All in a Day's Work

"Who cleans up the sidewalk after someone has jumped off a building?" The question took my therapist by surprise.
"I hope you are not thinking of leaving us, Stacy," was his quiet reply.
"Oh, no, nothing like that," I said as his head bobbed in approval. "I just wonder what happens..."
I was interrupted by his intercom. Another patient was waiting in the lobby, and the doctor was now 17 minutes behind schedule. He stood to shake my hand. Smiling, he said, "I am afraid our time is up, Stacy. Let me know if you have any trouble before our next visit."
"But you didn't answer my question..."
"We will begin our next session with it. Take care, and see Fay about setting up that appointment."
I found myself standing in the lobby with crazy people staring at me, and seeing Fay was the last thing on my mind. They must have been crazy or they would not have been there. The next guy bounced nervously on his toes when the nurse called his name, and I realized I was blocking the doorway. He kept his eyes aimed at the floor as he brushed by me, twisting his shoulder back awkwardly at the last minute to avoid physical contact. One seated woman craned her neck to get a glimpse of what was on the other side of the door. Maybe these people were not crazy, but were like me, just alone and in need of someone to answer the questions, the incessant questions. Maybe their realities were just a little bit flexible, too, allowing figments of their imagination to manifest and interact on that other plane where normal people were. It was the normal people who scared me most of all. Perhaps this was actually the safest group of people to be amongst. As I let my guard down and felt the chunks of my facade fall away, the seated woman began to rock and moan. I scrambled to pick the chunks back up, but they must have been in the wrong places. Her face distorted as the moans escalated to wailing gibberish. Her screams became my own, and I fled from the office and into the bustling street. Who was staring at me now was anyone's guess.
I ran blindly until the woman's howls were only an echo in my mind. I looked around me for something familiar, a landmark, and thrashed my arms as though something invisible might catch me.
Finally, I sighted a diner I had been to a few times before, and I scurried erratically across the street like a shadow among the crowd that walked at a regular pace according to the traffic signals.
I had not realized what a hot day it was until I stepped into the cool, safe darkness of the diner. Just the shelter from the sun's searching rays helped my mind think clearer. I found an empty booth at the back and slid into it with relief. I ordered a tuna melt and an iced tea, then settled back to organize myself. I took out my drivers license. The face looked back at me with its name and address beside it. It told me I was Stacy Renee Watson from 1325 West Arcadia Lane. The date of birth indicated that I was 22 years old, and there was a state seal on it. This was proof of my existence. It gave me an identity, a place to be in reality. It was shelter from the sun.
The waitress laughed when she brought my sandwich and said I was probably of age. I did not know what she was talking about until I followed her gaze to my drivers license. I laughed, too, as if I had made a joke and put it away.
Organization was at hand. I peeled the paper ring from my utensil wrap and placed it at the top left of the place setting I envisioned. It provided an absorbent resting place for the unnecessary sugar spoon in my tea. Without thinking, I flipped the knife to face the serrated edge out and placed the fork to its right. The napkin went onto my lap, even though stains invariably fell on my chest. I needed more napkins. I pulled from the tabletop canister (oh good, I would not have to ask the "funny" waitress for extras) one for my right hand, one for my mouth, and two for afterwards. A milisecond later, I pulled another one, just in case. The salt and pepper shakers were put in their proper places, and I disregarded the ketchup. It was inconsequential.
My thoughts turned again to the people who jump from tall buildings, and I recalled my therapist repeatedly mentioning my distorted view of reality. Whatever may actually be, I have thought of several possibilities. What is most likely is that the City has hired a unique individual to head this department, to operate it solely, in fact. He wanders the streets in search of suicides, a specialist. He is a funny little man, a solemn mixture of Charlie Chaplin and Groucho Marx. Bushy eyebrows obscure his eyes, and a bristly moustache obliterates his mouth. (What he sees will not be repeated.) They constantly twitch in amused grief at the tragedy he sees every day. He scrapes sorrows into a pail and rinses them away by tapping the nearest hydrant and sweeping, sweeping, sweeping. Swift and efficient are his strokes, and all is cleansed when he is done and goes on his way.
I finished the sandwich, sopped up crumbs with a corrugated pickle slice, and drained my tea glass. I tucked a five dollar bill under the plate. I always tip too much, even though I can't afford it. It is so condescending to do math and count out change when someone has been nice enough to bring you something. They are paid for their time, but the kindness they show me is priceless. And, maybe someone will see what I left behind and think, "Wow, that was nice. She did not have to do that."
Braving the sun like a hair-sprayed beauty queen in the rain, I made my way back to the bare efficiency that I called home. Who needs more than one room of their own? I had squinted painfully in the sunlight, but it was quiet and dim in the apartment. My eyes relaxed, and I saw that everything was exactly as I had left it, so still and changeless, almost in repose. I loved that...no, I did not love it. I found comfort in the consistency. No matter how many times I left, it was always the same when I returned. No one was glad that I was home. No one even knew I had been gone. No one is the most loyal and dependable loved one a body could ever have. And, it was mutual, a give and take situation. It would have been cruel to subject a pet or a plant to my god-like sensitivities. I had a fish once, but the city water burned its scales, and I flushed it so that it could be free. As the bowl cleared, a horrible thought crept in regarding the sewer system and the indefinite purgatory to which I had assigned the (surely) penitent fish. God, please save us from do-gooders. So often, their understanding is not our own.
I moved to the open window and listened for sounds of living, happy things; but, I found none. Instead, I heard the rattle of the street cars and the arguments of my neighbors. Accents distinguished their voices, but the tones were all the same. There were the sounds of hateful, pain-filled words, of objects being thrown or slammed, of someone being abused, and always a baby or two crying in the background, just waiting their turns. It never varied.
Slowly, the screams came together, merged, and became whirling eddies of sadness. They were the screams of my neighbors' anger and frustration, the bewildered screams of the woman in the therapist's office, and the silent scream of all the lonely and forgotten people in the world. They called to me and pulled me down through their crazy world until I heard the final thud as my body met the pavement.

A short while after Stacy Watson's death, a little man wearing white overalls and pushing a biohazard trash bin on a dolly turned the corner of her street. His visits to this part of town were never fruitless. His moustache snickered with sorrow as he washed the sidewalk clean of Stacy and her distorted view of reality. He shook his head sadly, and then moved on. It was all in a day's work.

The 6th Photo Challenge

The RULES: 1. Go to your pictures 2. Take the 6th folder 3. Choose the 6th picture
Here is mine: