flameout

In the bowels of a massive school, the substitute leads a class. Joking with the funny students, he feels a warm affinity for them. He thinks he likes this job; it keeps him young. They show him their projects: variations on a cog, some large, some small, some vivid colors. He admires them, but a sneaking melancholy grips him on the inside, something lost he'll never get back. He doesn't belong here anymore; he's overstayed his welcome. School ends, and he searches for an exit, but the endless blue concrete block hallways stretch as he walks. He rests for a moment, leaning on his knees, sweating, and he feels the humming weight of the institution around him, a cold presence watching, stalking him down these halls. Finally, he limps, panting, out onto a balcony overlooking a warm lobby. At night, the school blooms. Bustling crowds explore a maze of galleries, stores, libraries, arcades, cafes. He descends and merges with the others, a new energy in his step. A skeletal man sits hunched in a booth where visitors come to borrow games. Their eyes meet, and he is unnerved to notice tears on the old man's cheek. He averts his eyes and moves on. He lingers with hands in pockets in a play area with toys and puzzles built into colorful geometric walls, but other adults glare, so he continues. An old woman suddenly coughs near his ear, and he becomes paranoid and angry, wiping at his face. He ascends a series of escalators where, to the sides, are vast inaccessible areas decorated like a jungle and lit with technicolor stage lighting. Apes walk upright down a trail on the side of a Styrofoam mountain. He knows they must be animatronic, but their movements seem random, not programmed. He watches but they move out of sight. He looks up and sees a light booth near the ceiling and recognizes the blonde-haired girl working there and admires her ability to create so many shades of comfort. He wishes he could call to her but she is too far. He moves on. He drifts into an art gallery, an exhibit on death. Winding through a tall narrow passageway with carpeted walls, he grows nervous as he looks up at all the morbid paintings. One high on a wall catches his eye: a grey face with orange flames curling out of its gaping mouth and eye sockets. He stop as the edges of his vision smolder and his chest aches and, deep within him, a bittersweet remembering and recentering stirs. He does not belong here, not at all. He remembers why. Spotting an exit, he slips out, fading into the welcoming dark.