Coming out of the theater and blinking in the sunlight is always an abrasion, a clash of how you feel on the inside against what you see happening around you. Wherever you look you should see meaning, a man hanging by his fingertips from a ledge, spies sending secret signals down dark alleyways, people chasing fleeting loves across the city, racing frantically towards the airport. Yet that’s never the case. Dusty sidewalks, dogs sniffing fire hydrants, taxis blowing horns and waving belligerent fists, a vast multitude of shiftless extras without cues to work with, who don’t know where to stand, lines only half memorized, that’s all there is to see. An undirected mess compared to the focused complexity of the cinema show. I stepped out on the sidewalk with my two companions, shielding my eyes against the glare, and blended into the background, adding to the web of chaos, the lofty illusions of the past hours fading. Now what do I do with myself?
I was about to find out. Bill and Bob weren’t finished with me yet. They blinked and yawned and stretched, clearing the movie daze away. They looked around, decided on a direction, looked at me, and started off. I followed as if attached by an invisible towline.
If you enjoyed this sample, be sure to read "A String of Momentary Silences", available here.
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