On Thursdays, Alfred would eat walnuts.
He would eat walnuts while riding on the bus.
He would sit there, there on the bus, alone in the seat right next to the emergency exit, a seat of unrivaled prestige and supreme responsibility.
He would sit there in that seat, and he would remove from his overcoat, which he had purchased in a second-hand store in a parallel universe, he would remove from the left hip pocket of that very overcoat a glass jar of walnuts.
Then he would scrunch up his face in a furious knot, seeking to conjure up some more robust instance of himself, some virile mythic reconstruction of his character in which his strength and constitution were qualities far more predominant than in his current incarnation.
And then he would take the jar of walnuts (the jar of walnuts which rode along inside of the bus, which rode along the street, which rode along the earth, which rode of course along through the cavernous grooves inside of the nooks and crannies of a massive galactic walnut, sailing in perpetuity through the infinite polyunsaturated Omega-3 cosmos) and he would grip the lid of the jar with all of his might and then slowly begin to twist it off.
Some days were easier than others.
Some days the lid would pop right off in an instant, triggering the universal sound of success that one exclusively associates with the breaching of the hermetic seal between jar and lid, that unmistakable electrifying 'pop' which symbolizes the conquest of muscle and torque and determination over the forces of suction and physics, that incredible sound which not only resonates through the molecules of the lid, the remover, and the jar (not to mention the contents within), but which also vibrates throughout the entire universe in a pulsing proliferation of cascading cymatics, a love letter if you will to consciousness itself, where the adoration for unifying previously separated atmospheric spaces is professed by the simplest and most gratifying of sounds.
On those days, Alfred felt triumphant, and so he would eat his walnuts with a ferocious vigor, like a goth tribe sacking a town.
Then there were the hard days.
These were the days where Alfred would board the bus at 7th street, coifed and well dressed in his usual argyle sweater, mint green track pants and bamboo slippers (and of course his trans-dimensional overcoat), full of excitement and optimism. But on these days, by the time the bus approached his destination at the accordion factory, he would look like man who had been ravaged by a lifetime of insufferable conflict.
A wild mess he would be, his hair a tumultuous jungle, his teeth and eyes a portrait of madness. Ghastly fingerprints might be found on the window beside him, creating a trail of desperation leading to a half-pulled emergency exit handle. Often his sweater would be turned nearly inside-out, his overcoat and track pants wrapped around his torso like bandages constricting a mummy. There he would sit (a wildly generous summation of his current pose), unable to move, his hands fused to the glass cylindrical parcel as if for dear life, one gripping the lid and the other the jar, his fingers and thumbs now a sculpture of muscle and tendons deadlocked in a berserk stalemate, like an electrified, molten Rodin, his paws frozen solid in a temporal glimpse of endless frustration.
As the bus slowed, his mind would spin, transfixed in a doom loop, wondering if there was some other version of Alfred in a parallel universe (perhaps even the one where he had acquired the overcoat) who was going through a similar challenge involving transportation and provisions, except that version of Alfred was plucking mangos from a sack while sunbathing on a yacht.
On those days, Alfred tasted only defeat.
Of his walnuts, he ate none.
But every now and then, on the rarest of those days, when all hope appeared to be lost, fate would find sympathy upon observing his miserable condition and cast out her tumbling dice against the tabletop of the universe. If those dice settled in a manner which produced a favorable outcome, then the universe would do what it always did - set into motion a series of seemingly random events which would compound into the extraordinary, coagulating chaos and coincidence into nothing less than a miracle.
On one occasion, a lemur who recently parted ways with his confines at the zoo dashed in front of the bus, bounding to safety a moment before death. On another, the bus rolled through a pothole which milliseconds before had not even existed. Occasionally a parade would materialize in front of the bus a moment before impact, or a stop sign which had no business being there would flash before the driver's eyes. Regardless of the flavor of implementation, the outcome was always the same - the driver twisted the wheel and jammed on the brakes, and the bus changed direction. Sudden forces travelled through the vehicle like bowling balls down a waterslide, transferring violent movement from wheels to chassis to seats to passengers.
And if one such passenger might be engaged in a sudden death contest with the titanic forces of vacuum physics (as Alfred might have been), then that little extra jolt, that multistep transmutation of divine will into kinetic energy by way of a trivial twist in transportation trajectory, was oftentimes just enough to momentarily amplify the output of Alfred’s grip, helping him burst through the barometric plateau separating walnut from man, turning somber capitulation into a glorious and unexpected victory, the fanfare of which expressed itself in an electrifying and unmistakable 'pop'.
On those days, Alfred felt truly alive.
He would depart the bus and stand in the sun, untangling his clothing while the warm wind tossed his hair, his subconscious ruminating on how existence itself was the perfect synthesis of willpower and luck. Then he would eat his walnuts slowly, nut by nut, gently examining the perplexingly nuanced geography of each one, pondering the shape of the universe, the role of chance in everyday life, and the nature of the mysterious forces which might have conspired to bring about such a wonderful conclusion.
This story was written for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Each month, STSC members share something around a set theme. This cycle, the theme was “Bus”. If you are a person who engages in creative endeavors, you might consider joining us.
All righty now, that's the way to do it Alfred. Nice done, Greg, what an interesting ride. :)
🤌