Noise in the Silence – Short Story
From his tomato-colored shoelaces, I saw him on the other side of the park. I could see his wired headphones, and he was holding a book between his thumb and index fingers. On the ground he lay, sprawled out in a patch of sun like a careless cat. His visage from afar isn’t accurate, yet it still leads me to create something temporary in my mind…an image I create for now. I like these fading portraits…images of grandeur or superficial hopefulness in a world full of disconcertion and irreparable connection. This particular likeness seems so meticulously crafted in my head as if he weren’t just another friendly stranger.
When I was a child, my mother (and I’m sure your mother) used to tell me not to talk to strangers. Like most children, I listened for most of my life, but advice like this is always branded with an expiration date. I became frightened many times as a youngster, walking up to random men in the parking lot, mistaking them for my father. I would grab their hand and look into their eyes, waiting for them to take me inside the mall. There was always a moment when I felt completely and utterly safe, unafraid of the world as I took my father’s hand. However, this moment never lasts long, as they would always bend down, stare me straight in the eye, and beseech me, “Where’s you’re mommy?” It scared me to death. It scared me so much that I truly never talked to strangers. I didn’t sit in parks. I avoided beaches and crowds of any type. I stayed in my room like a hobbit confined to her hole…but now I have emerged. I set my bare feet on the fields of foreign grass, and now I see this boy on the other side of the park.
This meticulously crafted image of him becomes clear as I approach. His nose was growing, his hair was floating through the wind, and an aged book with dog ears stacked on every page. A small picnic is set up just for himself with a little bottle of Chardonnay. My feet found their resting place just beside his basket.
“What are you reading?” I asked nervously.
He looked up at me, and I saw his eyes for the first time. He unveils them from behind his sunglasses and replies, “The Myth of Sisyphus,” putting his glasses back on.
For a moment, I stared, and in that moment…he stared back, “Well…”
“Well, what?”
“Is it good?”
He removed his glasses and took a deep breath. “To be honest, it’s quite depressing.”
“Really?” I motioned to the open patch next to him.
“Sit, please,” he urged.
I made myself comfortable. “Can you tell me something from it?”
“Tell you something?”
“Yes, like a quote of some kind. Something memorable enough for right now.”
He thought for a moment and pulled his book in front of his face. He ran his fingers across the pages, and I could hear them scraping softly. Around us, old couples smiled and laughed, some held each other so tightly that I became worried. I became lost in their laughter, onlooking as if I were their child or old-time friend. When I looked back at him, his nose was even deeper in the book. I thought he might have fallen asleep in his thoughts.
“Ok! Got one…ready? This one is kind of hopeful, but this is a pretty dark book so…,” he chuckled. I nodded as he continued, reading from the book, “Like great works, deep feelings always mean more than they are conscious of saying. The regularity of an impulse or a repulsion in a soul is encountered again in habits of doing or thinking, is reproduced in consequences of which the soul itself knows nothing.”
I lay back and looked into the clouds, “Hmm.”
He lay down beside me, “What?”
“I don’t know.”
He smiled and laughed, “Camus is…”
“Depressed?”
He grinned and turned on his side, “You could say that.”
“I mean I guess he’s not completely depressed, but he definitely likes pointing out weaknesses of life and where we will become weak.”
The birds called out from the trees and looked upon our conversation. I turned to gaze upon him before opening my mouth. In silence, we are never completely quiet. There are always other sounds present: the starting of cars and the clicky sounds of footsteps in hallways. In the park those sounds of life were of birds and the wind’s whispers in between heads of grass.
I open my mouth, “…I think sometimes feelings are so strong that they do come out into full fruition when they’re meant to. When I was a kid, I always felt things very deeply, and I thought that once I grew up things would change. That I would somehow have skin tougher than leather and an unbreakable mind. But as a teen, I was still very sensitive. Into adulthood, it only manifested more…but after heartbreak and isolation my feelings have somewhat turned cold. If the soul knows nothing, we wouldn’t feel much. To agree with Camus, somehow we desensitize ourselves from feeling as this “infinite impulse.” I have become both the victim and the criminal in my life, desensitizing myself in order to save me hurt. I avoid the habits of the past and focus on present ones…”
He sat up next to me. I follow and stick my hand out strongly, “Stacey.”
He replies, “Barker.”
I got up and walked away, looking behind to see if he was looking over at me, of course.
He yelled, “You’re leaving?”
I turned around, his face shrinking again, “Yes!”
He stood up straight and dusted grass off his shorts. “Just like that?”
“I have things to do.”
I turned my back, but he was speaking to himself, “That question…”
Silence filled the park, and I walked slowly away from him, with the cool green grass and blue clouds floating above. I slipped my key into the lock and opened my room, put on a record, and looked out the window for him. I put on a pot for tea and watched momentarily as he resettled into his spot. I’m only reawakened by the sound of the tea whistle steaming.
Images by Masahisa Fukase: Top: Flying and Falling Bottom: From Window 1974