Pleasantville: Population 1

by Bearurr

Joseph Marlow trudged slowly down the dusty deserted road into town, past the large oak tree. He had been walking for hours, his once healthy feet now a painful reminder of the past miles that had claimed a piece of him with every step. The dry hot wind slapped his face from the north, the setting sun to his left blinding him momentarily. The town was deserted, it must have once been one of those gold rush towns, where folks thought that just because Bob down the street found gold, you're soon to follow. Joe squinted against the escaping sun and looked at the sign, askew. It rested on its last hinge, swinging in the breeze. It made that creak, creak, sound whenever the wind would blow it.

"Pleasantville, established in 1872; town population," Joe's tortured voice croaked out. He stumbled closer, the print appearing to have been altered, scratched out long after it had originally been put up.

"Well, I'll be, " he said with a bit of awe. When he looked closer the sign that had previously mentioned the teaming city of 1,037, now had the grand total of 4; and then once more it had been smudged out, leaving 1.

Joe rubbed his face and thought about that. His exhausted mind could not reason the figures out, so he turned to glance down the empty main road. The buildings looked as if they too were tired, waiting for permission to find their final resting place in a crumbled heap below. Across the dirt road was what looked like a saloon, next to the bank. He thought there was a hotel further down.

"Well, it's a place to stay for the night," he slowly walked toward the crooked building, "I guess the service might be a bit slow," his dry cracked lips curved up ruefully. His throat too sore to allow for laughter.

Joe stepped into the dark dusty lobby of the hotel, at first blinded from the change in lighting. He blinked a few times and grew accustomed to the dimness. He shuffled to what he thought was the front desk and rummaged around for a room key, finding some bees wax candles in the process and lit one. All of his activity had disturbed the slumbering dust.

Joe coughed, "Damn that hurts."

He stumbled up the creaking steps. The floorboards moaned beneath him. Finally, he made it to the top, "Now, where's room 13?" He gingerly walked down the hall, one hand shielding the flickering flame. The room was at the end of the hall. He turned the key in the lock, and swung the door wide open.

"Ah, home," Joe couldn't help but laugh, causing him to let out a stream of profanities that would have caused a sailor to blush. He shut the door and fell onto the bed, instantly asleep, not even aware of the cloud of disturbed dust his entrance had created.

It was the sound of the piano and loud laughter that awoke him.

Joe rolled over in bed, the sunlight streaming in from the opened windows; he could faintly smell the scent of the lilac perfumed linen beneath his nose.

He smiled faintly in his pre-awake sleep and wondered what they would be serving for breakfast, he loved their pancakes and a hearty breakfast. The music from below was increasing in sound, Joe could almost make out the lyrics.

Ol' suzanna, don't you cry for me, I come from Alamamie with a banjo on my knee.

The music brought back that memory he had of the fair in '69.

Joe's eyes snapped open, "Music?"

He sat upright in bed, a confused look on his face. The room was in mint condition, the ivory lace curtains blowing slightly in the early morning breeze, the sound of a busy town slipping inside on the wings of the wind. The bedding was fresh and crisp, the walls clean white-washed. The water basin, Joe noticed once he stood up, was filled with cool water. He raised his eyes to the mirror hanging above it, and stared.

A man of about 32 stared back at him, lean, tanned skin proudly displayed with a slightly curly hair chest, muscled from hard work. His short brown hair, in need of a trim, hung a bit below his ears. His chiseled chin was in need of a shave, but otherwise in fine condition. He licked his lips and a large smile spread across, showing his white teeth. He slowly moved his gaze to the eyes--the clear, ice blue gaze didn't hesitate. This was a man, one of strength.

"Who are you?" the voice boomed out from the reflection. Is this me? Joe asked himself, his hand moving up to rub the scruffy chin.

"Who else could it be?" the reflection called out.

Who else indeed.

After a light cleaning Joe left the room, his black pants and boots spotless, the light blue open necked shirt hanging snugly from his shoulders. The weather was perfect, not to cold or too hot. He ambled down the hall, following the sound from below.

From the bottom of the stairs, he could tell that this was a busy city, men and women walking through the lobby, some with luggage, others with linen and food for the guests..

Guests? Wasn't this place deserted last night? Hell, wasn't this a bloody ghost town?

Joe frowned slight, a confused look on his face. The bell man noticed his descent from above and made his way to Joe's side.

"Can I help you Mr. Marlow?" the little man with a mustache said to him, an oddly knowing look on his face.

Joe looked down, "Do I know you sir? I thought this place was deserted." Joe surveyed the room, his eyes contradicting that very statement.

The bell man walked Joe to the doorway, showing him the congested road, the dust being thrown up from the kicking horses and the wagons which were pulled. The distinct smell of horse manure in the air could not be mistaken. He could smell the tobacco from the pipe of a man standing outside. The dry breeze blew into his face, carrying these and other scents to his nose.

"How do you like the town, Mr. Marlow? It has changed since you saw it last?"

"I have been here before?" Joe asked bewilderingly, as this man walked him down the crowded road, back toward the way he had come the day before.

"Mr. Marlow, you know us well, this town is your final place of rest. It's your home. It's all of our homes." The little man walked him slowly to where the small cemetery lay at the edge of town.

The little man motioned him to go ahead. Joe walked slowly through the gate, noticing how the grass was over growing the gravestones, all but one. This one looked new, the white of the stone gleaming in the late afternoon sun. He felt as if he was drawn to this one light in the sea of the faded reminders of lives that once were, and slowly made his way. He knelt down and read:

John Marlow

June 17, 1840 - October 31, 1872

"A man who searched for meaning in life, may he find rest in death."

"I'm.....I'm dead?" He looked incredulously up at the little man, and noticed that quite a few people had joined him, standing before him.

The man didn't say anything just motioned him to stand, but as he did, he felt a dizziness come over him, numbness over all of his limbs, spread over his body. Then he felt only blackness.

The town marched Joe out that afternoon, the setting sun a fitting finale to this nightmare. His chaffed hands tied behind his back, his eyes covered with a black handkerchief. My lips hurt, Joe thought, his feet bleeding again, his cloths torn and dusty from his trek. The townspeople marched him to the edge of town where the large ancient oak tree stood, with a noose hanging.

Ahhh, death, is it coming for me at last? He wondered, his eyes closing, lips moving slowly, reciting that prayer that his mother always made him say before bed. Ahh sweet Charon, take me away from this insanity. This pain. The short man took him to the horse that stood underneath the rope, and with the help of a few others sat him up on the horse, his head secured within the confinds of the noose.

Shouldn't have come into town, I'm thinking now, he thought to himself, keeping his eyes closed, the setting sun was causing a glare across the horizon.

"Why Mr. Marlow, don't you know? You never left this town. And you never will." The short man said to him, backing up from the horse and smiling up at him, his eyes void, the worms having eaten them years and years ago. In fact, there was little left of that man, but the loose rotten suit that hung from his frame. The jaw hanging open slightly, having come unhinged when the cartilage deteriorated a couple decades before.

Why Mr. Marlow, we all never left the town. We remain, forever.

The sound of the crowd overrode the prayer. The chanting flooded his senses, The horse reared and he was slung off. NO! his mind cried out, but the brain, the neurons, they were long gone. The only thing left were the bones, they always lived on, and the tree, the hangin' tree, with the rope swinging in the wind, waiting for it's next victim, population 1, remained.



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