I took long walks into the insomniac’s night. Wild music thumped on the deserted sidewalk. I peered into the smeary barroom window. A man in coveralls slept with his head on his arms at a table. Pool balls cracked next to his ear. Angry hairy faces, full of booze were engaged in the battle of the green felt, and blood may spill. I walked onward before I drew some menace from the watering hole. Then I met the traveler on a starless street corner.
He came along wearing something like a hooded robe. He stopped me by the defunct Family Video Store, with its empty shelves, near the silent railroad tracks. “Hey pal, you got a cigarette?”
He was hard to make out in the fuzzy darkness that seemed more dangerous than usual since the carnival came to town. The orange streetlights reflected off the shop windows but didn’t reach the outer darkness, where we stood. The string of stoplights flashed a perpetual yellow—saying in a dozing blink, “Sleep town, sleep, but if you come through, you may pass.” Beyond the railroad tracks, a green Ferris wheel climbed above the black trees, and I heard the screams of a crowd. I fished for my smokes.
“Here you go.” Smokers somehow can always spot other smokers. It’s not our offending cigarette stink. We are immune to that, or the orange fingertips. Perhaps it’s a sixth sense of addiction that gives us this special power. I don’t really know? Or a desperation in our body language, that cues other smokers. Something a little grimy on the rind of our skin tone. Who knows? I know about Jonesing, jittering along alleys, looking for a butt, or accosting a stranger.
“Thanks, chief.” I went from pal to chief. I sort of liked his names for me. He lit the cigarette from an unseen lighter, like a magic trick. It warbled flashing blue then hot white. I winced at how bright it was, and I imagined Luke Skywalker and his saber lighting up the universe. His mouth worked fast, and he took nervous quick drags. “Are-are you heading to the carnival, chief?” I noticed he carried a bag, and it moved around.
“Thought about it.” It was Friday night, and it had been luring me all week with greasy food and the noisy sexless crowd. I envisioned corn dogs and elephant ears under the bright obfuscating yellow lights, and the constant buzz of people like hornets on a hive. The wind picked up and a paper cup took off dancing doing a lonely tango across the street. I didn’t like that sack squirming around, was he harming an animal?
“Would you do me a favor, pal?” I saw a shine of eagerness in his dark eyes or imagined it in his high voice.
“It depends?” I judged that this man as the user type, possibly a carnival grifter, a carny. A creature of lore that has a distant lineage with the Roma people, unfavorably called Gypsies. I imagined him operating the Ferris Wheel too fast and braking hard, sucking on a bottle of Jack Daniels, or running the shell game with a blur of dexterity. “Do you have an animal in that bag, sir?”
“Yes, you have found out my secret. I’m Roberto, and I’m ecstatic to make your acquaintance. Any fellow smoker is a confederate of mine. You know how people are these days.” He stuck out his hand, and I shook it finding it cold, then he took a drag, lighting up his hood. A pleasant smile appeared in the cigarette’s bright cherry. A smile that no doubt opened doors and maybe a ladies bodice, if there is such a thing now? “Can you do me a square? I think the term is square…or a favor.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to be his confederate, or do him any favors. His words were odd like he came from a gentile novel, or maybe that was part of his con? I asked, “So what can I do for you?” I’m always so ridiculously helpful to a fault. His features were still hard to see. So I went on his anxious body language and excited voice tone.
“I have to catch a motor coach, a-a bus, and I can’t take the rabbit. Would you take care of Mr. Jumpers?”
“Do what?”
“He’s a good boy, and he’s part of the vaudeville—or-or the magic act. I shouldn’t have taken him. Please tend him for me?” I followed his gaze down the street to the dark bus station. The Greyhound sign blinked. A distant set of headlights trundled through the flashing yellow lights, and I heard the pressure hiss of air brakes. Roberto tried to hand me the bag, then put it on the sidewalk. “I must go!” He flicked his cigarette into the street and red sparks flew up.
“Wait!” He ran, and I saw white stars and moons on the back of his black cloak. I briefly thought he was a magician, and he indeed disappeared. I watched him climb right onto the bus, and it was moving in a wide arc heading back to the highway. Roberto in the lit-up windows was just a faceless hood with his thumb up. I watched the red taillights disappear through the series of yellow flashing lights.
“Gee whiz! What is going on, here?” The bag tried to hop away. I felt sorry for the abandoned rabbit. If it was a rabbit? I picked it up, and it stretched upward. I flinched trying to keep hold of the elongated bag that pushed on its strong back legs. “It’s okay, buddy.” It calmed down in my arms. I carried it toward the nearest streetlight.
I screwed up my courage and loosened the drawstring. Tall white ears flopped out like warm velvet touching my hand, and big red eyes caught the streetlight. I noticed there were white stars and moons on the bag like Roberto’s coat. I carefully petted the white head and realized the rabbit was friendly and it was heavy. It tucked its body deeper into my cradled arms, and I felt a wave of sympathy for it. “It’s going to be alright Mr. Jumpers.”
I looked across the railroad tracks and the green lit Ferris wheel was still turning above the trees, and it was almost 1:30 A.M.
Should I find the owner at the carnival? The stretch was darker than uptown, with each step I seemed to head to some fate. The Ferris Wheel climbing closer above the trees like the wheel in the sky. Mr. Jumpers rode without squirming.
The gate entrance of the 4-H Park was open and the bright carnival smell of fried grease and cotton candy greeted me. I saw the lit-up arms of the teacup ride lifting and spinning a tired person into the night sky. The person looked like a captive drifting into the darkness, and spinning into the light. I didn’t see anyone operating the ride. It spooked me, and instead of investigating, I kept moving.
The midway was dim and full of flattened snow cone paper cups and cigarette butts. The games wound down to a few hangers-on, half-heartedly tossing rings and ping-pong balls at goldfish bowls. Like some force kept them gambling for trinkets and stuffed monkeys. Teenagers with glassy feral eyes strolled down the midway. I tucked Mr. Jumpers closer to me. The rabbit shivered. Why had I come here?
I guess insomniacs don’t know what they are doing in the wee hours, so I walked past the dark oval of the grandstand where a smash-up Derby banner hung. It said Friday 7:00 PM $7.50 General Attendance-KIDS FREE. Wrecked cars sat out in the oval, where loose horses trotted. The cars looked like mangled prehistoric beasts all done for this world.
I walked toward the darkness up to a long building with a single light on the peak. I heard the sounds of large animals banging into the stall walls.
The bag stiffened, and Mr. Jumpers, cried. I am not familiar with rabbits, but it was certainly a cry. A shadow grew from the darkness. It formed as if it came up from the grass, and he entered the circle of light like an actor on a stage. A gleaming black suit, long shiny pants a black hat and flowing white hair and dark circles under his eyes. “I see you have the rabbit.” It sounded like he meant his rabbit.
“Yes.”
“He was to be retired tonight after the last show. Roberto wanted to save him but saved himself.”
“What do you mean by retired, sir?” I felt the little creature’s heart beating next to mine. It seemed to know about death. Both of us were frightened now.
“All must retire from the stage.”
“But the rabbit wants to live is all.”
“Ah well, so he does.” He folded himself into a courtly bow, something like a praying mantis, and tapped his tall hat. He looked benign with a strange and gracious smile. His eyes were black and deadly. “I’ll see you another night.”
I thought me? What do you want with me? I felt the rabbit shaking, and I looked down, saying, “It’s okay.” and when I looked up the man was gone.
My footsteps followed Roberto’s back up the street. I am saving the rabbit, coursed through my mind. The Ferris Wheel loomed behind me and seemed to grow in power and meaning with every step, like the circle of life. I wondered about that person on the teacup ride. Were they still on an aimless journey, spinning to nowhere?
I found myself on the starless street corner, and I held the rabbit. The defunct Family Video store watched me with blank black windows. “Your safe now Mr. Jumpers.” I felt the street and the planks of the world wanting to pull apart. I’d had that sensation before.
Image by Marian Deacu from Pixabay – a white rabbit – sleeping.
literally stories 
Another deliciously curious piece, almost Bradbury-like in tone. I wasn’t sure where it was going but was relieved by the ending, even if we don’t know what happened next to the narrator and Me Jumpers!
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Thanks Steven! It gave me goose bumps when you mentioned Ray Bradbury.
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Thanks Steven! It gave me goosebumps when you mentioned Ray Bradbury.
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Christopher
Pleased for Mr Jumpers. You have effectively captured one of the weirder degrees of reality–one which happens only at night when you are alone.
Leila
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Thanks Leila. It’s funny how writing is like that–always alone and hoping to go somewhere.
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Thanks Leila, It’s funny how writing is like that–always alone trying to get somewhere.
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This had a wonderful, almost lyrical tone to it and perfect pace. I was captured by the mystery and the descriptions and though it seems that Mr Jumper is safe for now I am left with the feeling that the tawdriness of the world when the morning comes will be a disappointment. Great stuff – Thank you – Diane
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Thanks Diane! Glad you like the story. When the writing gets tough again like it always does. I will reflect back on your encouraging wonderful words.
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Evocative atmosphere puts the reader in the story as though silently following the mc. The Street Corner appears to be a part of a much longer piece.
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Thanks Doug! Glad the story took you somewhere. I’ll think about what you said about expanding it. I appreciate ya!
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What a great tale. I found myself reading it in a compelled way, similar to the way the darkness compelled the narrator. Thank god Mr. Jumpers was saved! This, I loved: “The stretch was darker than uptown, with each step I seemed to head to some fate.”
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Thanks TWOFS, so glad you liked the story! I love to write about darkness.
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I loved how the ominous tone built and built. It left me tense with worry about how things would go in the end. So glad Mr. Jumpers was spared for the time being, and the cryptic ending lines will stay with me for a while.
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Thanks Mousey, Glad you liked the story! That means a lot about the last lines lingering. Music to my ears!
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Gets creepier and creepier. The MC seems to have saved Mr. Jumpers but who will save the MC when it’s his time? An original and we’ll-written tale.
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Thanks David! Wow that’s high praise. Much appreciated.
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A simple and odd tale told with so much skill – I was completely drawn in from the opening paragraph with the excellent pace and tone of this piece. I reread your opening paragraph three times – the first 5 sentences all containing a single verb gives such a great opening in terms of drawing the reader in, and then the sentence structure eases up a little to bring more of a sense of comfort and balance – masterful.
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Thanks Paul! Wow, that’s great feedback. Gives me something to really think about.
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A wonderfully written story; the author’s choice of words and very effective metaphors just stand out. One can almost fell himself walking onto the carnival grounds, smelling the grease and the cotton candy. This is a very good story. Thanks for sharing.
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Thank you so much Baby Tope! Glad you liked the story.
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This MC has found a purpose. Take care of Mr. Jumpers. Reminded me of the T. V. series Carnivale, with its strange creatures. Roberto passes the MC the bag, now the MC’s left holding it, and he doesn’t let it go. He knows how the rabbit feels.
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Thanks Harrison, I like your insight. That’s a good way to put it.
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Hi Christopher,
That’s as good a first paragraph as I’ve read!
I can’t really explain this but when a story is so well written, I hear the narration.
The characters were colourful and very interesting. The description of the bar was beyond brilliant and in the end, in this world that you created, there was a wee touch of hope and a helluva lot of heart!!
Superb my fine friend.
Hugh.
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Thanks so much Hugh! I’m really happy you liked my story! I’m truly grateful and honored for your comments–so glad it connected. Christopher
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To the Readers:
In the late 20th century, legendary fiction editor Gordon Lish (known as Captain Fiction, or The Legitimizer) discovered and published two fabulous short stories (among others), “Neighbors,” by Ramond Carver, and “Water Liars,” by Barry Hannah.
This short story by Christopher J. Ananias is a masterpiece of the form. After having reread both “Neighbors” and “Water Liars” by Carver and Hannah, and comparing them side by side with “A Starless Street Corner” by CJA, I can, as a professionally trained literary critic currently at the height of my powers (Doctor of Philosophy Degree in English and Creative Writing, University of Illinois Chicago), say that “Street Corner” can easily compete, or stand side by side, with these two works by Carver and Hannah. In my opinion, this “Street Corner” story is probably, with zero exaggeration, better than both “Neighbors” and “Water Liars.”
So I want to offer absolute CONGRADS to Ananias for somehow creating this mysterious and deeply human short story masterpiece, as well as offering CONGRADS to LITERALLY STORIES for discovering, and publishing, this piece. Both the author and the editors deserve an unreserved round of kudos, applauses, high fives, handshakes, and, as Hugh has it, plaudits, for this work.
Sincerely.
Dr. Dale Williams Barrigar, and Boo, Bandit, and Colonel
Chicago, Illinois, USA
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PS,
This story makes the normal seem wild, and the wild seem normal.
On thinking deeply about this fact in relation to this story, one can learn much about both story-telling and life itself.
Dale
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Dale
Wow this high praise! Thank you so much for commenting. It’s a great honor to be spoken in the same light as Raymond Carver. I discovered Mr. Carver later in life and stories like “Chef’s House,” “Where I’m Calling From,” and “Furious Seasons,” to mention a few, have left an indelible mark. Now I have a new author to read Barry Hannah, which I’m looking forward to doing. I enjoy hearing about Gordon Lish, such a renowned persona, almost like a modern day Maxwell Perkins, but with two radically different approaches. Thanks also to the fine furry fellows, Boo, Bandit and Colonel.
Christopher
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Christopher
Barry Hannah is a cool writer to check out some day…I think Johnson said he was influenced by Hannah in Jesus’ Son…Some of Hannah’s work is so wild and experimental, you can’t tell what the hell is really going on, he’s that wild…But his best work, like Water Liars and the short novel RAY, can easily stand beside Jesus’ Son in clarity, and quality…
He was also wild in life, like the time he removed a pistol from his briefcase during a creative writing class, waved it around at some obnoxious students, and told them to start paying better attention RIGHT NOW….I think he was fired for that one. And many others. Chain-smoking, former alcoholic motorcycle riding college professor who would NEVER survive the gender commissars and politically-correct thought-police of modern academia even for one second.
A white soldier was once preaching to Geronimo about Jesus.
The great leader Geronimo (who was only personally liked by a small circle of friends and admirers) said, “You have the better religion. WE know how to live.” If only we’d listened to him!!!!!….I think Native American wisdom is the ONLY thing that can save us now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (and we’d better start listening very fast…)
Dale
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Dale
Yes this Barry Hannah sounds like an absolute gold mine to study. Anyone who can stand up alongside Jesus’ Son has to be the man. He sounds like an absolute wild man!
Yes that’s the way of it now with all these strange social peculiarities forced on people these days. It just a bunch of glare and fuzz that the opponents to the environment cruised through it to the White House.
I agree The Native Americans are the ones! Hey you have an essay coming out tomorrow, right?
Christopher
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Hi Christopher!
Just answering your question…yes….my “Kafkaesque” essay is up (or out) today! Thanks!
Dale
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Hi Dale,
I just read it and commented. it’s “Insanely Great” as Steve Jobs used to say.
Christopher
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