Out Of Place (Redux)

Yes, I'm reposting this story. But that's because I got some excellent feedback from some people and reworked it a fair bit. It definitely reads a lot better and suffers markedly less from vocabulary indulgence. That is one habit I'm trying to curb. I hope you like the reworked version.


The man wandered awkwardly in the almost faded light. He stumbled on road and pavement, with a gait reserved for those whose perceptions are addled. His hair was unkempt, his large black overcoat torn, and his shoes drowning in fresh mud and slime. There was a faint hint of alcohol about him, though his glazed eyes suggested that was not the full extent of his stupor.

People shuffled uneasily out of his path as he moved, not wanting to pass close by. They exchanged glances as they saw him and as they left him behind, their looks varying from vague disdain to sharp contempt. He was not something that belonged. This vagabond was encroaching upon their suburban dream, and they were making their disapproval known. The hushed whispers continued as they walked on, leaving a lingering taste of his trespass in utopia. He was a discordant note in the cheerful atmosphere of a Friday night, and an unmelodic hush trailed in his wake.

Everything about his appearance was amiss. His manner diminished the class of his obviously expensive clothes, for no respectable person would allow them to be so filthy. He was an incongruous mix of oblivion and haughtiness, which only served to amplify the distaste he was cultivating. He was what the people would call a social outcast or degenerate, and he cast a disagreeable pallor upon their world.

He lingered outside a restaurant, its fragrances demanding his vapid attention. Halted in the divide between people inside and the potential patrons wandering past, an air of disquiet loomed. A young man and woman stared at him briefly from their indoor refuge, noting him as an aberration surrounded by a wealth of upper-middle class socialites and couples. The unceasing stares eventually served their purpose, and the man moved towards the dishevelled streets of ramshackle slums.

Yet interlopers were not welcomed to this part of town with open arms either, or even welcomed at all. A cramped warren of makeshift sleeping arrangements and unmarked territories was no place for a newcomer, not when there were already too many arguing over far too little.

Here the reception was not one of distaste, but instead of seething hostility, a bubbling hatred threatening to turn into action against him, be it a venomous outburst or physical violence. Even the smallest things came close to breaking the tense armistice, be it a brief pause in step, a carelessly condescending gaze, or an expression of excess interest. The gap between caution and a catalyst for conflict was infinitesimal.

His formless drifting took him to the entrance of a seedy nightclub, the air redolent with testosterone and oestrogen. The throbbing aura of music wafted from inside and the hormonal desperation of youth filled the senses of partygoers, their desire hinging upon the generosity of the bouncers at the door. The revellers leered at him and muttered softly to each other. He wandered too close to one girl, prompting a yell, “Get lost, you dirty old man!”

In his disjointedness, the man attempted to cut across the line and wander inside without the requisite assent from the two sentinels. Their emotionless façade dropped instantaneously at this insult to their station. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” One asked harshly.

The man paused only for a moment before continuing forwards, at which point the bouncers expelled him from the mouth of the hubbub. The unexpected movement allowed a quick dash for containment from the front few people of the procession, who capitalised on the momentary distraction to make their break for the sexually charged atmosphere waiting indoors.

This migration went unnoticed as the man catapulted backwards with startling rapidity. His loose frame proved more flimsy than expected, evidenced by the ease with which he was propelled. A quick flash of light took all by surprise as the last of the gatecrashers disappeared inside, and perception was an unknown faculty for a brief instant as it drowned in a cacophony of misfortune.

The car stopped with a brusque shriek of rubber smearing across the road. A distraught figure convulsed inside, gripping the steering wheel with her cement grip and unable to move except for an overpowering involuntary reaction. The man’s body had been hideously thrust in a fresh direction from the impact, the violent switch twisting his body before depositing him callously across the kerb.

An atmosphere of vile reality accosted the onlookers, transfixing them with its tyrannical volume. A silent scream of terror ascended from each mind, but all were suffocated by the torment of the overzealous bouncer.

An ostentatious youth flew forward to lay his impact upon the scene, demanding attention as the first to recover from the jarring display. Everyone else was still paralysed by a scene continuously replaying in a trance grotesquely matching the pale rhythm of dance music. He crouched rapidly over the body, the unnatural pose of the head indicating without doubt the veracity of the nightmare.

The driver eventually opened her car door tentatively, as though by moving slowly the man might not be dead when she arrived. Yet there would be no salvation from the empty guilt that washed her in a wave of blackened horror, no redemption from a faultless inability to react and prevent an instantaneous catastrophe.

The crowd paused in united uselessness against the sobriety of this moment on a backdrop of mirth. Not a single person had noticed the furtive movement thieving the man’s bulging wallet, which was a final act of indignity against this victim of wretched circumstance. That was only hinted at by the keys to his mangled sports car clutched tightly in his battered hand, and the shard from a bottle of wine lying anomalous in a coat pocket.