The Boulevard of Yesterday
To my great surprise, the year has turned its cogs once more through their cycle, delivering us to the dreary descent of winter and everyone’s favorite pumpkin-slaughtering holiday — Halloween. Now, the day itself doesn’t represent a great deal for me or my family. I know Mum will be tucked up in a blanket next to her expensive log burner, enjoying the autumnal chill that October heralds — the excuse for tucking away on lazy evenings. Dad will have forgotten (not for the first time) to stockpile any sweets before the inevitable stragglers in threadbare costumes come salivating at the door. There’s never been much ceremony for ghosts and goblins, or any of that materialistic nonsense, but this year will be special.
Not to blow smoke up my ass, but I am my parents favorite (and only) son, and I will be blessing them with my company.
Feels like an age since I saw them last. Life just escapes you, doesn’t it? One’s parade of self-importance and fractured completeness overwhelms everything; that’s to say, I’d be perfectly happy to kick my feet up with the wife in Hoxton… sneak in a signature mocktail. Perhaps bump uglies over the ominous tones of Michael Myers rampaging through Haddonfield (such a ridiculous franchise — I mean, it’s iconic and undoubtedly transformed the slasher genre, but Michael, my buddy and pal, walk a little faster). Something about this year though… We’ve grown tired of routine. “To hell with automation!” So Laura’s visiting her brother in Ireland (who’s a bit of a nut for the spooky season himself — she’ll never escape), and I’m visiting the hallowed streets of my glorious hometown… Dramworth.
You know when you’re a kid and everything feels more compact? Everything makes more sense when it’s handed to you on a silver platter — nothing adult to worry about, only your numerous group of friends, who’s snogging who and which local park you’ll be vandalizing next. A town like… Dramworth (God, I can’t even say it without dying inside) can feel like your whole world. Then you reach that second stage of young adulthood where you’d literally dig through hell and back to escape those cloying memories and never return? Yeah, the older I get… and the more this bus does a kickflip every time it hits a pothole, the more I understand where that impulse is borne from.
Something’s changed here… Even the generic bus smell is different, more clinical. Less likely to taper your nose hairs with curling wafts of ass dust… Well, no one’s mourning that loss.
Stepping off the drear-mobile, I realize it’s a remarkably on-brand day. Dull, gray skies; the distinct possibility of rain, foretold by hurried attempts to fold up the standing dryers lurking in front gardens; a biting wind that tears through any attempts to appear cool or nonplussed. There’s literally a tumbleweed in the gutter. The local witches will be most pleased.
I’ve packed only the bare essentials for staying a few nights — let’s just say I’ll be reusing underwear. I don’t know, it’s difficult to visit my parents regularly nowadays for more than short, controlled bursts at a time. I’m not attached to them by the hip anymore, so they’ve taken that strange path of evolution, upgrading from parents to just… people. People I don’t necessarily get along with all of the time. They’re like my in-laws now… Actually, no, that’s not fair. My in-laws are much better.
Still, it’s necessary, isn’t it, to repair those broken lines of communication before the portent of mental decay and the rapid search for nursing homes. That’s when they become children for the second time. When you suddenly look upon them with tinted eyes and wonder where the time escaped to. And you confront the things that were never said and now cannot be understood. Makes me shiver a little bit, so it’s not something I dwell on more than maybe… once a week.
I want to see them. Maybe I have to keep telling myself that, hoping the fact sinks in, but it’s absolutely true. There’s many a life update to share. It’s all been hush-hush till now, but… Laura’s expecting. We haven’t had the scans yet, but she’s secretly hoping that the gods of anomaly are on her side and we get twins. Two little girls. I must admit, the idea appeals to me greatly. Plus, work is blooming on my end. The company just recently processed a vacancy and they’re recommending me for…
The fountain’s gone.
Wait… Am I in the right — Yeah, I’m not that lost. This can’t be right. Ron’s Fountain, it was right here in the town center! It was, like, our one notable tourist destination. What happened? Did it get airlifted?
Come to think of it, everything’s half-falling apart around here. The shopping mall is a quarter-mile of tired linoleum and B-side shops that fall just outside the region of relevancy… Well, it always was like that (I enjoyed poking my head into Home Bargains every so often, trying to find the weirdest drink possible and sampling it with a group of my friends — that’s how I figured out I like the taste of dandelion and burdock). The market stalls in the plaza stand empty, now a labyrinth of obstacles for young lads on their Voi scooters. Exposed brickwork, fading plaster, repurposed windows… When did it get this depressing?
It’s just a shell now…
And suddenly, I get the distinct sense I’m being watched. Not maliciously, in the way of sizing up a target or judging someone’s appearance. Just a vague, apathetic awareness of one’s presence crossing into another, invading an alien space and loitering… And I realize how long I’ve been standing in this one spot, staring into an empty fountain basin and drooling onto my chin. Damn my nostalgia!
Can’t believe this. Back when I was young, that fountain was a sight to behold. One of the jets was said to reach twelve feet in the air! My friends and I never really spent much time around the fountain itself — I mean, it was swarming on all the good days, people making wishes, flicking coins into the bottom and all that schmuck.
But we knew Ron, this homeless dude who draped around the alley on Knox Road. Before the market got really busy in the mornings, around the time my friends and I would be heading to school, we sometimes caught Ron splashing about in the fountain, having a whale of a time (I mean, genuinely, I’ve never seen unfiltered joy quite like Ron’s when he got into that water). Usually we sniggered and moved on, making fun of him as young kids do, but sometimes we called out. Went and bantered with him. He was honestly such a down-to-earth guy (if, admittedly, a little unfurnished upstairs) and not at all the picture of the loony we’d generated in our heads. He always stank of petrol for some reason…
One time, the police caught him in his act. There was a standoff, apparently. Reports say he held his hands up as if they’d trained a gun on him and assured them he was only washing himself. Naturally, this didn’t go down well. Ron was chased out of there (with his pockets chock full of silvers and pennies, I imagine). From what I know, he was never apprehended, but… we never saw him again after that day, so I couldn’t confirm that.
Now that I’m three blocks away from my parents, I’m absolutely sure I’m being followed. It’s funny… I think I’ve seen maybe five people out in Dramworth today. That’s it. Maybe everyone’s fully embraced the Halloween spirit, becoming masters of disguise and fading into the creeping shadows, but I doubt this town’s coordination is that strong. Dusk is descending, so it’s possible people are just settling into their evenings. Still… It’s eerie out here, and every footstep is magnified. I’m not even sure which direction they’re coming from, but I can hear them. Around every bush, between every parked car.
I don’t fancy turning around to confront them. Back in Dramworth, having eyes on you is something you just become accustomed to while sticking to lit paths and fostering a monumental sense of awareness. I’m almost home now and, hey, I’m a grown-ass man who don’t need no…
The footsteps recede. I stop still as a crosswind picks up, scattering skeletal leaves across the dented pavement and into the road.
There’s a faint whiff of petrol on the tide of the breeze.
– – –
I ring the doorbell. Crusty old thing — one of those Victorian antiques, now green with oxidation. The front porch is inherently familiar, coaxing like a warm embrace. Mum opens the pine door. She smiles. I smile. She reaches down to help me with my case.
Yeah, this will be okay.
