Confetti
We walked on the tree-lined sidewalk between the complex's barrier wall and the street. Some hundred feet ahead, she noticed a stuffy black trashbag lying there in the road.
"Maybe there's a body in there," she said.
"There's not a body in there," I said.
Though it did quite look like a body could have been in there.
The light turned and the traffic came. The bag, all full and floppy and bulging, had its bagskin flutter and ripple as ruffles of air whooshed over it as each car passed dangerously close. Dangerously... close. Come on. Come on. One of you. Please. Please. Please hit it. Please.
The bag slouched there, precisely one-quarter of the way across the four lane road, right where the line ought to have been if it hadn't had been worn away years ago. Northbound cars passed just left and just right of it. So close. So close. Come on you bastards, just hit it. HIT IT. We're getting closer to it now... shit we're approaching it... we're going to walk right past it soon. Hit it!
We were so close now. So close I could imagine what it would feel like in my arms to go pick it up. But my arms couldn't decide if it would be light or heavy. I couldn't tell what was in it. And I couldn't run out into the road to see. It looked heavy though. And it was all tied up. Just like you might tie it up if you had put a body in there.
574... oh my God... 574 is coming.
Ah, #574. My old friend. You used to carry me between my old apartment and the subway station, in those early years here. I haven't ridden you since. I know it's asking a lot, but if you could... if you would just...
He sped up. Or, he didn't slow down, which at this moment might as well have been speeding up. He was drifting. Slowly drifting just out of his lane, just overhanging it a little. It's OK. No other cars are around. No other cars existed. Nothing else existed. He's standing on the beach with a gun in his hand, staring at the sky, staring at the sand...
Then everything became one in that moment out of time. I felt like I should grab a camera and record this. No. Just let it happen. Let it be. The bus refused to lower its speed, and aligned that thick right-front tire right at it, and proceeded to penetrate that bounderby black bag. There was nothing else that could be done. It had to be done, Sergei.
An absolute explosion of confetti burst from beneath the sides of the bus as it barreled by. A magnificent snow of glimmering shimmering bits shredded paper, like might be bagged up in a hurried rush at a major brokerage firm when the authorities were already on their way, sprayed out into our world and gently settled softly down onto the road where only very recently the 574 bus had passed. I watched it fall like peaceful feathers upon this weary world.
Half drunk on life, I walked aimlessly ahead for a moment or two, but then I stopped. I turned back. I saw the bits of paper, scattered all over the road. I saw the black bag with its bleeding confetti hole: the piñata still seeming to hold some of its sweet delicious candy inside. In my mind's ear I heard the voice of Bill Murray whisper: "No one is ever going to believe you."
I took out my camera, and with one great push of the shutter button, I whispered back into the air: not today, Bill.
We all need something to believe in. Today, I found faith again, in a black plastic trashbag on a warm autumn day.
"Maybe there's a body in there," she said.
"There's not a body in there," I said.
Though it did quite look like a body could have been in there.
The light turned and the traffic came. The bag, all full and floppy and bulging, had its bagskin flutter and ripple as ruffles of air whooshed over it as each car passed dangerously close. Dangerously... close. Come on. Come on. One of you. Please. Please. Please hit it. Please.
The bag slouched there, precisely one-quarter of the way across the four lane road, right where the line ought to have been if it hadn't had been worn away years ago. Northbound cars passed just left and just right of it. So close. So close. Come on you bastards, just hit it. HIT IT. We're getting closer to it now... shit we're approaching it... we're going to walk right past it soon. Hit it!
We were so close now. So close I could imagine what it would feel like in my arms to go pick it up. But my arms couldn't decide if it would be light or heavy. I couldn't tell what was in it. And I couldn't run out into the road to see. It looked heavy though. And it was all tied up. Just like you might tie it up if you had put a body in there.
574... oh my God... 574 is coming.
Ah, #574. My old friend. You used to carry me between my old apartment and the subway station, in those early years here. I haven't ridden you since. I know it's asking a lot, but if you could... if you would just...
He sped up. Or, he didn't slow down, which at this moment might as well have been speeding up. He was drifting. Slowly drifting just out of his lane, just overhanging it a little. It's OK. No other cars are around. No other cars existed. Nothing else existed. He's standing on the beach with a gun in his hand, staring at the sky, staring at the sand...
Then everything became one in that moment out of time. I felt like I should grab a camera and record this. No. Just let it happen. Let it be. The bus refused to lower its speed, and aligned that thick right-front tire right at it, and proceeded to penetrate that bounderby black bag. There was nothing else that could be done. It had to be done, Sergei.
An absolute explosion of confetti burst from beneath the sides of the bus as it barreled by. A magnificent snow of glimmering shimmering bits shredded paper, like might be bagged up in a hurried rush at a major brokerage firm when the authorities were already on their way, sprayed out into our world and gently settled softly down onto the road where only very recently the 574 bus had passed. I watched it fall like peaceful feathers upon this weary world.
Half drunk on life, I walked aimlessly ahead for a moment or two, but then I stopped. I turned back. I saw the bits of paper, scattered all over the road. I saw the black bag with its bleeding confetti hole: the piñata still seeming to hold some of its sweet delicious candy inside. In my mind's ear I heard the voice of Bill Murray whisper: "No one is ever going to believe you."
I took out my camera, and with one great push of the shutter button, I whispered back into the air: not today, Bill.
We all need something to believe in. Today, I found faith again, in a black plastic trashbag on a warm autumn day.
