I am in Philadelphia for the first time. I take a walk in an area full of founding fathers. There are shadow horses and ghost men in wigs with straight backs walking in lines between long rows of big box stores. The color of the bricks has not changed in 250 years but the land around is unrecognizable. I wonder if it is the history of the place that I feel in my body or if it is jet lag. I visit the Liberty Bell and feel awe when I see that it is much smaller than I had imagined, and its crack so large. How can something forged of metal have such a gash? I read about how many people have touched it or been photographed with it over the years and about its symbolic uses.
The crowd pushes me to the side and I make my way through a metal detector that funnels me into a courtyard between old brick buildings. There is a lonely sign in the middle of the cobblestone that lets me know that there is a talk at this spot every 30 minutes. I look up at a brick tower and wonder if there is still a bell up there. Broken bells go down in history and unbroken ones remind us that it is time for lunch.
As my eyes leave the tower and travel back to the ground I see a man in a park ranger uniform standing by the sign. I associate his look with mountains and trees, two things that don’t exist in this vast expanse of pavement and brick.
The man talks to a small group of three as I linger behind. He is full of facts about the constitution and about the many dramas that unfolded inside the nearby buildings. As he speaks of the long and important history of men debating, I notice that he is very familiar. He mentions that he is from California and then I remember how I know him. He is the Pink Floyd guy. He looks exactly the same, only older and with a small pony tail and a clean uniform in place of lop sided hair and a cigarette smelling once-white t-shirt.
He has the same crowded eyes. Like there is a whole town trying to look out of just one set. And his mouth is straight, unchanging no matter what words it forms. I dissect his features while going back into my mind to dig though old memories as he stands there, reciting facts and wearing a Smokey the Bear hat. Life comes into focus, now, like the moment a kaleidoscope’s pattern opens up before it closes again.
He would regularly visit the small town general store I cashiered at to buy cigarettes and 40-oz of the cheapest beer. I was 17 and found him deeply interesting. I wanted to know what was going on inside this man with nicotine fingers and a walkman. He was older than me by a handful of years. I could tell that he drank and smoked a lot but I didn’t yet understand what this meant.
One day, close to my high school graduation date, he waited for me after work. It was well past sunset as we drove west. I learned that his favorite band was Pink Floyd. I also learned that he believed that the world was about to end. He gave me the exact date. He was certain. He told me that there was a voice in his head that sounded like the Pink Floyd lead singer and this voice talked to him about important things. We parked next to a cliff that overlooked the ocean. The waves crashed below, water spraying up against the rock face every few seconds. He turned to me and said that the end of the world was happening all because of him. His eyes watered and his bony body sat rigid.
I listened and then drove him back to town and let him out on the side of a small road. He lit a cigarette and adjusted his headphones as he walked away.
Soon after, we met up again and drove out to a bluff overlooking the ocean. We walked through some scrubby grass in the dark and fumbled around for a few quick minutes, kissing and then laying down and then realizing whatever we were trying to do was not going to happen. I drove him back to my house. I let him out a few yards before the driveway and gave him instructions on where to hide out until I could retrieve him.
My parents were so worried about me that they had called the police. I’d never before seen them so upset at anyone other than each other. Eventually they went to bed and I went out to my room. It was in what had once been a storage room detached from the main house. I pulled him out of the darkness and through the sliding glass door. He lay stiff in my bed all night, not moving an inch. In the morning, he snuck out and hitchhiked down the rural roads to get back to wherever he lived.
My fascination with him broke after that night. I realized that his identity was the end of the world and mine was not. What he heard in Pink Floyd was not what I heard. His song was a broken bell and mine had not even been forged. A few months later I went off to college. The end of the world came and went and somehow he found his way across the country and into the national park service.
I think about lingering after his talk but the focus I felt a few minutes ago is now fading. I hear a bell ringing and realize that it is getting late. I walk away, wearing the sound between my ears, listening and feeling it speak to me until I fade away to join the other cobblestone shadows.
A body in motion 