Altan was happy to be back at work. He was making more money than usual and he was euphoric over the hustle and bustle of the carnival. Not only did he stand out, striding between the crowds, yelling as loud as he could ("KAHVE! 25¢! GET COFFEE HERE!"), but he had become another attraction. People still believed he was a gypsy, but they didn't expect from him the things they had before; he was the funny little man with the colorful, jingly cart and spicy drink, a drink that, if you were brave enough to consume it, would increase your longevity and bring about a prosperous future... or so people said. Altan was clueless to the rumor, and he could care less that people asked strange questions like, "So, is it true?" or "How much do I need for it to work?" Altan would just smile and nod, smile and nod.
Altan's exotic charm was not the only thing attracted attention. The side of his cart had been plastered with political signage and he had a live chicken, endlessly squawking (he'd found it sitting in front of the Tower), sitting in an old, rusty bird cage that had been tied down to the front corner of the cart. All sorts of people confronted him throughout the day: people who supported the local candidate, those who did not, people who thought he was selling the chicken, people that yelled at him for encouraging the cruelty of animals, and people who would just gawk as he passed by, wondering where such an odd entity with its entourage materialized from. By the end of the day, though Altan thrived off of humanity, he had had enough.
Altan stopped answering questions and ignored all comments and insults shouted his way. The only people he paid mind to were the gawkers; they were the only people showing no movement whatsoever in this mass of motion. They were almost completely immobile, and they stood out to Altan like neon signs. There was a girl with a frizzy, blond wig, a man who was overly dressed, and a girl who looked like she'd just escaped a fire. At this moment, they all embodied what Altan desired - stillness.
Wearily, Altan made his way back to the Tower and dragged himself inside. He'd gotten so used to the chicken that he'd forgotten that it was still tied to his cart. The doorman made exaggerated movements and screamed at Altan to "get it out!" before the super heard it. Altan hastily grabbed the chicken and threw it out the door, not wanting to displease the doorman. Altan called for the elevator and it clattered down, screeching to a halt, and its doors opened. Altan saw there was someone else inside, so he waited for them to exit.
"Well, are you coming in or not?" Altan's head snapped up - it was Edith Evans, the lady who'd helped him out of the elevator the other day.
"Oh, how's is your ceiling, Ms. Evans?"
"I could tell you if you just got on the elevator," The elevator door was trying to close and it kept rebounding off of her thin arm.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, excuse me," and Altan backed in, careful not to roll the cart over Edith's toes. The door slammed shut and the elevator began to haul them upward.
"Still dry, thank you."
"What?"
"The ceiling, the thing you just mentioned," Edith gave him a "what's-wrong-with-you" look.
"Oh, yes, very good." They didn't speak again until Altan got off the elevator on the fifth floor.
"Can you fix heaters?" Edith had flung her arm out to stop the door from closing.
"Well -"
"Come by my apartment tomorrow at six and see if you can't fix mine. No one will want to buy that... is it coffee? after five will they? Won't be able to sleep. I'll expect you."
The elevator door shut and rumbled upward. Altan stared at the door confused. Well, he'd never actually fixed a heater before, but he was not one to stand people up, especially not a lady. Sighing, he pushed his cart down the hall, ready for sleep.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
"Can çıkmayınca huy çıkmaz" - Habits don't expire until the soul expires
Altan was in a better mood this week - the rain had lifted for the most part, and the sun always reminded Altan of home, which made him think of simpler times. He tottered through the door of the mosque and out onto the street, his still sore, swollen wrist tucked into the front of his jacket. Like Napoleon, he thought, and he smiled a little, thinking about what it would be like to be an emperor, rule the world, and not have to worry about money...
Osiris Stien was walking toward Altan, eyes forward and cold, not seeming to register his surroundings. Altan nodded to the other man as they passed one another.
"Good afternoon Mr. Stien!" Osiris said nothing nor gave any other sign of acknowledging Altan's presence. He proceeded purposfully into the mosque behind Altan. Altan sighed, disappointed. No one seemed to take notice of him without his coffee cart. Not that many people did when he was with it, but someone always came by to ask him the price of a cup ("25¢ as always!") or tell him he was only wearing one sock ("Oh me, how unprofessional..."). It was human contact that Altan looked forward to most in his job. He had grown up in a very friendly home and it was something he had just gotten used to. Altan had become accustomed to the social detachedness of Americans over the years, so he was just happy for someone to look in his direction. He would always respond with a smile, or a nod, or a wave.
But Altan had been without simple human contact for at least a month now, and he was beginning to feel strained and stressed. Not only did Altan miss people, he was missing rent payments, and the bills were piling up on his floor by the door in his apartment. He'd just received a notice today, in person (which brought about an exuberant smile on his weathered face when he opened the door), that he had a week to pay 50% or he'd be evicted. This of course doused the weak flame of cheer that had sparked from the simple conversation, making Altan realize that the money aspect of his job was important too.
He would start again tomorrow, he decided, on Monday, a normal weekday. He had been out all day, getting the feel for the streets again, figuring out where the masses were congregating. At this moment in time, it happened to be at the carnival in the empty lot at the end of the street. Altan stood and watched it from a distance, listening to the screams of people, the groaning of machinery, and the general hum that surrounds large crowds. Cars, tracks, swings, and boats from the carnival's various rides flew up and down through the air or were silhouetted against the red sky. The whole entity resembled a giant, prehistoric sea monster, thrashing about in colorful, volatile primordial soup.
The fact that this is where everyone wanted to be, amidst the most excitement the town had seen in years, proved unlucky for Altan. No one would notice him and his coffee cart in the crowd of carnival attractions. They'd most likely (as Altan unfortunately knew from experience) assume he was a part of a gypsy caravan and either ask him to tell them their fortunes or beg to be whisked away into a land of wild living and adventure. As Altan could do neither, they'd just grunt, scowl, or curse and leave without buying anything. No, carnivals were not for Altan; he'd just have to attract customers as they entered and exited the festivities.
The next morning, anyone who went out at 6:00 AM would have seen a little, brown man, possibly a gypsy, setting up a cart right in the middle of the entrance to the carnival. He skipped around, locking things into place, taking out cups, mixing spices, and boiling water. It was Altan, and he was ready for whatever the day would bring. He stood there armed with his coffee cart, his entrepreneurial skills, and a large, bright smile upon his face.
Osiris Stien was walking toward Altan, eyes forward and cold, not seeming to register his surroundings. Altan nodded to the other man as they passed one another.
"Good afternoon Mr. Stien!" Osiris said nothing nor gave any other sign of acknowledging Altan's presence. He proceeded purposfully into the mosque behind Altan. Altan sighed, disappointed. No one seemed to take notice of him without his coffee cart. Not that many people did when he was with it, but someone always came by to ask him the price of a cup ("25¢ as always!") or tell him he was only wearing one sock ("Oh me, how unprofessional..."). It was human contact that Altan looked forward to most in his job. He had grown up in a very friendly home and it was something he had just gotten used to. Altan had become accustomed to the social detachedness of Americans over the years, so he was just happy for someone to look in his direction. He would always respond with a smile, or a nod, or a wave.
But Altan had been without simple human contact for at least a month now, and he was beginning to feel strained and stressed. Not only did Altan miss people, he was missing rent payments, and the bills were piling up on his floor by the door in his apartment. He'd just received a notice today, in person (which brought about an exuberant smile on his weathered face when he opened the door), that he had a week to pay 50% or he'd be evicted. This of course doused the weak flame of cheer that had sparked from the simple conversation, making Altan realize that the money aspect of his job was important too.
He would start again tomorrow, he decided, on Monday, a normal weekday. He had been out all day, getting the feel for the streets again, figuring out where the masses were congregating. At this moment in time, it happened to be at the carnival in the empty lot at the end of the street. Altan stood and watched it from a distance, listening to the screams of people, the groaning of machinery, and the general hum that surrounds large crowds. Cars, tracks, swings, and boats from the carnival's various rides flew up and down through the air or were silhouetted against the red sky. The whole entity resembled a giant, prehistoric sea monster, thrashing about in colorful, volatile primordial soup.
The fact that this is where everyone wanted to be, amidst the most excitement the town had seen in years, proved unlucky for Altan. No one would notice him and his coffee cart in the crowd of carnival attractions. They'd most likely (as Altan unfortunately knew from experience) assume he was a part of a gypsy caravan and either ask him to tell them their fortunes or beg to be whisked away into a land of wild living and adventure. As Altan could do neither, they'd just grunt, scowl, or curse and leave without buying anything. No, carnivals were not for Altan; he'd just have to attract customers as they entered and exited the festivities.
The next morning, anyone who went out at 6:00 AM would have seen a little, brown man, possibly a gypsy, setting up a cart right in the middle of the entrance to the carnival. He skipped around, locking things into place, taking out cups, mixing spices, and boiling water. It was Altan, and he was ready for whatever the day would bring. He stood there armed with his coffee cart, his entrepreneurial skills, and a large, bright smile upon his face.
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