Nelson L. Eshleman
Nelson L. Eshleman lives in Calgary, Alberta. His stories have appeared in The Adirondack Review, Southern Ocean Review, Asia Literary Review, 3:AM Magazine, Offcourse Literary Journal, SN Review and Elimae.
Lector, Si Monumentum Requiris, Circumspice
A year long sabbatical had carried Skitzo the Rodeo Clown to destinations both distant and renowned. His most recent port of call featured our nimble traveler casting weary eyes heavenward, admiring the paramount achievement of that notable architect, Christopher Wren.
Waves of Asian immigrants mingle peacefully here with assorted punks, pikers and hooligans under brooding cover of dreary grey cloud. No, not Vancouver. Skitzo stood in front of St. Paul's Cathedral, the one in jolly old London.
One thousand workers. Hand crafted Portland stone. Forty years in the making. A pace to out-rival even modern contractors. And sure, Wren might have lifted some parts of his idea from an earlier blueprint, but let's give the guy credit. It's a "modern day" miracle, the second largest basilica in the world. The tallest structure in a storied capital, or at least it was, until 1962. A lasting monument to one man's pride, ingenuity and persistence. They even entombed him in this shrine.
Outside in the adjacent public square, buskers, beggars and unflappable flower mongers cast inelegant nets among a predictable tide of fresh tourists. Skitzo's attention was soon diverted to a lively band of Celtic minstrels playing nearby on the street.
So sprightly rang the tune that a passel of teen-aged girls on a boarding school field trip had taken to their toes, wholly inspired by adolescent enthusiasm and the strains of this mellifluous jig.
More remarkable was the elderly gentleman clad in green lederhosen with a pointed alpine hat who joined them to dance. Gaily kicking up his heels, he seemed poised for a fling, evidently one of the Highland variety. The oblivious fellow put on quite a brave spectacle, but looked entirely out of place amid this light-footed ensemble.
Some thought him a bit of a nuisance really, but he was difficult to ignore. The eyes of all onlookers couldn't help except be drawn to the tremulous gesticulations of this frail codger, he jerked about with the grace of a skeletal marionette. A silly grin wouldn't mask his ineptitude and even his "all-knowing" wink lacked assurance, weathered as it was with an air of dementia.
Time and again the ardent senior blustered in pursuit of that youthful cluster, making mock invitation to one partner or another, but just as often, each advance was rebuffed. Mortified remonstrations echoed shrilly off cobblestone as the flighty dancers gamely jostled, laughing and dodging away, eyeing him with a modicum of surprise and deserved suspicion.
"The barmy old coot!"? Skitzo thought to himself, as he watched the gent's goofy meanderings. "Had he no shame? No sense of public decorum? Where was his family to take care of him?"
Still the fool danced.
"In heaven's name," Skitzo wished aloud, "If ever I should look so ridiculous, I hope someone would have the kindness to tell me."