The Center

The afternoon heat had just peaked at ninety-seven degrees as Jacques sat on the bus-stop bench at the corner of City Hall Avenue and Boush Street. His sweat had penetrated his undershirt several minutes before, and was now seeping into his suit. Jacques wiped his moist palms on his pant-legs absentmindedly as he shifted in his seat. He did not remove his hat.

Just then, squeaking with the cancer of under-funded public transportation, the bus stopped in front of him. Painted along its side was an advertisement for a local portrait artist. Looking Good. The driver didn’t look at Jacques’ face, and directed his attention instead to the coins tossed into the fare box.

—This money’s not worth anything anymore. Said the bus-driver without looking at Jacques. It’s been discontinued.

—Discon…but it was good yesterday!

—And it’s not today. Do you have any real cash to pay for yourself? We don’t take credit.

—Well, I...but this is all I have!

—Sorry, man, no money, no ride.

The bus shook and rattled as gears shifted; it struggled away from the station, leaving Jacques at the curb, staring down at the worthless money in his palm. Pocketing it, he trudged home. His suit dampened further with each step. About halfway home, he stopped at a convenience store to buy a drink of water. Walking in this heat had desiccated his throat; besides, on a day like today, Jacques wasn’t one to refuse the offer of air conditioning.

The clerk, who wore a name-tag with nothing written on it, sat at the register. He didn’t look up at Jacques as the bottle of water landed on the counter.

—Your total comes to Q.

—I’m sorry? Jacques looked at the clerk, whose gaze rested on the register.

—Q, sir. Do you have cash?

Jacques reached into his pocket without speaking and lay the crumpled bills in front of the clerk.

—This money’s not worth anything anymore. Said the clerk without looking at Jacques. It’s been discontinued.

—Why was it discontinued? Jacques asked, exasperated.

—Happens.

Jacques pulled out his wallet, removed his credit card, and waved it in front of the clerk, who still did not look up at him.

—What about this? Do you take this?

—I can take whatever I want; the question is whether it’s worth anything.

Jacques waited for the answer, and, as the clerk said nothing further, he spoke again, his voice rising.

—Well is it worth anything or isn’t it? Say something!

—It’s not. You think you can charge Q on a credit card like that? Have you ever been able to? That’s the old kind of card. No one takes those anymore.

—Look, I don’t have any other money. Where can I exchange it? And could I just have the water? It’s really hot out, and I have another mile to walk in this suit.

The clerk looked up, but not at Jacques’ face. Instead, he eyed the sweat-soaked suit.

—As for your first question: nowhere. It’s not worth anything anymore; it can’t be exchanged. Secondly, no, it’s called exchanging money for goods and services. I’m goods and services, who the fuck are you? Also, that’s the old kind of suit. No one wears those anymore.

—I just bought it yesterday! Jacques protested.

—Yeah, and with the old money, too. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re obviously not going to buy anything, and I don’t want you loitering here.

Jacques swore and knocked the bottle onto the floor as he turned to go. The clerk snorted.

—Could you pick that up please?

The walk home was exhausting, and as Jacques squelched home, about halfway there, he glanced at a sign on an abandoned warehouse across the street from him. This space. This space what? This space for rent? As he continued walking, the sign changed to merely This, then disappeared completely.

Jacques finally arrived home, his suit completely drenched after the arduous walk, to find his house—bricks, doors, windows, and everything else—entirely missing. A massive sinkhole had swallowed his entire property, burying it beneath the now dried mud. Seething as he ground his teeth together, unable to speak for a moment, Jacques collapsed onto his knees and pounded the sidewalk with his fists. His knuckles began to bleed, and he found his voice.

—Can anyone tell me what the fuck is going on?! He screamed.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and Jacques lifted his head to see a man standing next to him, gazing at the spot where the house had been. The man opened his mouth, but out of it came no sound Jacques had never heard before. There were no discernible words in it, only breath, wheezing, distorted, and dissonant. The man looked down, and Jacques noticed that he had no eyes.

—Who are you? Jacques demanded.

The man shook his head.

—You understand me?

The man shook his head.

—Then how can you know what I’m saying?

The man opened his mouth and bent down to Jacques, breathing on his face.

—The old money’s no good anymore. He whispered in a dried leaf voice. You don’t belong here anymore.

With that, the man turned and walked away, leaving Jacques to his thoughts. How could the old money not be worth anything? It had just been worth something yesterday. Was the economy that unstable? Was anything that unstable?

—I can take you to where the old money’s always good—to the center of it all. I live there, you know.

Jacques thought about this for a moment. He had no relations and obviously no means of transportation or communication. How much of a threat could this man pose? Eyeless—nearly voiceless—his legs trembled under the weight of his emaciated body. Better to go with him and find some shelter than sleep on the ground, at any rate.

—Show me the center.

The man beckoned to Jacques, and began walking down the sidewalk. Regardless of his blindness, he seemed to know where he was going. Jacques followed, but after several blocks, impatience wound itself around his tongue.

—How much farther is it?

—Not far now. We’ll take the next right, then it’s three more blocks, a left, two blocks, another right, and in six and a half blocks we’re there.

Soon, though, the described path had been trod, and the man plodded on, unaffected.

—We’ve just passed the spot. Said Jacques.

—Oh, have we? I’ve lost track… There should be a large bush cut into the shape of an elephant. Do you see it?

Jacques looked around. There were no bushes in sight.

—There are no bushes on this block at all.

The man’s face puckered.

—Well, that’s not right…. No bushes at all you say? Well my house should be here. Ah, perhaps it’s this way.

Without another word, the man led Jacques another two blocks, took a left turn, and walked three and a half more before stopping, his mouth curled in an expression of befuddlement.

—Well now I’ve no idea where we are.

—I thought you knew where you were going! Shouted Jacques.

—I do. I’m going to the center. It should have been where I said it was. Describe what’s around.

Jacques eyed the neighborhood.

—Well, there are a few cars, a big white house, and…hey, there’s an elephant cut out of that bush!

Across the street, several houses down, stood an enormous bush, pruned in the shape of an elephant.

—Ah, that’s it, then! Exclaimed the man as he clapped. Come, I’ll show you around.

Jacques followed him into the yard, which was surrounded by an old picket fence over which the ivy had grown unruly. Bushes cut into the shapes of all sorts of animals decorated the lawn, but as he drew nearer Jacques noticed they had not been pruned in several weeks; the plants had begun growing around their assigned shapes. As they approached the front steps, Jacques noticed a weed-ridden garden, blossoming with browning, choked flowers.

—I love keeping the garden. Said the man. There’s something satisfying about knowing everything has a place, and where that place lies.

Jacques grunted in agreement. Disrepair did not adequately describe the house itself. What few shutters remained, admirably tenacious, clung just barely to their places. Mold groped the lower half of the house, advancing on the roof.

—Welcome to my humble structure! The man spread out his arms towards the house. It’s been here for just about a hundred years. Left to me by my father, Ferdinand. You’ll find it quite adequate.

—I can’t thank you enough, said Jacques, for giving me somewhere to stay. And I still don’t know your name. What is it?

—Antoine.

Silently, the two entered the decaying house, and, after Antoine had shown Jacques his room, the walked to the kitchen, and sat down to eat. The table was already prepared and the food lain out, as if Antoine had been expecting company, but it was set for many more than two.

—Are others coming? Asked Jacques.

—I thought they might, but I believe they must not have been able to find the house. It should have been easy enough; it’s right at the center. I found it without eyes or trouble.

They ate on without speaking. Once he had finished, Jacques thanked Antoine and went to bed. The day’s walking had exhausted him.

The next day, after Jacques had showered and dressed, he looked out the window of his room to find that the neighborhood was no longer the same. Every house he remembered seeing the day before had been replaced with a strikingly different building; one of them had even transformed into a public pool. Jacques walked out to the front porch, rubbing sleep from his eyes and wondering when the house had moved. He’d felt nothing.

He did not notice Antoine, who had noticed Jacques’ staring and now stood next to him.

—How do you like the new neighborhood?

Jacques started.

—I…it’s…when did the house move?

—Don’t be ridiculous. The center doesn’t move. All the other houses moved around us, they’ve done that ever since we first built this house here.

—How do you know you’re not moving?

—Because the center can’t move. We’re the center because we can’t move, and we can’t move because we’re the center. It’s simple enough.

His wisdom fresh on the raw day, Antoine walked back into the house as Jacques shuffled toward the sidewalk. When Jacques reached the fence’s unhinged gate, a rumble rose behind him, and he turned to see the earth split in two beneath Antoine’s decrepit house. The entire structure folded into the muddy sinkhole below. Likely it had taken Antoine with it.

Jacques looked around at the new neighborhood. Center, he laughed, how prideful. Maybe he’d see if there was any way to get his hands on some of the new money. Who knows if it’s worth anything anymore. Can’t stay valuable forever. That’s the nature of it. At any rate, it was time to leave Antoine’s house. His father had built a shaky structure. Jacques removed his hat, which he had worn as he slept. What good was it in this amorphous world?