Life's a Funny Thing
A Musing

Life?s a funny thing. I thought I?d learned the truth, but found out too late that it casts no shadows. Each of us must ride that cycle of antipathy at some point in our lives and that?s where I am.

The death of a loved one, a job-related disappointment, and a not-so-healthy work environment leave greasy residues that never quite seem to wash off. Looking at a child, I sometimes think how nice it would be to go back to the time of no worries, no responsibilities.

A strong spirituality helps, but the Goddess can only do so much. And as I find myself moving into the crone phase, life truly has become a funny thing.

A Maniacal Tale
A Short Story

It was April 1st, and Wilma was not in her usual spot on the corner. How appropriate, All Fools Day. It wasn?t the same without Wilma and her beat up Costco shopping cart. One of those little blue Walgreens things would never do for her. As I said, she was not there that sunny, crisp morning; however, I gave her absence little more than a passing thought.

This city isn?t much different from any other large metropolis. Lots of traffic, bad air, a cacophony of noise all loosely knotted together, and the homeless found on almost every street corner, park bench and viaduct. Getting back to Wilma.

Of course, Wilma wasn?t her name; I never cared enough to ask. To me, she was Wilma. Put a bone in that red hair and give her a fur dress, and well, there you have it. That Monday morning she was not in her usual spot. I thought to myself,

?Good one, Wilma, April Fool?s.?

By the time I passed her spot on my way home from work, there was a lanky dark man in her place. Claim jumpers act quickly here in the city, and this corner was prime real estate.

Tuesday was gray, damp and chilly, dropping rain. As I emerged from the Adams street station with the other office workers, I found myself looking for Wilma. This morning there?s a slump-shouldered, raggedy woman staking claim to the corner, no Wilma, and no lanky dark man. Our eyes meet briefly just long enough for me to be startled by the wild fear I see in hers. Looking away, I quickly pass not wanting to know.

That night, twilight drops as I pass the corner heading home, but she?s there shadowy and still. As I pass by, I?m sure I hear her whisper,

?Run fast, boy, if you ever hear them laugh.?

I turn and look at her, but she looks beyond me with eyes that know too much. An icy fist squeezes my heart, and I stumble drunkenly down the stairs startled to find myself alone on the subway platform. In the distance, I hear the sound of the on-coming train; there?s something else, fainter, but I know what it is, hard nails clicking on the tile floor of the subway tunnel and maniacal laughter reminding me of a hyena.

Wednesday was a work-at-home day, and I didn?t think about Wilma, the lanky dark man, or the slump-shouldered woman until the train pulls into the station the next morning. As I step out from the darkness of the tunnel into the harsh morning light, I see that the corner is empty which unnerves me. Amid the city clamor, the echo of the slump-shouldered woman?s whisper and the click of those nails sounds in my ears.

On my way home that night, I stop at a kiosk to get a copy of the paper. I seldom bother; there?s little that interests me within those pages. However, an article about the missing homeless catches my eye. Little concern is reflected there; instead the disappearances are reported in glowing terms. The mayor is quoted, saying,

?I?d personally like to thank whoever is facilitating the clean up of our city streets.?

Again, I am touched by a sense of unease as I think of that empty corner which only days ago had been so highly prized.

Friday morning I rush past the still empty corner refusing to give it a second glance. In the elevator on the way to my office, I listen to a couple of men discussing how Bob the obnoxious windshield washer has gone missing. And even though they shared a chuckle, their apprehension was tangible. It was then that I knew there was something terrible happening. As I went to meet my girlfriend, Sara, for lunch, a green-eyed, dark-haired beauty approached me. I couldn?t help but notice the white t-shirt stretched tightly across her chest, and it's inscription:

"Ask me why you?ll find no homeless people in this city"

As we passed, her eyes caught mine. I shivered and hurried past but then turn only to find her standing staring at me, almost as if she were marking me. Later that afternoon on my way home, thinking of plans made with Sara for later that night, I notice an unexpected falling darkness. There at Wilma?s corner, a storm is brewing. And as I hear the sound of maniacal laughter and clicking nails on the sidewalk behind me, I begin to run, knowing why there are no more homeless people in this city.

~copyright Cher Cunningham, 2002~