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Literature Text
"Two Roads," is a longer version of a short short story I posted earlier on this blog. If nothing else it serves as a synopsis of a short story or even a novella I've been wanting to work on for years that I called, "It's always 11:59 in the Purgatory Cafe."
A man stands at a crossroads, alone with his thoughts. His shoes kick at the dust when he hears the rumbling bus. Its headlights illuminate the roads and him standing, waiting. The bus stops, the door opens, and the bus driver looks onward at the lonely way ahead. The man steps inside to the witness of empty seats. He takes a look as the bus sits, stopped at these roads. He then walks towards the back of the bus, stops and takes a seat somewhere in the middle. The door closes and the driver pulls the bus away, moving along.
Time passes, hours move along as the man counts the minutes passing on his watch. Early morning darkness surrenders to the light of day and that gives to the darkness of the night again. With an effort he opens a window that gives with the gush of the cool, cool air. Looking out with the night sky and all the expanse of stars to keep company on this journey. Lost to the stars, he does not realize that the bus has stopped, this time for two new passengers. The two give the appearance of a traveling father and daughter heading west as well. They find their own seats, close to, but behind the lone man.
In a dream as the bus rambles along, a dreaming of home, coming home, and never going back again. The lone man opens his eyes and takes notice of the traveling two. Gypsies, a tramp and a starry eyed girl. The difference between these two and the man is telling enough. The rag tag and what once would have been colorful clothing of the two contrasting with the drab and tired fatigues of the man who was a soldier. They all say nothing to one another and travel in an almost serene and other times an eerie silence. From time to time the bus stops for new passengers and then drops them off at their final destinations. The soldier, the gypsies, and the bus driver are the only real constant on this journey.
The bus stops again, hungry, the bus driver hops out and disappears into a roadside diner. The soldier follows the gypsies and finds a seat, alone in a booth, away from the bus driver and further away from the tramp and his daughter. He is content alone with his scattered memories of the past, and a plate a scrambled eggs and ham to keep him company.
Running through jungles with one thought, and then different ones walking past a sea of poppy fields somewhere else in space and in time. His thoughts return to where he is at, a diner in the middle of nowhere, on a bus with other strangers on a journey to the gateway of the West. He returns to his cola and greasy plate when the lights of the bus blink on and off and again. He realizes he is the last one left eating in the diner and calls out to the waitress for his check.
The waitress kindly says, "It’s already been paid. Those hippies took care of you."
He thinks for a moment and realizes that it’s the two gypsies she is talking about. He looks at the plate and takes one last sip from his cola and hurries for the waiting bus.
The tramp sleeps soundly but the girl, she sketches in a book with a piece of blue crayon. She looks up and smiles at the soldier.
"Not all of us hate people like you," she says plainly.
He wants to say something, looking at his military jacket, but she then closes her drawing book and puts her fingers to her lips. She closes her eyes and the soldier shrugs and keeps his silence. His own eyes blinking their way to sleep and fitful dreams of his times in the jungles and other times in the urban decay of war torn towns and cities.
He wakes to the warmth of the sun and a bus stopped on the side of the road. The hood is open and the driver, shielding his eyes from the overbearing sun, looks onward towards a hazy distance. The gypsies are nowhere to be seen, the only other passengers are a weary mother and her brood of children sitting in the back of the bus.
It is to the West that the soldier is going and in that direction is the hazy silhouette of a city. He nods his intent to the driver and begins his walk to the city. The highway bears a straight path toward his destination and during the long and blistering afternoon and into the cold of the night, the man makes his way alone. No other vehicles come from either direction. It is sometime after midnight when he arrives to the city and not knowing where to go, looks up and down the streets for someplace open and inviting. He finds it in an all night coffee shop.
Still early in the morning, he makes his way through the doors of the coffee shop. The smell of sandalwood permeates the air as low lights from lamps bear witness to empty tables save for one filled with several different characters being served their sweet lattes and black Americanos from a barista who often disappears behind the beaded doors of the kitchen only to return to take more orders and pull the espresso for a new round of drinks. These patrons welcome the newcomer and make room for him at their table. The soldier pulls up a chair and an Americano is placed before him. There is a momentary silence as these patrons wait to hear this new one's story.
His tale is pieced together from foggy memories. He was a soldier, once, running with a rifle in his hands through dark jungles, sometime doing things he would rather forget. It was this need to forget that found him in mountains half a world away building up a village hidden within a valley among desolate mountains. Here he would befriend a gypsy girl and that girl found trouble one day. An argument becomes a fight over the girl and the soldier is at the wrong place trying to help. Then he remembers the twisting knife, a girl's scream, and then nothing.
He finishes his Americano as two familiar people walk inside, the tramp and the gypsy girl. The tramp, now playing the role of an angel, looks at the soldier sitting among the strangers in this coffee shop and says, "It's time."
The girl takes the soldier's hand and says, "You can go home now," as she and the angel lead him out of the coffee shop. The soldier for a moment squints and then shields his eyes. Looking up between tall buildings the man notices how the sun seems so bright.
A man stands at a crossroads, alone with his thoughts. His shoes kick at the dust when he hears the rumbling bus. Its headlights illuminate the roads and him standing, waiting. The bus stops, the door opens, and the bus driver looks onward at the lonely way ahead. The man steps inside to the witness of empty seats. He takes a look as the bus sits, stopped at these roads. He then walks towards the back of the bus, stops and takes a seat somewhere in the middle. The door closes and the driver pulls the bus away, moving along.
Time passes, hours move along as the man counts the minutes passing on his watch. Early morning darkness surrenders to the light of day and that gives to the darkness of the night again. With an effort he opens a window that gives with the gush of the cool, cool air. Looking out with the night sky and all the expanse of stars to keep company on this journey. Lost to the stars, he does not realize that the bus has stopped, this time for two new passengers. The two give the appearance of a traveling father and daughter heading west as well. They find their own seats, close to, but behind the lone man.
In a dream as the bus rambles along, a dreaming of home, coming home, and never going back again. The lone man opens his eyes and takes notice of the traveling two. Gypsies, a tramp and a starry eyed girl. The difference between these two and the man is telling enough. The rag tag and what once would have been colorful clothing of the two contrasting with the drab and tired fatigues of the man who was a soldier. They all say nothing to one another and travel in an almost serene and other times an eerie silence. From time to time the bus stops for new passengers and then drops them off at their final destinations. The soldier, the gypsies, and the bus driver are the only real constant on this journey.
The bus stops again, hungry, the bus driver hops out and disappears into a roadside diner. The soldier follows the gypsies and finds a seat, alone in a booth, away from the bus driver and further away from the tramp and his daughter. He is content alone with his scattered memories of the past, and a plate a scrambled eggs and ham to keep him company.
Running through jungles with one thought, and then different ones walking past a sea of poppy fields somewhere else in space and in time. His thoughts return to where he is at, a diner in the middle of nowhere, on a bus with other strangers on a journey to the gateway of the West. He returns to his cola and greasy plate when the lights of the bus blink on and off and again. He realizes he is the last one left eating in the diner and calls out to the waitress for his check.
The waitress kindly says, "It’s already been paid. Those hippies took care of you."
He thinks for a moment and realizes that it’s the two gypsies she is talking about. He looks at the plate and takes one last sip from his cola and hurries for the waiting bus.
The tramp sleeps soundly but the girl, she sketches in a book with a piece of blue crayon. She looks up and smiles at the soldier.
"Not all of us hate people like you," she says plainly.
He wants to say something, looking at his military jacket, but she then closes her drawing book and puts her fingers to her lips. She closes her eyes and the soldier shrugs and keeps his silence. His own eyes blinking their way to sleep and fitful dreams of his times in the jungles and other times in the urban decay of war torn towns and cities.
He wakes to the warmth of the sun and a bus stopped on the side of the road. The hood is open and the driver, shielding his eyes from the overbearing sun, looks onward towards a hazy distance. The gypsies are nowhere to be seen, the only other passengers are a weary mother and her brood of children sitting in the back of the bus.
It is to the West that the soldier is going and in that direction is the hazy silhouette of a city. He nods his intent to the driver and begins his walk to the city. The highway bears a straight path toward his destination and during the long and blistering afternoon and into the cold of the night, the man makes his way alone. No other vehicles come from either direction. It is sometime after midnight when he arrives to the city and not knowing where to go, looks up and down the streets for someplace open and inviting. He finds it in an all night coffee shop.
Still early in the morning, he makes his way through the doors of the coffee shop. The smell of sandalwood permeates the air as low lights from lamps bear witness to empty tables save for one filled with several different characters being served their sweet lattes and black Americanos from a barista who often disappears behind the beaded doors of the kitchen only to return to take more orders and pull the espresso for a new round of drinks. These patrons welcome the newcomer and make room for him at their table. The soldier pulls up a chair and an Americano is placed before him. There is a momentary silence as these patrons wait to hear this new one's story.
His tale is pieced together from foggy memories. He was a soldier, once, running with a rifle in his hands through dark jungles, sometime doing things he would rather forget. It was this need to forget that found him in mountains half a world away building up a village hidden within a valley among desolate mountains. Here he would befriend a gypsy girl and that girl found trouble one day. An argument becomes a fight over the girl and the soldier is at the wrong place trying to help. Then he remembers the twisting knife, a girl's scream, and then nothing.
He finishes his Americano as two familiar people walk inside, the tramp and the gypsy girl. The tramp, now playing the role of an angel, looks at the soldier sitting among the strangers in this coffee shop and says, "It's time."
The girl takes the soldier's hand and says, "You can go home now," as she and the angel lead him out of the coffee shop. The soldier for a moment squints and then shields his eyes. Looking up between tall buildings the man notices how the sun seems so bright.
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