Like the Siberian Tiger

By: Patrick Bruning

                  The only thing separating the two men is a large wooden door with retractable wooden blinds, the originally intended purpose of them being to let a breeze into a house on a nice afternoon. The door is not attached by hinges onto a doorframe, making its usage not one of a type of entryway into somewhere, though one of the men probably could argue otherwise. Instead, twelve nails along the interior perimeter and some type of adhesive, predictably wood glue, hold it unmoving against the middle of the wall inside the structure. Practically, it was meant to be a barrier.

Two chairs, those in which we find the men sitting, are permanently stationed on either side of the perceived obstruction, backs of each against the wall. Staring at the wall, the chair to the left is the one of considerably worse quality. It is a lawn chair, but not a folding one, at least, one of the nicer types. The type for screened-in patios, with a sky blue and off-white vertically striped, singular mesh cushion that folds at the back with the chair. It was comfortable for a chair like that, in its earlier years, but since its arrival to the room all of the asses from various body types that people carry have weathered it down. The colors that at one point were so distinguishable on the chair now show a dirty, grayed, matted impression of a general human form, causing the one man occupying it to sink in, confusing his posture. He never the less sits relaxed with his right leg cocked so his ankle rests on the thigh of his left. Hands loosely gripping the armrests. The chair on the opposite side of the barrier is a nice, Victorian style dining-room chair. The wood that creates the impressively curved design is a rich, polished chestnut, and the reupholstered cushions on the back and hind respectively are a soothing, burgundy velvet. The man in this chair sits properly with a straight back, his hands are folded in his lap resting upon a visibly old, worn, leatherback black book. The book is thick, and through the cracks of the man’s fingers we can see a gold embossed cross on the cover. The men are in the middle of a conversation, they have been for at least half an hour.

“...and, um, on Wednesday I cursed. The Caps lost in a shoot-out and I said ‘Goddamit,’” the man on the left admits.

“An admission of taking the Lord’s name in vein is enough, my son, you do not need to say it.” The voice is loud, heavenly, passionate. “Is there anything else that you need to confess to me today?”

“Oh yea... right, sorry. Um, no I think that’s it. Oh I ran a stop sign last night on my way home, it was an accident, I just looked up and it was already behind me. I didn’t mean to at all”

“That isn’t a sin my child.”

“Yeah I know... I just needed to tell someone I think. It was bothering me all day, what if someone had been in the crosswalk, Y’know?” He sticks his left thumb to his mouth, supporting the connected elbow with his right forearm. He begins to violently pick at the fingernail of the thumb with his front teeth. The other man can hear the faint clicking sound that the action makes, but remains silent. Both pausing. “...I would’ve hit them for sure, and it would’ve been all my fault.”

“You cannot think like that, you must consider it a blessing that you are still healthy and safe afterwards. The heavenly father was watching you and delivered you from your accident, keeping innocent people away. He works in wonderful ways.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He regrets saying anything about running the stop sign, wasn’t exactly looking for a sermon. “Well I mean that’s it, that’s all I have to say. I don’t have anything else to confess.”

“Okay, let us say the Lord’s Prayer together and then be on your way my son.” The man on the left agreed and the two said it, keeping in unison the whole time. The man on the left kept his eyes open and his hands apart, his head being tilted only because it already had been. The man on the right has his hands combined over the surface cover of the old book in his lap; his top and bottom eyelids of both eyeballs are tightly hugging one another.

“Thank you father,” the man on the left says as he stands up from his seat, his hands being the ones propelling him into the standing position. Before the man on the right could answer he continues, “Say, I’m trying to quit cigarettes. Do you think God’s happy about that?”

“I think that God would be pleased at you deciding to love the body and life that he gave you.”

“Yeah well I mean that’s true, but like, do you think he cares either way?”

“Yes certainly he cares, my son.” His voice increasing in volume, confused and startled. “He wants you to be healthy and as happy as possible and he...”

“Ok thanks Father,” the man on the left now standing at the actual door to the room, hand on the handle, interrupting the recurring sermon. The real door that serves to enter and exit through is hinged upon the same wall as the fake one is attached, to keep the barrier intact that the fake one creates. “I just thought he should know that I’m trying to quit.”

“He appreciates it I’m sure, my son.” The door closes at the last syllable of the man on the right’s sentiment. Outside of the door in the hallway the man on the left passes a little girl, about six years old, sitting in a solitary chair outside of the room he had just come out of. She has blonde pigtails and a Dorothy from the ‘Wizard of Oz’ type blue dress, missing the ruby slippers to complete the ensemble, of course. A piece of paper flutters and shakes in her small hands and she holds it up to her face, trying to read and memorize the contents in one sense, and ignore the man that was sitting on the left of the fake door in another. We can see that the paper that is titled “The Ten Commandments.” The man that was on the left waits outside in the hallway when the little girl enters the room that he just came out of. He could hear the man behind the barrier’s voice boom the words “In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, what is on your mind my child?” After hearing these words, this question, the same question that began his conversation with the man on the right side of the fake door, he continues down the hallway and out of the building. Once outside, he sits at a sidewalk bench on the corner in front of the building that he just came out of.

The man that was sitting on the left of the door returns on the bench to the position he was in while on the chair. He sits there for a few moments, breathing in and out. His chest compressions are barely visible as his shirt rises and falls with his steady, calm breath. He takes up the middle of the bench, shielding it away from any other potential users with his arms sprawled along the top edge; his wingspan covers the seat. His head is leaning back so just the top of his spinal cord folds over the back of the bench, and he can see directly above him. The weather is beautiful outside, he thinks, and he takes another longer, deeper breath into his mouth. He folds his hands behind the back of his head, propping his skull back up to see the horizon in front of him. He is truly comfortable, observing the day.

The man that was sitting on the left is a taller type. He is middle aged, but his eyes look old and worn. He has a smooth, tenor voice. We can call it tenor voice because it would be a lovely singing voice if the cigarettes he was trying to quit hadn’t ruined that previous talent of his. The cigarettes make his voice relatively deeper than it probably would be without them, but it still has a songbird tone to it that shouldn’t be mistaken. Now, however, his voice is broken, lacking quality... no, decisiveness. It is lacking decisiveness. The quality is there, but it staggers and becomes uncomfortable, unclear. His hair is dark brown and hangs lifelessly with grease below his ears, kind of shuffled around looking like a bed head. Maybe it is bed head and that’s just the style that he goes for. His hands are large, not abnormally so but considerably enough to comment on. His eyes are closed underneath his bangs and he crosses his arms around his torso, yawning in the sunbeams that engulf his being. He begins to doze in and out of sleep.

He reopens his eyes in the luxurious sun and sees the girl that went into the room after him walking the opposite way down the street. Her mother, or what we can assume to be her mother only because the visage is very faint, stands forty feet away from her waving in out on the sidewalk next to a forest green minivan. The little girl runs and leaps into the mom’s arms and her mother reciprocates the energy by spinning her around in the air twice than places her back down. After the move, the two get into the minivan and drive away. Momentarily, it drives past the man that was sitting on the left who is now sitting in the middle of the bench awake, reaching into his pockets with one hand and pushing his hair out of his eyes with the other. Neither of the two females in the van move their necks to acknowledge the man sitting on the bench. He has only been sleeping for fifteen minutes or so; we can say at least that it hasn’t been a long time. Not long at all. He can tell this just from the knowledge of how long a child’s confession generally lasts. Not that his are record-breaking in time, he knows, but still children are impatient and don’t know what to say for that sort of thing. Grown-ups, on the other hand, know what to say but spend the entire time hiding from what they’ve done wrong. This is what he thinks about for a moment, holding still in his position, like a statue frozen in time. It would be a fairly inferior statue however, as the position isn’t one of strength or force, but rather confusion and insecurity. He wishes that he would have opened up a little more during his confession, said what was really on his mind. Adults don’t do that though, we can decide, there is a problem in admitting even solely to oneself what kind of thoughts are actually occupying the mind.

Out of the pocket the hand returns holding a tattered and morphed pack of cigarettes, and he brings the pack to his face. He opens it with his pointer finger, flicking it open, and sees that he only has two remaining. He pinches one and pulls it out of his pack, the one some people refer to as “their lucky,” and turns it around placing the filter between his lips. He reaches into the opposite pocket from which his cigarettes came with the same hand he used to get them, making the action awkward and time-consuming. Finally, his hand returns to a normal shape and in it he holds a bright orange BIC lighter that he uses to light his cigarette.

“I thought you were quitting?” The loud voice that he recognizes from earlier booms the question from behind him, cutting through the relaxed privacy and exciting his senses. The man that was on the left of the confessional jumps a little from his comfortable seat of the bench and cranes his neck all the way around to see the man that was on the right.

“Oh Father Isaacs, I... I didn’t hear you coming,” he says, half chuckling half stammering, “Please sit down.” He briefly drags his cigarette then slides to his right to make room for the holy man to take a seat, which he does. He places a stack of three books, two folders and a spiral onto the middle of the bench; barriers. The two firmly shake hands, the one that was on the left of the confessional and now on the right of the bench first fumbling around the cigarette in his fingers, trying to move the thing from his right hand into his left. He wants to provide Isaacs with the firmest shake possible.

“So I thought you were quitting?” Father Isaacs repeats his inquiry, smiling at the man, the two still in the ending stages of the handshake. The holy man’s left hand is briefly resting on the man to his right’s shoulder.

Releasing each other’s hands, “Heh, yeah well... I bought some a few days ago and I looked and I just have two more in my pack, well now I have one more left in my pack. So I figured I might as well have them.” He starts to explain himself. “I am though I think, I want to anyways.”

Father Isaacs laughs a little, “Haha I see. Well I believe in you, anything you want.”

“Heh, yeah thanks a lot.”

“Still, as it were I think I might join you for the time being,” Father Isaacs says as he reaches behind him into his back pocket and pulls out a rectangular copper container, polished with the design of a tiger engraved upon it. The work was exquisite, down to the finest detail really. The metal canvas, which is roughly seven centimeters long by four centimeters wide by two centimeters high, is wonderfully designed in a proportioned tiger face at a slightly tilted profile image to see the other side of the nose. The work is simple, yet impressive, capturing the tiger in a roaring expression, powerful and confident. The container seems old, like Father Isaacs. He opens the hatch to the container and inside rest nine unused cigarettes and four butts. He picks out one from the middle of the row and plops it into his mouth. A full, graying beard surrounds the cigarette, some stray hairs making physical contact with the pillar coming from the mouth of the holy man.

“Sure thing.... you need a light?” The man that was on the left of the confessional reaches his appropriate hand into the congruent pocket and quickly whips out the lighter he used for his.

“Haha, well thank you. That’ll do fine.” We could say that Father Isaacs is, in not a lot of words, jolly. His demeanor always impressed the man who was on the left side of the confessional, now the right side of the bench. Even though he hasn’t been to the church in about a decade, he is already re-entranced with Isaacs’ presence, there is something incredible about him. He is comfortable... well, both of them are comfortable. Well, lets say that the man who was on the left of the confessional is comfortable, and Father Isaacs is comforting. “Hell of a game the other night though huh?” He says as the cigarette struggles between his lips and he tries to shield the breeze with his hands.

“Haha yeah. I guess you know. They shoulda’ had it before regulation ended but oh well, next game is in a few days, I think we’ll make it.” He offers his hands as a shield from the wind as well.

“Right you are, my friend, right you are,” Isaacs chuckles as the cigarette finally catches and he nods in appreciation, handing the lighter back to the other.

“So how are you, really? We’ve missed you around here,” Father Isaacs asks this after his first long drag of the cigarette, the question first amidst the smoke.

“I’m okay... same as always, you know. Yea I know I just have been outta town and stuff and just haven’t found the time. I’ve missed it here too I just, you know, haven’t come.”

“I understand... regardless its great to see you now.” Father Isaacs gives the man who was on the left of the confessional a couple of firm, reassuring pats on the back.

“Yea it is, great to see you. Really great. I’ll be around more now, I got a job back in town again so I’m back for a little while.  I’ll start coming again, how’s that sound? How’s the congregation?”

“Oh they are dwindling, have been for some years now, I’m afraid your being back is ill-fated.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m afraid that our financial problems have gotten the better of us, the congregation has just grown too small and we don’t make enough to keep the deed to the land.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“The church is closing, the walls are coming down in three weeks.” Father Isaacs exhales and puts his elbows onto his knees, his entire body moves in accordance with the gesture and he is now looking at the concrete sidewalk under the bench, his old back making a forty-five degree angle with his thighs parallel to the ground.

“Father Isaacs.. I.. wow I’m so sorry, nothing can be done?

“No I’m sorry to say not, we tried but there just wasn’t enough. I can’t keep up with today’s world anyways, I think it’s my time to just retire and enjoy what I still can with my life. I’ve begun to think of it as a blessing really.”

“What do you mean? How can you give up? What is the rest congregation going to do? That little girl and her family? You still have plenty of time.”

“They’ll move on, most of them already have. People are busy, people have other things going on, just like you. It’s time, my friend. As for that little girl,” Isaacs continues, a lonely pride in his voice, “that is my granddaughter. She is the only one, besides you earlier today, who has confessed in two months, she insists, she is so eager and smart.”

“Really? Wow, I’m sorry.” The man who is on the right of the bench didn’t know what to say to the man on his left. The confidence and impenetrability that the holy man has is remarkable, ready to move on and accept his fate. His career has ended and the church in which he spent that career is being crushed and renovated to meet the needs of other services. While a little emotional he is impressively collected, as if he understood the workings of the world better. These are the ideas that are occupying the man on the right’s mind. Well, I guess we can say that in some ways he does understand the world better. “So, you’re okay?”

“Yes I’m okay, haha, its nothing to be sorry about at all,” Father Isaacs laughs hard and then settles down quickly, “No I’ll be okay, we can move on, just like the rest of them, while we can.” The man on the right of the bench silently agrees and reaches back into his pockets once more and retrieves his pack of cigarettes again, pulling the last one out. “You’re quitting my friend don’t smoke that last one so quickly. You are quitting aren’t you?”

“Yea I mean... yea I am, I want to.”

“Don’t want to, do it, it isn’t hard. If you want to smoke, smoke. If you don’t, don’t.”

“Alright yeah but I was just going to have this one with you, I’m enjoying your company and thought I’d just have my last one now.”

“I just wanted to see you, or.. I guess.. talk to you. I don’t know, I thought I needed to confess.”

“Do you think you did anything worth confessing?”

“What?”

“You heard my question, do you not understand it? Should I rephrase it?”

“I mean.. No I didn’t really do anything that wrong I think, something that if anything exists after this I’d get punished for. I don’t think I did anything wrong like that. Just, my mindset I guess, I don’t want to be wrong and then get punished. You know? No of course you don’t you’re a Pastor you live for just the opposite mindset.”

“I feel sorry for you if that’s the case and I hope you are just struggling to find the correct words. You need to care about yourself, and if you don’t, then you’ve wasted more time of mine than this church has in my entire career.”

“I do, I want to care about myself. I want to believe, I just can’t, I won’t, something about me.”

“There is nothing about you, there is something that you perceive in everything else that you don’t. If you don’t try, if you don’t care, than that is the most unforgivable thing. Because, in truth, I haven’t a goddamn idea what is up there, my friend. I simply believe that whatever is up there, or whatever exists after this as you say, is worth living for and praying to.” The holy man stands up and grabs the cigarette out from the man on the right side of the bench’s lips and pulls out his tiger engraved copper capsule once more, opening it quickly and putting it within the others. He closes the capsule and keeps it in his hands, his right pointer and middle finger caressing the grooves of the tiger as he looks down upon it. “However, I’m afraid I have to leave now, my granddaughter has junior soccer game that I have to be at, I haven’t missed one yet. She’s quite good for her age actually,” he is laughing, “oh well, it was a pleasure seeing you again my friend, I hope it won’t be too long before the next time. If you ever need anything, never hesitate to come to me. Try to live more spiritually if you can, you appear lost, and it can do nothing but help.” He is extending his hand toward the man still seated on the bench, who quickly stands up at the announcement.

“Oh.. err.. alright, it was great to see you as well, it always is. I’ll see you soon.” The man returns the handshake and continues in for a strong hug. Both of the two men’s left arms are draped around the other’s back, and they hold the embrace for a few seconds. The holy man begins to turn around and walk away. “Hey real quick, where’d you get that cigarette case? I’m quitting I know heh, but its pretty cool.”

“Oh this?” Father Isaacs chuckles as he continues to finger the grooves of the piece of art, “I got it a long time ago, in my youth, while I was on a trip in Russia studying. I must have had this thing for thirty years. I saw it in a shop one day and just immediately had to have it. I loved it, the craftsmanship. I wasn’t much of smoker back then, haha maybe buying this made me one huh? I’ve had it for some time now.”

“Wow thirty years, I can’t imagine having anything that long heh. Can I see it? Just real quick, sorry to hold you up.”

“Oh not at all,” the holy man chuckles and hands the man now standing to his right the container.

“Yeah wow this is great,” he says as he begins tracing the grooves with his fingertips like his companion. “Really impressive up close,” He hands it back to Father Isaac, “You like tigers? Is that a weird question?”

“Haha, no it’s a perfectly normal one I would imagine. But this is an engraving of a Siberian Tiger. Right now, there or only five or six hundred left in the wild. They are one of the most endangered species on the planet.”

“What? Wow, that’s pretty ridiculous if you ask me,” the man to the right of Father Isaacs says, “I bet no one even knows that, I sure didn’t. Are they going to go extinct? Shouldn’t people try and do something, its probably all our fault with deforestation and all that anyways right?”

Father Isaacs laughs at his companion’s increasing excitement, grinning larger than he has so far in the exchange. Despite his joy, he keeps a sermon like tone to his voice, comfortable yet passionate. “People are trying but the population keeps falling, those estimates are really only guesses anyways, the last real report of one seen in the wild was years ago.”

“So they’re already gone?!” He yells in aggravation.

“No, no I doubt it, there are still some out there, and it’s not all the human’s fault, these things just happen. Species go extinct, humans are no different, my friend, make no mistake about that. Admittedly, I have always had an attraction towards tigers. They are powerful, strong. You can see how wise one is just by looking at them, I think.”

“Um.. yea I think I know what you mean.” They are both looking at the capsule, enthralled with its artistic power.

“Anyways I think even more recently I’ve just affiliated myself more with the Siberian Tigers in that way.”

“How?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Like we said, people are too rushed, too busy, I just can’t keep up with this world anymore, its hard. People don’t want to believe in anything. It’s too much to ask of them. Just like how I’m moving on, perhaps it’s a blessing that the tigers are going extinct?”

“I don’t know Father I can’t follow you on that one,” the man standing on the right of Father Isaacs says. He begins to visibly think, trying to work out something to say about the Siberian Tigers or anything else, but nothing would come. A loss for words.

“Oh well, haha, we can agree to disagree for now I suppose. Goodness, now I’m running late,” Father Isaacs says looking at his wristwatch on his right hand. “Take care my friend. I hope to see you again soon.” The holy man slips the case again into his back right pocket and begins walking in the other direction. The man still standing by the bench waves back and returns to his position on the seat.  He looks down to see Father Isaacs whistling a tune and opening one of his books, reading as he walks. We could say that he is enjoying himself.

__________________________________________

                  The man who was on the left side of the confessional and the right side of the  bench is at the Washington D.C. National Zoo. He walks through the exhibits, looking at every animal on the inside of each cage, yet only briefly taking time to see the animal then keep walking, never breaking his stride. He passes grizzly bears, elephants, wild dogs, jaguars, rhinoceroses and penguins. He strolls the monkey and reptile houses respectively, noticing the ridiculous degree to individuality that each animal has, separate from another. He makes it an exhibit that reads at the center-most sign of information “Siberian Tiger.” He smiles and jumps a meager little jump and begins hop-walking towards the thick, reinforced glass barrier between him and the grass of the tiger’s stomping ground. He places both of his palms up against the glass and peers inside, looking all-around for the magnificent creature that he had heard so much about, as if waiting upon a heavenly messenger to read him his destiny. He cannot see it, he looks all around, pressing his face against the glass and looking for the tiger. We can see that there isn’t a tiger in this cage.