City of Destruction

A Place Not Quite Right

    The next morning I was the first one to awaken inside of the small, sweltering apartment after everyone had drank themselves unconscious.  Craving more fresh air than what the one window could provide, I stumbled outside into the daylight for a short walk.

    After a couple of turns here and there, the warm summer breezes had cleared away enough of the cobwebs from my mind for me to think a bit more clearly.  For the first time, it occurred to me just how awkward the place that I was in actually was. I became more cognizant of how empty the streets were of people or cars and how much trash was blowing around in the wind.  It was almost like a ghost town. I remembered the feeling of animosity that I could feel aimed toward me like the point of an archer’s arrow from the moment I had stepped off of the plane. I remembered the unnecessary hostility of my father’s neighbors.  I could see the helicopters off in the distance, circling above the city. I could hear the dull whir of their blades. Was it really simply a matter of this place being different, or was something more seriously wrong here?
 

   Fighting the ominous feeling aside, I focused on the fact that I was hungry but did not know where I was or where to find the nearest open restaurant.  I called my father from a payphone to explain my situation and ask him for advice. He made me describe some of the buildings, street signs and other landmarks around me.  “I’m gonna pay a friend of mine to pick you up and take you for something to eat,” my father said. “Stay there and don’t move.”