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Fiction Short Story

by George F. Kloda

Like It Used to Be

He stood across the street gaping at the size and scale of the enormous, bowl-shaped State office building that occupied both sides of most of a city block. There used to be a restaurant and nightclub on the corner, with chasing-light signs reflecting crazily in the surrounding store windows, and the sounds of upbeat tempos of now-forgotten local jazz groups. The foreground was dark and silent except for the mercury-vapor streetlight on the corner, a random assortment of lights from a few offices, and the subway noise at regular intervals from beneath the sidewalk grates.

It was yet another thing not like it used to be.

He'd returned to his home town to revisit old memories and try to assemble them into a cohesive unit worth describing on paper, but the neighborhoods of his youth and haunts of his young adulthood had morphed into things totally unexpected. The bicycle paths along the lakefront, where he spent three summers riding with assorted casual girlfriends ("summer throwaways," one of his two best friends called them) were no longer meticulously maintained by the parks department. Though still in use, they were frost-heaved, and populated by empty-eyed, stoned-out skateboarders and homeless souls shuffling aimlessly or slowly rolling their shopping carts from one end of the park to another in search of the right clump of bushes or viaduct to use as shelter.

The neighborhood swimming pool, once filled with laughing, splashing children warding off oppressive summer heat and humidity in the cool, blue water, stood empty, its concrete walls cracked, weeds sprouting everywhere.

He drove over to the East Side searching for familiar landmarks, only to find block after block of boarded-up or burned-out buildings, check cashing joints and gyro stands. As he negotiated a wide, sweeping left curve in his rented auto to exit the park, he craned his neck to see the facade of the hospital where he spent his residency years. To his horror, a pile of rubble occupied the spot where he had trained so many years ago, with an enormous sign warning passersby: Danger! Demolition zone! Enter at your own risk!

As he brought the car to a complete stop, his eyes filled with tears as he realized he was all was alone in the place of his birth, friends scattered and rarely in touch, family all gone. Why oh why had he made this trip?

Suddenly, as elusive as smoke, he heard faint snatches of music—harmonica blues. With a faint smile on his face, he slowly got out of the car and surveyed the scene around him, and to his amazement recognized the ancient black man seated in a apartment building doorway just beyond the rubble pile. As he had every Saturday morning thirty-odd years ago, the slouch-hatted, wrinkled musician played his heart out for anyone who would listen then drop a coin or buck or two in his can. And, as years ago, he sat and played with a live chicken perched atop his hat.

Finally, one thing just like it used to be.

Copyright © 2004 George F. Kloda


About the Author
George Kloda is a community pharmacist in Eliot, Maine, pop. about 6000. Much of his writings have been inspired by the foibles of his pharmacy patrons over his 33-year professional life. Like It Used to Be derived from an extended hometown visit several years ago.