A Future Tale (Part One)

It was late afternoon. 

I walked slowly down the main drag, as I've done a million times, looking through the slightly dingy windows of the shops, observing the customers inside. 

Many of them appeared disengaged, as if they were only going through the motions. They sported the worn-out look that comes from reading and hearing the same thing over and over, from the same people in the same echo chamber over and over, watching the same news for hoursdaysweeksmonths on end. They looked beaten down by it all. 

I didn't want to linger there; I wondered if ennui by association was a thing? I meandered, turning randomly, until I ended up in the old warehouse district, a jumble of multi-story brick buildings. 

The ends of giant old timbers were visible in spots, copper accents and granite keystones and old leaded windows that gentrifiers adore, and put to pricey use. Many buildings had been redone; fabulous restaurants now, condos and studios and extravagant apartments; bakeries and fancy shmancy coffee shops; places to get faux-leather wing-tips and hemp pocket squares; places to see and be seen, to be vibrant, and young, and successful, or vibrant, and old, and successful, all the while sporting the tired, worn-out look that comes from reading and hearing the same thing over and over, from the same people in the same echo chamber over and over.

Moving to a less crowded part of town, I walked past smaller mixed-use buildings housing attorneys, CPAs, ad agencies, cell phone stores, payday loan joints, cigar shops, gyms, and whatnot on the lower floors, and more apartments on the upper floors. Everyone I passed in this part of town had the same look, and looked the same as everyone else I had already passed.

My pace slowed as I neared the alley halfway down the block, tucked in between a 1970s-era office building and an 1870s-era beauty. Empty but still defiant, figuratively lifting its chin in the air, brandishing the chip on its shoulder, as if daring someone to smash the windows, destroy the inside, or tear it down. 

"Try me," it said. "Just try me."

The old iron gate at the head of the alley looked as if it hadn't been opened in years. Weeds, garbage, broken glass, and more encased the bottom. It was heavy with generations of handprints, rust and dust, soot and exhaust, bird droppings, coffee and alcohol, and who knows what other human or animal excretions. Layered upon layer upon layer, a challenge to the forensic experts, the anthropologists, the historians who might one day try and make sense of it all. 

I stopped by the gate, which stood chest-high and strong. It, too, offered a dare, like the building nearby. "Try me - go ahead, give me a push."  

I looked left and right; nobody was paying any attention. I gave the gate a shove; it didn't move. 

I pushed, harder, then as hard as I could, struggling against time, and weeds, and trash, and crud, and slowly, creakily, it opened. 

I snuck into the alley.