remission

Dearest Iqbal-

Last night I was taking a repose at the Kingdom, sipping a drink, wondering where Angela was, when I noticed a strange interaction going on across the darkened space. In the light of the juke box I could see a beautiful girl. She was facing away, but I'd seen her before and knew her to be beautiful. Standing across from her was a deformed man. A cursory glance seemed to suggest leprosy in full remission. He was missing several fingers on his left hand, and seemed to have lost part of his cheek because the right side of his face was pulled taughter than the left, slightly disfiguring his nose and always suggesting that his eyes were in disagreement over where to look, and twisting the slightest smile into a sick grimace.

They stared into the hot neon light of the juke box and cycled through the paper flaps that revealed the songs, photocopies of CD inserts, black and white reproductions of color photographs. Journey, Duran Duran, Queen, Alicia Keyes, the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I couldn't make out their speech, but in the reflection on the juke box I could tell they were talking, sharing taste, maybe even laughing, though it was hard to read the man's face.

He slid his arm (the good one) around her, just lightly. She didn't recoil, but nor did she get closer. A song was chosen. The girl slipped away, across to the other side. He exit was not sudden, but it was final. The man was left standing with a sneer, a sneer which I have come to assume was nothing but a smile. He approached the bar and put his drink down, he stepped out, seemingly in  no rush. 

I followed him, with Angela absent there was nothing keeping me in the Kingdom. I looked both ways down the street, he was no where. Vanished? A man like that doesn't blend. I peered around. He had strolled down an alley that ran parallel to the bar. The song they had chosen, "Jukebox Hero" could be heard through the early 20th century brick.

He was on his knees, hands folded beneath his chin, bobbing slowly, rhythmically. I could hear a mumbling. I stepped forward slowly, not wanting to reveal my presence or invade his privacy, but I quickly noticed that he was far too taken in prayer and that if I screamed in his ear he'd hardly here. I could make out what he was saying.

"Oh Dear Lord, I am Sad, but I am Grateful. I am Sad, but I am Grateful. Oh Dear Lord, I am Sad, but I am Grateful. I am Sad, but I am Grateful. Oh Lord hear me, I am Sad, but I am Grateful. I am Sad, but I am Grateful. Oh Dear Lord, I am Sad, but I am Grateful." Ad infinitum.

-Robert de Saint-Loup