Holloway

Holloway thought of Josh, the protagonist of the TV series Echoes of the Heart, crying about his sick puppy in Episode 5 of Season 2. Josh was comforted by a small but dedicated group of friends in a bar. The bartender inquired about the cause of his troubles, and offered him a drink, strictly “on the house.”

 

Holloway looked nothing like Josh. The TV actor was young, tall, clean-shaven, and handsome, while Holloway was an unassuming, middle-aged, bearded man, wearing a faded green jacket on his back, and a pitiful expression on his face. His mother died alone in a sterile hospital room a few days before. Halloway cut his bereavement leave short and returned to work ahead of schedule. The conga line of cars on the freeway held vigil beside him as he grieved. “My friends,” he thought, holding back tears, choking, coughing, sighing in the intimacy of the morning rush hour. Traffic was stop-and-go, and Holloway was carried along in the slow, steady flow like driftwood.

 

Through his tear-filled eyes, he saw his mother young, radiant, holding his hand in her hand, stroking his hair, smiling silently, her eyes telling him he was loved. He left her as soon as he could, right after he got his degree. He traded her unsophisticated, but deep-rooted love in for the scorn of many goat-headed children of Moloch. Even now, he decided to maintain a professional focus and leave “personal distractions” in the bin at the heavy glass door of the office building.

 

His phone rang. It was his wife. Holloway did not answer. She probably was calling about something mundane and insensitive, given the circumstances, like reminding him to print out her credit card report at the office. She was a strong, independent hero - an Abraham asked to sacrifice an Isaac, and willing to comply. Faith can move mountains, but deadlines in calendars were unknown in Biblical times. A nanny will stroke the baby’s delicate hair in proportion to how much she’s paid. Anything for the baby. Anything.

 

“Holloway, Hol-lo-way, Ha…Ha…” Holloway was repeating his own name in his head, and acknowledged that his name exuded exhaustion, fatigue, and weariness. Nomen est omen. He was not a man, but three syllables of meaningless sounds with no real existence. He felt separated not only from the world around him, but from his body, too. The vague notion of a man hung from his ribs like seaweed from a shipwreck at the bottom of the sea.

 

His feet and hands worked the gear shift and the pedals automatically, effortlessly. Holloway was only along for the ride. His heart was at the bottom of his freezer in his kitchen, beneath fruit-flavored popsicles, pre-cooked frozen pasta, and a slice of vacuum-packed salmon. His mind was a cloud of mist that rose like evaporating dew, occasionally condensing into brief downpours of precipitation. He had an old, black umbrella to keep himself dry from the inconveniently wet emotions, but lately he didn’t bother opening it. He would walk through the downpour and dry out behind the computer of his air-conditioned office.

 

His face would start stretching, hanging on his skull like the leftover skin of a person that loses a lot weight in a short time. No one seemed to notice, though. He did not look at faces, either. Not in detail, not for earnest. Passing glances, above and below the eyes only, because locking eyes with anyone usually resulted in an instant exchange of information that neither party wanted to communicate.

 

Guided by a spontaneous urge, he exited the freeway and drove around without direction for a while. In one of the side streets, he saw the white walls of a building with a large cross on top. He pulled over and got out of his car. He stood hesitating in front of the church for a while, then walked in. The building was empty. The cool, shaded, quiet interior was very inviting and felt like a balm on his bruised soul. He walked around slowly, quietly, looking at the marble statues of saints and Madonnas. He peered inside the confessional. He tried the door. It was open. He entered and sat on the hard, narrow, wooden bench. He closed his eyes. His breathing was heavy, like that of a man falling asleep.

 

As in a dream, he saw a group of schoolchildren guided by a nun who was introducing the artwork in the church. “These paintings show the Annunciation, the Nativity, the Epiphany, the Baptism of Jesus, the Last Supper, the Crucifixion, and the Resurrection.

 

A few of the children wandered off and were standing in front of a small statue. The rest of the group caught up with them. “This, my children,” the nun continued, “is St. Jude Thaddeus, patron saint of lost causes and desperate situations. People pray to St. Jude when they feel hopeless or emotionally crushed. He is often called upon for help with seemingly impossible problems.”

 

Everyone stood silently before the small, insignificant, roughly made figurine of a middle-aged, bearded man, wearing a faded green robe on his back, and a kind and compassionate expression on his face. “Remember children,” the nun continued, “However long the night, the dawn will break. You should never despair. Hope is the quiet companion that walks beside you, even when the road disappears.”

 

A little boy yawned, a girl asked to go to the washroom. The group turned their back to the small figurine and walked away. 

Reviews

[LynGeist]

Brilliant. Simple man living a simple, boring life, crushed by death, which then crushes every mundane waking moment of the rest of his days. What fascinates me is that a whole tale is told from inside this man's head. No one spoke, not even the nun who reminds young children to always keep the faith because light will evolve from darkness if you wait long enough.

I commented on this one but I have enjoyed the other 4 that I have also read thus far.