Mole

“We live in a fantasy world, a world of illusion. The great task in life is to find reality”

- Iris Murdoch

“Fantasy, abandoned by reason, produces impossible monsters”

- Francisco Goya

The door slammed loudly in a quiet neighborhood. On a quiet street. In a quiet city. A man stomped angrily out of his house onto a small porch and closed his eyes as the cool evening air hit him and then swept right past. He breathed deep and stood for a few moments, surrendering himself to the chill. The man opened his eyes to the darkening sky, zipped up his coat and then took off down the steps and onto the street that stretched forth before him. A street that offered respite from all his problems, however temporary it may be. Sighing, the man began his night walk with a wave to his neighbor taking out the trash. The events of the evening played over and over in his mind and he shook his head as he dug his hands into his pockets to protect them from the cold. Somewhere close by a dog barked to be let inside.

There was no breeze on this night though the air smelled of rain and the man was glad he had worn his coat with a hood. For a time he attempted to dwell on his work and what the next day at the office held for him. But this only worked for a short while. Soon, the circumstances that had taken him out into the cold surfaced anew and he silently chastised the night for failing to provide ample distraction. What was his life becoming? These walks were fast approaching nightly routine status and strangely enough something that he looked forward to at the end of the day. Especially of late. The man found solace in the stillness of the city before darkness took it fully, a comfort that all but faded when he would inevitably wind up once more on the small porch. The gateway to misery he had named it on one of his first walks. A somber description of what had become a somber place.

The man's mind swam in jello and he walked on, passing other streets now lit by warm streetlights, other porches that looked not so different from his, and other doors that spoke not of pain but of possibility. It was while he was looking down one of these quiet havens that the car nearly hit him. Approaching at alarming speed, it zigzagged back and forth as the driver seemed unable to settle on a course. At the last second, the man dove out of the way as the car rode halfway up on the sidewalk and narrowly missed him. Dazed, he slowly got to a sitting position and cursed loudly as the car sped off, running many red lights in the process. And then he noticed something fly out of the car's back window. Curious, he stood up and made his way over to where he had seen the object fall to the ground. Nearing it, the man glanced down to see a small black notebook lying by the muddy curb. He reached down to pick it up and wiped some of the mud off with the sleeve of his coat. Needing more light, the man walked over to a nearby lamppost and squinted at the book underneath the pale glimmer of the light hovering above.

At first, he noticed nothing. The book looked old and faded but there was nothing on its cover that provided more details. And then, as he peered closer, the man noticed lettering inscribed on the binding of the book. Barely discernible even under the flickering glow of the streetlight, the man could make out one four letter word: MOLE. Raising an eyebrow, he opened the notebook and began to flip through the pages nonchalantly. It didn't take long and somewhat to his surprise, the man was disappointed in what he found. Shopping lists, addresses, memos, even a few drawings littered Mole's pages. Just a plain old organizer. He was ready to toss it aside when a stray thought struck him: what if he had missed something? Quickly looking around at the empty street and seeing no one, the man once again opened Mole and slowly flipped through the worn pages. And once again he found nothing. He frowned. Why did this bother him so much? Perhaps he felt that the driver of the car owed him something for nearly hitting him or perhaps his desire for distraction had taken the form of an old notebook that should have contained more to satiate his mind's wandering. Or perhaps the hour was late and he was simply just tired from a long day, a long few months. His bed suddenly called to him and the man started to close Mole when something caught his eye. At the back of the notebook, hidden away from prying eyes such as his, was a small compartment. And peeking out from the compartment was the corner of an envelope. With a childish grin on his face, the man reached in and pulled the envelope from Mole noting that it was thicker than he anticipated. How had he missed it? He wasted no time in opening the sealed package and couldn't believe what he found inside. Money. A lot of money. The envelope grew heavy and he suddenly struggled with the weight of it. Twenty thousand dollars sitting in the palm of his hand and as real as the muddy pavement he walked upon. Dreams abounded then and there, of purest and darkest longing. And everything in between.

A million possibilities seemed to present themselves all at once: travel, purchasing luxuries he had never been able to afford, giving it all to charity, investing in the future, leaving his less than ideal life and starting over...before it could gain any more traction, this last pernicious thought was interrupted by a loud rumbling overhead. The man looked up to see the bright lights of the evening train in the distance and was still as he waited for night's envoy to pass. The street was quiet no more and reality gripped him once again. He knew that the right thing to do would be to bring the money to the police for he was no law breaker. The man resolved to take it to the nearest station immediately and resumed his walk. But he didn't get far before he stopped, his eyes constantly shifting their gaze from the path ahead to Mole. The man scratched at the stubble on his chin. And then blinked furiously as a light rain began to fall, the first few drops hitting his eyes. What if he didn't have to bring Mole back right away? What if he kept it a little while longer and let his imagination run wild just for one night? What if the city had offered up Mole as a distraction? He determined that Mole would accompany him for the rest of his walk and then he would turn it in on his way home. The man glanced about him again but he was still alone in the street, the train's rumbling now a faint growl in the distance. He quickly decided on a route, pulled his hood up against the increasing rain and tucked Mole safely under his arm.

Man and Mole emerged from the quiet street to a frenzy of activity. Their city teemed with life and color and mystery. The night didn't stand a chance and as they plunged headlong into it, a new sense of excitement took hold. Sheets of rain that fell cascaded against the towering streetlights creating ripples of light in the air and Man and Mole passed under each one in awe. Shops that were still open looked warm and inviting as enticing aromas and soft music poured out into the street from open doorways, every one reaching out to the man and attempting to pull him in. Despite the cold and the rain and the late hour, the city refused to sleep just yet.

In this new enchantment, time became irrelevant to the man. More and more he questioned bringing Mole in as his companion rigorously questioned what had once been certain. Time still passed around him as the man crept through the city but he didn't seemed to notice. He found solace in an interminable existence, his strangling grip on Mole unrelenting. And slowly he became deaf to the city's call, listening only for what Mole would say. The beauty and artistry was still there, painted in brilliant hues and bleeding color wherever the man walked but his eyes could barely see it now as they strained from studying Mole. And possible exhaustion? He couldn't tell.

The man had tripped and fallen many times from looking down, his eyes ever wandering to Mole and the secret it held that only he knew. His clothes were now covered in grime, soaked through from the rain and smelled of damp sweat. How long had he been walking? The thought left the instant it had come, all but a faded dream. The man's appearance was of no concern, he had to protect Mole at all costs. How had he ever considered turning his cohort in? He shook his head at the absurdity of the thought and resumed his trudge.

Days and nights passed but still the man seemed not to notice. Light or dark, it made no difference. Food was sometimes purchased and eaten, bathrooms were used when necessary and at some point gloves had been obtained in defiance of the growing cold. Sleep was a luxury and the man relented only when his legs would carry him no more, slumping down and letting the streets cradle him for a while. Sometimes he would dream of a porch attached to a house on a quiet street. The light inside was on and the curtains open but beyond that his vision blurred. He would wake cold and hungry and alone but soon Mole would soothe him and the dream would fade into oblivion.

Once, while crossing a busy street, the man bumped into a stranger. He had been looking down at Mole and hadn't noticed the swiftly moving passerby. The man lost his balance and fell, Mole flying out of his arms as he attempted to cushion his fall. He hit the ground hard and Mole landed a short ways away, just out of reach. The man screamed in confusion and horror. Ignoring the sudden pain in his leg from the awkward landing, he stood up as quickly as he could and deliriously scoured the street for Mole. But Mole wasn't there. He began to breathe heavily and stood motionless despite the traffic that was waiting to pass. And then there was a tap on his shoulder. In his outburst the man had forgotten about the stranger who had caused him to drop Mole and looked up angrily to see someone holding his friend, their hand outstretched towards him. Ignoring the honking horns and angry shouts of drivers, he snatched Mole away without a word and then ran as fast as he could. The man ran long and hard and when he could run no more he slunk down in a heap. He slept like a baby with Mole pressed up tightly against his chest.

In the end, it was his own city that betrayed him.

It happened so fast – the dumpster in a secluded alley, what looked like another Mole just lying on top of it for the taking, the missing pavement stone that wasn't seen until it was too late, Mole once again launching into the air – and yet to the man it was all so painfully slow. His head hit the street hard and he lay dazed at the foot of the dumpster. A group of kids riding by on bicycles glanced at him but kept going save for one who, noticing a small back notebook, stopped only to snatch it up and then was gone. The man shouted after him, or at least he thought he did, but his head hurt and the world was a blur. He attempted to stand up and quickly fell to the ground, disoriented. At least there was still the other Mole. Grunting, the man slowly crawled over to the dumpster and then hoisted himself up. What he saw nearly made him faint: a little storybook with a black cover. “City of Dreams”. Not Mole. Not Mole at all. Perhaps the kids would make a trade? He reached for the book but stopped when a very strange thing happened. The man was suddenly aware of...everything. The smell of his clothes, his unwashed hair, his aching feet, the fresh bruises all over his body. A gut punch of reality hit him with a force such as he'd never known and for a long time the man was silent. He didn't yell or scream or look maniacally about or attempt to chase the kids. He just stood by a dumpster in an alley. And then the emptiness was gone and he wept. The man thought of his life and everything that he had and did not stop until he had wept for all of it. For the beauty and wonder that it contained. And for all the time he had spent not seeing that.

In the end, it was his own city that saved him.