One of These Days

    It is dark now, and the rain has stopped, the first wave of the storm has hit New York, but that was just a prelude of what is to come. A strange wind blows momentarily lifting scraps of garbage, then abruptly releasing them to fall back down, to clump in an alley or cling against a fence. Back where they came, back where they belong. An eerie calm is prevalent now, the smell of rain still clings in the air, he can almost taste it its so thick, he can feel it all around him like a stranger’s presence on the street, he knows its not over, off in the distance he hears the thunder. Stepping down from the stairs of Saint Andrews Cathedral is Father McKenzie. It is quiet outside, so quiet that as he walks along the sidewalk he can’t help but hear the off beat rhythm of the souls of his shoes as they occasionally kiss the gritty sidewalk. The passion his shoes and the cement share fades, his mind is on other things, Father McKenzie is on his way home.



    Up ahead the Priest approaches a large pool of rainwater. Proof, evidence of the storms existence; nature’s receipt. Abandoning his thoughts for a moment the priest gazes at the moon’s reflection in that murky puddle of rainwater. Slowing to a stop he switches his attention upwards to see the moon first hand, but those dark gray storm clouds roll shut like grandiose silk curtains denying him a glimpse at the heavens. It reminded him of The Imperial on 43rd when he saw a showing of Waiting for Godot, a show he saw many moons ago. The priest looked back down into the murky pool where the moon’s reflection once was. Where that bright white beacon in the sky once shined is now replaced with his reflection. Funny how unnoticeable that lump on his neck is in that stormy weather light, in that murky pool of rain water, in fact its not even there. Droplets of rain ripple the calm water, the second wave has arrived. The stunning power of nature has always frightened him, reluctantly the entrance to the subway is just ahead.



    Approaching the platform the Priest is all alone, all alone with the echo of his footsteps on that cold subway platform. He begins to gaze in awe of the Goliath like size of the empty platform, its so massive it seems to swallow him. Staring down he wonders whose decision it was to pick that emergency room white tiles the city uses in its subway system. Getting lost in his gaze the tiles appear to stretch beyond the walls of the platform. He thinks they probably creep right up those square pillars, up through the roof, to the street surface. His eyes relax and his vision blurs, he can only see a sea of white, those lines that used to part the white sea fade away and the blur of his black Priest clothes are the only thing drifting in this white sea; lost.



    The screech of the upcoming subway startles him and his eyes quickly adjust. He doesn’t like being alone down here alone, it reminded him of when he used to work at the Garden when he was younger. He would clean up the isles after Knicks games, after the teams left, after the fans filed out, they would turn all the lights down to just those dim florescent work lights. No noise, just the sound of his foot steps going up and down the stairs and the faint scratch of his straw broom on cold cement floors. Sweeping away garbage, where it belonged.



    The subway train he heard blows by him in an awesome force comparable to the gusts of wind on the street surface in the storm. His train is usually here by now, but tonight is different, tonight, Father McKenzie is on his way home.



    The Priest continues to wait a very long time for his subway. Off in the distance he can hear footsteps descending the stairs, however when he looks back the footsteps stop, nobody there.



    They resume when his back is turned.



    The corners are dimly lit on this platform, the shadows seems to creep beyond their boundaries in the Father’s peripherals, turning his head sharply, it seems he just missed them.





Only if he turned faster he would’ve caught the shadows out of place.





    A loud crash and the lights struggle to stay on, but the storm proves to be too powerful. The Priest waits in total darkness, blacker than his clothes. The footsteps draw closer, they are right behind him, the shadows have successfully crept from the corners they are all around him. The presence behind him softly whispers to the priest, "One of these days I’m going to cut you into little pieces". The priest can hear every articulation of the letters especially on the ‘s’ and ‘t’. A pin and needle sensation emits from his heart and trickles down his spine. Calmly the priest lifts up his one piece of luggage, a black book with pages lined in gold. A light so powerful flows out of these gold rimed pages illuminating the platform in a calm warm welcoming light. The shadows retreat to the corners, the footsteps make their way up the stairs, fading until he can no longer hear the passionate kisses. Above the subway platform on the surface there is a storm in New York City but the calming golden light erupts out of the subway tunnel like a flashlight aimed at the night sky. A solid beam standing out against all the darkness. A light that burns too bright for stormy rain clouds, burns too hot for wet drops of rain. Garbage breaks loose of alleyways, scraps separate from the fence, now free, now floating, where they came from and perhaps where they belong. Father McKenzie is home.