Nine Eleven (#Wattys2015)

Chapter 13

There's a dissonance. A tumult of talking mixes with the craggy sound of dragging boots. The sporadic crash of metal lockers opening and closing shut. It fills the the New York City Fire Department locker room. Orlando stares blankly at the folded clothes inside his open locker. He's already dressed for work but he sits daydreaming. Thinking. The letters FDNY printed on his fitted blue shirt are withered.

The smell of coffee spins it cozy warmth around the locker room as shades of light like flowers slowly bloom. Other men are putting on their work clothes-work jeans and work boots, tying knots, buttoning buttons, and laughing in the early September morning.

Orlando ponders quietly about his new fiancé. He sits in silence as the tumult of men move about him swiftly and unaware. He says inside his head:

"She's my shrine, I have to be honest with myself. She's my idol. I keep her prisoned and chained in the dark dungeon of my desire. Edith, who is the darkness I toss my wild soul into-the goddess of my idolatry. My god. My lover. I give to her my soul, desperate and bleeding its black blood on the altar of my imperfection. And the worst part of it is that I don't want to change. How can I, when I love her as much as I do? How can I love her any less, not that I could try. Can I not love her? My heart rebels against the thought. It would leave me naked and lifeless. It would leave me dead and forfeited. If I went against my heart it would, in angry protest, stop its action, and like a heated motor spit curls of self-hatred and disdain. Can I refuse my heart, the captain of this corporal fledge? No. I can't stop this. And-truly-I don't want to try."

The sun beams crawl through the windows and onto the bench where Orlando sits. It climbs arduous up the New York City morning, sweating long gas-less rays of heat and exhaustion; the sky waits to take it's burning, like a virgin canvass waiting for strokes of light. The steel buildings, the iron riffs, the glass windows, the rushing cars, sleepless, eager, hungry, the tired homeless, the patient beggar, the honest nurse; the times and tides of men and woman populated in the colloquial city all watch evenly as the white eye of heaven passes slowly above them. Watching the sun move. Waiting. The American sky rolls the blazing cart of heaven like a Muse inspiring beauty.

Orlando sits still. Beside him his friend is telling a joke. Orlando listens, secretly anxious to hear the punch line. A slow smirk of anticipation crawls on the side of his lip. On the other side is a man hunched over, aggressively pulling his shoelaces apart, barely lifting his right foot in the air, as the wrinkles on his forehead increase. Orlando knows him, yet not well.

Orlando is clearly the youngest in the room. Hardly any wrinkles. Life's pen has carved on his face with discretion. The others in the room have facial hair, not Orlando. He remains as youthful as Endymion locked in dreams of beauty.

Orlando's friends finishes the joke. Everybody in the room laughs. Orlando snickers quietly staring down at his boots.

--

Out into the hallway Cesar begins walking towards the locker room. His worn brown boots hit the tile floor. His rubbers soles leave clear imprints on the tile. The subtle sound of his march is barely noticeable. He stares at his reflection sporadically in the long windows harrowing the aisle to the locker room. He combs his fingers through his hair. He strides colossal through the short hallway. His march of confidence. Sovereign. Tile squares sail beneath his marching feet like a fleet of flinty sails drifting evenly through the Hercules' columns.

He reaches the end of the hallway and enters the crowded room. The words "morning Cesar!," greet him kindly. Cesar feels the comfort of the room, maybe even worn, routine, like a groove in a wooden chair. The locker room, the same locker room for twenty years. It looks the same as it had when he started working there. And he loves it, because it felt like home, like a club. A team. And he was a veteran. Cesar makes his way to his locker in front of Orlando's. He sees Orlando sitting quietly on the bench beside his locker, pensive, patient, slowly waiting for the rest of the small world to catch up to him.