A minute at dawn, the hours yawn. Something ends, before it begins, and yet nobody wins. The grayness of the winter turns into the freshness of the spring. But it’s Fall now. The faded colors are toning his heart as he passes by some old leaves that spin with the wind for a waltz. He rushes through the park, just like through his life, to conquer time, to fight mortality, and to kill the solitude which seems to weaken him day after day.
“This isn’t freedom, it’s emptiness, desperate knocking on unknown doors,” says Mr. Glooman. He puts his scarf around his neck, and he knows that summer is indeed dead. The signs of autumn have already appeared in Paris: the reddening leaves, the chill in the early morning air, the rainy evenings, and finally, his melancholy that seems as dark as the sky in late October. The season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, he thinks, and for a second he can smell the tasty vanilla plum pie that his mother used to make. He begins to savor the precision of the moment, but by then it’s gone.
Mr. Glooman is walking around on the city’s endless streets, searching for something unexplainable. Suddenly, the wind starts to whistle in a grievous way, whispering the past behind his back. He’s about to cry, but his father’s voice comes to his mind saying, “Boys don’t cry.” He smiles to himself and thinks, It takes more strength to cry, to admit defeat.
At the Montsouris Park, people give a pitiful look to Mr. Glooman. A look that people usually give to drunk and homeless beggars on the Champs-Élysées. For a few seconds he’s standing in the park by himself. He feels lost like a ship at sea, and he’s longing for the next wave to come. He hopes that with its help maybe he can pass through the storms in his life and arrive to a peaceful harbor.
The park bench is deserted as he sits down to think, beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree. Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown, the world has an intent on dragging him down. And if that isn’t enough to ruin his day, a young boy approaches him, all tired from play. The little boy is about six or seven. His clothes seem worn and are covered with sand. He stands right before Mr. Glooman with his head tilted down and says with great excitement, “Look what I’ve found!” In his hand is a flower, and what a pitiful sight, with its petals all worn… probably because of not enough rain, or too little light.
Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play, Mr. Glooman fakes a small smile and then shifts away. But instead of retreating the boy, he sits next to him and declares with overacted surprise, “It sure smells pretty and it’s beautiful too. That’s why I picked it; here, it’s for you.” The weed before him is dying or dead, not vibrant of colors: orange, yellow and red. But Mr. Glooman knows that he must take it, or the boy might never leave. So, he reaches for the flower, and replies, “Thanks, just what I need.” But instead of the boy placing the flower into the man’s hand, he holds it mid-air without reason or plan. It’s then that he notices for the very first time that the weed-toting boy cannot see… he is blind.
Now he feels sadder than before. As the tears that roll down his face begin to hit the ground, they are suddenly joined by other drops… and more drops… and more. Mr. Glooman looks up at the sky and then back to the little boy. He hears his voice quiver; tears shine in the sun as he thanks the boy for picking the very best one. “You’re welcome,” the boy smiles, and then goes off to play; unaware of the impact he had on his day.
In that moment everything seems perfect. Mr. Glooman finally found what he was searching for. Everything comes together and for no discernible reason a calm peace settles in his heart. For just a moment, he forgets that he’s cold, tired and alone in his deep sorrow. The world is a puzzle interlocking perfectly and he’s exactly at the right place.
Mr. Glooman sits there and wonders how the boy managed to see a lonely man beneath an old willow tree. How did he know of his self-indulged plight? Perhaps from his heart, he’d been blessed with true sight.
Through the eyes of a blind child, at last he could see the problem was not in the world; the problem was his attitude. For all of those times he himself had been blind, he vowed to see the beauty in life, and should have appreciated every second that’s his.
As Mr. Glooman comes to this conclusion, he’s sure that he doesn’t want to be a pathetic figure that captures the sense of the unheroic nature of life; a man, who would retreat into solitary, into a dignified, old age. He wants to feel that he hasn’t gone from past dreams of romance into the sober but empty existence of a passionless bitter man.
He looks at people as they come and go. They all go somewhere and they all come from somewhere. “Where do I belong, when everything seems wrong?” he wonders as he slowly makes his way through the crowd, out from the park.
He walks into a huge building, and when he reaches the staircase, his heart starts to ache. He takes a glimpse at his old and worn hands.
Mr. Glooman steps into his small and dark apartment. The heavy and worn curtains of the bedroom are still closed. The sun touches his face tenderly as he opens them back up. The light continues to shine through the richly carved baroque windows, and he finally sees his reflection on the glass. He reminisces about the salty waves of the ocean… “Oh Elizabeth! What happened to that summer? Where did it disappear?” he whispers as he makes his way to the bed. First, he sits on the edge of it for a while, but when the memories start to play games with his mind, he gives in and closes his eyes.
The pictures are slowly unfolding… he’s twenty four again, filled with hope and love. The sun paints the sky orange and pink above the shore as it waves bye to the world. He’s sitting in the warm sand when someone reaches over and covers his eyes with her hands. He smells lavender in the air and feels the softness of the fingers. “Oh Elizabeth! What happened to this summer? Where did it disappear?” he says softly, but loudly as he sighs. “I don’t know Greg, I guess love don’t live here anymore,” says the mysterious voice.
The sounds echo in his head, but then the doorbell rings and Mr. Glooman wakes up to answer the door. It’s his ride to the airport. “I’ll be down in a second! I just have to close my suitcases!” he shouts. The driver’s face makes a disappointed expression, and he speaks up loud as he runs down the stairs, “Dépechez-vous monseigneur, vous allez râtez votre avion!”
Mr. Glooman closes his bags in a rush, and when he’s about to leave the room, he looks around one more time, thinking, How many times I closed the doors behind me? How many times I left unfamiliar places to move to other unfamiliar ones? I’m still looking for a home, but instead I’m just finding myself in crowded rooms, feeling so alone. With these thoughts on his mind, Mr. Glooman closes the door behind him, and runs down to the cab.
On the way to the Charles De Gaulle Airport, the clouds seem to gather together above him, turning the orange sky into a deep black. The poets always dream, he thinks, and he buries his face into his hands.
Above the clouds the Sun is still awake and the light is glittering and dancing in the air. Mr. Glooman closes his eyes, hoping that by the time he wakes up, he’d be at a totally different place. The flight is long and tiring as always, not to mention that the flight attendants’ questions seem to annoy him more than ever before.
Later that night, Mr. Glooman finds himself in another unfamiliar city, and in another crowded room. People don’t seem to notice him… slowly, but surely he becomes invisible. He feels lonely and listens to his thoughts again, They’ve always thought education is preparation for life, however education is life itself. They always said, you’re never going to make it, but I did, didn’t I?
Mr. Glooman finishes up his drink and empty conversations, and leaves the formal party where highly successful people live in emotionless marriages. He’s walking around Manhattan until he meets with the dawn. He gets on the subway and stands in a corner where he can observe everything and everyone.
At each stop people are running and rushing in and out of the subway. It’s early morning and the air is filled with perfume. Ladies are finishing up their make up and adjusting their hair in the reflections of the subway windows. Lawyers, brokers and other businessmen are tightening their silk ties, and schedule another meeting on their iphones. Kids carry their heavy backpacks to school while they’re still trying to copy their homework off from one of their classmates. Lovers kiss goodbye to each other, taking the pleasure with them from the previous night. Finally, the subway stops, and everyone is running again as if they’re about to escape from the sinking Titanic.
Only the elderly ladies with their snow white hair sit patiently on wood benches outside in the park, feeding the doves. Since Mr. Glooman isn’t in a hurry, he decides to sit down next to one of them in his newly bought tuxedo that he got for the party the night before.
The Central Park looks more colorful than a bouquet of tulips on an early spring morning. His eyes catch the beautiful sight of the water lilies. It looks like a Monet painting. For a second he sees a little boy by the lake, feeding the swans… but it’s an illusion, there isn’t anyone there.
The boy that he thought he saw was himself when he was young… a boy filled with joy, innocence, love, but mainly with life. “What happened to this summer? Where did it disappear?” Mr. Glooman asks the elderly lady sitting next to him. She shakes her shoulders and says, “It left with all the others, but it will be back next year. Don’t worry my dear, every old feeling will have a new beginning.”
