The Story of the Stranger
On the street, he says nothing. The road is already full of woes rising off the city folk like a black cloud. His own don’t need to be added to it. He walks, passed dimly-lit bars, their signs flickering neon like a worn down beacon. He knows them all by name, knows the people inside, for they are and always will be a part of him. The chatter and clinking of glasses sneaks out of doorways, calling to him, but he continues on. The moon is dull against the city skyline.
People watch him through the windows, peering through the din and their drunk vision. They see a dark figure, a defeated figure, shoulders hunched and head bowed. His shoes seem to be weighed down by an unseen force. Unseen, but not unknown to many on the other side of the glass.
The man’s solitary march leads him to a tall and run-down building. There are no defining features; it isn’t on a corner, no different form those around it, and when people pass this way during the day their eyes slide immediately from one side of it to the other. But it clearly means something to him, for he stops and stares up at a light on the third floor. After a moment, he makes his way inside. The stairs are uneven and aged things, creaking under his boots with each step, but they hold. Barely, but sometimes barely is enough.
On the third landing, he stops at a door. It’s propped open with a chair, and inside a dozen figures sit around a table. Despite the unwelcome and insecure atmosphere of the rest of the building, this room is warm and bright. The inhabitants talk amicably amongst themselves. As he crosses the threshold, several people look up from their conversations and greet him, stretching out hands and lips alike in a welcoming gesture. Almost instantly, the man’s posture relaxes. His head emerges from between his shoulders, and his back straightens as he smiles back at them. Here he is home.
He takes a seat at the table, and soon the meeting starts. Stories are shared, some hopeful, some desperate, some lost, some recently found, but no matter how they differ, the feeling behind them is never novel to the other members. Each individual in this room understands one another on a profound level. Here they are safe, here they are accepted, and here they are supported. Honesty roams proudly like it can in scarce other conditions. Laughs ring out, tears fall freely, and all are welcome.
As the people move down the stairs and disperse into the night, the man once again finds himself alone. His feet carry him once more down the street, passed the harsh lights illuminating each one of his potential hells. From one of their doorways stumble two men, grunting and shouting in a manner unique to drunken bodies.
They bumble towards him, slurring some obscenity. One even takes a lazy swing at him, but misses and topples over. The friend reaches over, somehow pulling him to his feet, and they continue off into the night. The man stops, however, listening to their fading footsteps. He takes a deep breath, the winter air crisp in his lungs, and he tips his head skyward. A cloud shifts, and the street is suddenly bathed in moonlight. His eyes close, and his formerly furrowed brow relaxes. In his mind, he repeats a verse, almost like a prayer.
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.”
