Tweet

Ecstatic Fritz

Mark Wallace

For Jim, who I took a trip with, and Fritz, who was, maybe, there in another sense.

     Fritz sits in a grassy field among purple wildflowers, on the side of a hill shaped like a half moon. One leg hides among the tall blades of grass, the lanky knee of the other points towards the sun. Without concentration he watches the wind shake the leaves of the trees on the edge of the field, and listens to the rushing sound of water from the stream far beneath him. He seems perfectly relaxed, arms folded calmly. So relaxed that he looks like all his thoughts have faded into acceptance of his body, of the fact that he's here in the grass. He isn't one to wait for others. If they come, they come. If they don't, why should he demean himself to notice?
     Does he soar in every wind, float everywhere above the rooftops of the city? He plucks a blade of grass and puts it in his mouth.
     Maybe he soars in every wind. But if he does, it hasn't been his conscious intention.

     "Jim?"
     "What?"
     "I don't know."
     "No."
     "But Jim."
     "Why bother?"
     "I mean..."
     "That's hardly true."
     Silence. Around the room junk lies piled among the furniture. What furniture remains. There is always more junk, and less furniture.
     The walls are mildewed. The landlord's raised the rent and has a daughter he's determined to see married.
     "Jim?"
     "I wish you wouldn't."
     "But we need..."
     "Yes."
     "So we have to find Fritz."
     "No one finds Fritz."
     "What choice do we have?"
     "No choice. No choice at all."

     Fritz sits on a brick wall on the front porch of a rowhouse, playing guitar. One of his hands moves lightly over the strings, the other changes chords with astonishing dexterity. Maybe they aren't real hands. The music is dark, a drunken blues in an old basement. Then it's cheerful, a day too sunny for its own good. Then it crackles with rage, the guitar a weapon in the hands of a madman.
     The porch stands above a busy residential street. People walk past talking, others lean under the hoods of cars or chatter on the row of porches stretching down the block. A few men gather in an alley behind the apartment across the street, drinking beside dumpsters. Young girls and boys look up at Fritz wistfully, so do old men and women.
     Fritz smiles, relaxed in the fluid movements of his body, and keeps playing. Soon a crowd gathers beneath the porch steps. Some of them begin dancing, others sway to the music as if to the rhythm of the earth. One or two sit on the sidewalk and cry.
     Eventually people along the whole block are dancing, in the street, on top of cars or the roofs of houses, half hanging out windows. A few people hurry away frightened. The music grows louder and more frenzied.
     But where is the music coming from? And where is Fritz?

     Walking? One is surprised by these feet and legs, by the fact that they move. One is also sickened.
     "Jim?"
     "What?"
     "How long have we been walking?"
     "How long have you had feet?"
     In every direction there are streets. Also buildings. And people, going in and out of buildings, up and down streets. There is comfort in that. Some.
     "Jim?"
     The sound of feet against the sidewalk.
     "Is he going to meet us?"
     "We can't be sure."
     "We could have waited."
     "Could we?"
     "No. But if another time would have been better."
     "No time has ever been better."
     "Then it's good we're going now."
     "Good?"
     "There's hope that he'll be there."
     "Yes."
     "It's got to happen soon, doesn't it?"
     The sound of feet against the sidewalk.

     Yes. Maybe someone thought Fritz was on the street. He was elsewhere. Elsewhere is a rock, sparkling in the sun. The rock stands on a hill high above a stream. In the stream children are splashing and riding inner tubes, on the bank some men are quarreling; they shout and point at each other with drunken toughness.
     Fritz sits on the rock, lanky knees jutting towards the sun. His arms are crossed loosely in his lap, without tension. A breeze blows his hair back, revealing his temples and smooth forehead.
     Will he soar in the wind? Or has he already soared?
     The children begin climbing out of the stream and up the steep hill on the bank. They climb over rocks and patches of moss, across stagnant puddles and past small saplings clinging to crevices of dirt. Some scrape their arms or legs, but they don't slow down. They will get to Fritz; such is the naive conviction of childhood. Finally they reach the rock he sits on, climb carefully up the nearly smooth, glistening expanse of stone.
     The first child to reach him has dark hair still wet and knotty from the stream. She holds out a hand. Fritz holds his hand down to her. More children swarm over the rock. The little girl grabs Fritz' hand. It pulls off smoothly, cleanly, and she jumps off the rock carrying the hand. Other children quickly pull off the other hand. They swarm around him, grabbing, soon they have pulled off his arms. Each child holds tightly to whatever they have grabbed. His toes, feet, legs don't last much longer. There is no blood; he comes apart as simply as if he's melting. Two boys grab his face and pull out his eyes; he doesn't move, and stares calmly at the children from the hollow circles in his head. The remaining children cover him, grabbing and tearing, yelling at each other. When they back away, nothing remains.
     Or is he standing and stretching his arms out, as if to soar on the wind?
     A hard wind whistles over the barren rock and strikes the trees higher up the hill, shaking leaves and branches.
     The children climb back down to the stream.

     "Jim?"
     "What?"
     "Can't we stop?"
     "Maybe he's over the next hill."
     "Maybe he's not."
     Leaving the path, there are trees and thick vines. Did someone say jungle. It is only a city, a park in the city. There is a stream. Brown with mud and whatever else. Children splash in it, some ride inner tubes. At least it flows.
     Don't be so certain.
     "Jim?"
     "What?"
     "I can't go on much longer."
     "No."
     Thick tangle of branches. Shouts of men rising from the banks of the stream.
     "Jim?"
     "What?"
     "Don't you think...?"
     "No."
     "Can you feel...?"
     "I don't know."
     "Here? On the wind? On this wind?"
     The wind blows in the branches and across the smooth rocks standing high above the stream.
     "On every wind. On every wind."

     Or Fritz sits in the grass among purple wildflowers, one lanky knee pointing towards the sun. Relaxing in the fact of his body. It was not a body he chose?
     Or he walks down a concrete wall between the two sides of a freeway. The people caught in the traffic jam on one side frown or curse him, those flying past on the other side wave. Is he playing a guitar, or some kind of pipe? Are those children walking behind him on the wall, falling one by one into the path of oncoming cars?
     Or he lies on a couch with a bottle of wine in his hand. He tips the bottle towards his mouth. Half of what comes out spills on his face. People laugh and cheer him. There are no people, he is alone in an abandoned basement. The people laugh.
     Or he is with us.
     No.
     Or he sits in the grass.

     Like a picture of an afternoon you thought was a real afternoon. Tried to walk into it and found it was flat. Banged your nose against the sky, your chin against a row of houses.
     "Jim?"
     "What?"
     "Did he agree...?"
     "Agree?"
     "To meet us."
     "We can't be sure."
     "Meaning?"
     "None."
     "But you saw him."
     "Maybe."
     "But if he doesn't..."
     "Yes. But if he doesn't."
     "I feel so lonely."
     Someone takes a picture of the world.

     Or Fritz is everywhere. On the wind, floating above the rooftops of the city, down the streets of the city. But if he is, it hasn't been his conscious intention.
     In a house he walks from room to room. Bits of grass and a purple wildflower dangle from his hair. In the first room there's no furniture, just windows, plaster walls, wood floors. He looks out each window. What does he see? He looks at the walls, touches each wall tenderly with a finger. He looks at the floor.
     The next room is filled with children. There's only one window, and the children jump out of it one at a time. Fritz looks out the window; below is a city street. People scream each time a child hits the street. Fritz steps back from the window. A child jumps. Water splashes. A few drops, brown with mud, land on the windowsill.
     In the next room people are dancing. Fritz plays guitar, loud and fast. He sweats heavily, hair dripping. Beads of water shine on the guitar, his face is lighted as if by a spotlight, though there is none. The next song he plays is slow and dark; the notes strain up as if from the ground. People touch themselves to make sure they are there. Are they afraid they don't exist outside the music, that they are nothing but the shadows of the notes? They touch each other.
     Fritz sits on the floor. The room has grass and trees. He isn't in a room? Windows are hidden in the grass. He looks out them and sees rooms.
     Where could there be, here or elsewhere, that Fritz has not been?
     Or.
     Or he is nowhere.

     "On the wind? On this wind?"
     "On every wind. On every wind."
     A house. Rises above the street. As do the others.
     "Jim?"
     "What?"
     "This is it?"
     "Yes."
     "It is?"
     "I don't know."
     "Should we go in?"
     "Should we go in."
     A door opens. This is not unexpected. There are rooms. Many. This, too, is not unexpected.
     As if that answered anything.
     "Try upstairs."
     "But..."
     "But."
     Feet going wearily up the stairs.
     "He's been here! In this room!"
     "Is he there now?"
     "No."
     "Try the next room."
     "Here too!"
     "And?"
     "No. Not now."
     "The next."
     "Yes, also here! But gone."
     "How do you know?"
     "It's wind. Like wind."
     All these doors. Push them open, push them open!
     Feet coming down the stairs.
     "But he's gone."
     "Yes."
     "But he was here!"
     "Was he?"
     "Wasn't he?"
     "I don't know."
     "I could feel it. Like wind."
     "Don't be so certain."
     "Where do we look next?"
     "I don't know."
     "To be so close!"
     "To be so close."
     A door shutting.
     "Jim?"
     "What?"
     "We were close, weren't we?"
     On the street. Faces. More faces.
     Don't be so certain.

     The grassy field spreads out in the shape of a half moon. Fritz lies on his back in the grass, looking up. His hands drum on his knees. A purple wildflower dangles from his mouth. He isn't waiting. If they come, maybe he will be glad. If they don't, why should he demean himself to notice?
     Yes. He soars on every wind. Floats in the air, above the rooftops of the city and down every street, in streams and through houses, in places you have never thought of and places that don't exist. He is where he is and where he isn't, where you are and where you aren't, in all that was and never was.
     Or he isn't?
     But if he is, it hasn't been his conscious intention.

Copyright © 2010 by San Diego State University.

Authors of individual works retain copyright, with the restriction that subsequent publication of any text be accompanied by notice of prior publication in Fiction International.