Doom

Doom

Brandon Figliolino

A man prophesied my death one day in July. It occurred early in the morning, when the weather was temperate. Rays of sunlight poked through clouds, shining down on the brick sidewalks in Boulder, glistening off the windows of the historic structures that lined the streets. I was walking towards the courthouse—a behemoth neoclassical building made of limestone that rose above downtown. My shadow was my only companion.

I passed a tall office building and entered a narrow alley. Flanked by brick walls covered with vines that draped over whimsical arches, the alley was a shortcut I took with high frequency. My shoes clapped against the brick, echoing off the walls.  I exited the alley, humming to myself. I took a right. Hands in my pockets, I meandered slow and steady, taking in the sights.

It was then I saw him.  

He stumbled out of a thicket of trees, just off a neighborhood street, where houses looked like the settings of fairytales. Swaying on unsteady feet, he walked towards me. When he grinned, I could see his yellowing teeth. The bottoms of his jeans were frayed, and his untied shoelaces flapped wildly with each step he took.

“Good morning!” he bellowed across the street to me. His hand waved with the enthusiasm of a child getting to pick a story for reading time.

“Hello!” I said back. I reciprocated his wave.

Eyes fixed on me, he hurried across the street, not bothering to look for oncoming cars. His unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt flapped as he ran. One across, he clutched his knees with his hands.

“Are you okay?” I asked him, adjusting the strap of my messenger bag.

“Yes! Yes!”

I could smell the remnants of alcohol on his breath.

He rose up and brushed his mangy, long blond hair out of his eyes. “Can I tell you something? It’s really important!” His enthusiasm didn’t cease; despite the fact he was out of breath from running.

I nodded. “Sure.”

He held up both hands in front of him. “They are coming, and we have to be prepared.”

I looked at him, confused.

“Who, exactly is coming?”

His eyes widened in animated panic. “The aliens!” he shouted, waving his arms above his head. “They are coming to destroy us!”

I bit my lip, letting him continue.

“You don’t have anything to worry about, though.” He shook his head, still smiling. “You see those mountains over there?” He pointed west, towards the majestic mountains that flanked the edge of the city. “The flatirons will save everyone! Aliens don’t stand a chance with the flatirons protecting us!”

I had no inclination how mountains would protect anyone from an alien attack, though, I haven’t the slightest idea what an attack would look like, aside from what I’d seen in terrible sci-fi movies.

“That’s really good to know, thanks!” I said.

There was silence for a moment, an awkward pause. I wasn’t sure if the man was finished speaking. I took a step.

It was then that he burst into a heavy laughter. “Just kidding! We are all DOOMED!” He slapped his knee with his hand.

I too began to laugh, though I tried to halt it.

His laughter subsided. “Ah, well, have a good day!” He gave me another wave and skipped back across the street, whistling.

I stood for a moment, my face scrunched, my mind wondering what I’d just witnessed. Had this prophet just foretold my demise, and that of the entire planet?

Highly unlikely.

Obviously.

I do admire the attitude and the enthusiasm of this false prophet. He believed that the world was going to end, but that didn’t stop him from smiling. Neither did it keep him from waving good morning to a stranger. The thought of death didn’t unsettle him; it only made him more excited about living.

We all should take note and show that sort of enthusiasm for our time, because one day, it may end, and the flatirons, as magical as they are, won’t be able to stop it.

So say hello to someone you don’t know! Smile often, and pass along stories of aliens, and of the quirky people you meet. It’ll make the world a better place.

1804 Richards Way (Excerpt)

Inside the cabin of his father’s old pickup, Eddie sat with a notebook and a pen. The sounds of Bach pulsated through his earbuds. One bud was nestled in his right ear, the other wrapped around his neck and under the collar of his plaid shirt. Using his Advanced English Studies binder as a flat surface, he scrawled his thoughts. The occasional pothole caused his pen to dance across the page, but he didn’t mind. He’d lift the pen and wait for the truck to settle back into steady rhythm with the road before continuing. Pencils were irrelevant.

His father was driving, humming to classic rock that squeaked through the stereo.

There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold

And she's buying a stairway to heaven.

When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed

With a word she can get what she came for.

Ooh, ooh, and she's buying a stairway to heaven

His fingers tapped the cracked leather steering wheel to the sounds of Zeppelin. He hummed alongside Jimmy Page, being careful not to overpower the singer. The music played onward. The truck stopped several cars behind a red light.

The man’s eyes scanned the streetlight up ahead. “Is this it?”

The light turned green. The two cars ahead of him started moving. The man released the brake, edging on the accelerator. The truck sputtered. Zeppelin continued. The truck passed through the intersection of 80^th and Club Dr.

“Oh, phew!” he smiled. “That’s not it. I think it’s up here.”

Squinting in the light of the morning sun, the man spotted a blue street sign that read Richards Way.

“Does that say Richards Way? I can’t really tell.”

Eddie didn’t respond.

“I think it is. Oh, look!” he chuckled. “I guess this is the spot.” His father pointed to a large billboard that read:

COMING SOON: THE NEXT BEST THING SINCE SLICED BREAD (AND WE REALLY LOVE SLICED BREAD)!

NEW SINGLE-FAMILY, CUSTOMIZABLE HOMES FROM THE LOW $600s

HERE AT PRISTINE

RICHARDS RANCH RESERVE

CALL 303-222-6890 FOR MORE INFORMATION

“That looks pretty nice, huh? Richards Ranch Reserve sounds fancy.”

Eddie ignored his father. The old man’s left hand flicked the turn signal, which did nothing but emanate a click clack click clack noise in the cabin; both turn lights had burnt out a while ago and were never replaced.

The expansive road they turned onto was recently paved; the bumpiness Eddie felt on the ride earlier was gone. A stone and wood fence had been erected along the flanking street, and in the middle of an empty pile of dirt was a pile of stones and bags of cement that would one day become an ornate sign that read Richards Ranch Reserve.  

“Looks like we’re here,” Eddie’s father said. “Ready for another day of honest work, my boy?”

Eddie didn’t look up from his notebook; he already knew his father was smiling. His father repeated that phrase every day, chuckling at his poor sense of humor. Three summers into this part-time job, he was over it.

“Yeah, Dad,” he sighed. “It should be fun.”

The truck rolled to a stop behind a jet-black Mercedes Benz. Eddie didn’t notice.

His father shifted the truck into park. It lurched forward. Eddie’s pen sprang free again, sending a line of black ink up two rows of text.

“Hey,” his father put his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “Eddie, look at me.”

He did, raising his head up to face his father, expressionless.

“What have you been working on there? Come on, you can tell me.”

Eddie hesitated.

“I’m just writing.”

“I see that! But what are you writing?” he grinned. Eddie could see the yellow stains of his teeth.

“It’s a short story. You wouldn’t be interested.” Eddie closed the notebook. He capped the pen and stuck it through the spirals of the notebook before sticking both items into the binder and tossing it onto the brown dashboard.

“Whoa, there! I may be interested. Tell me about it.” He looked down at his watch. It was one his father had given him, one he promised Eddie would have one day. It was made of gold, but showed age in its tarnish and scratched face.

 “We still have five minutes before we have to go meet with Mr.—uh, what’s his name again?” The older man fished inside the pocket of his orange flannel shirt for a piece of paper. “Ah, Mr. Benjamin Remington is his name. You can tell me about your story until then.” He folded the paper back into his pocket. “Okay, son. Please continue.”

               
Eddie pursed his lips. “It’s about a superhero, kind of.”

               
“Tell me more.”

               
“You really want to hear?”

               
His father tapped the steering wheel several times. “Of course I do!”

               
A smile curled on Eddie’s face. “Well, there’s this kid, and he’s outside playing with his Captain
America doll when he hears someone yell for help. He looks around the yard and finds a—”

A man walking in front of the truck broke his concentration. The suited man held a cell phone to his ear. Eddie caught a glimpse of his tie. It had two rows of vertical houses lining a street. The man gave a quick, disgusted glance at the putrid green truck, and continued walking. He stepped up onto the curb and walked up the metal steps of a construction trailer. Using his free hand, he opened the door and disappeared. Plastered in bold font on the door was a sign that read REMINGTON HOMEBUILDERS OF AMERICA, LLC.

               
“I think that’s probably Mr. Remington,” Eddie said.

His father nodded. “I think you’re right.” He patted him on the shoulder. “That tie gave it away, didn’t it? Tell me about the story after we’ve gotten settled, yeah?”

“Okay, Dad.”

With one hand, his father unfastened his lap belt. 

                

Eddie followed suit. 

               
“Can you please grab the toolbox for me?” his father asked. “We’ll leave the lunchboxes in here for now.”

               
Eddie reached into the cab and pulled the gunmetal grey box from the middle spot of the truck’s bench. He didn’t see the lunchboxes. Sighing, he slammed the door and waited for his father to wrap around. In the time it took his father to walk the length of the truck, Eddie stared at the decal on the side of the passenger door. Centered inside a circle of peeling white paint read:

FRANK’S TOTAL LANDSCAPING SERVICES:

TREES, SHRUBS, FLOWERS

LAWN CARE

LANDSCAPE DESIGN

SPRINKLER INSTALLS

                 

Only the company name and one service were visible to Eddie’s eyes. The other words had been scratched out by a hand shovel over the years, replaced by rust and steel.

               
“Good! I think we have everything, right?” He stuffed his hands into his front jeans pockets. “Keys, phone.” He felt around. Once confirming both items were there, he pulled out his hands and pointed to the toolbox, reciting the word “toolbox” out loud. He finished by looking into the scarred bed of the truck, where a large roll of plush Berber carpet was rolled up on the driver’s side.

               
“Carpet,” he whispered. He perked up suddenly, clapping his hands. “Perfect! Let’s go meet Mr. Remington.”

 ....

Joy

Brandon Figliolino

Joy

            I’m one of those young millennial guys—I won’t use the word “hip” because it’s completely subjective—who always has a set of headphones shoved into the canals of his ears. No, I don’t have Dr. Dre’s Beats, or whatever they’re called, and my earbuds are cheap ones I purchased at Target. Still, those ratty earbuds and I are inseparable. They—and my phone, of course—link me to beautiful music.

Who could ask for anything more?

Yup, I’m one of those kids who walks around the grocery store listening to today’s hits. I go for walks, allowing my mind to wander while soft, upbeat melodies pulse through my ears. When I’m on my bicycle, exciting rhythms push me to go one more mile; though I only keep one headphone in, for safety. Whether it’s while I’m cleaning, cooking, or just loafing around, checking out the latest blunders in politics, music is on my mind. I bop my head, tap my foot, and, if really compelled, I’ll belt out a stanza or two, even though I am no Taylor Swift or Justin Bieber, or whomever you think is the greatest singer. Of all time.

A few weeks ago, in a scramble to get to my bus on time, I forgot to pull my earbuds from their spot in my previous days’ pants.

Whoops.

I hopped off the bus, waving goodbye to the driver. I walked to the corner of the street. Rummaging through my messenger bag, and my pockets, I realized my mistake. I’d have to go the day without them. Somehow, I’d manage.

A regional bus drove up the street, its engine getting louder as it neared, an unpleasant crescendo. The bus approached the corner and turned into the transit station. Its brakes squealed, a high-pitched solo over the purr of other buses’ idling engines.

The crosswalk indicated it was safe to proceed.

Across the street, the noise of the busses diminished and was replaced by silence. It was seven-thirty; the baristas at the coffeehouse weren’t quite ready to open, and the pub and elegant restaurant that flanked it had many more hours until they unlocked their doors. All I could hear was the sounds of my shoes, tapping the brick sidewalk at a steady beat.

I approached Pearl Street Mall, a pedestrian promenade with extravagant flora, trees, and unique storefronts. While I didn’t hear the sounds of traffic or busses, I did hear some things. Quiet things, like birds chirping when they zipped from one tree to another. The wheels of the recycling can a custodian pushed across the promenade. Bristles on a broom brushing against the bricks in front of an antique store. Briefly, an argument between two men over the stupidity of a presidential candidate.

All these little sounds created a beautiful morning melody.

There was a jogger who passed me. He must’ve been running hard; I could hear his labored breathing when he hurried past. He had headphones pressed into his ears. They bumped against his bare chest with every footfall. Within a few seconds, he was gone, as was the custodian. The sweeping ceased, and the argument ended with both parties walking away.

There was a brief pause, and then, a new sound began. Glancing to my right, I saw an older man with a violin. He wore a fedora on his head, and his bright yellow shirt and jean shorts would help decipher him in a crowd, I’m sure. His closed instrument case laid on a park bench; he had no sheet music or stand.

Passing him, I smiled and gave him a nod. He reciprocated with a toothy grin, the violin tucked under his chin. He continued playing. His bow touched the strings, creating a slow and scratchy noise. It sounded like he missed a flat or two. The tune sounded familiar, but I couldn’t name it.

             I reached my office door. I could still hear the man playing across the street, his song echoing off the buildings surrounding him. It was then I recognized it.

            “Joy to the World.”

            Why would a man play Christmas carols in July? I thought. That’s so odd! Glancing back, I looked at the man, who seemed to be struggling with remembering the final few measures of the song, and gave a slight shrug and smile before heading to my cubical.

            The next morning, the violinist was gone, but day after that, he was back in his spot. The violin case remained closed, and he wore his signature yellow shirt and fedora. That day’s song was “Happy Birthday.”

That one he had mastered.

He continued to play twice a week, and one day, he had a partner. A traveling performer with a scraggly brown beard had seen him playing. They shook hands and exchanged a few words. I stopped at the corner and removed my earbuds to listen.

 The violinist invited the young man to play; he happily obliged. The traveler dropped his duffle and removed a tambourine before sitting down on the edge of the bench. The violinist counted to four and began playing.

Together, the odd pair made music. Their smiles were as boisterous as the song they played, and by the end of it—I had no idea which song they played, or if it they were just making up a song on the spot—they were laughing. I realized my face was beaming, just like theirs. I waved and told them they did a nice job before continuing to the office.

            That day, I mentioned the violinist to my coworker.

            “Have you seen him? He’s really happy when he plays,” I said.

            “Do you know his story?” my coworker asked.

            I shook my head.

            “I’ve talked to him before. Really nice guy. He comes out here to practice. He plays for twenty minutes or so, and then he packs up and leaves. Doesn’t want money or anything; just likes getting to play for an audience.”

            “That is awesome,” I told him. “I wouldn’t be brave enough to go out on the Mall and play for people.”

            It’s true. I’ve played the viola since I was in elementary school, but I’m far from an exceptional violist. During school, I struggled to learn notes and keep pace, and playing in third position terrified me. When it came time for solos, I became timid, especially when they were ones where I had to make up a melody on the spot. In a crowd, I’d play loud and proud; if I missed a note, I didn’t care. Get me to play by myself, though, and I went from being a decent player to one that was bad; the fear, blended with panic created a symphony of bad thoughts in my head that hindered my ability to play.  

I knew I wasn’t great at playing the viola, and I was well aware that I’d never make a career out of playing my instrument. But I was okay with that. Like the violinist on Pearl Street, I just enjoyed getting to play music.

I still do.

            My viola sits on my bookshelf most of the time. It makes an appearance twice a year; once in the summer and once in the winter, when I play with a community orchestra. It’s a steep learning curve for me most times, but the feeling of playing those difficult songs, from start-to-finish, in front of my friends and family, is an invigorating feeling, one of complete and utter joy. The orchestra is supportive, and non-competitive, so I can be free to try my best, and not worry about getting kicked out for playing a wrong note. I don’t play often, and I don’t think I have more time to devote to improving my abilities than what I currently possess. That’s okay. Playing the viola is hard.

That doesn’t stop me from loving it.

            Most of the time, you’ll find me with headphones stuffed into my ears. Except in the mornings on my walk from the transit station to the office, and in the evenings on the walk back to the transit station—which presents a variety of new and different sounds that often contrast the sounds heard in the morning. Yes, I love when music fills my life. Not only do I enjoy listening to it, I find pleasure in playing it. But sometimes, it’s nice to keep the headphones in a pant pocket, and experience the sounds of one’s surroundings; there tends to be joy in that, too. 

© Brandon Figliolino