The Unlikely Guest

The huge reception hall of the modern business tower captivated every visitor and tenant with its sophisticated luxury and extravagant grandeur. Yet the old man in worn coat and tattered shirt, loose and half-tucked in his dirty baggy pants, strutted along to the elevators, oblivious of the elegant surroundings.

The man walked seeming unaware of the massive walls of exquisite etched glass, the geometric designs reflected in the multi-coloured marble tiles accentuating the floors. Or was he bothered by the chaos of conceptual arts vying for attention amidst the bronze shadows of classic sculptures. He sauntered without haste, his light footsteps a muted echo under the honeycomb canopy of stainless steel lattices and translucent fibre glass. The old man stayed unaffected by the pompous glitter of the place; the towering rare ornamental plants in the revolving inner garden moved past him without even a mere glance. Or was he ever conscious of the miniature waterfalls, pouring their refreshing exuberance in the verdant environment bathe in abundant mood lights.

True, the man in his frayed coat and faded shirt—his loose pants smeared with oil and dried paints—ambled on with undisturbed ease and confidence among the early visitors and occupants of the seventy storey high-rise…Unmindful of the stares and glares of the hurrying crowd, indifferent of the amused scrutiny of businessmen and professionals who held their magnificent courts and lavish offices at the top floors.

“Excuse me,” the man said with a courteous bow as he struggled with his rig, sliding in with other passengers inside the elevator. He fumbled with a folded beaten easel along with his rectangular wooden box overflowing with dirty washcloths, paint brushes, palette knives, and crumpled newspapers. An empty picture frame slung through an arm dangled awkward and loose on his shoulder.

The immediate reaction of those around the man inside the elevator was repugnance—disgusted of his unwelcome presence among them, moving away from him, annoyed. The man seemed lost and misplaced in all these exhibits of boisterous opulence. And as the other passengers opted to wait for the next ride, the rest sneered, giving way.

The elevator attendant hesitated for a while, confused on whether to call Security or shoo away the man. After her long years of experience and unblemished service, she felt undecided whether to wait for some more passengers or move on.

“Oh, there’s more room here...,” the man said, inviting the group milling outside, "I believe even enough for all of us." The man smiled and winked at the others waiting impatiently for the next elevator, their faces glowering with irritation during these rush hours. They do not intend to ride with him, a dirty old derelict apparently here collecting garbage.

The elevator attendant quickly nodded her assurance of available space to those outside. She smiled and beckoned them to get in. Indeed, the wide elevator can accommodate twenty people even with the man’s luggage seeming to distract them. They were only five inside.

“I will stand here in the corner, if you’re all bothered with my tools,” the man said. And to those who entered the elevator, he seemed to shrink, receding with the dwindling space, getting smaller as the rest squeezed in.

In the filled capacity of the elevator as it closed and started to move up, everybody noticed at once a wonderful fragrance, instead of what they all expected and believed. Something earthy, a sharp scent yet soothing relaxed their individual anxieties at the moment. The gentle bouquet lulled their senses, their tensed demeanours to an almost languorous calm—that they all looked at the man, certain it was coming from him.

“Oh, penthouse, please,” the man said, thinking everyone waited for him to call his floor.

The penthouse was designed with an expensive conference room, complete with an excellent bar and a quaint seafood restaurant in the lobby where the attendees can relax during breaks. Or, for the men and women of amoral dispositions, ogle behind the tinted walls of the swimming pool the rich tenants of the centre, usually lolling away their time in skimpy bikinis or in their tiniest thongs.

Everyone in the elevator familiar with the penthouse smirked at each other—their malicious grins and raised eyebrows suggested the presence among them of an unwelcome, dirty voyeur.

A lilting musical note announced each floor where the passengers alighted in a hurry, and before they reached the penthouse, only five of them remained. A young good looking couple who owned a business office and a residential unit here—the handsome well-groomed man cuddling close his equally beautiful wife, clinging to her like a barnacle after the storm. He found out that his father-in-law did not make him the president of the company he was expecting to manage here, elaborating more in succinct terms his in-law’s disgust manifested early before the marriage.

And there was the elderly plain woman of simple attire looking intently at the conspicuous passenger, a little alert since she did not bring any of her bodyguards. She knew her stay will not be long, nor will the meeting take much of her time. Her concerns more of the dwindling attention her lover had lately shown—already indiscreetly confirmed to most of their close friends: The love of her life can no longer live with an old butch like her—in spite of the luxury and money she had thrown at her feet.

And of course, there was the other man whose stern countenance betrayed a situation of near-death gravity. A bankrupt commercial property at the tail end of an ugly divorce, with the knowledge of his malignant cancer lashing against it; his mind set to put a gun in his mouth soon after his business here was over.

To all these tell-tale picturesque facets of complicated and sad human predicaments, the man maintained his silent composure without even looking at the progress of the floors. Yet to the elevator attendant, a fortyish woman of devout religious beliefs—the man made her nervous. She resisted an impulse to make the sign of the cross each time she sneaked a peek at him.

In her unobtrusive scrutiny of her passengers each day of the week she was on duty, this was the first time a stranger—undoubtedly not a tenant or even a guest here—made her feel nervous. As if a terrible wrong was about to happen, to be committed and she was dragged into it: a helpless accessory to a crime, a consort abetting a malicious misdeed. And to her surprise, her last passengers alighted all together with the man on the penthouse floor.

As the elevator door closed and everyone looked surprised—apparent strangers to one another yet standing on the same spot—the attendant caught a glimpse of the man still hobbled with his rig. He was smiling back at her.

The man's eyes glinted in its deep hallow pool of fire, penetrating, burning her urge to scream and warn the others. His merciless stare dug without pity, unearthing her dark secret, exposing the truth and slapping it harsh on her face: She slept with her sister’s son for the second time, seducing the seventeen-year old boy. An illicit, scandalous affair she knew meant more harm than she can anticipate or handle—gaping wide open and naked in salacious details—unravelling with the man's horrifying grin.

The attendant froze at the elevator door, too scared to scream or leave the floor. The man continued with his exposition of her immoral adventures, dropping his own illusion: A huge, bat-skinned animal—no, something else!—crouched low as its size dwarfed the space of the corridor. The thing moved without weight or effort towards the conference room and drew the others to it, pulling their souls like decayed newborns…their soulless bodies hanged limp, mere puppets on strings. The attendant fainted as the elevator closed.

“How nice that you’re all coming to this meeting,” the man said, sincere and unassuming, still lugging along his tools. He provided more space for the others to pass as they filed at the entrance of the conference room.

Yet no one answered him. Each one ignored the man though visibly assessing, judging the worth of his character from head to foot. The young glamorous lady of the pair unabashedly giggled, unable to suppress her amusement of the man who found himself talking to himself.

Still, the man only smiled, and gave way for them to enter first.

The receptionist at the desk ushered them in with a polite smile. “Good morning everyone, Madam, Sir—please take your seats…You’ll find your name card on the table for your appropriate places,” she said, quite rehearsed and impersonal. After all, she had done it already for sixteen times since the arrivals of the guests earlier. But then, abruptly stopped and looked at the man, the last to come in, and almost burst in surprised laughter.

“Excuse me, sir—are you in the correct floor?” she asked, patronizing him, swallowing a giggle as she blocked his path with her hand, showing him out. A bum, if she was to know one, as the smell alone confirmed it…A mixture of spoiling, rotting meat, of obnoxious farts—

“Wendy! Let our guest in!” a male voice shouted behind her, not a request but an order, catching her unaware. “Please excuse my staff—come in, sir…We've all been waiting for you,” the voice carried authority as he welcomed the old man.

The man smiled and nodded, and continued his forward steps…small and short, he knew, yet ahead of everyone else. Behind him, he heard the brutal admonition of the man he knew as Cody at the receptionist. The young woman called Wendy would need to look for another job in a matter of minutes, as she rolled her eyes holding back her tears and shook her head…She was pregnant with an unwanted child, and needed this job, bad.

Later, inside the conference room, the old man's voice fought for attention among the honoured guests. “I offer you all a chance to be a part of my art exhibits,” he said, introducing his presentation. Still, everyone continued to ignore him. Comfortably settled in their seats in the spacious elegance of the conference room, each attendee argued with loud irritation and disgust, fuming in their annoyance of listening to the man.

“Who the hell is this freak?” a gentleman blurted out, arrogant and quite indiscreet, seating in front closest to the old man.

“Some a-hole Cody baby picked up—in a bar, I guess,” the one beside the gentleman answered, and both of them sniggered and threw some peanuts at Cody. The rest continued to talk, to walk around answering their phones or made calls—boisterous children unruly in a classroom unmindful of their guest—deliberately disregarding the man.

True, he met Cody in a dingy bar where he cooled and gathered his priceless possessions before moving on to the next city. Cody bought him a drink, thinking he can offer a soft shoulder to soothe the young man’s broken heart. At thirty two, Cody was a serious art collector, a rich gay curator of the prestigious Museum of Culture and Fine Arts in this city.

Noticing his easel and tools, Cody drifted to his table to unload—or better yet, find a willing company for the night. And the rest of their lascivious encounter saw the young man an enthusiastic procurer for him, calling contacts and rich friends for this one meeting where Cody wanted him to demonstrate his extraordinary artistic skills.

“Hey, douchebag—don’t shit with us, okay?” the handsome man of the sweet pair said, exasperated to spend another minute listening to him. “Look, we invested ten million each—right?” the young man continued, an arm sweeping around the seated guests—rich and reputable ladies and gentlemen of government, society, the arts and commerce—all here to find out what he had to offer on Cody’s behest.

“For chrissakes!—is this it, Cody? Don’t tell us you wasted our time, dammit!” a woman shouted, pointing at the man, her fingers laced with diamond rings soon to be pawned. Behaving more than a caricature of ladies parading the racetracks, her stock market options would dissolve within the day—betting for a win on a horse’s loaded sprint.

“It’s not worth a damn cent of our investments listening to this turkey!” a well-dressed man en route to a family celebration after this meeting shouted, the room erupting in an uproar. Everyone laughed, clapping, tapping, and rising from their seats ready to leave. The well-dressed man on his way to his daughter’s wedding would find his brand new limo with flat tires, shattered windshields, and worst, missing keys even if he would bribe everyone else to find him another car.

“The party’s over, Cody,” the plain old woman from the elevator said, shaking her head, trying to loosen the cobwebs ensnaring her gloomy thoughts—she saw her lover enjoying the kiss and embrace of her young niece, and for once, she believed her life is over.

Yet Cody immediately step in front of them, and persuaded each to at least let the man finish his presentation. “I know how much you've all invested for this show—” Cody said, nodding at the man to continue, “and I know it’s worth it!”

Thus, still unaffected by the poor reception of his audience to what he was about to say, the man said, “Allow me to demonstrate—maybe, you’ll find this interesting.” He picked up the empty picture frame, aligned it like an old camera in front of them, focusing and positioning everyone to fit inside, all together in the wide lavish magnificence of the conference room.

“Smile, dammit!” the stern-faced man shouted, and everyone laughed and threw more peanuts at Cody. “Is that it? Can we go now?” he continued, grim and determined, visibly annoyed, his face a red sheen of uncontrolled anger and irritation.

“Please, your Honour—let him finish…I saw what he did, and you’ll never believe it!” Cody said, trying to calm the Honourable Judge of the city’s Supreme Court. The Judge invested more than the others, and he wanted 150% profit for his investments. That is, if he still lives.

“Uh, sir—will you show them what you showed me?” Cody said, addressing the man, who nodded his consent and rummaged through his bag. He picked up a rolled canvas. With effortless ease, he tucked it on the easel, and everyone in the conference room gasped.

“This is my latest…Oh, about a day ago,” the man said, receding in the background as everyone stood and crammed nearer to ogle and study the painting. “This is the Washington Monument, which you’re all familiar with,” the man continued to elaborate while they crowded in front in complete astonishment.

Today’s news carried the unexplained gaping hole where the monument once stood. As if the grounds and everything else around its circular perimeter several hundred metres wide were uprooted, flattened, bulldozed without anyone noticing or hearing anything—puzzling the authorities while talks of alien invasion muddled and curdled the reports.

“My God!—how on earth did you do that?” exclaimed the plain old woman from the elevator. Apparently, she was the heir to the fortunes of the oil multibillionaire, and now collects art pieces for her own burgeoning museum. Yet, this was her first time to see such eerie kind of art: glowing, moving, breathing in its own majestic splendor.

“Isn’t this—this was on the news!” exclaimed the pretty wife from the couple, mesmerized and agitated. Her eyes twinkled, already counting the millions coming back for their investments.

“Oh, yes…I was fortunate to have done it before it vanished,” the man said, humble still, seeming satisfied with his luck.

“Fantastic!” said the couple, not in unison but with their eyes bulging in disbelief. What they all saw left them astounded, enthralled that each one sat back on their appointed seats again—quiet little boys and girls, this time—and gawked in silence at the riveting beauty of the painting.

It was no more than a rectangular piece of picture measuring about 24 by 18 inches, and yet, it was so vivid and detailed that everyone in the room confessed they thought it moved—the branches and leaves in the trees among the background seemed to sway. To them, it felt as if they can stroll the grounds like on Sunday afternoons—swearing there was a whisper of breeze amidst the chirping of birds.

A hush conversation intermingled among the attendees as their eyes sparkled and beamed at the thought of the sumptuous returns for their money, all their doubts obliterated.

“Can I have one? I want one of my own!! How much is one? I want all!!”

The rich and respectable ladies and gentlemen broke in sudden pandemonium of greed and selfishness, shouting and stomping their feet for the man’s attention—the women pushing and fighting to get near, as the man smiled and aligned the empty picture frame to capture this thrilling moment of unabashed human imperfection.

Twenty of the rich, powerful, and famous in this city, were all in trance of what the man can do, intrigued by his techniques, his exceptional talent, his excellent craftsmanship. That they forgot his unbecoming demeanour, his small unimposing stature, and most of all, his malodorous smell that continued to assault their senses.

It seeped through their skins, crept inside their flesh, melting their resistance and erasing their present realities. Each one accepted the terrible changes manifesting within their precarious existence with glee—captivated, and held captive, by the man.

“Going down?” the elevator attendant said, and welcomed a young woman with her bag of rolled canvasses, an easel, a small box and an empty picture frame, alone from the penthouse floor. “The meeting finished already, Ma'm?” the attendant continued in a happy disposition as he eyed the good looking sweetheart taking a ride in his cab. But before the lass can answer, the musical note chimed in, opening the door once more. A group of pampered kids with their uniformed servants and some adults barged in.

Halfway down the ride to ground floor, the elevator was packed and full, and the attendant lost sight of his pretty passenger from the penthouse conference room. When he turned to look at the remaining passengers, only a teenage boy and some businessmen in their expensive tailored suits were left. The boy smiled at him as if they knew each other, and he smiled back. The attendant noticed the boy was into art school, lugging a large bag with his projects carelessly rolled and inserted inside, while a tall easel and an empty frame leaned on his side.

On the twenty eight floor on their way down, another rush of passengers squeezed their way in. And when everyone alighted on the fifth floor—where the arcade, the movie houses, and the fast food restaurants all gathered and sold their commercial instant pleasures—the attendant only saw an old man with his rig bundled tight in a corner, seeming to have fallen asleep. “Ground floor, sir—or the basement parking lot?” the attendant asked with a smile, still amiable and cordial despite his boring job.

“Ground level only, please,” said the old man, his voice tired, resigned. He must give this young man something to look forward to tonight before he gets home…Perhaps, a call from his wife, to tell him the news of their teenage daughter missing since noon.

The melodic chime announced the ground floor, and the old man stepped out of the elevator to the hallway with a snap and vigour that the luggage he tugged along seemed light and empty. The attendant lost sight of the man as passengers entered the elevator going up once more, his thoughts on his lovely seventeen year old and what he did to her last night.

The doorman opened the door for the gentleman on his way out in spiffy, expensive clothes. “Have a nice day, sir,” the doorman said, as a bellhop tagged along pushing a luggage cart with an expensive looking metal box and a large bag of rolled paintings, together with a folded easel and an empty gold picture frame.

The man, the doorman thought, must be a foreigner, a collector or an art gallery owner to carry such a large number of paintings. He must have met with some local artists here and bought a few to exhibit abroad. The man’s dark skin tones and curved high nose easily reminded him of Arab Bedouins, terribly wealthy individuals possibly touring here on his way to Europe.

The man did not wait for his car, though, but instead took his luggage and smiled at the bellhop, who stood in awe as the man lifted everything with ease, and moved fast crossing the street. The bellhop knew the box alone weighed more than twelve kilos, which made him hurry to catch up.Yet the man took everything from him with one hand.

The man hopped and skipped as he walked the city streets, light on his feet in the afternoon sun, eyes glinting in flame-red sparkle—its eerie natural colour. More than happy once again to enlarge his collections and reap his monetary souvenirs, he cannot wait to focus and capture his new picture—the Black House. Not as it was presently called, though, but with the corrupt souls loitering under its wings—the racial hypocrisies it exercised blatant and continuous within—it deserved the brand new moniker. For the blacker the tainted souls, the more pleasures, and that for him, was a delicious, covetous picture-perfect prize.

The man walked a steady step one at a time in his half-erect, crouching nature, unmindful of the marks he left behind. His pointed footsteps seared, etched the pavement, while fumes of steaming ash rose in each stamping, hopping stride. Despicable and pompous with his massive erection bobbing along, his short malevolent wings fluttered, applauding together with immoral delight—thrilled of the sensation he accomplished once more with his indecent lies.

Yet among the rush of late afternoon crowd, not one who came closest to him noticed it or smelled the putrid vapours emanating from him—or did they even hear the anguish wails and screams rising and dying from his bag of rolled canvasses.

Oh, what a joy to mingle with the living, breathing human beings! Each one so gullible, greedy, and corrupt—willing and ready to exchange their wretched, worthless souls for a promise he always obliged. A wicked dream he can more than provide, painted luscious and tempting in their minds, planted and plucked and gobbled one at a time.

The man laughed, seductive, alluring, extremely vicious and heartless in his natural form—wagging with erotic swagger the stump of a tail—suggestive, ecstatic, aroused.

Oh, how the humans enriched his proud malicious existence! How they embraced without hesitation or doubt his calculated lies. Everyone held a reserved place for him, though secured in a dark secret spot deep in their fragile hearts. With unconscious intentions, they kept vigil to him in their avaricious desires—an insurance he savoured as he will always remain alive—writhing forever with glee in the conscious crimes of humankind.