The Other Side of Paradise

The Other Side of Paradise

I can still remember standing at the side of a dirt track, a sodium-coloured sun high in the sky. The heat made the air shimmer as crane flies patrolled. Looking out at the lake, I often thought of this place as Paradise. You could be forgiven for thinking that there were religious connotations but it was more about serenity. This was a place I could find peace; a solitude sought away from the helter-skelter of the world and everything it entailed. Somewhere the grass was greener; a place where worries could be parked even for a short time.

This is my first visit in years. In younger days, I would slope off from our nearby farm and lie among the reeds, hidden on a river bank. Here I would secretly ponder about life and read books written by my favourite authors. It felt like just me and nature were the only things that mattered.

Nobody ever came looking for me; not that I can recall. There were times when I wished people cared. I would hear people in church talking about virtue and singing hymns. Sermonising. Of course, they could never know what I thinking of at the time. I would join in as expected but, whilst everyone was praising the Lord, I would be daydream about things; about life.

Jenny sang in church. She had blonde hair, blue eyes and wore a bonnet on her head. I always wanted her to find me. I often think of her with hymn book in hands, belting out another adulatory song. I don’t think she ever did notice me. I would watch her from a few rows behind, glancing up discreetly so that nobody else could see me gazing. The old preacher would stand at the front, overseeing the service. His face was a relief map of times gone by, years etched through creases on his forehead. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders and the hopes of a parish in his soul.

Life has moved on since then, of course. I am middle-aged these days. I have a wife, two children, a mortgage and a Toyota Prius to support. They will be wondering where I am. The truth is, I seem to have imploded. There I was sitting on the train watching the sun rise, caressing the sleep from my eyes when I stopped to think about everything. This lousy daily commute, the insufferable scramble for yet more consumerism, the limitations of an informal social network that foster predictable politics that exist within an office environment. I never finished the journey, instead getting off and returning home. The house was empty when I got back. I sat in the front room for a bit, feeling uncomfortable that my mobile phone was switched off. It would be resounding with messages left enquiring where I was by now; the reality being that I was nowhere, at least in my head.

I wanted to send my wife a message to explain. However, turning my phone back on was not something I contemplated at this point. She was at work and the kids at school or college. So I reverted to pen and paper and scrawled a note. There wasn’t much to say; just that I had gone back to my home town; our home town. A half-forgotten backwater home town. But fate was calling me. I had to go.

So I find myself at a bar. A neon sign blinks outside – “Joe’s Place”. Through the glass doors will be a cross-section of humanity idling the day away or nobody at all. Either way, I head in. There’s a bartender polishing glasses with a cloth, staring absently at empty spaces. Pool tables on the far side remain unused, strip-lighting ready to be switched on and bring them to life. The smell of beer infuses the atmosphere, bleaching the air. I ease onto a stool and glance over at the twentysomething with curly blonde hair and spectacles. He has a faraway look on a college-boyish face, his white tee shirt and blue jeans suiting a casual vibe that could be from a laundrette ad.

He slides over and stands in front with a smile; without speaking he wants to know what I’m having and I opt for a Budweiser. As he pours the drink he absently asks how long I’m in town for. After a few moments I reply that I’m not sure. Acknowledging with a nod, the now full glass is deposited onto a beer mat on the wooden surface. I twist in my seat, panning across the empty room and enquire as to when most people arrive. He tells me that most folks start to filter in late afternoon. Otherwise, it’s just me and the ghosts of my past.

It’s then that I disclose that this is where I was brought up before moving to the bright lights of the big city. The young man shows genuine interest telling me that he’s often thought about leaving. I ruminate on the consequences of my decision to break from my roots and take the leap into the rat race. There’s a bigger and better life to be had where you can accumulate more stuff but, ultimately, are you happier? All of this is a prelude to the question I have been itching to ask.

I look straight at him noting his blue eyes and how striking his features are; there’s a hint of Tom Cruise. Taking a breath, I finally mention the Alcott family. He says that he knows them and that they still live on the outskirts. I refine the search and politely fish to find out if he knows of Jenny. She must be in her late forties by now. He leans on the bar, the palm of his hand cupping his chin in thought. As he thinks, I wonder what he will say. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since I saw her last. Torrents.

The wait for a reply seems to last an eternity but when he finally pushes himself up, my body tenses in anticipation. Yes, he does know a Jenny Alcott; sweet-looking girl who had all the boys after her when she was younger. Turns out that she married a local doctor and together that had four children; all boys. He confirmed that they have been happily wedded for many years and that Jenny is now something of a rotund woman who likes a gossip with her friends over iced tea. “Of course she is” I think to myself. Why wouldn’t she have changed along with the rest of the world? My head is full of rhetorical chatter. I’m sure the bartender has noticed judging by the odd sideways look he is now giving me.

He shuffles away as the doors behind me open. I imagine the first of the local bar flies making their way in, arms around shoulders swapping bonhomie after a hard day’s graft at something or other. Someone sits down at the stool next to me and I take a swig of my beer minding my own business. I can feel eyes staring at me, burning a hole. It’s then that I look up and turn slightly to see who it is that’s parked themselves so close. My eyes swim all over them. Dark hair like a raven’s, slim nose, green eyes and a beautiful mouth. Her cotton dress and red shoes make her look like she’s from a movie.

My wife asks me if I’m coming home now.

I nod, smile and turn to leave those ghosts of the past. They will be waiting for me to return again someday.

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