1.31.06The Allegory of the Cave
By Brent Powers
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I looked at the wall and drew a blank, as expected.
Then shadows appeared. There was talking behind my back. I could almost lip read what they were saying, from the shadows I mean, assuming they were the shadows of the people doing the talking. Should I be concerned? Are they talking about me?
Well, what if they are? None of my business what they’re saying about me.
Some of them look like they could be beautiful women. Something about the hair and the way they use it. What would beautiful women know about me? How can they make such judgments?
Well, maybe they’re not. I mean, just because they are talking about me does not mean they are judging me. They could be saying something entirely complimentary. For instance about the back of my head, or the back of me in general. What I’m wearing, the cut of my suit. Even from the back it must look good. They told me it was the best when they picked it out for me, so I guess it must look good from all sides. Then my hair, which has been styled. The woman who cut it said it was a nice style. The shadows nod, as if in agreement. I like the way that one nods, with what looks like it would fit a pert, auburn haired business-like type who lets go sometimes but otherwise is pretty careful about herself.
What did she say? “Morph”? That’s a word now, collapsed down from some other words that used to mean something else entirely. What, though? Forget. What’s it to do with me?
Yet the other one nods, the shadow with her. It’s a slow, knowing nod. How can I tell? I can almost see the expression, it’s an expression of, as if she’s saying, “Yeah, I hear ya,” something like that. Expressive of her awareness of what a dork this guy is. Oh, yeah? I’m thinking. Oh, yeah? What the fuck do you know, lady?
This suit cost me. So did the hair. I view such things as business expenses. They tell me I’m out of it when it comes to such things, so I listen. It didn’t figure into any social life, I wasn’t expecting that to be part of it, but here it is. Even dancing. You can see vaguer shadows behind the others, making rhythmic movements, turning and bouncing, lightly slamming together and melding briefly, separating again. There is music, laughter, tinkling, all that you would expect of social life. I don’t expect anything, but here it is.
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Brent Powers is a Pushcart nominee and his fiction has appeared in 3AM, The Blotter, Mad Hatters Review, Opium, Unlikely Stories and others. He lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. He has some influence on clouds.
© 2005 Me Three
