Tag: pain

Picture Perfect

~ Richard Schulte ~ Leave a comment

Jared seldom thought about life. But he did on that gray, overcast day.

As he walked through the neighborhood, wrapped in a thick coat, he thought of how he’d lost his job a month before.

What gives value to life? he wondered. He zipped his coat all the way up.

Happy days? Days when all pain is forgotten?

Or is it actually the pain? The pain that makes you remember the happy times?

Is life truly valued, Jared wondered, when you walk through a gray but momentary place like this–where you can grasp the pain if you’d like, then release it?

The feeling he had now: the impression that he could, in a quiet moment, appreciate the changing weather of life–even the clouds–was that wisdom?

Thoughtfully, he continued down the sidewalk under the threatening sky back to the place that was his home. To remember the feeling, he took a photo of his house with his phone.

By default the filter on his phone made gray skies blue and dim colors unnaturally bright. Picture perfect.

. . .

Twenty years later Jared looked at his old photographs. He came to one of his house. The sky was blue, the colors were bright. It seemed a happy day. Picture perfect.

He tried to recall something–a feeling, maybe.

He couldn’t.

Another Rain

~ Richard Schulte ~ Leave a comment

It never rains in Southern California?

Not true.

Jesse fought with his umbrella against the wind and rain. He jumped over a flooded gutter as he dashed toward the bus stop.

His shoes were wet, but he knew they would dry a little on the bus. And he did love the smell of rain.

Jesse noticed someone in a poncho walking down the other side of the boulevard and memories flashed to mind.

Twenty years ago, finally out of school and in the great big world on his own, Jesse had considered hiking the Appalachian Trail. The entire long trail: over two thousand miles from Georgia to Maine. He’d read several books. He’d made an exciting decision. He’d bought and organized hiking gear while refining ever more detailed plans. He had trained for weeks on neighborhood hills with a forty pound backpack. He’d booked a flight.

Hiking those first spring days in Georgia and North Carolina had been heaven. Deep green forests and that chill, sweet-smelling mountain air.

Two weeks later, as he neared the Great Smoky Mountains, the rain began.

The first rainy night he camped in mud and discovered his tent wasn’t watertight. He woke with his sleeping bag in a pool of water.

In a downpour the next day his boots became sloshy. The rain wouldn’t end. The contents of his backpack, including every stitch of clothing, became hopelessly soaked.

As he set up his tent for another night he began to shiver violently. He’d read about hypothermia and wondered what might happen. He was alone. He lay in his sleeping bag half the night before he became warm. Why am I doing this? he began to wonder.

For three straight days and nights it rained. Then, in the Great Smoky Mountains, it began to snow.

Freezing, slipping, slimy with mud, streaming with sweat, shivering when not hiking up and down the steep endless mountain ridges, exhausted, lonely, feet blistered, every bone and muscle painful, Jesse succombed to his life’s worst depression. Why am I doing this? Why am I doing this?

I don’t need this, he finally decided.

After conquering over two hundred miles of trail, Jesse had given up. Dejected, holding back tears, he’d hitched a ride on the highway at Newfound Gap, rode into the nearest town, and fled to sunny Southern California: the place he called home, where it never rained.

Jesse folded his wet umbrella as he stepped into the bus stop shelter. A tree outside the glass shelter had turned bright green. The rain smelled very good.

A man inside the shelter was gazing at passing cars. Suddenly the man turned to speak. “They told me when I moved here it wouldn’t rain. I bought these shoes yesterday and now they’re ruined. God, I hate it here.

“It’s really that bad?” Jesse asked.

The man glared at him miserably.

Unseen

~ Richard Schulte ~ Leave a comment

An army of city workers swept up litter, emptied trashcans, pulled weeds, power washed sidewalks, removed graffiti.

To prove to supervisors they weren’t slacking, every city worker was required to take photos of their progress with an assigned tablet. Before photos and after photos. At the end of every week, the photos were deleted.

Trish’s job was to eradicate graffiti.

On Monday morning Trish took a before photo. Justin loves Emily.

A few minutes later she took the after photo. A blank wall.

The solvent that Trish used easily eliminated paint, ink and other permanent markings. It restored blank walls with a wipe of a cloth. But the nasty stuff burned. As words were removed, she had to hold her breath.

On Tuesday she took another photo of the same wall. Emily I love u plz talk to me Justin.

The after photo. A blank wall.

Trish despised her work. Freshly scrawled graffiti would spring up overnight in the exact same place. Her work was endless and futile. It was like Sisyphus rolling that heavy stone up, only to have it fall back.

A photo on Wednesday. Emily I’m not like everyone else. My dear dear Emily please come back.

The after photo. A blank wall.

A photo on Thursday. Hopefully you see this before it’s wiped. Anyways I just want you to know I love you more than anything in the world. Every time you look at me I melt inside. My beautiful queen.

The after photo. A blank wall.

Friday photo. Emily I love love love you please see me. Meet here tonite where are you? 4ever yours Justin.

Next photo. Blank wall.

Using the assigned tablet, Trish took photos every day. To prove walls were wiped. At the end of every week the photos were deleted.

Trish did one other thing, however.

When no eyes could see her, in dark alleys, she used her personal phone to secretly capture images from the tablet.

Some words should endure. Even if they will never be read.

A Distant Place

~ Richard Schulte ~ 7 Comments

I work part-time at a library. It’s something to do during my semi-retirement. I’m that person who silently pushes a cart around, placing returned books back on the shelves.

Weaving the book cart between library patrons, I often wonder about those who sit alone, reading, writing, staring out a window. What is their life story?

When you’re old like me and life is mostly memories, you think about such things.

I remember how last year, in the morning when the library opened, a man wearing dark glasses and dressed in a suit and tie would always be waiting outside. Feeling his way forward with a white cane, he’d come through the door. Silently he’d navigate past the front counter, past the biographies and travel and reference books, and settle in a chair in a corner.

And he’d sit there for hours, alone.

As I moved through the library shelving books, I’d occasionally glance toward the man and wonder about his story. From where did he come? And what was he thinking about as he sat there with an unreadable, expressionless face. I couldn’t see behind those dark glasses.

One afternoon I felt courageous.

I approached him.

“Hello,” I offered. “I was just putting one of my favorite books back on the shelf. And that made me wonder–do you have a favorite book?”

“Yes I do,” replied the man so suddenly I nearly jumped.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I’ve always loved that story by Tolkien–The Lord of the Rings.”

He spoke with an even, intelligent voice, but his face remained strangely expressionless. I wished I had seen a little emotion. I happen to love Tolkien’s fantasy, too.

“When was the last time you read–” I caught myself. Of course he couldn’t see to read. I was unnerved by my stupid slip, embarrassed. But he might read Braille . . .

The man explained: “I read it a long time ago.”

“I love The Lord of the Rings, too. Do you mind if I sit here and read you a few pages? You might enjoy it.”

After a long pause, he replied, “I would.”

I found The Fellowship of the Ring, sat down in a chair beside this mysterious person, whose face remained impassive, and I began. “Concerning Hobbits…“

The man listened for half an hour that day, and again the following day, and for many days that followed.

Whenever he heard me approach his chair–he must have recognized my footsteps–he would greet me politely.

“Where were we?” I’d ask.

“Making our way through Middle Earth,” he’d affirm.

As I started to read, as he listened to more pages of the bright, bounding fantasy, his face would remain a mask, eyes hidden behind those dark glasses. Was he far away traveling through Middle Earth?

Near the end of the story I thought I could detect in his face a minute betrayal of emotion. It was that scene where Frodo, Bilbo and others who’ve borne rings of power finally depart Middle Earth . . . sailing away to that distant place beyond the sparkling curtain . . . where eyes can behold white shores . . . and beyond . . .

When ordinary, faithful Sam finally returned home to his normal life, and The Return of the King closed, I saw a tear escaping from behind dark glasses.

“I’m sorry– I didn’t mean to–” I said.

At once the man reached for his cane and shot up, almost tipping his chair. I had to quickly sidestep as he lunged past me for the library’s front door. He departed without a word.

I never saw him in the library again.

But the next day I did see him in front of the library. He was sitting in the sunny courtyard by the library’s entrance. He sat near the bed of roses on a bench facing our bright sparkling fountain.

Every day that followed I saw him sitting there, behind dark glasses, like a statue. He seemed to be listening to the whispers of the splashing fountain.

Even when it rained he sat on that bench, slightly sheltered by a flowering tree, and I wondered if I should be happy I read that story with him, or sad.