“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 2nd 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 3rd 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 2nd 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 2nd 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.
