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I recall sitting in front of the blank canvas, my oils mixed and ready but not my muse. The gods of inspiration were eluding me that night. It was Christmas Eve and I had been looking forward to a quiet night of reflection and creation but for some reason it was not to be. I was feeling not right so I set my brush down and knocked about the kitchen for a few minutes then wandered down to the Bowery where I enjoyed several pints with a roomful of strangers. A bum stumbled through the door and in a nod toward the season of giving I bought him a drink but of course one drink is never enough – he demanded more and as far as I was concerned I’d given quite enough so I abandoned the place but not before I’d heard him yell out so much for you ya stinkin’ bum! Despite the irony I didn’t laugh, I trembled. Outside in the cold I stumbled through dark alleys kicking over cans, scaring one innocent cat, having another scare the holy dickens out of me, and wound up at the foot of an old stone abbey.
From narrow side windows an orange-yellow glow emanated out and I yearned for the promise of its warmth. I scampered up the stone stairs and pulled open the heavy oaken door. Inside a candlelight service was in progress and so very quietly I slid into a back pew. The sanctuary was more empty than full and so was my heart. From the altar there came virtuous singing. I was slightly drunk and it made me cry. An old gentleman sitting across from me gained my attention. He sat alone, still bundled in his coat and scarf, his mostly bald head springing a few wild hairs presumably left by the unceremonious removal of his winter cap. The stubble upon his face revealed a man unmoved by the demand for public approval, his appearance quite frankly that of an unshaven unrepentant sinner, that or a man too old to safely guide the razor, too poor to acquire the proper blade. And yet he did seem cheerful and quite immersed into the proceedings. He possessed an odd look of both solemnity and joy. Excepting me he was the only other person who had entered the abbey alone. I took note. At service end he donned his cap and pulled himself out of the pew with great effort. Slowly he exited through the heavy oaken door and carefully descended the steps one by one with a hand on the side brass rail.
I found myself following him out.
Most of the spiritually-restored churchgoers went one way, toward the outer city with its glowing lights and the safety of their comfortable homes. He went the other direction, back into the tawdry ancient city with its countless varieties of expanding shadows and all of that which expanded within them. I followed at a respectful distance desiring not to be detected, wishing to eschew any contact, there only for my observation. My sole purpose was to bear witness. He treaded so lightly that I heard none of his footsteps on the cobblestoned street and yet my very own steps seemed to echo loudly despite my every effort to minimize such clatter. He appeared not to hear or possibly care. At every street corner turn he seemed to gain distance from me and disappear, then once again back within my vision he seemed to barely be moving at all. Soon enough there came one last turn, then two long brick walls on either side leading straight into another brick wall.
The proverbial dead end.
He was nowhere to be seen.
I looked for a door, a hidden passage, some kind of rattle bone ladder offering a way up and out.
I found nothing.
There was nowhere else to look but up.
I saw one star there glowing.
There was nothing else.
****
I returned to my studio and painted past dawn.
I stored it in a hall closet but hung it from my heart.
--- from Christmas Stories, Volume 1, by Noble K Thomas
