grabbing it with my hands, I had to struggle to get my feet up to it and by the time I did several young men and two or three women who may or may not have been trans, having seen my example, had already jumped up ahead of me.
And now they were in front of me on the ledge which was quite narrow and the one immediately ahead of me was crowding me pushing against my body as he held onto the wall with his thin young fingertips crammed into the mortar gaps between the bricks, the next step I knew was to move along the ledge to where there was an indentation between two windows that was quite easy to climb, a simple maneuver, and after that the trick was to leap to a higher ledge and walk along a narrow beam to where a copper drain pipe is and that would take you to the roof of the building where you could jump down to the slightly lower roof of the old theater, nothing could have been more simple or obvious, but it seemed that all these young people lined up ahead of me were afraid to move, Go, I yelled Don’t you understand that the concert is nearly over, I urged them on but to no avail, There’s an electric wire, one of them said and leaning forward so that I could see around them I realized there in fact were several electric wires connected to a large transformer that protruded from the side of the building, The thing that’s wrong with your generation is you don’t know how to jump, I yelled back at him but this had no effect whatsoever and they all stood mute and still as statues, there was no way to get around them so I was forced to abandon my plan because of all this youthful timidity and I lowered myself back down to the street.
Just then a woman came walking along the sidewalk in the direction of the theater an attractive woman only slightly younger than myself who projected a debonair devil may care style with her large hat covered in blue silk flowers and when I took her arm she briefly put her cheek against my shoulder as we hurried along the sidewalk and together rushed through the doors of the theater and into the lobby but unfortunately a pair of drunk young men in shiny dacron suits were blocking the escalator that led to the auditorium, they kept bumping into each other as they unsuccessfully tried to step onto the machine and briefly slapped one another on the shoulders and bumped chests before they finally climbed aboard, we stood waiting for them to go up but as they started to ascend the one on the right side decided to lie down on the steps in order to drink water that had puddled on the escalator’s very lowest step, and I admit it was interesting, I found myself somewhat fascinated at the sight of a man drinking in such an abnormal position and it reminded me of a painting by marc chagall, who was an interesting artist from around a hundred years ago, I’d seen his paintings once in a glossy book and the young-man-on-the-escalator’s body, contorted as it was, very oddly with his legs and feet on the upper level of the moving stairs, skimming against them in a way that left his much less elevated head and shoulders stationary and thus he was able to lap up puddled water that remained always at the lowest step of the ever-advancing contraption like a dog, well, I found the whole thing to be quite original and charming but it was also clear that we would not be able to proceed for some time and so we began to search for an elevator and very soon we found one and, impatient as I was, I hurried in first, the attractive woman in the hat followed me, but when the machine began to ascend it broke in half leaving my companion behind, Follow me when you can, I cried as I watched her become smaller and smaller which is an normal optical effect I was experiencing as she waved a feeble if heartfelt little wave up at me, but sad as this seemed, there was no time to lose, the elevator opened onto a vestibule made of glass that was adjacent to the orchestra level seating of the hall, and the walls of this vestibule (a lovely word I sometimes enjoy saying over and over) was made of soundproof glass and through them I had a view of the legions of music lovers dancing, they were standing before their seats dancing singing laughing and I could even see tears of happiness streaming down several cheeks as they danced they waved their phones and everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely.
But just as I pushed open the glass door to enter the concert hall the last song came to an end and the boisterous crowd, which only seconds before had been so flushed with excitement and energy, began to make its way to the exits while I tried to get to the front of the auditorium to collect my mother and had to fight against this human tide, and if I treated anyone rudely if I shoved anyone aside or if I hurled insults at any person, it was purely from the frustration associated with the vexatious situation of being faced with a serious task while surrounded by people in a dizzy carefree mood, they would simply not step out of my way, and so I was busy learning how hard it is to negotiate with very abstracted people while my poor mother, who was both unwell and profoundly deaf and had absolutely no idea where I’d gotten to, was certainly in a panic and must be frightened and unhappy, and it must have taken me a full hour to reach the first row but alas mother was gone.
The attractive empathetic woman who’d been sitting beside her was still in her seat however, it was as if she was waiting for me and she immediately stood up and in a sweet and caressing voice asked me if I’d found my shoes, no, I said speaking loudly to be certain she could hear me over the many dawdling music lovers who all seemed to be chatting and talking at once and I pointed back over my shoulders with both my thumbs and, I’m missing my backpack too, I said.
You never had a backpack, she said laughing, Why do you always make such a fuss, it annoyed me to be corrected by a perfect stranger, When I left my home I had a backpack, I said, But no matter, the important thing is to find my mother where could she have disappeared to?
She left just before the finale, she said, She told me she’d be fine, and this of course meant she must have been going down at the same time I was coming up in the elevator that had so cruelly rejected the woman with the hat.
Look, the kindly woman said, she pulled out her phone to show me something and we stood side by side as the chandeliers above us began to blink on and off, the management was signaling the crowd to disperse but the empathetic woman didn’t seem to care, it was as if she had all the time in the world and she held up her phone in such a way that I had to bring my face almost next to hers in order to see her video, a video she’d taken of my mother gyrating writhing waving her frail arms in a state of ecstasy, something I found difficult to watch, Isn’t she wonderful, the empathetic woman enthused as she put her arm around my waist and pulled me closer, yes, I had to admit it was inarguable, my sweet mother the woman who bore me deaf blind demented, the one who once read me stories and picked out my little outfits she who never failed to undermine my passions and dreams was front row and center in the most conspicuous spot in the majestic faded theater and she was dancing.
Excuse me for coming late to the show. (Pun intended). This is a very dream-like story, ripe for interpretation. Here’s a few impressions. The core of this story seems to be about caring for your mother. You wander off on a quest for a better viewpoint and spend the rest of the dream trying to get back. When you get back you learn she has danced away. Seems like you are somehow letting go, setting her free.
Your quest for a seat in the theater seems like a parallel to your writing experience. You want to be front and center, you want to be heard, but all the seats are taken. You decide to take a more aloof, detached approach and head off for the clerestory window. You find this approach fraught with complexity. It’s dirty, you can’t hear the performance and other people are getting in your way. Back to square one but first let’s take a bus load of our readers on a wild-goose chase down a city boulevard with no left turns. You should move to LA if you want to do that. We’re famous for our left turns.
You’re welcome for the analysis. Check is in the mail.
Sincerely, Sigmund
This reminds me of dreams I have had in which I keep getting distracted and can't make it to a big event. Your protagonist doesn't seem to mind missing the show, in fact chooses to leave the event and willfully engage in trivial behaviors, distracted by this and that but seeming to enjoy every moment. It's all a big show to him.