Des Ashes

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To his closest friends, he was known as a man of faith. His readings from the pulpit were words that he believed to be true, and so did the congregation once they had listened and not simply heard. His delivery was convincing, aided by his evident piety exuded at having sat in the same seat in the front row on multiple iterations of assembly. Almost every gathering without fail. To the clergy then, he was considered to be a future man of the cloth. It was a different time then, when following one's faith to levels of leadership had no connotation of sexual preference. Now, his primary struggle was to locate a decent night between two sheets. Now, he is just a man.

There is no more room at the inn and this is the 21st century so there is no backyard stable one could utilise for occupancy. Indeed, that wouldn't be legal simply because it wasn't very hygienic, not that the inside was any more so, with smells of marijuana, alcohol and a festering general stink. Still, it would have been better than the crisp night air of the outdoors or his previous embarrassment. He had alighted upon another place which bore the word "Inn" in its title, having made a mental note some years ago that this was within a safe section of the neighbourhood. Upon his arrival, he saw to his great chagrin that the title was in fact a misnomer and this locale had been converted to a private establishment for quite some time. He could feel his age at having made such a folly, an honest mistake. With a heaving sigh, he lugged his bags, which contained everything he ever owned and decided was memorable enough to be kept, out of the inn which was real but would not have him that night, and in the direction of the nearest subway, thankful that this city had transportation services that were nonstop. It was unfortunate that unlike other cities the state of cleanliness was by far lackadaisical, a possible trade off for being operational at all hours.

Emerging at his destination, he looked up at the stars, the arbiters of true direction, for though our positions on earth change frequently, they nightly shared their coruscation from the same locations every night. The North Star. The brightest of them all. Symbolic of the ascension that North connotates? A society that aspires to be northerly in their fiscal trajectory is favourable. It reminded him of a song where the people were moving up, but to the eastside. Were they speaking of the Upper East Side? Theirs is a neighbourhood of true glamour and resplendence.

Where is the righteous salvation? "Jesus Christ rose from the dead today", someone remarked on the street. Fallacy. Historically speaking, he rose thousands of years ago, so it couldn't have happened also on this day. The churches are packed with people that believe that this is the only day in which they can affirm their salvation. Maybe they should try saving themselves sometime. "And what of Passover? Didn't a mighty spiritual entity smite multiple first born during this period? Was that concurrent to the event you're speaking of?"

"Oh sorry, I didn't know you were Jewish. Sorry. Rosaries for sale! Renew your faith!" He tried to explain that he was simply cognisant of the beliefs of multiple faiths, and found it difficult to subscribe to any one at the moment, but the wizened merchant had moved on to his next target of sale. He declined to consider why this man had decided to sell rosaries at the end of the holiday and when almost no one was around. Perhaps he could not secure a permit.

Who was he to speak of the people in churches seeking saving graces? Self salvation was a feat he had yet to achieve. The brilliance of Times Square, which still to him seemed like an artifical day so birghtly did the light singe his eyes, was juxtaposed with the stark absence of people. Closed shops, empty seats and pavillions, barely a bustling taxi in sight. Everyone's gone home. This is the city that never sleeps. Why was it sleeping now? "Am I the only person still awake?" There was nothing here for him. Even his favourite eatery had stopped serving food, in retrospect a good idea since it had probably been in the open for at least 14 hours, and he was forced to eat a granny smith apple and an enormous bag of popcorn. It wasn't as delectable without a movie in front of him, and there weren't many real-life moving images either upon which he could focus his attention.

It suddenly occurred to him that he was part of a car share program with access to cars around the world, in which one could rent any kind of vehicle at one's whim and fancy. He fancied one now and utilised free wireless from a closed place of business to set up the transaction. They could deny him their products temporarily, but not their internet access. The men working in the garage seemed genuinely upset at being woken up at such an obscure hour, and had much difficulty differentiating between a sedan and an SUV. Having finally secured the latter for him and rudely driving it out of the garage and quickly closing the door this freedom machine was now his own for 5 hours. He turned onto 48th Street from the garage and headed east, the sound of NPR issuing forth from what he considered to be a very complex radio. Technology was almost beyond his grasp, but there was no need to change from his favourite station. At least the delivery of news didn't change too radically. A city was burning in another part of the world.

Driving is a luxury in New York City that many who live there avoid at all costs. It certainly isn't a necessity given the accessibility of the underground network of steel and speed. Even taxiing isn't really required, though it is quite pleasant to travel above ground and see life move with you. Not he. He loved the feeling of being in control of at least one element of his life. He could start and stop as he pleased, barring traffic laws and parking of course. Driving in the wee hours of the morning was actually satisfying, as there was no traffic to be found anywhere, especially on a Sunday. The taxi drivers were making their way home and as there was noone to hail them from a street corner, they avoided cutting him off as per usual. He was his own express train and as all the lights on 2nd Avenue were green at the moment there was ample opportunity to build momentum within limits. He knew where he was headed - the 24 hour diner on 14th and 1st. They would never disappoint him. Strong tea with one packet of brown sugar and a chicken parmesan panini.

For the first time since being a part of the city, he decided to drive through the Park Avenue tunnel. His was the only vehicle moving through the dully lit brick arch, and he imagined himself being transporated to another world, even though it was only a pathway to the Upper East Side. When he emerged from the tunnel, he wound around and through the expansive buildings that were the Grand Central Terminal and the MetLife Building and descended onto the 46th Street intersection. How thrilling; it was his own personal amusement park ride, filled with elevations, depressions, twists and turns! He considered that there are people who live their entire lives in NYC and have never had the experience to which he had just been privy. That made him morose as there were people he thought of in his own life that had and had not. This became more apparent as he drove further north, on the eastside of course, and took in the almost magical state of the neighbourhood. It was almost not New York City, or the city with which he was familiar. The people who live here must experience this place so very differently than most. He had had a similar living experience too, he began to muse... but that was also a different time in a different place. Now no more.

The tunnel experience reminded him of an absurdist piece one of his friends had made in which this person spoke French as he walked through a tunnel. There was a lock on a door and someone had the key, but his friend did not. The haves and the have nots. We are all made of ash in various consistencies. When we tumble and fall, and we all fall, this fact is revealed to us. Within life's journeys there is purpose, but life itself is an odd concept. We discover purpose within our existence, but what is the purpose of existence? To discover that purpose? So then one who has not discovered or rejects one's purpose is simply not alive, although clearly existing. He wondered how the ashes of his existence, of his experience, would be spread.

He didn't believe in the truth of any particular set of words anymore. Rather, he believed in the truth of all words. Even if the stories were untrue, the words which comprised these stories were real, tangible and had some claim to existence. It was why Shakespeare could create his own words, or anyone else for that matter really, as they would become claimants of their own existence through application.

He returned the SUV. The sun rose. The day began. His time was up. The ashes of the city began to stir.

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