Limelight

a short story by J Vaughn

Chapter One - Turn of the Key

Two long years ago he reached far above the faded ridge of fabric shading the door to his bookeeper’s office and patted the bricks, until he felt the smooth edge of a 1 inch thin metal ring.

Poking with his longest finger until the edge slipped and caught, he lost balance and pitched forward, twisting helplessly before smacking his right shoulder into the metal door.

Somehow the ring, still hooked with his finger, came with him - he closed his fist around the metal keys and stepped back, quick glancing behind him to see if he was still unnoticed.

A blue Ford Fiesta tire-crunched the gravel road, passing the back entrance to the office building - driver’s eyes straight ahead, mouth moving, a hand reaching up to adjust a cellphone on a dashboard mount.

Absolutely still, he stood with breath caught for the moments until the vehicle moved out of his vision, then he exhaled.

Without thought a clench of his fist around the keyring and a swipe with his empty palm across his damp brow brought to his conscious awareness the state of his nerves. He inhaled deeply and sighed, closing his eyes and steadying himself.

As he wiped the sweaty palm on a khaki-covered thigh, he opened his eyes…jaw tight now, and cool resolve replacing sweat.

The left corner of his mouth lifted in a menacing sneer, as he turned to walk away.

She was 43 when the idea of travel to Egypt first floated through the ether with enough substance to stick, almost 6 years after she left Richard the last time.

Three times before, she had furiously packed her bags, storming out of their shared 2nd floor apartment in a shabby Brownstone in a strip of decades-weary living quarters in Philadelphia. Driving without destination other than “not there…not with him” ended each time in tears, 2 or 3 half-smoked cigarettes, and a mixture of magical thinking and resolve that this time, this chance, she could make it right.

It took a long time for her to accept that her “right” and Richard’s were vastly different - for Richard to have his “right” meant she lost all of hers.

Still painful and sticky quicksand, those thoughts sucked her energy each time they arose - and her practice of mentally battling the loop was like Don Quixote in Groundhog Day.

She found the solution to be forward - future - not fairytale wishing, but mining her deepest longings to pave a yellow brick road out of Kansas, but not towards Oz.

First she stepped on the path to freedom, and for a change, did not look back. Began crafting each stone with intent to live as she knew herself to be, in truth. “Honest”…the paver became more solid and real… “strong”…the next supported her weight more easily… “wise”…a broad flagstone plateau let her sit down and rest for a bit.

She was miles into her journey, after surviving unlit valleys and treks up peaks climbing on tiny shard-stones of meaning, when she felt the substance of Egypt. Strange, so strange, as if another her in another place and time lived a full story there and reached out to her, calling her to join - “come to Egypt now, love”… from where she stood that day, in Long Island.

Her mind-screen filled with too familiar images, sounds and smells, memories. Memories? Had she not felt the weightless ocean density of mysticism, visited the healing waters many times in the years of wilderness, she would have considered the Egypt vision mad.

Pouring into her awareness like multidimensional file downloads, she watched curiously as the destination took shape. Then let the need for a travel itinerary fall - she was mid-project at a publishing house in Manhatten, and had worked too hard to rebuild her life to make another sudden change.

Yes, 43 was an interesting number for her. Never in her childhood imaginings did she envision a loft apartment in New York City, easy walk to a job in the heart of an industry that fit her like the softest pale pink sueded leather glove, all far from what the world told her she was for so long.

Charlatans and thieves, she found - why did she listen for those years of misery? Weeding out those voices was the hack job on her journey, and finding treasure buried in the stillness of her soul was the reward.

She laughed as she remembered the first time her editor-in-chief validated her work, and she glowed knowing it was authentic - she was authentic - and worthwhile. Until then, she accepted “workplace” politics as a part of human life. Why?

“Play the game” she was taught, and yet never told why she lost time and time again by following the “rules”. No wonder in her twenties she felt like the deck was stacked against her, and she was never going to win. Was all of that suffering necessary? Could she have arrived at herself by any other means?

She really did not know, and was content with letting the questions drift unanswered.

Now she was solid, creative, connected with hearts that beat a rebel joy outside of “gamesmanship”. Yes, it was worth it. Clasping a blank piece of paper with landmarks that had appeared like invisible ink warmed by the heat of her revelations, that map with no key was now a testament to her life’s journey. It was worth it.

thumbnail photo credit

©2023 Lux Productions, LLC / the bash