Kind Soul. Flash Fiction

“Thank you, kind soul.” 

He calls everyone that—Kind Soul.  I hurry to disguise my accidental revulsion at getting caught downwind of the corner of 2^nd and State. 

Like being able to get my preferred train seat or how crowded the elevator ride, I can gauge my commute by Cisco’s placard.  Today, it’s blank, laying at his feet. I’m early for work.

Wearing a matted fleece jacket, zipper gaping through the faded CISCO logo, the man appeared at winter’s end.  Every day since, he set up his remarkably white sandwich board with his calligraphic scrawled doomsday message.  I started noticing Cisco and his prophesy as an indicator of my punctuality. 

I wish I could say I noticed the message originally as they clearly progress.  About the time his fleece transitioned to a tissue thin t shirt of nondescript color, the board read:  You’re Not Listening.

Those three words riveted me to my office window as though they were written for me and me alone. I wasn’t—listening.  I am now.  I drop a dollar or two in his coffee can if there is cash in my wallet and I read the sign.  All Will be Accounted For.  I’m not the only one.  On days he changes the phrase, the can overflows green.

He’s leading up to your typical ‘the end is near.’  That much is clear.  It Comes Upon Us.  There is a running office pool on when that will be and a side, what the end will bring.  I’m in for $20 on a fall megastorm.  The big money is on disease and even bigger on weaponized viruses.  Lacking religious zealotry, very few bet on a flood or rapture.

I find my mind wandering as I absently glance down seventeen floors from the corner of 3^rd and State.  The new sandals held up nicely under pressure this morning. I don’t believe in changing my shoes for the commute.  They will keep up with me in every way and look good doing it.  I smile to myself and look outside again.

The Least of Your Worries.

My heart pounds as blood rushes through my ears.  My own laughter interrupts.  The ringing I hear is my phone.  “Your 9:00 is here.” says my assistant.  I have work to do. 

The board doesn’t change for days.  

As summer bakes the city, Cisco loses his shirt completely and turns a muddy brown.  I take to holding my breath half the 2^nd Street block. The whiteboard blinds in the sun finally changing its message. 

I win $78, guessing the date right on.  The sign changes later the same day.  Swim Above the Pool.  I walk by the vacant corner well after happy hour and think, not for the first time, the messages seem oddly directed at me. 

I stuff a wad of cash, $78 less happy hour, into the can in the morning, breathing a sigh of relief at the cryptic words, Embrace The Light.  I have no idea what that means. 

“Thank you, kind soul.”  I choke back my nausea, unable to pretend smile.  The smell stings my eyes.

It starts to rain by evening and the sign’s changed again, Embrace the Night.  Whatever that means.  Interest at work diverts to the crane operator two blocks down who appears to drunkenly stagger to his cab 80 stories above the sidewalk every morning.  I put $20 on his being replaced.  Others bet on a demolition catastrophe and some on his demise.

The CISCO fleece comes back early fall; the zipper still holding fast at the top and the bottom leaving bare chest evidence that Cisco has lost his t-shirt.  The rambling messages have warned of the Fall and Blindness For All Who Refuse to See. 

The crane operator finishes his job and presumably moves on without incident.  I can’t remember the last time I saw green poking from Cisco’s can.  I drop a single for old time sake, relishing the fresh breeze.  “Kind Soul.”  He commands my attention, lifting the newly inked board, white as ever.

Your Kindness Will be Rewarded.

Maybe it’s the crisp autumn day, or that he didn’t say thank you.  I look into his startling blue eyes tinged with red and I see the power of his belief.  His madness renders me insecure.  I walk Market Street to 3rd until the snow flies. 

The office has all but forgotten Cisco when he turns up outside the revolving door with his pristine message board.  He’s there for me.  I know it, like I know there’s no cash in my wallet and that isn’t why he’s there regardless.  “Kind Soul.”  He says, showing me the board.  Surrender.

I march by with my nose in the air.  He knows I read the sign. 

I bring cash the next day.  I walk straight up 2^nd and State.  Cisco isn’t to be found.  His board, unchanged, is propped against my building.  It’s smudged and wet.  I find that more unsettling than Cisco’s disappearance.  It’s laying on its side the next day, dirty.  The following day it’s gone and for most, forgotten.

Often as I’m climbing into bed, I think of Cisco’s final message.  Surrender.  In the wee hours of the morning, the heat from a brilliant light wakes me.  I’m not meant to shake the vestiges of my dream.  Now.

Cisco waits for me in the light; scrubbed clean, wearing freshness in white linen.  I’m to embrace it and him.

“Kind Soul.”  I say stepping forward.