Rebar : A Collective Storytelling Experience

Trouble began, it had always seemed, that following year when the bank was shuttered, and Margot got that magic set for Christmas. With the tree lit up like a perfect little chemical fire, and the two sisters bouncing down the stairs, still in their nightgowns, the world came to a stop, so close to perfect that the air even tasted like gingerbread.

The world had reached its end at a mess of folding chairs, arranged in a lopsided, incomplete attempt at a circle. Against a beige-painted wall sat a card table with a coffee machine and some Styrofoam cups and a paper plate with some questionable pastries. More chairs were lined up against it, and decorations from the youth Thanksgiving play littered a corner. The hall door had been left open just a crack, and microphoned mutterings from a community summit on recent crime patterns trickled in as odd consonants and echoing vowels.

She had one leg tuck behind the other, its heel sort of nervously tapping out an SOS tattoo against the olive drab carpet. Tallish black boots swallowed whole the bottoms of her charcoal pinstriped legs. Her eyes darted toward the thermostat, and she strained against tortoiseshell Wayfarers, but could not quite make out how vindictively cold it was.

Maybe she saw her breath. Maybe it was nothing.

Black gloves, cable-knit ones with no fingers but buttoned-over mitten convertibles spewed from a big pocket in her coat. It was a tweed trench, a lightish kind of un-dyed grey with a nice warm hood and dark, paisley-patterned lining in the inside. A black scarf hung from the back of her chair, its knot still blossoming unkemptly toward one end. In politely removing it when she had walked in, she had sort of mussed up her hair, and now the overflowing pile of autumn orange curls frayed and spun at the edges, cut just under a bob.

The girl coughed, hoarsely, and a silver cross jumped from her neckline for a moment, resettling, now twisted the other way.

Only five or six came to regularly bare their souls to strangers; them, and the civil-servant-salaried social worker with a shaved head and a tattoo peeking from her collar. A sans-serif sign reading ‘Coping with Loss During the Holidays: Wednesday 8p’ hung itself from a thumbtack on the bulletin board in the library’s green-and-grey linoleum hallway. Fara chewed at her bottom lip and rubbed a hand against the flushed sneeze of freckles on her cheek while an anemic looking man with a weird pattern of acne scars sobbed about his dog.

He stepped out of the shopping mall into the cold November air, pausing at the entry way to place his sunglasses on his face and watch the crowds scurrying into the mall to do their Christmas shopping.

"Wealth, decadence, consumerism; god I love the holidays."

He reached into his pocket pulling out a cigar and a lighter. He placed the cigar in his mouth, flicking the lid of the lighter open and snapping the flame into existence, taking a few puffs off the cigar as it lit. He walked slowly through the parking lot as a gentle snow came falling around him, smiling at all of the busy shoppers rushing towards their next merchandise conquest.

Say what you will about the beauty of Seoul or the posh of London, there was always something exhilarating about New York, whether it be the outright blatant decadence or the veneer of class and society surrounding the outright disregard for those who hadn't managed to pull themselves out of poverty yet, but it was just an enjoyable experience to watch the millions of the masses carry on every given day like there was nothing out of the ordinary, no problems in the world but their petty human concerns. Every aspect of humanity at it's best and worst was on display here 24/7.

He flicked his cigar into the snow as he unlocked his black sedan, sitting inside. As he turned the engine over he felt a slight buzz in his pocket. Quickly retrieving his cell phone he glanced at the screen and smirked. It was another Christmas party invitation. If this kept up he would be booked every night straight through to the new year. It couldn't be any better. Slipping the phone away he gave a chuckle to the song on the radio, turning it up as he pulled out into the Manhattan streets.

'Please allow me to introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste
I've been around for a long, long year
Stole many a man's soul and fate'

He quickly grabbed all the files scattered around his desk and stacked them knowing he would be late for his date.He adjusted his tie and ran out the door of the otherwise empty law firm into the cold november streets. Quickly getting into his car he turned on the heater bringing his hands to his face mumbling "Its FUCKING cold".

The streets of New York were packed..Probably holiday shopping.He turned the ignition on his car and drove down the street stopping at a store to get something for his date.

He pushed the door open strolling into the flower store "Hey could I pick up a tulip?" he said. The store owner replied "1 will cost you 6 dollars" He fumbled in his back pocket hitting nothing then stuck his hands into every pocket in his trousers and blazer "Fuck!" he said to himself. "I left my wallet in the firm..No time now" He ran out of the store hopped in his car and sped down the street towards his old firm muttering his idiocracy to himself. He went to the doors and pushed and pulled. It was locked.So he grabbed his phone and called to cancel his date..The lady didn't take it lightly and dumped him on the call.

What a horrible day. I hate the holidays.

He got back in his car flipped on the radio and drove home to christmas music still muttering

(Moved here.)