A City Scene in the Eternal Play.

A CITY SCENE IN THE ETERNAL PLAY.


By D. Jonas Laurence.



One night a guy, sitting at a bus stop, waiting for a bus, began spitting.
He had seen it on TV and wanted to try it. Sports stars did it. Gangstas did it in South Central. Cool people spit. So he began spitting; because imitation is the most sincere form of flattery.
He was smoking a cheap cigarette and spat in between puffs.
He spat down by his shiny black shoes.
His shoes were non-descript. He was non-descript like his shoes. You felt you could only describe him because of his non-descriptiveness. He had shiny black hair and shiny black shoes. He wore black leather jacket and white shirt and black jeans. He was maybe a heroin junkie or a speed freak.
He had sunken cheeks and evil eyes.
And now he was spitting.
Black stubble like dirt littered his skinny chicken neck.
Spit. Spit. Puff. Puff.
Grease dripped from him like turkey juice.
He was a slimy goose rising from a bowl of lard.
Spitting globules of fat on to the land. Or, in this case, the concrete under the bus shelter at the bus stop.
Finally he spat so much that mucus began running down the gutters carrying little rafts of cigarette butts ferrying ants to another place.
And then, finally, he spat so much that his shoes disappeared.
But he carried on spitting.
And then, finally, he spat so much that his black leather jacket, white shirt and black jeans disappeared.
So he sat there waiting, smoking, spitting, naked – because heroin junkies or speed freaks don’t wear underpants.
And then, finally, he spat so much that his sunken cheeks disappeared.
The evil left his eyes.
The dirty stubble left his neck.
The grease left his hair.
It was all spat away.
And, still, he continued to spit.
And spit.
And spit.
Until the years of his age began to disappear. Each time he spat another layer would peel off like onionskin and disappear.
He became younger and younger. Pubic hair disappeared and his penis shrunk.
Pockmarks gave way to baby skin smooth and shiny in the artificial light that illuminated the scene like the eye of a dragon.
Soon there sat a baby.
Smoking a cheap cigarette.
Waiting for a bus that just might never ever come.….spitting on the ground.
You would think that he would stop spitting at this particular juncture. But oh no, not this guy. Now it was a habit. He couldn’t help himself.
So he, the baby, continued spitting until he was a foetus.
And then, finally, he spat so much that he disappeared completely.
I know all this because I too was waiting for that bus, and I witnessed it all.
Zero point zero zero zero one of a second after he disappeared the bus pulled up to the stop and I got on, went home, and brewed myself a cup of Chinese green tea.
I heard recently that the guy now resides in another dimension where, as penance, he is made to ferry lost souls over the rancid Sea of Phlegm – which is actually a just a lake, although it is a very large lake.
The Sea of Phlegm is sometimes treacherous with chunks of lung lining, hard green matter, and bloody crusts.
The ferry is made from a skeleton of human bones with stretched and dried human leather over the frame.
The guy has an oar made from a human arm and a punting pole made from a thighbone.
The cheap cigarette is still in his mouth.
And this is where he must stay.
Ferrying lost souls across a lake of spit like the cigarette butts ferried ants down gutters overflowing with mucus an eternity ago, when he still had a chance to change his ways.
And stop spitting.



THE END.