Trigger Warning: The content may not be suitable for children or those with a fragile psyche

Clay

The newspaper had gotten it wrong and reported the suicide a day early. I saw the article while reading the funny sections. It had been misprinted, instead of located among the obituaries, it was the only entry under the political cartoons section. It read:

“Unknown man jumps from the 20th floor of Greenway Apartments to his death on the pavement below. It is unknown if he had family or friends. If he did have family or friends, his unknown family or friends grieve his loss greatly.”

I lived in the Greenway Apartments. I had been up all the previous night staring out my window at the crumbling buildings across from me and had not seen a single person jump to their death and fall on the dilapidated pavement below.

In the “Life and Culture” section of the newspaper was an article headlined, “Greenway Apartments, a sought-after living space; the epitome of the modern need for comfort.” This piece read:

“The Greenway Apartments, located in the center of town, is a sought-after living space which epitomizes the modern need for comfort. There is a spa. There is a large elevator. There is a gymnasium. There is a beautiful view of the entire town from the higher floors of this building. There is a waitlist of eight months for even the most meager of rooms. Although the monthly price of a room may seem steep, for the well-to-do upper-middle class of this town it is a reasonable sacrifice for the modern comfort that the Greenway Apartments promises.”

Contrary to the glowing praise described in the previous article, the Greenway Apartments was nearly completely abandoned.

I did not know of any tenants staying here aside from myself. It was a place evolving towards decay. I would not be surprised if one day, after returning from work in the clay deposits directly outside of town, I came back only to find that the Greenway Apartments had fallen deep into the earth, or transformed into a heap of rotten, writhing, debris.

The sun was beginning to color the endless fog yellow. It was time for work. I walked to the clay deposits directly outside of town where I dug clay with a long shovel to supply the Sculptor with clay, so he could make forms resembling people out of this clay, in order to solve the perpetual labor shortage which plagued this town.

I would have liked to work as a sculptor. Digging clay was exhausting and endless. Sculpting was refined and filled with purpose. But sculpting was a highly specific kind of work which required an advanced degree, and I lacked the drive or motivation to pursue it. Besides, then there would be two sculptors and no one to shovel clay, and nothing would ever get done if that were the case.

“It is unusually hot weather for this time of year,” said the Sculptor when I arrived at the clay deposit directly outside of town.

“It is,” I agreed.

I still recall a conversation I had with the sculptor, during one of the countless hours we had worked in this clay field together, in which he had explained the secret to constructing these clay figures.

“The sculptures must be constructed in such a way that each looks like a real flesh person, so they can believe themselves to be a real flesh person, instead of inanimate clay resembling a person, and in this way begin moving, and walking around, and working, as real flesh people are expected to,” the Sculptor had said.

Or maybe he had never said this, and I had only observed that this was the secret to sculpting, and I had, as I often do, mistaken my own thoughts for words never uttered by anyone, for that dialogue sounded nothing like the way he spoke.

The sun beat down incessantly as I shoveled out the clay and placed it in piles next to the sculptor, who in turn shaped the piles of clay into forms resembling people. By the end of the day there were three clay sculptures meandering about and making small talk to one another, asking each other about their day and commenting on the unusually hot weather for this time of year.

Before leaving, I asked one of the sculptures to follow me into town, which the sculpture did. I stopped at a bar and opened the door. The bar was fully stocked with liquor and beer. The place appeared as if it had just been remodeled, and perhaps had only re-opened a week ago, except for the frayed twisting cobwebs decorating the ceilings, and the damp bar stools and tables which were soft to the touch. The place was entirely empty, and there was no bartender behind the counter due to the perpetual labor shortage which plagued this town.

“Go behind the counter.” I told the sculpture.

“Why?” the sculpture asked.

“So that you can act as my bartender.”

“Alright.”

The sculpture walked behind the counter and stood there waiting.

“I would like a vodka soda,” I said.

“How do I make that?”

“Behind you is a wall full of bottles. Look for a bottle full of clear liquid with the word ‘Vodka’ written on its label. Pour that into a glass. Next to the sink is a device with a metal hose attached to a red spout. Place the spout above the glass and press the button on its top. Fill the glass with the soda water until it is full.”

“Ok,” said the sculpture.

I had three vodka sodas before ordering a beer.

“In front of you are four taps. They look a bit like levers with logos written on their fronts. Select any one of those levers. Take a glass and place it directly under the spout which protrudes below each lever. Tilt the glass slightly so the beer will not fill with foam. Pull the lever towards you until the glass is full.”

“Ok,” said the sculpture.

The sculpture poured the beer and handed it to me.

“Bartenders are also expected to make conversation,” I said.

“What should I say?” asked the sculpture.

“Ask me how my day is going.”

“How is your day going?”

“It’s going alright.”

I had four more beers, then we left the bar and walked to the pharmacy which was also empty, and new, and decaying.

After I explained to the sculpture the duties and specifics of being a pharmacist, I gave the sculpture a prescription for sleeping pills which the sculpture filled.

“That’s all I need from you,” I told the sculpture after exiting the pharmacy.

“But what will I do now?” asked the sculpture.

“Don’t worry, there is always plenty of work.”

I left the sculpture standing on the sidewalk and made my way to the Greenway Apartments.

There had once been an elevator in the lobby of the Greenway Apartments, but in some previous time it had been removed, or fallen through the shaft after its wiring had broken, and now there was only an empty shaft. If you looked down that shaft, you would see an endless pit of darkness with no bottom in sight. I took the stairs instead.

In my small room I looked at the bottle of pills and realized that the sculpture had filled the wrong prescription and given me allergy medicine instead of sleeping pills. So, I spent the rest of the night staring out the window at the crumbling buildings across the way as I had done the previous day.

Early that morning, as I stared out the window, I watched as a man fell to his death, landing on the dilapidated pavement below.

I left my room and walked onto the street. There was the distorted form of a dead man. As I looked at the scattered skull fragments and bits of brain matter spread across the dilapidated pavement, I began to see something written in this seemingly random placement of human debris. It was the story of the universe, the history of everything that had ever happened, and ever would happen. It was all things that existed, and might exist, and could never exist. It was all written clearly in the seemingly random assortment of scattered skull fragments and brain matter created as a result of this man jumping from a tall window and landing on the dilapidated pavement below.

Sometimes, when the fog was especially thick and suffocating, I could make out vague shapes moving inside the smudged windows of that abandoned apartment, but I always assumed they were creatures temporarily confused, or just memories of people I had never known, drifting in and out of my vision.

I went back up to my room to wait until later in the day, for I had a midafternoon date with a woman to see a show.

I met her in front of the theater. It was a building caving in on itself, teetering on the verge of complete destruction. All the windows were boarded up or painted black to prevent light from escaping, or there were no windows at all.

I still cannot recall if the woman I met at this theater was my girlfriend, or an acquaintance, or what she looked like, if her hair was brown, blonde, or another color, or if she was only the memory of someone who never existed, and that perhaps I went to this midday theater alone.

I could just make out the faint outline of words painted on the side of this building. The words had once said “Entrance this way,” and we followed the faint outline of words into the theater.

“It’s been so long since I’ve been to the theater, but I’ve heard good things about this show,” she said as we took our seats.

The show began.

It is hard to explain, but I could not tell if what we were watching was a film, or a play, or simply a window we looked through to view people who had no comprehension of their role as actors for our entertainment.

Everyone in the show had bent heads.

The main character had a bent head.

The antagonist had a bent head.

The love interest had a bent head.

The background characters who made idle conversations which no one would ever hear all had bent heads.

They were all bent head people

Doing bent head people things

The show went on for some time

Until eventually

It ended

END