|main menu | youngsters categories | authors | new stories | search | links | settings | author tools
|Peace Of Mind (standard:non fiction, 2236 words)
|Author: Paul Duncan
|Added: Nov 01 2001
|Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
|On an afternoon in a city a long way from the place of home, Peace Of Mind comes round.
PEACE OF MIND by Paul Duncan Peace Of Mind is something that comes to you without warning fanfare hello, or goodbye when it leaves and does not tell you when, if at all, it will occupy your space again. I have come upon it more than once but it is that once in particular that I want to put down here where at least the outline of it's reflection will be held in one place. It was found on a day, one street over from the main road in a city I had never heard the name of until that morning. Peace Of Mind I came upon sitting in a straight-backed chair worn smooth on the seat from all the people I would never see having paused there and then left, leaving it empty on the quiet street with the echoes of the busy one beside it rumbling and piercing off of the crumbing buildings that surrounded. Empty chair placed facing an old red-brick wall on which was hung a mirror over an old wooden desk with a razor of the electric and a razor of the straight. There seemed to me to be more than just a little bit of appeal in this chair sitting in the slanting swaying light filtering down through the trees I could not name in a city of the same. To it's right was a low table where Friday Afternoon sat and bought rounds of beer for the four or was it five men who spoke of things I knew in a tongue I did not because in the end it really is just same same. I had nowhere to be and since I had already searched long and hard for that place I decided without debate to get a haircut I didn't really need and a shave which I definitely did. I crossed the road stepping over and around the potholes, stepped up onto the sidewalk and in the direction of the peace-of-mind which I could not yet see. Watching the men drinking out of sweating glasses that glistened in the light that came and went following the pattern of everything else. The men drinking with Friday Afternoon who sat breathing a sigh of release. Watching them as I walked up in all my difference to see who the owner of the worn chair would be. That they were all smiles but none a barber was quickly evident and I looked into the up and down of the street not sure whether to move on in my scruff or wait it out in the moving shade beside the old red brick. One of the smiling men understood why I paused in my going and made it clear without words that I would wait there and he would go get the owner of the two razors, both the straight and the electric. Before yes or no had time to drop out in a language that would be more there than here, he was gone shouting over his shoulder not to let Friday Afternoon go anywhere don't touch that dial and he's off running through the warm air. Not quickly walking or jogging, he has his chest out and knees up arms-pumping as his partners-in-crime laugh with much slapping-of-knees. Another man with another smile gets up and motions me to sit where all the others who I have never seen have already. And I do, sit and look at the hole in the red brick wall through which stares back someone with a very similar look about him to myself, except that he has tired eyes and is in need of a shave. I look away, back and over my shoulder, off-the-cuff I see a girl standing there with eyes that must have been passed onto her from older generations as they are much too old for her face of young. She stands there watching the man in the wall and when I turn around she continues to watch my self as I notice her gaze in all its antiquity until I grin and her face is brought back to five-years-old as she smiles wide without holding anything back just like everyone else on that corner. I take my discman out of my daypack, motion her over and put the large headphones on her perfectly small ears. As the motorcycles the next street over honk frantically and the on buildings on this one crumble quietly, she smiles and shines on you crazy diamond as Pink Floyd does what he does and the group of men to my right laugh at the amusement that has crossed their paths. Then he is there, shaking my hand solemnly his eyes sizing up the situation of the hair on the back of my head and face from behind thickblack rimmed glasses that dominate his thin serious face. He is a professional and, as I would soon discover, an artist, as he takes my daypack and puts it on a seat all its own that rests in the shadows of the wall. I speak with my hands explaining just a little off the back and sides, the top is fine, shave everything as he nods and a trace of a smile appears on his face as he picks up the white electric razor and a black comb. Click here to read the rest of this story (122 more lines)
Authors appreciate feedback!
Please write to the authors to tell them what you liked or didn't like about the story!
Paul Duncan has 1 active stories on this site.
Profile for Paul Duncan, incl. all stories