On the cusp of the rabbit hole looking in

Author's note: Since I have worked at the Greene County Daily World I have been fairly stringent about writing a regular column. At first, the ideas would flow without ceasing, but after a year and half, the proverbial well of ideas has reached a lull. Instead of writing a regular column for the next many months, I will be writing a continuous story following the character of Jacobi Bartley. As with most works of fiction, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Except for you, Martin. Cheers.

It was early Sunday morning. I guess this is a good place to begin. More specifically it was 2 a.m. This much is clear. I remember the dim glare of light exuding from inside of the bar as it refracted off the face of my watch. The time of day is important, because at this hour, a light rain blew under the awning of the bar and the streets of Mulberry were still. Cars pass intermittently with no direction -- neither coming nor going, just entering and exiting my field of vision into the stillness of the night.

At 2 a.m. the feeling of isolation is ever more present in a small town as if all life begins and ceases between the hours of 9 a.m. to 8 p.m. A dog barking 10 blocks in the distance resounds with clarity as though it were a few feet away. This is the hour of Morlocks, long after the Eloi have found a nestled bed. What a pretentious statement, quoting an H.G. Wells novel in which only a few people will get the reference. Five years in an undergraduate program and what is left to show are vague references and half-baked quips? Don't obscure the reader, I hear the professors of my past exclaim. There will plenty of real abstractions later on in the narrative.

It is always after the third drink when it begins, a certain tinge of self-loathing infects my conscious, consuming all other thoughts. Perhaps I was truly alone then, standing, under an awning while the wind and rain danced in congress, pushing and swelling the canvas in odd contortions. Time is a great equalizer. But it usually in these moments, when expectations are lowered, the unlikely happens.

As I continued to stare blankly at the awning, I must not have heard his approach. Turning my head to the right, a tall thin man draped in a black duster stood beside me. His features bore no immediate points of recognition, and even today if he were presented to me in a line-up, there would be no chance I could distinguish him from the others. Just another face of the night.

At first he said nothing, and just let the weight of his presence speak what he would not utter.

Leaning against the brick facade of the bar, he slowly exhaled, and his cool, sour breath rose like a cloud of smoke in the autumn air. After a moment of silence, he turned to me, and stared directly at me as though to scan for something.

"Have you ever felt like a stranger in a familiar place?" he asked.

Generally when I read novels or short stories in the first person, I am instantly suspect when the narrator is able to recall with vivid detail the exact words of a conversation. Under normal circumstances anything said to me only lingers for a short term in my mind before being filed into the dark recesses of my subconscious. This conversation was an exception. Maybe it was his tone, spoken in lower register as though to command attention, which lent me the ability to recall our conversation with such accuracy, or maybe it was its content. Either way, I assure you, these are his words.

After his first question, I stared back at him trying to determine its meaning. I offered no response.

"Time has an equalizing affect," he continued. "It slowly strips away all accessories but the fundamental attributes -- your history. For example, no one can take away your name or past, even though both are intangible and exist only in the mind."

For a moment, I questioned how much I did drink at the bar. But, not to let his statement go unchallenged, I responded, "A name can carry weight especially around here."

"Does yours?"

"Jacobi, but the first name is only incidental -- just another name picked out a book of popular baby names. From my understanding it was a very indiscriminate process. Bartley is the name in which my parents did not have much of a choice."

"Bartley, Bourne and Briar?"

"The third generation and the future proprietor of the law firm."

"Pleasure," the man extends his hand gauntly but with severity. With almost imperceptible precision, the corners of his mouth turned upwards into a veiled grin. "People call me the Ambassador."

Generally, it is my first response to runaway when someone refers to themselves as a title instead of an actual name, but the tone of our conversation intrigued me. "What? No first name."

"There is, it is just no one cares to ask, so therefore it becomes an incidental anecdote. But it is Mikhail."

"Russian?"

"Second generation. So what brings you back to the wonderful town of Mulberry? I am sure it is not for my company alone," the man asked.

"No. I just finished my undergraduate degree, and I am waiting until the spring before I can start law school."

"Truly a father's son." After a moment, the Ambassador exhales deeply once more and stares towards the alley which resides to the right of the bar.

"I am sorry, I know we just met, but I need a favor. I need help loading a painting into my car. Its an old piece from the former Kennedy Opera House. The owner is waiting for me by the side entrance, but it is too heavy for one man to carry. Apparently the money I gave him did not include a loading fee."

Once more I looked back at my watch, noting only ten minutes difference in time. The Ambassador's eyes continued to stare in unyielding intensity as to wait for a response.

"It won't take long," he interjected.

Reluctantly, I agreed and followed the Ambassador to the alley.

As we walked, the sound of our steps were amplified as they reverberated off the brick lined buildings. A gust of wind and rain swirled around us.

At the end of the alley, a light hung over the side entrance of the opera house, and the bulb, unlike most nights, illuminated the door. As we approached, the sound of movement and laughter filled the voided alley, where our steps once held dominion over all sounds. As we reached the entrance, the Ambassador glanced at me and nudged his head inside of the doorway.

"Watch the first step," his voice echoed into the alley.

That is when my feet left the ground.

This story will be continued in the April 2 edition of the Greene County Daily World.