The man who brings the mists
There is a man who walks the streets downtown at night. He brings with him a pleasant rain. But the rain brings the mists.
He carries with him a yellow umbrella, his pale face topped with graying hair, and a gentle smile. He will meet your eyes, joyously. Do you know him? Does he know you? He says nothing, continues by. His clothes are nice but slightly out of fashion. You might believe him to be a professor at the college, but the ease with which he carries himself…and moreover, it is 4am.
He is always carrying the yellow umbrella when you see him. It is always raining when you see him. The rains themselves are fine. It is what they leave behind.
You look back–did that other group of nighttime wanderers, walking by, passing only a foot away from his canary umbrella, see him? It is quite late. They are quite drunk, it seems. They laugh and talk loudly amongst themselves and their voices echo off the concrete and brick around them. They are not phased, it seems. Perhaps they did not notice. You open your umbrella, realizing your jacket sleeves are starting to soak through.
You are out with a bout of insomnia and keep walking, you are not tired yet. You think perhaps now it would make sense to do some shopping for your aunt’s birthday in late June. It is May, not even close to her birthday, not really, but you don't like to be pressed for time. And the old shopping mall is near here, even nearer than you'd remembered. The rain has slowed but water still patters off the bright red awning above the glass double doors. You pull one of the first doors open and slip into the vestibule as the door makes a rubbery-wet cry, closing behind you. You take a breath. Then head through the second set of doors.
It's much busier than you might have suspected, and brighter. The wide brick avenue opens in front of you, gradually getting higher as it hits a wooden ramp upward paired with stairs on the side, then another such pair just before hitting a T-intersection and slipping out of sight to either side. The storefronts that line it are all lit with surprisingly bold signs, their contents ranging from almost-chic to outright kitsch. A shop sells "AUTHENTIC" dream catchers and "african print" handbags. A clothing store advertises 50% off new workwear sets with valid proof of an upcoming interview. A health store attempts to advertise CBD with the outline of a marijuana leaf: maybe the aura of temptation is enough, maybe the not-quite-yet legal drug will make this seem an indulgence.
Glancing behind you, you can see out the glass panes of the entrance doors and the large windows either side to the street beyond. A little white spider makes a wispy snare in the upper corner of the right window.
You wander in, again taken aback by how many people there are. Not a huge amount, mind you, just a little too much for –you check your phone–4:24 AM. You glance in windows, wondering if this or that store is your aunt's style. You amble down some aisles, consider some brightly-lit merchandise. You buy a fancy comfy sleep pillow, for your mom and her back pains, and only after buying it do you consider, maybe you should use it first, to ease your sleep tonight. You wander into the boutique tea shop. Consider buying the sleep-ease mix, but walk out. It is getting quite blurry, out the windows back behind you. Droplets cling to the glass.
You turn the corner. Maybe the houseplant store, for your aunt Bethany? A succulent, or some unruly vine, barely contained by the terra cotta? Wait, no, her name is Emilia. You do mix up family member’s names sometimes but that was particularly bad. You look at your phone. It is 4:41 AM.
In the houseplant shop it is damp once again as humidifiers scattered about act as life support for the droves of little green life organized into rows of pots and hangers on each surface and up each wall. "Let me know if I can help you," says the young clerk behind the counter. They yawn, and reach up with a hand covered in rings to cover it, turning away slightly as if to hide the disgrace of being bored at their job. You pause. "It's quite late for a plant shop to be open, isn't it?"
The clerk just raises one eyebrow at you. "Everything in that corner, on the yellow shelving, is half off right now." They suppress another yawn, pull a clipboard from under the checkout counter, and start doing inventory, ignoring you. You wander over to the yellow shelving.
There are rows upon rows of aloe vera. Many oddly bulbous in spots, or recovering from a place their long stalks had been broken. Did this make them less valuable? A few scraggly, meandering jade plants in the corner. A smattering of other odd plants, with no familial resemblance to the other plants in the store.
You pick up one with smooth, round jewel-like leaves, a deep moss green, with a faint purple fade around each edge. It is short but full. You set your sleep-ease tea to the side for a moment and glance over your shoulders towards the clerk. "What is this one?" you ask, turning the pot around in search for a label.
The clerk walks over, gently takes the pot from you, and does the same search you just completed. Purses their lips. "Don't know! We may have stopped carrying this before I started here. It's four-fifty, like most of the others."
You pay for the plant, which gets a little natural rope harness for transport. Walk back out of the shop carrying your plant, your tea, and thinking of pillows and sleep.
As you head back down to the entrance you came in, you notice it has gotten quite foggy outside. The sometimes white, sometimes transparent sea that has settled on the street outside is making it difficult to see the row of buildings across the way.
You head back down the interior brick avenue and approach the glass doors and windows, assessing the weather. It is quite thick, but the buses would still be running, yeah? A man approaches from your left, pulling a wheeled suitcase and holding several shopping bags. He shifts his weight from side to side, glances out the right window, then awkwardly uses his chin to lift the left sleeve of his dress shirt and check the time on his watch. Looks for a moment, then curses under his breath. In the corner of the right window, the spindly little spider has finished its sewing, and now waits, compact, in the margins.
You pull out your phone from your jacket pocket. It is 5:06AM.
The man to your left curses again, and then pushes through the glass doors with a kind of reckless abandon. He simply melts into the mist. You can no longer see the buildings on the other side of the street. The man has disappeared. You are straining to see the yellow dividing line in the road.
You glance over your shoulder to find that the avenue is otherwise empty. You turn back to the windows. Several times, you pick your mystery potted plant back up off the floor, make to leave, but then you don't. You check your phone. It is 5:12AM.
All at once, shapes begin to move through the fog. Silhouettes. Men and Women, in work clothes, carrying briefcases, walking with purpose. People of Purpose. You strain to see their faces but only manage to catch the flicker of polished leather from their shoes on the sidewalk by the window. You cannot see the road.
A loud crackle, feedback, crackle, echoes through the shopping mall as the PA system turns on and a tired but bright voice rings out: "h-hello, everyone, it seems that aga–" the voice cuts off as it's interrupted by another bout of feedback. "--coño! …Hello, everyone, it seems that once again, we are dealing with a, tornado warning." Long pause. "Please make your way to storage closet 2C."
All at once, various workers begin filing out of the shopfronts all around you, making their way up the brick avenue. The mall is once again filled with people. You slip in and join them unnoticed. Make your way back up the ramps and staircases. Turn right this time. You see the houseplant shop clerk join the stream. Ahead of you, an industrial grey door is open, "2C" boldly stenciled on in yellow spray-paint.
Everyone crams into the room. It has a couple metal shelving units, but they're totally empty and the room is bare concrete otherwise. You shimmy around the growing crowd into a corner. All around you, skin and hair of many hues, rings and necklaces and piercings and tattoos, faces bored and anxious, or half falling asleep, people, are shoved into various lifeless and sometimes degrading store uniforms. A couple groups chat quietly under their breath, often gesturing and rolling their eyes. A number have pulled out earbuds or headphones and freed themselves from the box you're all in. One person, wearing a t-shirt whose back reads "10% off for each referral all #glitterweek!!!" is gently rocking and softly singing to a baby in their arms. Another sits with their back to a wall, noisily sketching something in a notebook. A couple minutes in, and a loud argument erupts between a pair of workers by the door, but it's quickly quieted by others nearby, with the help of glances towards the now sleeping baby. You pull out your phone, hoping to check on the status of the tornado warning. It is 5:37AM. You have no cell reception in the storage closet.
Then the latch on the storage closet door shifts, and the door opens. From beyond the crowd, the same voice from the PA yawns, "a-alright everyone, all good now."
The workers file back out of the closet and sort themselves back into their various shops. You follow the crowd, then head out the mall doors. The mist has cleared. You check your phone. It is 5:49 AM. A bus will be arriving at the downtown station in 11 minutes.
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As you lean to the side in your seat, settling in for the bus ride home, nearly drifting off to sleep, it begins to rain again, melting the light of the streetlamps into streaks of white.