Transcendence

I know people who would sell their soul for my job. Our industry has perfected Pavlovian style performance conditioning. Designer office fit outs, excessive salaries and in-house chefs providing Michelin star meals at any time of the day or night. More and more rewards, privilege beyond belief.

The best and brightest of the juniors are invited to the inside track. At some point, their pursuit of success and professional validation eclipses everything else. They work to the point of exhaustion and beg for more.

I am what they aspire to be.

It takes an anomaly, like today, to force me out into the fray. Why is death so inconvenient and time consuming? So much paperwork, nothing available online. Ridiculous. My brother had been my last remaining family member and I hadn’t spoken to him for many years. His life savings had come to slightly over $20,000. The cheque was now in my handbag. A bag that was worth more than the cheque.

A lump rose in my throat and I fought it down aggressively. I couldn’t think about the calls I’d missed or the occasions I’d forgotten. Or his little face when we'd played together under tall trees, watched from a distance by loving parents.

Enough.

The blistering sun beat down, refracting off the glass buildings and shooting shards of blinding glare in every direction. I stumbled forward, my right foot suddenly bare and bleeding.

I swore, realising my heel had wedged itself into a crack in the paving. As I tiptoed my stocking-ed foot back to free the stiletto, I felt a sudden chill.

Someone was watching me.

As I crouched to twist the damaged shoe free, I scanned the crowd. Bustling waves of people walked blindly, staring at their phones and somehow navigating around each other without looking up.

Not him though. His eyes were alert and alive with youthful amusement, although they sat within a wrinkled, weather worn face. He was a complete stranger but when I met his gaze, I knew exactly who he was.

His hair hung below his waist and his bare feet tapped the pavement, dancing to a tune that nobody else could hear. His headphones were over his ears. As always, they appeared to be plugged into nothing.

I'd just turned 13 when my friends and I had first noticed him on our way to school. The crazy tambourine man who walked the city streets all day and all night, laughing and dancing and singing to non existent music. We’d gossiped cruelly and giggled with nervous teenage energy as we crossed the street to avoid him.

The years passed and the city evolved. I evolved too. He kept dancing along the busy streets and sometimes I would see him late at night through tinted windows as I was chauffeured home.

It was strange how he was part of my city, but I regarded him as scenery and not as a person. No more human than a graffiti covered wall.

A peal of thunder shuddered through the humidity. I darted under a nearby awning as fat raindrops pelted from the sky and cooled the searing pavement. The heady smell of rain filled the air. For a moment, I allowed myself to close my eyes and breathe.

Even with my eyes closed, I could feel his intense stare. Burning.

I stole another glance in his direction. He was old now, I realised. His eyes were half closed, his face upturned to the rain. His broad smile was as bright as ever and the earphones were still plugged into nothing. Letting the rain soak in, he sat perfectly still except for one small gesture. The tap of the battered tambourine against his leg.

My senses were suddenly overwhelmed by the particular combination of traffic, splattering raindrops and the jingle of that tambourine.

A memory knifed my brain, or was it deja vu?

He’d been here with me on a city corner just like this, when I’d got the call that my husband was dead. The day that my core had shattered and I had walked for hours in incoherent circles - crazier than the tambourine man - afraid that if I stopped moving I would fall to the ground and never get up.

"And here we are again" I thought wryly

Another city corner, another death. But I hadn't lost everything. I had it all didn't I? I had the life that everyone else wanted.

A heavy black leather notebook smacked me in the chest. I was too slow to catch it, and it skidded across the rough pavement.

Unable to stop myself, I reached for it.

The jingle of the tambourine reverberated in my head. When I looked up, both he and the tambourine were gone.

The notebook cover was soft to touch and the spine was gently softened by many years of use. The pages were creased and slightly dirty from pencil and ink smudges. I guessed that he was left handed. Every last page was filled with writing and sketches, pieces of paper, pictures, concert tickets, news clippings and more, carefully taped or glued in. There was a lifetime in this book. I looked more carefully at the clippings and the dates. Not just one lifetime... several lifetimes.

I flipped back to the front page and saw the note taped to the inside cover.

Many humans die with regrets. You don’t have to.

Laugh again. Try again.

This time Tanz Mit Mir.

Beneath my fingertips, the worn smudged pages smoothed and straightened. My heart pounded unevenly and I blinked several times, trying to clear my head.

Dance with me my friend. Dance with life.

Try again.

When you have truly lived - you will know it.

I was foggy as if I was waking from a deep sleep. The cacophony of clashing city sounds assaulted my ears.

“Hellloooooo?! Are you even listening to me? We’re going to be late!”

Disoriented, I looked up and was stunned to see the freckled face of my high school friend. I realised I was wearing a uniform and a schoolbag rested against my shoe.

I felt the soft cover of the notebook yeild under my grip, my fingernails carving small crescents into the gleaming black leather that now felt and smelled brand new. I dropped the book in shock and the pages splayed open. Crisp, white and completely blank apart from one tiny symbol in the top right hand corner.

A pencil drawing of a battered tambourine.