Faded Nights

Faded Nights

(Dedicated to the memory of my friend Terry. We spent a year together side by side sharing stories to pass the time in a grimy call center. You always worked 80hr weeks. I hope you are finally getting some rest.)

During that time, my days consisted of rising with the setting sun and falling with the moon to sleep away the light. Those long nights were spent in maintaining a dark warehouse of lavish furniture. I protected lonely little pieces that would look out of place in my one-bedroom apartment, and probably cost more than a year’s rent.

Since I worked close to where I lived; I walked there in the twilight guided by the low glow of the neon signs. My path terminating at the final dull red logo from an aging antique shop.

The owner was a kind older man who would sweep the red tinted street, and talk to me right before I headed into work. Every night he would share memories of his life. As time went on, I started coming earlier and waiting for him to close down; looking forward to the little bright spot on my dim walk.

Eventually, on one of my days off, I started to tell a friend about this man. I tried to explain how he had a slow dark sense of humor. I tried to recall how he glowed when telling stories of old jobs, or past mistakes. I desperately wanted to describe the odd way he gesticulated, or the pace and tone of his sarcastic, but well-meaning voice. I noticed with a shameful sense of regret that I couldn’t remember a complete version of any of his stories.

I had only fragments dancing around in my head, like little fireflies that fail to illuminate. Even his mannerism and quirks I only half remembered; knowing fully how singular they were but being unable to express them completely. I thought then how I allowed that little light he shared to flow through me, without ever thinking to hold and nurture it before it wisped away.

The next day I wanted to start taking more notice and truly capture how masterfully he spun his tales, but he wasn’t there under the red neon sign. All the lights in his shop were off. I went to work.

It was quiet.

When my shift had ended, I intruded into the daylight as the stores began to open and waited by his. Before long, his sister came by and after I explained who I was she let me know what happened. He had suffered an aneurysm and was at the hospital. Shaken and confused, I went with his sister to the white bright hospital.

He lay convulsing on the bed as if trying to wake up from a nightmare, but failing. The doctor told me to talk to him.

That he could hear me…

that it might help.

But all words were lost to me. I looked at his sister and wondered how or what I could possibly say. I stared silently trying to remember what he sounded like. I couldn’t find a single word.

That night before I left for work his sister sent me a message that he had passed away. For the rest of the week that walk felt harder, heavier, and darker. Until one day I stood motionless in front of his closed shop. They had left the sign on, and I stared at the dull flickering red neon.

I tried to remember the way he told his myths.

Then the sign gave out. I focused on the outline imprinted in my eyes. Trying to hold it, but that too faded into the night.