A 'Brooklyn Zoo' Story
We're Closed
Coffees and phones in hand, busied pedestrians hustle and bustle up and down Court Street. Passionate conference calls organized by aspiring filmmakers and boisterous comments about friends' latest social posts battle angry horns and disgruntled drivers. Enjoying avocado toast, Bloody Marys and idle banter, patrons guffaw at snide jokes.
A bewildered college student gawks at the "Sorry We Are Now Closed" sign in Nostalgia's window. "Closed? What do you mean closed?" Seeing the college student's surprise, a neighboring business owner peaks their head out. "I think he passed away. What a nice old man! I hope he didn't die alone."
"What makes you say that?"
"A fella looking just like Charlie - a son or nephew maybe, visited each business on the block recently; took down the previous sign and put up that sign, informing us that Charlie suffered a massive heart-attack. Haven't heard anything after that... then this."
"Pffftt, where am I supposed to get my books for class now?"
Disgusted by the distasteful inquiry, the business owner just looks at the student, sucks their teeth and returns inside. Eyes examine their interaction and other passersby. Zoo and a man wearing a burgundy hoodie ear hustle from a roof. Pungent smells upwind of them direct their attention to a nearby movie theater. Nostrils pulse. A whistle from Zoo keeps the hooded man in place.
"We ain't fitna to do that! Chill! We'll catch homeboy on the flip."
Idiot Savant
Enchanting melodies without source cascade from rafters, hugging massive, wooden columns of The Village Idiot Inn's lobby. Its bar, a great hollowed out tree, housing top-shelf spirits, banned liqueurs, exotic spices, and concoctions stand magnified among the décor and furniture. Roots lift floorboards creating raised terrain throughout the bar. Bright tendrils wrap the tree's trunk, highlighting ornate markings carved into the bark. Sporadic gusts of wind from each of the inn's wings to the lobby descend and ascend grand staircases decorated with gold and crimson, inlaid with a turquoise dust. Men and women in robes and cloaks nursing ales engage in heavy conversation in front of a stone fireplace; untouched platters of meat, bread and condiments before them. Sounds foreign to the natural ear join the bewitching chorus. Men familiar with drink, request another to coax the soul and nerve. Sweet fragrances intertwined with odiferous smells tease and sour. A weathered hand reaches across the bar claiming a Sazerac. The other fiddles with a dagger. Mumbling to themselves, the patron accidentally drops their blade. "A darker power looms...?"
Gus, The Village Idiot Inn's bartender eyeing the patron's queer behavior leans forward. "You alright Charlie - never seen you like this mate. Let me brew up a fresh pot of cannabis tea with a cube of cumin vanilla sugar for ya." Oblivious to the offer, Charlie continues murmuring to himself. Gus leans into Charlie's space, snapping his finger. "Charlie! Get ahold of yourself! You've been acting weird even for The Village Idiot. Look, things are what they are! We knew this day would come! Finish your drink, meet with the head of your order and be gone before the decree goes into effect."
Turning his gaze to two drunkards at opposite ends of the bar, Gus chuckles before yelling, "Last call!" Nearly falling off their stools, the men leap to their feet, mugs extended - ready for more drink! Gus gyrates with laughter, his large gut pressing against his vest. Exasperated, Charlie moves from the bar to a corner table. A whisper, carried by a gust from the West wing reaches his ear. Charlie frantically searches the lobby. Nothing.
"Now is not the time for devilish games. Where are you?"
Gathering at the lobby's threshold, a silhouette of a man forms, sauntering to Charlie. Shadows, tucked in nooks and crannies throughout the inn beckon to the formless being. Acknowledging the looming figure with a nod, Gus carries on with his duties. Appearing on the back of Charlie, the silhouette grows more pronounced as it nears. Charlie straightens up. Materializing, a hand grips his shoulder. Charlie relaxes, reaching for the hand but it moves away.
"My friend, battle does not suit you."
"Greetings Mikwarhte."
A stoic fellow, adorned by a crown of white hair, hansomed by a lush beard smugly slides into a seat before Charlie. He's greeted by a toothy smile. "Gray hairs are some times consequence of such encounters."
"They're looking for you Charles! Take not a lighthearted approach, for 'your consequence' may kill and devour you."
"Kill me - and what of the law?"
"What law?! You forfeited that right when you decided to practice."
Legs crossed, Mikwarhte prepares a rolled cigarette. "I would not have pledged myself to such beasts! However, they are good for bidding! Look how the Dark One has treated them. They're nothing but over-sized, feral dogs, and you have now pledged yourself to them! What a foolish thing!"
"I did not come to argue Mikwarhte but to seek refuge and your counsel, and have a drink with you before the decree takes effect. Am I not still within my rights as a member of your order?"
"No, you are not! My heart is wrenched with distain and disgust because of your actions. You broke covenant by aligning yourself with wolves!"
"It wasn't that - the decision is still inactive and yet you behave in such a manner!"
Mikwarhte lights the rolled cigarette. "If you want counsel, you will not find it here!"
Comments