The Sun Never Sleeps

Paul and I were like brothers.

Better than brothers, we were like twins. People would say we’d been separated at birth, that’s how close Paul and I were. Every school day we’d laugh and scowl together, every evening we’d terrorize the neighborhood, every summer we’d head down to the beach to stare and sneer - there were times when there was a fucken beauty in Paul and we’d share a laugh at what fools we were.

There is a moment in each man’s life. People don’t talk about it, but there is a moment that occurs to all, when one becomes what one becomes, no hesitation, take it or watch it slip through your fingers forevermore.

My moment occurred one afternoon when I pushed my best friend off a cliff just to watch him fall.

I hadn’t planned it. There was no great scheme, no grand design. The opportunity simply presented itself.

There we were, Paul and I, eighteen years old. This was to be our year, and to celebrate we challenged the cliff that stood over our little community and somehow surrounded us all. We would climb her and in doing so we would announce ourselves to the world.

We would climb her and we did. We conquered Widow’s Peak and we could swear we were Gods that afternoon.

There was a sense of calm, of peace at such a height, even the waves broke silently far below, their crash could not seek us out.

“Look how high we are!” Cried Paul with arms spread wide. “So high!”

He looked beautiful. He took a few cautious steps and so did I.

“Look, just look, come out, just a little further!”

He edged further, closer to the edge, until there was finally nothing but air between his toes and the rocks below.

“God! It’s just so … come out further and take a look!”

And so I came, I reached out and with just such an ever so gentle push

Paul fell.

He fell and fell until the breakers took him.

***

Paul had slipped of course, and we were all awful sorry. Everyone wore black and heads were bowed, everyone was sad, everyone was sad for his Mother and Father … and for me.

Especially me.

I buried it deep inside and moved on. I buried it deep and moved ever forward, as day by day stretched into year by year.

I am now thirty four.

The last girl I saw said my looks were ‘tempered by my many misadventures’ and yet I blend easily in a crowd, though at times of distress I catch a glimpse of my reflection and see many a tell.

This evening I enter a brownstone, climb a couple of flights of stairs and past bleary eyes and halfhearted glares walk with an air of purpose toward Room 23.

To knock would be pointless and so I kick, pause and kick again.

Chains rattle, locks are withdrawn and the door opens to reveal a sorry sight. It has been a month since I’ve last seen Harry and even then he was no pretty picture. His is now a face a whore would refuse, beneath which lie a stained white singlet, short pants and bare feet.

“What are you, ten years old? Put some fucken trousers on.” With this I push past and enter.

While Harry scurries off to the other room I take in the scene. This is as surely a junkie’s pad as Harry is surely a junkie. A torn magazine centerfold pouts from the far wall, a lone African Mask the only other attempt at decoration, between it and I lie cigarette ash, yellowed newspaper and ants in close formation. The smell a mystery at first, hard to pinpoint, then it hits me, it is close cousin to the taste in the back of your throat after a one night stand.

“You’ve done well for yourself Harry.”

“I done what?” Harry comes scrambling back wearing a pair of faded yellow track pants. “What I done?” His attention turns to the wall behind me. “Ya like this? This is a genuine fucken death mask. Crazy native jungle shit.”

He reaches out and I come face to face with the African mask, of sullen disposition, teeth bared, hair a scramble of wiry strands, yet it is the hollow eyes that wish to stare one down. I look away. “It’s a fine piece of work. Quality.”

“Yes sir, that there’s the real deal.” Harry pokes an eye of the mask with his index finger before throwing it on the floor next to the rest of the debris. “What an ugly motherfucker.” He takes a seat on a stained brown couch, taps a cigarette from a pack, lights, inhales and plays the convivial host.

I decline. “No thanks. You know … those will kill you.”

“Eat, drink and be merry for …” he coughs. “… tomorrow we die.” He takes another puff. “You don’t agree?”

“I intend to live a long, long life.”

“All well and good, but you never know when your time is up.”

“I plan to know.”

“Look,” There is a distinct pause … “I’ll have the money next week.” A pause once more. “You know I’m good for it.”

He won’t look me in the eye.

“Tell them, next week, definitely … I swear on my mother.”

I do not answer.

“You wanna shoot up? I figure … I mean you may as well not come all this way for nothin ’.”

I remain silent. I catch myself glancing at the mask as it stares back from the floor.

“Well, I … I suppose I could give you something, a token of good faith”.

I do not respond.

“Oh fuck … fuck me … fuck me!” His lip quivers, eyes water.

There are no more words.

I move toward him as he attempts to rise. Face to face, nose to nose he grips my shoulder, actually hugs me as I twist the blade.

I step back and watch him fall.