Lonely visions

WAKE UP CALL

 

The brass Persian has been holding the world on his shoulders for at least a hundred years.  His body is dull, pitted, frozen in time. Near him stands a brown skinned man whose sightless eyes glow green. A big chested woman has her black hair tied behind her head. Her red dress has a round neck but no sleeves. They are neither friends nor enemies. They just are. Amongst them , much taller than all of them, is a tower of naked men. Only their private parts are covered with layers of gold leaf.

 

I watch them from my wheel chair, wait and watch, sure that if I move, they will eventually follow my lead. There have been hundreds of sleepless nights where only the sound of my coughing lets the Persian know I am coming. I talk to these silent people, plead, make undoable promises if only they will let me join them in their solitude. The Persian I have recently named 'Ah Med.' It sounds Persian to me and reminds me what I say when nurse Fish Face hands me the little white cup with my two green pills in it. I giggle and say, 'Ah my Meds' are here again.' She watches me like a swivel headed owl. Without looking me in the face, she knows I have pocketed the pills.

 

The tower of tall men puzzles me. One man looks effeminate, has long wavy hair and bowed lips. One has huge feet that the man below him holds tight in his hands. Those guys I gave one name, 'Tom Mix'. They are all different, mixed up.

 

Visitor days come and go. My uncle Leon comes when he can, which is seldom. My old dad would probably stop by if he weren't in the penitentiary. He writes to me once a week and asks if I still am in a wheel chair. There is so little to tell him that I skip lots of weeks before I reply. Yesterday I received a letter from the Warden's office. My dad had died peacefully in his sleep and  was, as per his instructions, buried at the Holy Redeemer Cemetery. Instead of crying, I smiled, because my Dad had taken care of that by paying in advance out of the money he had stolen from a bank or two.

 

An odd feeling overcame me after dinner, an uneasiness, a need to be with my silent friends. With the hallway lights on dim and only one attendant behind the sign in desk, I watched from a distance until his eyes closed and rolled myself slowly, as quietly as possible, to the visitors' room. Mr. Lathrum did not hear me but my friends did.

 

They were all as they have always been, in the glass case, sitting, standing like the inanimate objects they were. I came closer to them then I had ever been, put my hands on the glass and felt a shiver down my back. The Persian, Ah Med  moved a little, took the heavy world off his shoulders and put it in front of Tom Mix. One by one, the naked men lowered themselves from the towering group, bent their knees in what seemed to be prayer. A tear drop ran down the wooden face from the sightless eyes.

 

A voice disturbed me. Mr. Lathrum, softly asked me what I was doing in the visitors' room. I was at a loss for words but managed to just say, 'I couldn't sleep.' Back in my bed, I, too, let teardrops wash my face.
Each day, each night, I went back to see the Persian man and the others. They never moved again but might soon, as a new silent person, a gift from a visitor, joined them.

 

She was white porcelain, half as tall as Tom Mix. She wore silver dancing shoes.