Its morbid. It's true. History books don't remember people – they remember figures and fallacies. The champions story. The champions limited perspective. The losers defeat.
***
Karl carries his bronze metal with him wherever he goes – always in the right hand. To Karl, the medallion on its green and red necklace, is perfect. Is beautiful. Everyday Karl gets on the city bus hoping someone will ask him about it. No one ever does.
Just yesterday, Karl tried to share his story to a dark skinned, sharply dressed man. But when Karl stood in front of him, motioning to his bronze metal, the man mumbled something about 'this being your seat. I'll move.'
Karl sits up front. Alone. He stares out the window watching the blurry figures of Sitka Spruce sprint by. The bus driver is the only one that calls Karl by his name. The only one who actually speaks to him.
“Morning Karl. Where's you're earphones today?”
“Music is dead. Broken.” Karl points to his tape player.
“Too bad.”
No one really cares that the music had died for Karl. Much less care to know his name. The morning bus is always an odd lot. People tired eyed, staring placidly, wishing they were dead. Karl tries to tell a story to himself about the people he sees.
There is the woman who always sits in the back, who always wears flower pattern dresses. She has miles and miles of tulips and daises, wild flowers of every kind, growing in all directions near her home. Yes. She comes into town every morning on the city bus to buy flower seed. During sunny days she runs through her flowers. Rolls in them. Talks to them softly. Millions of flowers she knows by name. Friends. Every single one of them.
Karl tries to decide if this is correct. He can't, so he walks to the back of the bus, where the woman is seated.
“Are they pretty?”
“Sorry?”
“Your flowers. Pretty?”
“No flowers. Sorry.”
The women awkwardly turns her head to look out the window. Smells of diesel.
“You like my metal?”
She nods politely without looking at him. Karl sits in the seat next to her and looks about the bus. Everyone is lost within themselves. No speaking. The bus rocks and sways with the pavement and random stops. It is Karl that has driven them to these distant stares. Trying not to be seen. Trying to be dead, for the sake of comfort.
There shell be no human contact during public transportation.
Karl sees the Chevron gas station that is near where he works, picking up dirty dishes. He pulls on the yellow chord to stop the bus. It rumbles violently into the next stop. The breaks hiss, and the fiery hot engine burns the lungs.
“Have a good day Karl.”
He holds up his bronze metal in the bus drivers rear view mirror and steps out into the world. People are ambling into the front of the bus. As Karl turns to walk up the street, he sees the flower woman looking at him. Her lips are moving. She's trying to say something. The bus is pulling away. She's looking at him. Trying to say something. Why can't he hear her. She wants to tell him about flowers. Karl is running. He is waving his medallion wildly. He can see his reflection and her face.
In a breath, the world instantly becomes blurry and unclear. It came before the screeching and honking that echoes now in Karl's head. The world is fuzzy. Hollow in a way. Karl can't move. He tries to think about his metal and the womans flowers. Can't concentrate. Somethings wrong. Karl feels hot. A warmth that drains him, makes him sleepy. He yawns. Fade to black.
***
She was trying to say goodbye. The flower women. All she wanted was a little repentance for her avoidance.
I watched Karl's blood stream from his head. He'd landed on his back, arms out stretched like an angel, eyes to the sky. In his clenched right hand, he held the green and red ribbon to his bronze medallion. It seemed like the whole world was silent. That no one else was around. I got closer and turned over Karl's metal.
There is a sketch of a man with his hands in the air. Along the edge it reads - You're a Winner.
I read in the newspaper how we'll remember Karl. “Man with Down Syndrome Struck by Car.”
***
Karl carries his bronze metal with him wherever he goes – always in the right hand. To Karl, the medallion on its green and red necklace, is perfect. Is beautiful. Everyday Karl gets on the city bus hoping someone will ask him about it. No one ever does.
Just yesterday, Karl tried to share his story to a dark skinned, sharply dressed man. But when Karl stood in front of him, motioning to his bronze metal, the man mumbled something about 'this being your seat. I'll move.'
Karl sits up front. Alone. He stares out the window watching the blurry figures of Sitka Spruce sprint by. The bus driver is the only one that calls Karl by his name. The only one who actually speaks to him.
“Morning Karl. Where's you're earphones today?”
“Music is dead. Broken.” Karl points to his tape player.
“Too bad.”
No one really cares that the music had died for Karl. Much less care to know his name. The morning bus is always an odd lot. People tired eyed, staring placidly, wishing they were dead. Karl tries to tell a story to himself about the people he sees.
There is the woman who always sits in the back, who always wears flower pattern dresses. She has miles and miles of tulips and daises, wild flowers of every kind, growing in all directions near her home. Yes. She comes into town every morning on the city bus to buy flower seed. During sunny days she runs through her flowers. Rolls in them. Talks to them softly. Millions of flowers she knows by name. Friends. Every single one of them.
Karl tries to decide if this is correct. He can't, so he walks to the back of the bus, where the woman is seated.
“Are they pretty?”
“Sorry?”
“Your flowers. Pretty?”
“No flowers. Sorry.”
The women awkwardly turns her head to look out the window. Smells of diesel.
“You like my metal?”
She nods politely without looking at him. Karl sits in the seat next to her and looks about the bus. Everyone is lost within themselves. No speaking. The bus rocks and sways with the pavement and random stops. It is Karl that has driven them to these distant stares. Trying not to be seen. Trying to be dead, for the sake of comfort.
There shell be no human contact during public transportation.
Karl sees the Chevron gas station that is near where he works, picking up dirty dishes. He pulls on the yellow chord to stop the bus. It rumbles violently into the next stop. The breaks hiss, and the fiery hot engine burns the lungs.
“Have a good day Karl.”
He holds up his bronze metal in the bus drivers rear view mirror and steps out into the world. People are ambling into the front of the bus. As Karl turns to walk up the street, he sees the flower woman looking at him. Her lips are moving. She's trying to say something. The bus is pulling away. She's looking at him. Trying to say something. Why can't he hear her. She wants to tell him about flowers. Karl is running. He is waving his medallion wildly. He can see his reflection and her face.
In a breath, the world instantly becomes blurry and unclear. It came before the screeching and honking that echoes now in Karl's head. The world is fuzzy. Hollow in a way. Karl can't move. He tries to think about his metal and the womans flowers. Can't concentrate. Somethings wrong. Karl feels hot. A warmth that drains him, makes him sleepy. He yawns. Fade to black.
***
She was trying to say goodbye. The flower women. All she wanted was a little repentance for her avoidance.
I watched Karl's blood stream from his head. He'd landed on his back, arms out stretched like an angel, eyes to the sky. In his clenched right hand, he held the green and red ribbon to his bronze medallion. It seemed like the whole world was silent. That no one else was around. I got closer and turned over Karl's metal.
There is a sketch of a man with his hands in the air. Along the edge it reads - You're a Winner.
I read in the newspaper how we'll remember Karl. “Man with Down Syndrome Struck by Car.”
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