Once, a homeless man tried to break into the building shouting he wanted to hear Siren closer. He shouted his name was Odysseus. Hamlet thought he mispronounced his own name. How odd. How sad.
Hamlet just lost his job because of COVID. He used to play Laertes in a Shakespearean festival. The director, a certain Ebenezer Scrooge, refused to give him any more prominent roles because he said Hamlet had such a weird accent. Scrooge paid him little. Now, Hamlet is taking an online course: “How to Steal his Enemy’s Chi for Profit and Pleasure.” Hamlet wants to use his new skills on Ebenezer. It would be fun to come to him on Christmas Eve, as a ghost, and say, “O, that this too too solid flesh would melt/Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!” And, in due course, Ebenezer would resolve.
But the Wake is tonight. They all must be ready.
Smack in the middle of the known universe, Peter Pan stands before his mirror.
“People used to tip their hats in greeting,” he says to his reflection. “Now, they raise their masks up their noses. Is it progress?”
Nowadays, he can talk face-to-face without a mask only with his reflection. The reflection smiles back to his smile.
Peter puts his mask on, pocket his nitrile gloves, and goes for a stroll.
The street is narrow with no sidewalks. This part of the North-Eastern metropolis is semi-rural. He sees wild turkeys and rabbits and chipmunks and ducks. Once he saw a dead turtle. It looked artificial, like a middle school project. A few times bad urban actors landed here brought by the ocean breeze.
Walking is the only joy Peter has now. That and talking to his reflection.
A man—they call his type dudes—ambulates toward him. He’s mask-less. A cigarette dangles from his lips. He carries a bottle with something brown. Either whiskey or a dehydrated man’s piss.
Peter pulls up his mask. It was made at a sock factory, so it’s kind of a genetically altered sock. White, with black polka-dots.
“Good morning, sir,” the dude says, grinning.
It’s evening. At least in this city. Peter smiles. The dude can’t see his smile. Maybe this is why he blocks Peter’s way.
“Excellent weather, sir,” he says.
“You are right,” Peter replies.