Our Tribal Circles

A living novel about the intersectionality of a post-modern nightmare.

We are often reminded by circumstance that we control very little about our lives.

Disease is a terrible way to go. A cowards kill inflicted upon the strong so as to render them weak in preparation for their final reward. Stanley isn’t having it. At 52 years old he desperately wants to live a long, full life. He feels strong, even if his bones are heavy and skin drawn. He can still walk and talk. Isn’t some invalid, barely able to feed himself…yet.

The letter with his test results still lay in front of him on the table where he’s thrown it down. Impossible. Sitting now in his dark wooden studio chair staring at the ceiling, he can’t imagine a world without him. As though the vale would wash it all away the moment his heart stopped. He’s not dying…they are.

A sharp pain lances through his abdomen. With some effort the overly pale middle aged man with the speckled brown hair corrects his posture. A quick glance around assures him no one is paying attention. Of the few patrons in this small coffee shop he’s the only one actually drinking coffee. He can smell the crumble cake baking in the mini-kitchen in the back. It mixes with his dark roast. The girl at the counter is pretty…but not so pretty he can’t admire his own handsomeness in the reflection of the napkin tin.

Stanley takes in a deep breath and slowly releases it. A half melted breath mint falls from his mouth and ricochets across the table. Without a moments hesitation, he lifts his coffee and viciously scalds his thin stretched lips. It hurts but he’s thankful for the distraction. The pain in his gut subsides slightly as his bottom lip pulses with a dull ache. It doesn’t last long, already the heat has diminished significantly.

Maybe it’s for the best, pain is practically the only real thing he feels anymore. Stanley is wealthy, he used to be very wealthy. The company he keeps makes sure he stays wealthy. He still feels like big money, though wall street had wiped out much of his assets a few years back along with everyone else. Luckily, he always gets more. He already has more than most, his cloths are clean, practically new actually, and he likes to keep it that way.

He generally surrounds himself with easy people that go along with whatever he feels like doing at any given time. Thinking back on it, he wonders if he’s kind of shallow. He’s never really taken anything too seriously. Money comes so easily to those unwilling or unable to consider the source of it. He had plenty to begin with in spite of his recent losses. Yet, he’s tasteless, wearing only what he thinks others want to see.

The pain in his gut finally subsides and he picks up the letter again to reread it. Maybe it’s magically changed in the last few seconds. No, he’s terminal; six months at best and the last few months won’t be much of a life. He doesn’t ask why. Knows why, made his choices and they were mostly based on petty selfishness. He never considers his health, absolutely convinced of his own immortality. This is a common attitude among the wealthy who are used to getting what they want whether it’s deserved or not.

Stanley feels like crying. The people at the nearest table are talking so loudly. The room seems so small and the fire burns hot in the stylized hearth which blazes overly bright. The heat overwhelms. Opening his jacket helps a little, but the sweat pours down his face anyway. This is the worst moment of his life.

“I saw her do it, Max.” It’s the thin women at the seat nearest Stanley belonging to the next table. A young women, early twenties, long straight chestnut hair. Intelligent eyes. She’s a thinker.

“You’re crazy.” The man, apparently his name is Max, responds shaking his head. “There’s no way.”

“I saw what I saw. She pushed that poor man and then she ran up the street.”

“Well then no harm, no foul.” Max chuckles, “she probably just slipped and used the man to catch her balance.”

“No way! I saw the look in her eyes. She did it on purpose. No doubt about it!”

Carol shivers. She knows hate when she sees it.

Stanley lowers his head catching it with his hands, peeking out through the finger slits as though he’s 5 years old again hiding from his father. There’s no point in hiding anymore. The tears come easily, without even the hint of redemption. They are the tears of inevitability, come to clean the thoughtless of their sins.

“Well it’s over now. Life goes on.”

Stanley snorts. Life is a joke so start laughing.

“But what if she does it again?”

“It’s none of our business. You don’t know for sure.”

“I think we should report her, Max…while we still remember what she looks like.”

“And what did she look like, exactly?”

“Well she was short. Ok, average height. Blonde…”

“She had brown hair.”

“Brown eyes…”

“Ya.”

“Must have been in her early twenties.”

Max shakes his head in disbelief. Carol is way off base.

“30 at least and road weathered at that.”

Stanley finally gets control of himself. Fishing in his pocket for some loose change he sprinkles quarters across the dark wood of the table surface. The letter has already returned to his inside jacket pocket as he stands pushing the chair back far too forcefully.

Everyone in the room stops and looks his way as the chair falls to the floor with the kind of thud only hard wood on hardwood can make. Stanley is extraordinarily tall and to those seated he seems gigantic. His broad shoulders block the view to the exit, but thankfully he’s already walking toward it and out into the busy street.

“Strange guy.” Max is still looking where Stanley had just been.

“Was he crying?” Carol looks even more concerned now. The world is falling apart around them.

“Ya…I think he was.”