“…did I just say it’s buy-one-get-one-free on all items in the Big Autumn Sale this Sunday?
Why, yes, I did! It’s buy-one-get-one-free on all items…this Sunday…in the Big Autumn Sale!
Don’t miss out this Sunday for a limited time only, in the Big Autumn Sale, remember…it’s buy-one-get-one-free!
On every item in store!”
I could just about make out those strained voices on the radio above the noise of the engine. An offbeat orchestra of a thousand hurried footsteps would soon form alongside us, clunking up the sidewalks with clenched fists and gritted teeth. Meanwhile, the blonde-haired prison officer sat next to me appeared carefree and breezy. He observed the road ahead with his hand at the wheel, flitting every so often between the stations.
Clearly, there was much to learn. Much to savour. Much to be gleaned and garnered. By the time we pulled up at the intersection, with the whiff of cheap burgers and piss-stained alleyways lightly wafting in around us...it meant only one thing, of course.
The scent of the downtown dirty city was now upon us.
And I had finally arrived home.
With two swift clicks the door burst upon and I vacated the prison van restraints, rolling out onto burning tarmac with a thud. Though I moved much like a punch-drunk boxer, staggering this way and that across the busy street, a path had opened up for me.
The road ahead was clear.
Now, it was just a matter of reaching the other side unscathed, making sure to wish my lowly prison guard one last well-meaning farewell in the process…
“You can’t stop me!” I posed triumphantly, shielding my eyes from the sun above, ‘…the Big City is my home. This is my home goddammit!”
The driver remained unmoved, however. He simply stayed put with his arm casually hanging out the window, distracted by the scented air freshener dangling in front of his face. Soon, the rusty transit van would glide off in a haze of smoky exhaust fumes, leaving me free to explore the dirty city and treat it as my unknowing playground once again.
And boy…what a playground this place once proved to be.
From the toothless beggar in the street, pilfering for pennies through old women’s handbags, to the hoods on the corner, the cops in their undercover squad cars, and the many young damsels trapped behind windows and bright neon signs. The city was once home to all manner of nefarious ne’er-do-wells. And I was, of course, one of them.
Me and my pal, Jerome.
I subsequently entered the local park with newfound spring in my step, ready to make hay. Yet, something felt off right from the very outset...
“Hey, mister!” a young boy called out to me, “…pass the ball back, already!”
My reaction was halted by their loudmouthed mother, who quickly grabbed both her children by the arm.
“Boys, leave that old man alone…” she said, “…he is too tired to play with you. Let the nice gentleman rest, will you?”
I had been called many things in my time.
But never once, had I been referred to as old man before...
“Leave him be…” she repeated, unnecessarily, “…do you want a seat on this bench sir? You do look mighty worn out…”
“…”
“…I’m sorry, sir. Did I say something to offend you?”
“…”
“…sir!?”
"I'm looking for Jerome..." I spoke, finally, "...have you seen him?"
The mother seemed quizzical, and a touch ill at ease.
"Are sure you are ok, sir?" she asked, "...you don't look well at all."
"..."
"...sir? Did you hear me!?"
With that I duly ignored the woman’s words and went about my business, undeterred. Seemed there were a lot of confused folk wandering about the park that day. I, however, no longer had the time nor the inclination to partake in any of their bizarre antics.
I had bigger fish to fry.
My next port of call would be to visit my former office, up high on the thirty-ninth floor of the tallest, and most impressive, building on the block. I would enter the same automatic doors leading into the lobby. Ride the same, windowless elevator all the way up to the highest floor. And finally, find myself at the same old reception desk I had always known.
But, once again, everything was somehow…
…different.
“Hello, Darlene…” I remarked coldly, ‘…let me into my office, will you? I want to speak to that fool, Jerome. It's important…ok?”
The man behind the desk simply let out a soft, reluctant sigh.
“Listen…” he replied, subtly reaching for the nearby telephone, “…I’ve told you a thousand times already…you don’t work here, Frank. And neither does Jerome, whoever that is! Seriously, you have to stop showing up like this. It’s getting ridiculous now. Oh and, please, stop calling me ‘Darlene’ for crying out loud!”
Try as I might, I could barely make out what Darlene was trying to tell me.
So, I opted to let her roll on a while longer…
“…look, Frank. If this doesn’t stop, you will leave me little choice but to call security. I don’t want to do that…”
“…”
“…I’m serious, Frank. This isn’t a game anymore…”
“…”
“…did you hear what I said?”
“…”
“…Frank!?”
I closed my eyes for the briefest of moments, feeling…tired. When I opened them up again, however, two heavy-set security officers had appeared before me. One of them launched into this great tirade, berating me for repeated acts of trespass on company grounds. The other simply pinned my arm behind my back and forced me back out on the street again...
...without as much as a simple 'goodbye'.
I had been rebuffed, it seemed. Neglected and rejected. Scattered and forlorn. But it would take more than that to rain on my parade. Oh yes…
Because really…this was the Big City! This was my home! I had been raised on these dirty streets. Cradled at birth by the grimy backroads and their even slimier clientele. Why would they act as if I were just another friendly neighbourhood boy scout? Why must they mince their words, and pussyfoot around me? How dare they treat me like some silly old man...
…over, and over again.
When I ventured down to my old barber and asked for a short back and sides, they told me that I had entered a dentist’s waiting room, not a hairdresser, and gave me a pink lollipop for my efforts. When I arrived at my favourite restaurant, demanding Jerome’s whereabouts...and a side order of steak to go, the waitress simply smiled and asked if she could take my photograph. Apparently, I reminded her of her grandfather somehow.
Yet, as I looked up at those guys high upon the billboard, the same ones who once sold discount booze and cheap cigarettes to anyone with the right mind for a good time, the penny finally dropped. They were now hawking fresh fruit juice for double the price.
Something was terribly wrong…
I hastily wandered over to nearby bar, searching desperately for any sign of Jerome. Thankfully, the place was still in-tact. It appeared just as I had remembered...
‘The Lonely Anchor’.
Parked across the street sat a rusty old van beside two stray foxes and an upturned garbage can.
I paid them little mind, however. And as I approached the counter a friendly-faced bartender peered back at me immediately.
‘A dry white whiskey…” I asked of him, “…neat.”
The bartender smiled for the second time.
“Already waiting for you…” he said, “…over there, same spot as usual.”
Same spot as usual? What was that supposed to mean…?
“Go on…” he urged me, with a wave of his hand, “…go right ahead.”
Beside my newly sourced drink sat a blonde-haired prison officer with a look of bleak acceptance on his face. He slowly pulled out a stool as I drew closer.
“Frank...” he spoke softly, “…do you remember what we agreed upon?”
I gazed back at him with a look of puzzled indignation.
“Frank…” the young man repeated, “…we agreed that this would be the last time, ok? I can’t keep bringing you back here like this, it’s not healthy.”
“But wait!” I spoke, finally.
“Come, Frank…” he said, taking to his feet, “…let’s get you back to the home, ok? Everybody will be wondering where we’ve gotten to…”
The blonde-haired man stood up, finished off his drink, and carefully led me towards the door. Moments later we were back inside the so-called ‘prison van’, hurtling off again as I felt the familiar ties of normality lock around me once more. The Big City was soon but a faint blip in the rear-view mirror. A fading memory of a time long since passed.
“We’re here…” the young attendant remarked once we had arrived, “…go easy now. Take care as you get out of the vehicle, Frank.”
I peered up at the old, austere building and read the sign above the entrance. The words ‘St. Jerome’s Retirement Home’ were revealed for all to see, as was the small motto etched on the awning down below.
‘...home is where the heart is’ it said.
If only, I still knew what that meant.
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