Good Morning Mr. Kirby

At four in the morning Clyde Kirby awoke. The room he was in was dark except for the street lamp that shown through the front window blinds. The light never hindered his ability to sleep. The drinking helped with that even when rest felt impossible. Something had pulled Clyde out of his slumber with a violent start. He sat up, got out of bed , put on his clothes and shoes and jacket and hat. It was early in October and the morning was cool when Clyde left his apartment.

It was unusual for Clyde to go out at such an hour. He was a regimented man, even in his retirement. He would ordinarily wake up at seven, eat his breakfast of bacon and two fried eggs, go for a walk in the park while smoking several cigarettes, complete any errands or housekeeping that needed to be done and round out the day drinking down at the pub that was only four blocks from where he lived. He had never married and had no children that he knew of and was certain that now at the age of seventy-four, the years when that would have been possible are long past. The only woman he had ever loved had left him thirty years before, She loved him but an overwhelming feeling of distance grew between them by nature of Clyde’s reclusive tendencies and her extraversion. He did not engage much with his neighbors but would acknowledge them with a nod and a gentle smile. He was not impolite, he simply felt that he did not have anything he considered worth sharing. The extent of his interactions were usually with grocery clerks and Kieran, the bartender at the pub. These were sterile exchanges of pleasantries about football or the weather. There were no fellow pensioners with whom he had retired that could call him to reminisce about this and that. It was a lonely life but Clyde was contented with it.

There was no clear reason for this twilight constitutional that her could think of. In fact, he did not seem to be thinking about much at all. It was as if he were sleep walking the empty streets. This made the feeling all the more surreal. At almost six o’clock, it would not be long before the sun would rise and the sky would turn from its dark blue to that indigo and finally into a water color of orange, red and pink. “Why weren’t the days those colors?” Clyde thought as he came to the park that he frequented on most days and sat on the bench outside of its wrought iron gates. He reached into his pockets and retrieved his cigarettes and lighter. He lit one. inhaling and exhaling a plume of smoke that dissipated like a ghost in the morning air. In this most treasured moment of strange calm, Clyde noticed a light that began approaching slowly from the end of the dark empty street. Before long Clyde could see that it was black taxi. It stopped at the curb in front of where he sat, pouring spectral exhaust from its tailpipe. Clyde just sat there for a moment wondering who might get out. “Was this car for me?” he wondered. Time seemed to slow as the car continued to idle. Clyde put out his cigarette and found his feet as he reached for the handle of the rear door, There was no sound of greeting from the motorist whose features were obscured in the darkness. Clyde got in and shut the door. In an instant the car began to move off down the street.

Clyde sat behind the driver but still could only make out as set of broad shoulders with a large head set atop them. Already prisoner in the backseat he asked “Excuse me, where are we going?” There was no answer. The silence inside the car was like that inside of a vacuum. No sound of the engine or tires on the road. No sound of breathing from the driver. Just Clyde’s own breathing that was growing increasingly distressed as his hands began to shake.They would often do this when he was a young man whenever he grew nervous or angry. They appeared to be the only vehicle on the road. A sense of total desertion grew with every road sign, mailbox, and building they passed. No one out walking the streets or pigeons scouring sidewalks for their breakfast. Time seemed to crawl but the progression of light in the sky made it seem like hours had passed. What’s more peculiar was the incredible distance they had traveled in the perceived short time.

“Please!” Clyde implored “Please god damn it! I demand to know where you are taking me!” He reached for the driver’s shoulders. They were cold and rigid as Clyde pulled himself forward to peer at a face. There was none. Just a thin mouth and slits where there might have been nostrils. There were no empty eye sockets , only rough grayish flesh. The motorist did not react, just held steady at the wheel, unflinching as Clyde touched its face with the tips of his fingers. The skin was icy and moist, with a texture that Clyde half expected frost to cover his hands when he pulled them away. He checked the doors which were all locked as well as the windows. He leaned back, pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. The motorist did not protest. Clyde resigned to his fate in the hands of this ferryman who reminded him of the myths in books that he read as a child. Now he could only wonder where he was going.

It had been an hour before they arrived in Brighton. Under ordinary circumstances the journey would have take at least three hours from Clyde’s front door to where the taxi now cruised along the boardwalk. In the cold landscape that greeted them, the sky a dense overcast and the sea was a deep blue green. It was as if the sun had never risen at all and behind the clouds was only the glow of a full moon. The gulls circled and before Clyde knew it, the car stopped. The door opened and he stepped out onto where the boardwalk led to the sand. Instinctively, he reached for his wallet to pay the driver but the door had already shut and the car was gone. Clyde walked down the sand toward the water’s edge. Perhaps his body was still home in bed. The dream that had awoken him was really a heart attack or stroke that he had suffered in his sleep. Given his age and health (or lack of) this seemed possible. Clyde did not know what happens when a person dies, no one really does. He could not think of anything he wanted or anywhere he would rather be. The sea was calm. The waves lapped gently at his feet.

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