Into The Unknown

He splashed yellow all over the canvas. The bright color granted the painting a luminous look. He took a tiny star and patched it to the canvas; at the bottom, right. Always at the same spot, always the same colored shiny star; his trademark. He had a quirk for them; considered them a proof of infinity.

“Star light, star bright”, he said, putting a thick brush smeared yellow on the table. It got lost among the dozens of brushes and palettes; and still unpacked boxes. He recently moved in a brand new apartment in Miami, leaving New York’s hectic life behind.

Preparations for his first exhibition at the Miami-Dade Luxor Gallery were nearly done. All the paintings themed “Silence” were in place. He just had to appear. Smartly yet casually dressed up, he took the keys and the door slammed shut on his leave.

“OAAAAAAAAAAAAAA...!” He was spontaneously yelling his lungs out while falling through the clouds. All he could see was the ground appearing closer and closer. He unzipped his light jacket and a red parachute emerged. After a couple of seconds of sheer confusion, he began to breathe again.

With the door bang he switched to another dimension; with no paintings and no brushes. Just a wild world out there. Jungle. Mexican jungle spawning as far as he could see. He could no longer spot the sky above; wide and long tree branches’ve allied, creating a natural green layer.

The ground was wet, muddy. Tropical rain forests were named that way for an apparent reason, obviously. The sun rays couldn’t pierce the green layer, couldn’t get through. It was 10 AM but it seemed like - twilight. Literally. Not Bella Swan and Edward Cullen’s Twilight. Not that vampire twilight. Not today.

Cliff sat on a log of wood, pinching himself; trying to get out of the dreadful dream. If only it was one. Pinching didn’t work, surprisingly. He looked up and the red parachute was smiling at him from the top of the tree. Like a birthday helium balloon resisting to the power of wind. Pinching turned into – punching. Still, it wasn’t working. He couldn’t control the situation, the situation was controlling him. And he hated it; every single letter of that, now terrifying word – control. Control. Control. It was echoing in his mind.

He was sitting there for 2 hours. Nothing happened. It was either to embrace wholeheartedly his new reality or – to kill himself. He would be bored waiting to drop dead from starvation. Banging his head against the rocks would be – too painful. Jumping down the tree would take too much effort – he’d have to climb first. But he didn’t think it was worth investing so much in his own – death. Plus, it might not ever work out.

Still, he chose – death. No, he chose to live. Again, this is not a vampire story and if the main character dies, he’s dead. There’s no bringing back to life. He had a few nickels in his pocket and a handkerchief. No knife, no lighter. No basic supplies to survive out in the wilderness. Oh, how he regretted not being a smoker.

At last. Embracing his new home, even though he didn’t know where he was, he stood up, eager to do something. He was trudging along, exploring the jungle. He was a smart one, knowing that the rain forests are usually located around the equator. But still, it could be Asia, Africa, South America. It was hard to pick one. He didn’t know where he was heading, he didn’t know where he might end up. Of course, it would be easier to have Bear Grylls by his side. At the moment the crazy adventurer popped in his head, Cliff’s face – lit up.

“What would Bear do?” The question that usually have “Jesus” instead of “Bear” was carrying a big question mark at the end of it. A really big one. He took a peek at Bear’s adventures on Discovery Channel but never really took time to actually watch it. Regrets, big time.

“He would find a stream and follow it down? Really? Maybe? He would keep moving nonetheless”, he concluded loudly.

“But I'm not Bear Grylls; I couldn't even tell the difference between an oak tree and ivory. I don't even know how the heck ivory popped in. What is ivory in the first place?"

His dirty Converse turned into more dirty Converse; they became as massive and heavy as rocks. Or the ivory trunk, so he'd finally get the idea of what ivory is. The wet muddy ground did everything to beat his spirit, to slow him down to where ever he was headed.

At the moment the word “headed“ struck his awkward mind, somewhere in the distance, somewhere reverberating in the airwaves, he couldn't help but hark something familiar: “Hey mister, where you headed? Are you in a hurry?”

He stopped. No, it'd be more convincing to say, he dropped dead. But not literally. He started twirling - two circles around his axis were quite enough. He was seconds away from blacking out, only this time it wouldn't be called "black out" but "green out". All those trees, one greener than the other. There was nothing black - just the green jungledise. Jungle and paradise. Jungle to him, paradise to a bunch of animals he still hasn't encountered. Still; being the key word.

Humming "Hitchin' A Ride" and trudging through the thick, spread branches and weird shaped shrubs, he was striving to find the melody source; "The fountain of.. Youth?" He thought.

The familiar melody was suddenly switched off. Maniacally. Who, what, why, how? He did not know. What he began to hear was ten times better than the Nimrod song - murmur of the stream.

"Stream!" He screamed, not aware of the rhyming the author just used. "Bear Grylls would be so proud of me", he smirked, "so very much proud".

Lame and shameful twitching he replaced with - running. Not 9,58 to beat Usain Bolt's record. Not even close to that. But some wind in the back and running downwards and with some more training.. The things would look different. Much different. Some other time, if he ever feels a strange need to challenge Bolt. If ever.

The sound of the stream was so pleasant to his ears; to his eyes; his mouth. His being. In Bear's manner he followed it along but his mind was flying over to Miami, to the exhibit. If there was one. Miami and the exhibit. He didn't know his whereabouts, the day, the year. If a dinosaur popped in and rawred, at least he would know something. The world was tabula rasa.

He wanted to shut down but the buzz of the stream kept him aware. The night, the real night, not the one that enormously tall trees have made, was striking. He needed a shelter, a fire, something. His dirty Converse sneakers were a terrible thing to look at. He took them off just to rinse them in the stream. He didn't do good. No, the sneakers did not fall down and vanished in the abyss; they weren't ripped up by a shark that lives in the stream. It's a special endangered species. What he was about to witness was much worse than losing his Converse and letting the shark munch on them.

Holding a sneaker in one hand and grabbing some water with the other, he faced a reflection in the stream. His own reflection he couldn't recognize. His own reflection, 40 years older. No wonder he couldn't run. Well, he could, like a tortoise. Only slower.

"Holy Jesus, Muhammad Ali, Yahweh!" He screamed, touching his face. Flowing through his hair didn't work. He hardly had any hair left.

"Sweet Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Moses smell the roses!" He kept throwing the names. And verbs. And nouns.

No matter how sweet Jesus might be, what Mary and Joseph he was thinking of, what breed of roses Moses was smelling and no matter how good Ali was, Cliff was helpless. With the body of an old man and the mind of a 29 year old, he was stuck in the middle of nowhere. Pinching, once again, didn't help. He wanted to scream but failed. Big time.

On the other side of the world, the other side of the Universe, his cellphone, reposing outside his apartment was maniacally ringing. And ringing.

"Pick up the damn phone", the gallery owner lost his temper.