KANDINSKY MAN

 (Continuing – from February 19 posting – EXERCISE: START HERE)

As weeks passed and spring surged ahead warmer than ever, the city became alive in a way he'd never felt on any of his previous visits to take in a ballgame or stay at the Sheraton and find a good steak. Warm breezes blew errant trash up into the air with pigeons. Despite there being fewer than ever nowadays, with Uber and the others well in play up and down the city streets, Taxis still honked wildly in this part of town and he tried not to see the Checker Cabs as enemies in his own cause to bus people about with a smile and a story for his own profit in his little Honda.

Throughout the day's drive he had a hard time connecting with his passengers. No problem for them or for him really.

His distraction that day driving about came from thoughts of the man sitting at the coffee shop a few days previous. Of course he had to exchange the basic niceties with each of the Uber clients, but with each route of pickup and drop-off, hour by hour, visions of the man's face, the man's oddness stuck to his conscience like an anxious bur.

He watched him carefully, trying not to be noticed. The man was unshaven but rather nicely dressed. He wore a slightly undersized houndstooth sport jacket and leather Oxford shoes over red sox intended for an accent. He wore long hair that was badly disheveled but for a slight part at the center.

Most notably, the man sat muttering to himself and picking at his own fingers incessantly. He sat at the table but drank nothing and ate nothing. His facial contortions were offputting and many nearby either turned away or avoided sitting too close. It was a quandary.

What could've been wrong? Maybe he lost his job. Maybe he got dumped by someone or his wife just left him. It might've been some kind of brain disease or disability but that would've been a long shot. From time to time he would give the appearance of putting it back together and holding his composure after a discomforting splash of embarrassment. No, he almost seemed more like someone in dire preparation… Be prepared or despair, pay a price – something like that.

He had the appearance of a lawyer one minute and a highly anxious, despondent or terrified person in the next… A parent? A comrade? A witness to something utterly inconceivable, inhumane?

He seemed to be practicing a conversation that so captivated him, literally that so imprisoned his mind, that all he could feel was the flame of the struggle. The only thing present in all the world was what he was inside of – the fight, the crisis… Who knows?

Ever since witnessing him the man's face came back again and again and he didn't really know what to do with it but feel concern. He'd only seen him once but it made quite an impression.

Toward evening he brought a dozen tulips back to the apartment to spruce things up, that bouquet and an art magazine featuring the work of Kandinsky. He had three bare walls left and he was quite sure one of them needed the great master of abstract art represented somewhere in his abode.

Was it the poppy that inspired him to go out in search of even more beauty? Had it opened him in some way that he still wanted to discern?

That evening somebody was talkative. Who knows why? Curling up across from him on the cool chair, yes, the leather one… Zoe asked, So are you going to tell the people everything we talk about?

Well I'm not sure how to take that question Zoe, would you like me to?

Meow, she said.

I just noticed, she continued, although you told them we converse, as yet you have not offered any verbatims on our back and forth regarding the night of the poppy and all of the dreams and these visions that keep recurring.

I guess I just haven't seen a reason to. And you're the good listener after all, and you're right here. What's more, I'm always the one flitting about from one project to another. Let me give it some thought, and remember, not much will be happening until my essay is done.

He invited Zoe out of the chair and sat thumbing through his magazine. He had a vintage copy of WATERCOLORS, 1977 from THE PAT MATHENY BAND and so took it for a ride while he then looked through a small pile of mail he had set on the end table to "season." He hated mail.

Most notable was a rather formal looking letter from the publication for whom he was preparing his essay.

Oh now what? he thought. Somebody could have made that shrill, hitting-the-brakes sound on a record just then. Did they lose my email?