Man on the Street, a Short Story on Dreams

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There was a man on the street, and he performed wonders.

Strangely enough, that is all anybody ever remembered after seeing him. They would come and watch, gaze in awe as miracles leapt from his fingertips, and walk away, telling their friends that there is a man on the street, and he performs wonders.

“What sort of wonders?” the friends would ask, skeptical. “Card tricks? Fortune telling? A disappearing act?” They would only shake their heads, unable to remember.

The friends would come, come to see the marvels for themselves, and they too would walk away, going to tell the world that there was a man on the street, and he performed wonders.

Soon legions of spectators would gather, watching every day for hours on end, thinking that this time they would remember. They never did. This was all they knew, that there was a man on the street, and he performed wonders.
Armies of vendors came, setting their carts of food and trinkets next to the man, the miracle worker, determined to make money off of the phenomenon. After all, they thought, he never takes any money, so why shouldn’t we? Someone has to separate the suckers from their money. The man only smiled his little smile, and went on with his show.

At the end of the day, however, the vendors, the hucksters, the cynical salesmen, they, too had been sucked in, become mesmerized by the man, and never did make a cent. They would return the next day, and the next, drawn by a simple phrase: there was a man on the street, and he performed wonders.

The unions came, later in the week. The man was giving away for free what they were selling every day. They came, the toughs and bruisers and heavies, and they left, only to return the next day, drawn back by the delight and enchantment within themselves. We can do nothing, said the same men who had burned the elementary school as a warning. There is a man on the street, said the men who would maim the father of six children if he missed a payment. There is a man on the street, and he performs real wonders.

There is a man on the street, and he performs wonders. The whole city was abuzz with the news. Everyone went to see him, to sit and watch for hours, to try and absorb the magic.

Artists and painters went to see the show, to draw the man, to set down his acts for posterity. They sat, and watched, and drew, but when they returned home, their sketchbooks were blank, or filled with beauty, depending.

Rumors began to spread. The man was tall, short, fat, skinny. His clothes were bright and quiet, flamboyant and subtle. His beard either reached to the ground or simply did not exist. The city knew only one thing, it seemed: that there was a man on the street, and he performed wonders.

The man was still on his street, still in his tiny and large, gaudy and plain carriage, when young Gerald thought of something. If there’s this man, givin’ everything away, thought sixteen-year-old Gerry with his sixty-year-old mind, then he must have money. Looaads of money, and I need it much more than he ever will.

Money was a mythical thing to young Gerald. It seemed to him that everyone who needed it (Gerald) could never get any from those who did (everyone else). He had tried everything, and finally found something he was good at: stealing. (It was not stealing, though, claimed young Gerald. Thief? A fine young man like him, pillar of the community and all that? No sir, never in a million years, not for all the tea in china, and any other cliché you could think of. Stolen goods? Naw, them’s more borrowed permanent-like, understand? Young Gerald’d pay back everybody, once he found his luck. He was good for it.)

Young Gerald, sixteen-year-old Gerry with the sixty-year-old mind waited one day, waited while the man performed his miracles, thrilling the people, but never touching Gerry. Young Gerald looked at the magic and dismissed it, waiting for the man to finish and leave.

Finally, the man had performed his last miracle. As he did at the end of every day, he faded from view, and the people smiled and laughed and cheered, secure in the knowledge that he would be back again. Young Gerald smiled too, as he moved easily through the crowd to the man’s cart, the tiny and large, gaudy and plain carriage that was the man’s home.

Young Gerald waited outside the man’s carriage, staying until the crowds had dispersed, returning to their homes, marveling at what they had seen while they tried to remember what it was. Easing open the door, young Gerald stepped inside, stopping in awe at what the cart held.

Precious treasures from every nation sparkled on the walls, the collection spreading across the tables and onto the floor. Speechless, young Gerald walked across the tiny carriage, feeling very young indeed. His hands brushed a Ming vase, and moved on to caress a Persian rug hanging on one wall. He was picking up a beautiful, shining sword which seemed to be embedded in stone when the man spoke.

“What do you see?” Young Gerald whirled round, his hand moving to his pocket, and the knife within. The man was standing there, calm and smiling. “It’s different for everybody,” said the man, gesturing the either side as he repeated, “What do you see?”

Seeing young Gerald speechless, the man walked forward, continuing to talk. “Some might see a home, just a simple place to rest. Others might see a mansion, or a forest, or a battlefield. You wouldn’t believe the amount of kings who see a peasant’s hovel. You see what you want, as does everyone.”

Young Gerald stepped forward, noticing that the man’s ankles disappeared into a pile of gold pieces without any apparent discomfort. “None of this is real, then? It’s all – what – another one of your illusions?”

“Not my illusions. Yours. It is what we want the most that we see, but can never reach. We are all Tantalus, yes? So, I ask again: What do you see?”

“Gold…” young Gerald whispered. “Riches and beauty beyond anything… I never thought that any one person could own this much! How did you do it?”

“I didn’t. It’s all just a dream, a fantasy. While it may seem true to you, none of this is reality. It’s just illusion.”

“You’re wrong.” Young Gerald was angry, infuriated that someone else was trying to take away his future. This was real, this was true, this was fact. He ripped an axe from a wall, one that had appeared only a few seconds before. Unlike the rest of the items in the carriage, this was no thing of beauty. Its squat and ugly frame seemed to tarnish the very air and violate the space it occupied, but Gerald, Gerald whose certainty had made him not so young anymore, did not notice.

“I’m afraid not. The carriage is special, you see-”

“Shut up!” Gerald leapt upon the man, ripping and hacking at him with a dream axe, a fantasy blade. The man collapsed to the floor, and Gerald followed him, his hand rising and falling in the steady, even, natural rhythm of slaughter. Around him, the carriage had faded out, but he did not notice. Only when the man was on the ground, unmoving, did he stand, realizing that the axe had disappeared from his hand.

Gerald looked at his handiwork, at the bloody stain that had once been a human, and felt very old indeed. With a strangled sob, he turned and fled, not from the law, not from the retribution of the man’s many admirers, but from one simple phrase:

There was a man in the street, and he was dead.

Well, I enjoyed that story very much. There were a few mistakes with punctuation and form in scattered places, but they're very small and not too noticeable. I think you began and ended it very well. As a whole, the story reminds me of a poem, just because of the repetition and imagery; I think it's very well done.

:]