The sun always moves.
The Greyhound bus pulled into the lot. As I quickly maneuvered into the narrow aisle with the other passengers, a rather overweight woman, squeezed into a much-too-tight sundress, wide-hip-bumped me from behind. The woman was so huge, so magnanimous in her culinary habits, that she overflowed into the aisle, her bulk blocking the aisle’s width, her flesh threatening to overcome the frightened tourists in the adjacent seats who retreated, clutching torn seat backs and flattening themselves against the dirty windows, to avoid the surging tsunami of flesh.
The doors wheezed open, and the line began to move. When we neared the driver’s seat and the three steps to descend into The City, the handle of the woman’s carrying case entwined around one of my arms, forcing me, on the second step, to jerk back; however, the woman, her momentum still projecting her forward, smacked her stomach against my back, causing me to stumble and, as I was unintentionally connected by a thin strap to this woman, we both tumbled through the door of the bus, cartwheeling past the surprised faces of the other passengers as we fell heavily to the ground.
I landed first, rear down, the woman falling violently on top of me, her bulk bouncing off my thin body, rolling sideways over, her great stomach, itself a wide brush of art rivaling Rubens, rippling, an effluence of flesh, her thick white legs awkwardly opening, the flesh on the inner thighs vibrating furiously as she landed on her back, thumping loudly to the concrete over me, her legs skewing across my head.
I found myself looking at the underside of her white cotton panties.
I caught my breath and quickly sat up.
No one moved for a few seconds.
A voice over a loudspeaker called, somewhat incomprehensibly, drivers and passengers to their departures. The woman began to moan loudly. She seemed to be bleeding from a small gash on the inside of her leg. I still sat there, my head a bit muddled. The bus driver, a burly man with rough-cut hair, thick stubble, and an intricate tattoo of a giant green parrot on one forearm, knelt near the woman and spoke soothingly into her ear, his voice unheard to the rest of us. Her eyes widened, and gradually she relaxed into his strong, heavily-veined arms.
A white-haired man in a faded red uniform brought over a first-aid kit.
”Is she okay?” I asked the bus driver. He nodded, cradling the head of the woman in his arms and stroking her head in a tender way.
”You can go,” the bus driver said. “I’ll take care of her.”
Stolen pulled me from the ground.
As we walked toward the terminal, we watched the bus driver comfort the woman, his hand still stroking her head, his mouth hunkered down close to her ear, words whispering between the oily strands of her hair as she laid her hand gently on the rippling green bird.
This is where Stolen and I met.
My name is Nel Lowry.
I received the hand-delivered letter from Bliss Inc., a Fortune 500 company that I had interviewed with recently, informing me that I was the winner of their nationwide job lottery. There were so many qualified individuals, over five thousand, who applied for the one open position that, due to such an overwhelming response, they had to use their job lottery to select the appropriate candidate, in line, of course, with their hiring motto: “Only the best. Leave the rest.” The motto was accompanied by the graphic of a flying eagle with an unidentifiable victim hanging from its sharp beak.
The letter instructed me to report to their main office in The City on Monday at 9:00 a.m. exactly, and they would establish corporate housing once I appeared. I had never been in The City, having lived in my hometown of Ohio in the state of Ohio all my life.
The letter also stated that after a trial work period and “The Test,” whatever that was, the decision regarding Lifetime Employment would be made. If it was granted, I was guaranteed a position at Bliss Inc. for the rest of my life, and if not, I would be let go or, as the letter stated, “free to explore the wonderful opportunities of the exciting free-trade job market.”
I had spent the last five years of my post-collegiate life toiling away in obscurity at an office in Ohio, Ohio, being the local administrator for a paper goods supplier, aging what felt to be quite rapidly, thinking that this was my lot in life, that this was how it would always be, that it would never get better. I had actually applied for the Bliss Inc. job a few months earlier but having heard nothing from them and assuming that I had been quickly taken from the running, I had forgotten about it, grudgingly content to labor away in the paper-filled office for little salary. That is, until I received the notice.
It was time to pack.
I boarded the Greyhound bus downtown. The bus was the cheapest way to get to The City. I had little money and could not afford to fly; unfortunately, the bus made numerous stops, 32 of them (except on Tuesdays and Thursdays when they added three more stops), at small towns along the way east before reaching the final destination of The City.
It was a two-day trip.
At one stop near Pigeon Ford, I got out to stretch my legs, which had gone numb from the narrow space allotted to me by the design of the seats, the space being so narrow that I had to keep my legs wedged up against the back of the seat, my knees against my chest.
At another stop right outside of Mount Vernon, the ticket counter was boarded up, and no one waited for the bus. I met an old man who was sitting in a wicker chair. He would sleep until the sound of the bus woke him, and when it pulled away, he would sleep again. He said he liked my face because it reminded him of something. He didn’t know what but gave me a round gold watch, still on its chain, saying that he didn’t need it anymore. He warned me that the watch ran fast or ran slow but never on time and was only a few minutes off, never more than ten and never less than three. The driver asked us to board and as the bus, whining, pulled out of the station, the old man slowly nodded back to sleep.
On the bus, I got to know Stolen as he repeatedly passed my aisle seat, learning his history while he walked by. His full name was Thomas Patrick Daly, an old Southern name, but he preferred to be called Stolen, his nickname. I shared my brown bag lunch with him, giving him an apple and half of a peanut butter sandwich. He was deeply appreciative.
He had been visiting relatives elsewhere and was thinking of leaving The City, day-to-day life being a struggle in itself there but, as he said, there was always something drawing him back to it.
Stolen did not like being on the bus. He would pace back and forth in the aisle, climbing over the other passengers as he made his way from one end to the next. The bus driver, over the intercom, repeatedly asked Stolen to sit down, but Stolen merely quickened his pace, furiously making his way over those who sat in the aisle, over extended legs and arms twisted sideways, and the slightly exposed stomachs of those who slept. The other passengers grew accustomed to Stolen’s pacing and eventually would sleep through having him crawl upon and across them.
I told him that I had no place yet to stay in The City. Returning on his next round of pacing, he offered to let me accompany him.
Soon we approached The City.
The passengers on the bus began talking excitedly, pointing at the skyline which was growing larger as we approached the mile-long tunnel that went under the river to get us into The City. We were all ready to leave the bus: the smell of unwashed bodies increasing in odor, black stubble on the men’s chins, the loose hair of the women starting to shine in the light and lose its shape, our faces and bodies beginning to pale from the lack of sun and grow stiff from the cramped seating, all of us beginning to annoyingly stare at each other.
Emerging from the tunnel, we found ourselves in The City. It towered over us. Skyscrapers and unending buildings of brick and concrete pushed together, crowded, in a city so full. The streets were packed with cars, horns blaring, each jockeying for a better position, and more pedestrians occupied the sidewalks than I’d ever seen in Ohio, Ohio.
The bus grew quiet, all of us in awe.
As we were passing City Park, I overheard that there existed no native landscaping in this city. City Park, being many acres wide, had been brought by men, arranged and planted there according to multiple sets of landscaping designs. The trees, the large lake in the center, even the grasses themselves, were transported in on trucks smelling of gas and diesel.
”It’s not real,” Stolen said. “It’s made by men.”
The bus slowly moved on.
This was a large city.
The City itself was divided into district territories, almost like city-states, sometimes separated by mountains or rivers, some man-made, and others separated by street and avenue boundaries; these territories were distinct in their ways, mostly culturally dominated by one group — Arabic, Armenian, Asian and so on. Somewhere a territorial accounting had been organized but, given the infinite-seeming largeness of The City, it was believed to be an urban myth. For although The City was constrained by a certain land formation, re: island, it became infinite with its constant minute boundary changes, underground buildings, and rooftop cities.
While slowly passing through one section of The City on our way to the bus terminal, I noticed that the street gave way to an adjoining small island, possibly less than 200 yards round. In the middle of the island was a statue carved from stone, about seven stories tall, large enough that people could enter through the toes of the statue, it being a full size replica of a woman, and wander around inside her. This statue occupied the majority of the island and was surrounded by a chain-link fence with only one access point; a dozen armed men in matching blue uniforms with thin, hungry German Shepherd guard dogs patrolled the perimeter. The access point was secured by more armed guards, in flak jackets, bulletproof vests, and steel-toed boots, who stood impassively and impressively near a small mustachioed man, the money-taker, who gave out orange numberless tickets in exchange for the exact change dropped into a gunmetal box. The money-taker produced forth as if by magic from underneath the table the orange ticket to the gushing tourist who was x-rayed, metal-detected, and slowly hand-frisked by unsmiling guards. The tourist then gained admission to the statue.
The statue was a woman who looked out toward the sea. She held her left hand over her face as if to shield herself from the sun, so she could see something clearly in the distance. Her right hand was balled into a fist pulled back, elbow cocked as if it were a brute gesture of power conceived, or it could have been the wave of a hand that hadn’t yet unfurled and relaxed after a celebration. Her attire looked to be a business suit, surprising since she was hand-carved from stone.
Stolen informed me that recently there had been efforts by The City, their commissions and historical societies, to date the statute because no one knew exactly when the statue had been erected, or, if you trusted the oral stories, chipped away with the base being a natural rock formation. It was not until the last 100 years people began paying attention to the statue and, correspondingly, when mention of it started appearing in local newspapers and gazettes but, unfortunately, no mention was made as to when the statue came into existence despite the large amount of historical criticism. Some historians stated that the original inhabitants of the area, now an extinct race, erected it. Some stated that the statue was brought over, as a totem, by an early conquering race who either died out, moved elsewhere, or got bored and went home. Others didn’t know and honestly said so.
I told Stolen that I had to report at the Bliss Inc. building, which was downtown.
”I know where the building is,” he replied.
”Good,” I said. “Directions?”
”I’ll take you there.” He turned and started walking. “I don’t have anything else to do.”
Stolen proceeded to navigate our way via public transportation to downtown. We considered the taking of a cab, but Stolen pointed out the following situation: temporally, it would arrive at the same time as public transit, given road congestion and frequency of lights; financially, it’d be a lot more expensive, say forty bucks or so.
We took the subway. It was my first time. The white-tiled walls were dirty, the cement floor, painted with yellow lines to indicate where to stand and not to stand, was covered with debris: soiled newspapers, old take-out containers, aluminum cans and even one brown shoe with the heel missing. The station smelled like urine, and most of the lights were burned out or missing. The other riders gazed vacantly at the floor. A few read books and newspapers. It was mostly quiet except for the arrival of the subway train, which screamed into the station. We rode the train for several stops until we exited at the Downtown stop.
Leading me through the maze of buildings, Stolen eventually navigated our way to the Bliss Inc. building, the easiest landmark to find. Its ostentation certainly helped.
Even in the midst of this enormous place, the Bliss Inc. building towered over all. The building was rumored to be over 200 stories tall, an architectural impossibility when first described by its architects, builders, and the ever-scrutinous Arthur Bliss, the present CEO of Bliss Inc. After construction, the exact number of stories remained unknown due to the façade of the building that made external counting an impossibility because of the strange twisting design and the use of mirrored and double-mirrored windows which, when reflecting upon themselves, appeared to increase and decrease, depending on the distance of the observer from the building, the height of the observer, the surrounding weather conditions, and smog alerts. The building was indeed impressive and so bright, the sunlight bursting off the many mirrors, that I could only gaze at it for a few seconds before having to look away.
Stolen mentioned that a local radio station, KYAH, K-93.4, “the pop for your pop,” once sponsored a contest for the exact number of stories, but since Bliss Inc. management refused to admit those exact numbers, the contest had to be cancelled. A lawsuit by angry listeners was still pending in court.
We arrived at the Bliss building five minutes before my scheduled meeting time.
”What’re you going to do?” I asked Stolen, who insisted on waiting around and, for some reason, taking me under his protective care.
”I’ll be over there.” He pointed to a nearby green wooden park bench. I nodded. He straightened my tie, clapped my shoulders with his two large hands, and murmured what sounded to be a prayer. I turned and entered Bliss Inc. through the revolving door into the sumptuous lobby with its walls and floor of Rosa Aurora marble and expensive Italian tapestries hanging from the walls. The ceiling was 30 feet high, and an ornate chandelier with more than fifty lights hung down from an elaborate Baroque chain.
Inside and across from the spinning door was the security guards’ station. Most employees had badges of various colors hanging around their necks. I assumed that the different colors indicated different levels of security or access. Three unsmiling guards, all in blue suits, stood behind the desk. In front of one of them was a sign labeled GUESTS. I walked over to that one. Without looking up, the guard asked my name and my contact at Bliss Inc. I showed him my letter and told him why I was here.
”Just a minute,” he said without any facial reaction. He picked up his telephone and turned his back to me, speaking softly into the mouthpiece.
”Uh humm,” he said.
”Uh humm,” he said again.
”Uh humm,” he said a third time but this time with a little emphasis.
Hanging up the phone, the guard handed the letter back to me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lowry. That position has already been downsized.”
My mouth dropped open.
”Downsized?” I fumbled with the letter showing it to him as if he’d never seen it. “But I have a letter. They said there was a job.”
He showed no reaction. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “That’s all I can do.”
Another man came up behind me, a man in a smooth, high-thread-count pinstripe suit so expensive and precise he looked like silverware wrapped in a perfect napkin. The guard turned to the man, and I walked away, back out through the slowly spinning door, the light bouncing off each of the metal frames as they spun around, sucking people in, throwing them out.
Outside, Stolen slouched on the bench, trying to stay awake.
”That was fast. How’d it go?”
”They downsized the job.” I sat next to him. “I don’t have a job. I don’t have a place to live. I don’t even have enough money to get back home. I’m screwed.”
He stood up.
”Relax,” he said, pulling me up.
We walked away from Bliss Inc.
”We’ll figure something out.”
We got back onto the subway, and after changing three different trains — from blue to green to silver — we surfaced. Stolen led me down a long alley with many turns and closed doors. The buildings rose so high here that very little sunlight made its way to the ground, turning the bright day into dusk. Stolen said that the buildings brush against the sky, and on cloudy days, their tops disappear as if they’re unfinished. Higher than anything in the flatlands of Ohio, Ohio. Stolen saw me looking up.
”If you’re fortunate to live on the top, as the wealthy ones do, you are blessed with the clouds which hide the city below.”
He pulled me along.
”Stop staring or you’ll draw attention. It is always better to remain anonymous,” he said. “Don’t ever forget that.”
He grabbed my jacket, a barn coat, and pulled me around another corner. Stolen opened a map he had drawn. The City streets were so circuitous a map was needed to navigate the way to our destination. Without one, we could get lost and wander for possibly days until we found our correct way. Done in blue ink with parts crossed out, the map dictated our way through the alley until we found the destination of the map, John Snapp, an old friend of Stolen’s.
”Snapp’s alley,” he said.
This alley made me nervous. Far off in the dark corners I heard rustlings and footsteps, the sound of rough breathing. The smell of garbage hung over this place, and I knew that others watched us. I had no doubt that people lived in this alley. The City, this island, so crammed full of people, was filled to capacity. Stolen folded up the map and hid it in his pocket.
”This way,” he said, leading us to an extremely narrow stretch of the alley, the buildings built so closely together that only several inches lay between them. We had to squeeze ourselves through, Stolen having more problems given the size of his large body. Even I did not have an easy time crossing through this narrow space. The brick of the building scraped my face, cutting across my cheek. At the end of the gap we found ourselves in an alcove.
A number “6″ hung above a door.
”This is it,” Stolen said.
John Snapp first accosted me as a salesman, then an intruder, until he realized Stolen was standing behind me. He invited us in and was polite to me, but I don’t think he really wanted me there. The apartment was on the second floor; below was a small courtyard which, instead of being a haven for plant life, was merely more cement, blacktop and small stones.
The interior of the apartment was small and strangely configured: several rooms which seemed to double back upon themselves, all built at odd angles with not one straight vertical wall in the apartment; they all sloped. Snapp’s apartment didn’t look so much built or constructed as beaten into shape, a solid block of matter chipped away haphazardly to clear enough space. Along the east wall, near the white radiator, one could stand almost fully erect, which was hard to do in the apartment without banging one’s head. To be in Snapp’s apartment meant that we had to continually keep our heads bowed, shoulders slumped, in supplication to a cruel landlord. Stolen, being as tall and awkward as he was, would forget this quite often, continually smacking his head onto the ceiling or the wall if it jutted out quickly enough at the right inconvenient angle.
Stolen turned and smacked his head on the ceiling.
”Damn,” he said as he held his head, eyes watering.
”Such is our life in this world,” Snapp philosophically replied. “Too tall for the room, but the ceiling always hanging low and threatening.”
Stolen rubbed his head and muttered a few obscenities. He dropped his backpack onto the floor.
”You can have the spare room, Stolen,” Snapp said. He looked at me. “You can sleep on the couch.”
About the author:
Ron Burch’s fiction has been published in numerous literary journals including Mississippi Review, The Saint Ann’s Review, Eleven Eleven, Pank, and been nominated for The Pushcart Prize. Bliss Inc., his debut novel, was just published by BlazeVOX Books.
