Quiet Decisions

Muffled chirping tethers my conscience to a random awakening. Flummoxed on a molded grout lined restroom floor with a little black book I found hidden inside the wall, behind a loose fitted subway tile, I pat dry my saliva from the books pages. Reading it’s secrets with no name attached lead me to tuck the book into my back pocket as if it were mine. “What the hell? How did I end up asleep on the floor?”, I said, questioning my coffee barely sipped on, “Did she drug me”? At the sink hoping to wash away this perplexed sensation, a migraine whirled in without warning. Migraine to disorientation, I struggle to release the words “what is that sound”, as it thickens. It’s the chirping of European Starlings, amplifying just beyond those four walls as if I were in a portable hearing everything around. The sound shakes me to a cringe while I hold my head, spread my fingers through my hair and pull as I form a fetal stance to the trill of the Starlings, pounding in like a doctor in the 1960’s, performing a psychological demonstration with drills to the skull for behavioral corrections. I shout “AHHHHH!”, within the coffee shops claustrophobic restroom and jolt toward my escape by twisting the iron doorknob. Then shot silence with a high pitched ring similar to a audiometer. Nothing but a white balance coated my vision with a congeal breeze congruent to steps on Cornelia Street, New York City. The pigment-less bright slowly strained, in the most unforgettable fashion. Each dye orchestrated beauty as composed in the black book. There was a Norwegian pine scent, soft rainfall, distant lush forrest green, and serrated foothills layered in snow. Before me lied an icy dirt road illuminated in hues by a predominate pink flamingo sky where a trickling river by lavender, and an ominous mist near a lonely house rested at the river bend. In a far-reached field surrounding me on all sides, I take a couple of steps forward. Slightly flabbergasted, I double take back at the restroom and jokingly murmur “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore”, as if someone were around to tune in. There was an oddly positive significance being there, felicity caved in as I begin to follow the road.

A jaunt of about 13 minutes lead me to a standstill, and like the pop of a balloon, my memory draped my senses untamed with a spinal chill. In the book, there’s a mythical house peacefully awaiting its next owner. “If the house calls for you, be sure of your next decision”, explained the book. “A respectful knock of he who is worthy shall enter and inherit a kings treasure. Sowed thoughtful for him, if he wishes, he must rebuild the house to call his own”. I don’t know if I’m to believe it, but something that of an invisible string kept luring me in so I proceeded. I saw the houses potential from it’s half existing picked fence, dingy window frames, poorly bricked insulation, and startling dungeon door. Colors dissipated like a black and white movie as I took my first few steps around the holes in the shiplap porch. I pull out the black book and read the passage again like an instruction manual. My hand clenched for a solid knock then right before I could even graze the splintered egress, it gave in as if someone opened it on the other side. “Hello?”, I sternly announce, pushing the door to advance further. “Is anyone…”, biting my tongue, I shed more reluctance when my eyes rest upon a chest among the houses blank spaces, adjacent to the clay bricked chimney. “His nightly blow will release his anguish”, read the last of the book. I stared blankly trying to read the writing on the chest masked in dust. Taking a deep breath, I spiral out a current heavy and lasting. What felt like magic moment in slow motion, popped the dated hinges. “Thy shall stare into. Open me to you, held deep in blue”, read the embossed riddle. I open the chest and see water. A glow of light in an unmeasurable depth carried a want and desire in me. As a peer in, my wedding band begins to loosen and darts into the abyss. Never mind the meaning of the band, but the value was much needed at the time. I look around for a life line yet I had no time, I dive in without knowing how deep I need to go. As I swam down I saw all that was needed to rebuild the house, everything I needed was in the chest. Running out of oxygen, I make it to the impossible chest floor. The glow seemed to flash around like a light house making its rounds. Extremely difficult to see much of anything, but one unexpected weight, a four digit passcode briefcase. Nearly breathless, I forget about my wedding band and push off from the floor with the briefcase within my firm grip. As soon as the case parted from the floor the glow vanished and the water started to boil. Struggling in darkness and half way to the top, I could feel a burning throughout then I panic. Bubbles formed as I make it to the top. Jumping out and throwing the chest off to the side, the pressure from my toss of the case released it’s buckles with the passcode reading 1144, I stare in awe. Inside held bundles of cash. At a quick glance, I tally up $20,000. “No…”, I speak in disbelief while holding onto my arms with first degree burns. The boiling sounds closer as the water fills the vacant rooms with vicious steam. Faster than I could close the door, the lava water caught my feet to cause a sprint in me as the sky turned crimson red, darkening the path traveled before. Frightened and running for my return to the coffee shop restroom, back where I remember my hometown of Sedona, AZ, my legs stretch in survival mode as my peripheral sights a feverish tsunami just behind. The case and I, find the restroom door. “Just 30 more feet!”, I jump for it with the tempered waves just nearing my collar.

My name is Noah Green. Friends and family would say I am funny, spontaneous, witty, rambunctious, and hard headed, but most of all, I am caring. Lately I’ve been the kind of guy who falls to his knees and begins to pray to a God that I don’t necessarily believe. My recently failed marriage of 3 years ended with a different man than I grew to love. He cut around my heart with a tattoo gun, pried out my dignity, and stomped on the years spent together. How you ask? By attending a committed meat train every Tuesday, in a basement underneath a hole in the wall restaurant where we met the summer of 2018. I raised suspicion from a discounted iPad I gave as a present. His calendar notifications allowed me to discover his extracurricular activities. I turned into Inspector Gadget digging through his wallet and calculating gas mileage as he slept, but it wasn’t enough. Deciding to stalk him one Tuesday night drew a sharp pain so I played TLC’s song, Creep, thinking I’d spring humor to blanket my mind in solace. Dressed in black with dark tinned aviators, I arrive throwing the seat back and monitored the activity around the building. I manage to sneak in with my sweat induced classic Van’s, carrying a small, but noticeable squeak each step taken. Who would of knew a noise with a decibel lower than 40, could alarm tremors within me like caffeine. From a cracked open door, my anxiety and fear transformed to rage as I catch a glimpse of my beloved getting penetrated by sausage links uncased (for a lack of better words). In shock, I left. You’d probably think this needed a come to Jesus moment, but to set the record “straight”, I’m more spiritually connected than anything. I believe everything happens for a reason and desired manifestations come from optimistic vibrations that will surge positivity to elude devilish frequencies bound by insurmountable deviancies that can not be trusted. But hey, that’s just me. And when I’m enjoying my introversion over a cup of coffee and reading the daily news paper, as if it’s the 20th century, I think about knowledge people subscribe to. Always wasting my time in a feed that lacks originality and substance. I decided back in March 2020, when a world wide pandemic forced the US to initiate a country-wide shutdown, to proudly quit social media all together at age 28. So I feel I’m better off reading the newspaper to sway from becoming factious like the TikTok’ing teenage girls whose won thousands of dollars from reenacting the lunchroom scene off of Mean Girls.

I am to face after experiencing betrayal, no longer having someone to enjoy my riches with. Well, so I thought I had riches until one drunken night deployed an unexpected turn of events. Coming to morning next, the smell of rotten eggs with a twist of spoiled broccoli orbited me. My stance became a sickly wave as if I were part in ocean, part in blue agave after production. I glance into the mirror hanging alongside my bed at home and quickly conclude the smell is coming from crusted vomit settled in my hair. I failed to realize sooner that I was still wearing my work uniform and then it hit me, I was at the bar acting a fool with a broken heart displaying a lack of control on the bar top like Coyote Ugly. An email for employee termination (disobedience toward code of conduct) shook my very being. I had already hit my bank account with lawyer fees for the divorce. Money ran scarce. Then surprise! I’m quickly fastened to the matter of neglecting the electric bill. Taking a deep breath in the silent darkness lingered a sense of failure up until I turned on the shower. “Thank you”, said graciously as the water spouts. Quick shower then hoping on the electric company website to payoff my mischief. (Insufficient funds). I’m slammed with split memories of the night before by weight of my banks bold digits reading $11.44, remaining. Struck with denial, I decided to cope by spending the remaining amount at a mom and pop coffee shop Ivan (my ex-husband) introduced me to. Walking to my car I notice a citation on the windshield. Staring violently beat, “I wish $20,000 could seal my fate”, I pled and choose to walk.

My arrangement to pick up the pieces somehow broke out through her energetic baby blue eyes yielding my reaction with confusion as she stood there with an affable smile, asking if that was all I wanted . “Shit sorry, ugh, could you make that with coconut milk please?”. You could tell she partly listened as a distant and faint tune played from her one standing ear piece. Payment started to process on the card reader and as we wait, she sings along to her song “… hope I never lose you, hope it never ends…”, and her voice switches to falsetto. “I’ll never walk Cornelia Street again…” I could only hope the coffee and sound of her melodic incantation acted as a remedy. “You look familiar…”, I announce, but before I could ask her for her name, I’m bumped by her counterpart stocking gift cards at the register, causing me to spill my coffee over my hand. The burn had me run to the restroom to alleviate the pain. In that moment while running my hand through cold water, I digress staring into the mirror in tears. Telling myself everything will be okay, I double take at the grimy subway tile on the wall hidden by a stack of paper towels on the sink.