the wrong side of the road

part 3

Yesterday he was Moe, and although many events of that day and the actions of yesterday-called-Moe held consequences for today-named-Terry, Terry, today, remembered none of it. In the café Terry sat alone in a booth facing the corner, while many other patrons sat at open tables alone or in groups. Some were wearing sweaters of green or red, or adorned with snowflakes, even though it wasn't cold here. As if the anatomy of the room required symmetry, at the opposite corner of the café sat a petrified Doberman pincher who also faced away. The requisite for perfection is often skewed, but Terry had no opinion on the matter, thinking other thoughts while he sipped a third cup of coffee and munched a slice of raisin bread.

Someone had put on the Doberman a scratched pair of granny glasses and they'd slid down its time hardened snout. How the dog had become fossilized like a chunk of ginkgo from northern Arizona was anyone's guess, but time games played by the resident very-mysterious-visitors were suspected. The dog was happily stationary with a clean place-mat menu and bowl of fresh water, but Terry in the opposite corner stared down at an old, bleak menu that was ossifying, and black was spreading from the House Special out like a cancerous growth. The corner was relegated to the Terry's and the Moe's of the world, but the coffee cup was still bottomless. Terry dipped his pinky into his cup and pecked at the toast crumbs on his plate. He lubricated his esophagus with the last drops, then dropped some crumpled ones onto the bill and carefully escaped the café, unnoticed by more than just the Doberman pincher.

The reverse of the gauntlet was to be expected, so Terry avoided the picture takers who had moved back the way he came. He crossed the street, careful of the uneven ground, and decided to walk around the block thus avoiding the sightseers. This small town had become the latest venue for the very-mysterious-visitors and because they had brought along some of their space groundhogs, the streets had to be dug up. It was very inconvenient to anyone with an automobile or in a rain storm, but otherwise notsomuch. The groundhogs were happy and some old dinosaur bones had been uncovered along with the Doberman pincher. Terry preferred being off Main Street. Here, around the corner and in the back alleys, there were no picture windows or gaudily dressed mannequins ogling him when he walked by. Terry didn't like the attention of inanimates any more than the living. That they were soulless made him hold his breath, as if those with no souls would covet his exhalations. Terry found the idea plausible, even kept a pair of nose-plugs hanging from his neck for obvious reasons.

He came upon it then, stuck onto a brick wall, a shmear of gunk, like an alien life form wriggling out of context, or the expectoration from a behemoth. Terry viewed the sight as an event to be applauded. He stumbled back two paces to take in the sickly pink hue of glop. He discerned its structure and the various separation of splats. Terry found it impossible to guess its origin or composition, but the form was one of beauty. The sum of its parts as powerful as the girth of its majesty. Terry prodded the mass with one finger and found its texture to be as disgusting and cohesive as its appearance. From a pocket, Terry pulled a hand kerchief and scooped a handful of the stuff from the wall. 

He skulked quickly from the bowels of the city back to the even streets of pedestrian life, where his vision could begin to take shape. As he stepped around the neighbors lawn, the moon came round to see him home.