POTENTIAL
by Shannon Snider
A spark. A flash. A switch is flipped. It’s off, we’re off, racing
forward at the speed of light. Fast. Really fast through the wires, the cords,
the web hidden in the walls, just in front of the 2x4’s and right behind
the drywall. Up the side, hidden but gaining speed. Energy. Potential energy.
Potential. Faster, closer, faster, closer to release. Faster, quicker yet. Weaving,
turning, jutting over, under and around rafters, bracers, and side beams, a
veritable new forest for trees to meet their potential. No pauses. No stops.
Faster still. Nearer, nearer. The suspense, the driving towards the goal. The
goal, the release, the met potential. So close now. Down the wall, closer still.
Just a few more feet. So close. A micro-measure of time. A release, a climax,
an apex of energy streaming through the outlet and ultimately emerging in a
sustaining, useful ‘PREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNN’.
A hairdryer. Gusts of hot, violent wind emitting from a useful plastic device.
The gusts come out, whipping her soft brown hair against her face and neck,
tossing them up and down into a medley of locks and tresses. She flips her hair
over in one quick, violent movement. Back up again with the same ferociousness,
then down. Up. Again. Down and up, down and up. She turns off the hairdryer
and noisily throws it into the sink. With one hand she picks up her hairbrush
and tries to tame her unruly locks, while the other hand grabs a cup of coffee
that has been threatening to fall off the ledge above the sink. Caffeine, caffeine,
gotta get caffeine. Seconds later the bathroom door thrusts open before the
toilette is even done flushing. She hurries to her closet, her perfectly coiffured
hair bouncing with her hard footsteps. She fumbles. She fumbles for her shoes.
Where the hell can they be? No, those aren’t the right ones; they hurt
her feet. Searching, searching, searching. Maybe…. She turns away from
her closet while reaching up and yanking on the string attached to the light
bulb. She dives to her knees and thrusts her arm under the bed. She reaches,
she gropes, she strains while her hair hangs in her face, some getting stuck
in her gooey lip-gloss. Finally, ah ha! One shoe, two shoes. Just the right
blue shoes. Yes. She stands up and quickly heads for the door. Rushing, rushing
time. In a hurry. Bag. She needs her bag. Why the hell can’t she ever find
anything? She makes a re-occurring mental note to get more organized, but knows
she won’t. Ah! Behind the couch. Why the hell was it there? Keys, keys,
keys. She scans the room. On the table. Shoes, bag, keys. Yes. Good to go. Ready
and set. Full of potential. She takes one last gulp of coffee with one hand
while the other turns the doorknob. First swallow, second. She hastily goes
to put the still half-full coffee cup on the previously mentioned table, assuming
her hand and body move within the space of her apartment without the need of
attention. In and instant, less than a second, amazingly quickly, it falls slowly
to the floor, plummeting, twisting in the air, turned by turbulence, spilling
the remainder of the coffee out before it ever hits the wood on the floors.
Expending all the force of its gathered energy, it shatters into hundreds of
tiny, little pieces. Pieces fanning out in all directions, each one traveling
as far as its potential will allow, first vertically, then horizontally, slowly
and finally skidding to their stop. Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Not
this, too. She doesn’t have time for this. No time, no time! Her first
impulse is to grab a towel from the kitchen and clean up the resting disaster,
but she catches herself. Why? It’s done. It’s over with. It can do
no more harm. The harm will be done in wasting more of the precious commodity,
time. She feels good about her justification as she throws open her front door
and exits, slamming it hard behind her. She leaves, bouncing along with her
hair.
Stillness. Silence. Clarity. Clear, quiet, stillness. Warm, black coffee spreading
its edges, uninhibited. Flowing. Filling space, limitless space. Liquid, seeping
into every crack, every knick, every scratch. Soaking. Sinking. Drawn downward
by gravity and its own need to wet what is dry. Spreading its boundaries down
through the now seeped wood, finding its way into the unseen, finding the underworld
alone. Its weight pulling it down, expanding past its potential. Deeper still.
It finds its way to hidden, under-step wires all a-buzz with electric potential.
In the quiet, in the stillness, without any permission at all (how dare it!),
the warm coffee envelops a web of wires. A hot flash! A bright, potent spark!
An immeasurable surge of energy from such a small, insignificant and unseen
scene. Too much and not enough simultaneously. Oh horrible disaster! All is
now quiet. All is dead.
The late morning sunlight visibly streams through the split in a set of insignificant
curtains. Breathing. Deep breathing breaks the utter silence with its rhythm.
Slow, deep, involuntary breathing, void of emotion or physical stress. Somewhere
deep in an unconscious state, a mind begins to naturally arouse itself. First
come the subtle notions of space and location. Then awareness of the body. Slowly,
before he even opens his eyes, he becomes aware of the stiffness of his limbs
and muscles. As his mind and body naturally move from unconsciousness to consciousness,
he rolls over in his bed. He sighs deeply. The pace of his oncoming active mind
begins to quicken. Somewhere deep in the bowels of his mind there is a feeling
of uneasiness. It grows rapidly. It begins to disturb his peacefulness. It’s
closer. It begins to destroy his innocence. It comes racing now, racing to pounce
upon what is left of his subconscious oblivion, which itself has faded to nearly
nothing. A black cloud, a dreadful fact, which finally reveals……Alarm!
Why didn’t the alarm go off?! His body is instantly filled with adrenaline
as he bolts out of bed with one quick movement. He accusingly snaps his head
to look at his treacherous alarm clock. Blank. Nothing. Dead. Crap! His mind
is racing. He grabs a pair of crumpled shorts that lie on the floor. He pulls
them on both of his legs with one movement. His mind is still racing. Was there
a storm? How could the electricity be out? He rationalizes. He quickly grabs
the handset of the telephone and presses the ominous blue button that activates
its potential. Nothing. What? Oh! He remembers that a cordless phone requires
electricity. He curses the complexity of convenience as he shoves his feet into
a pair of well-worn sneakers. Seconds later the front door of his apartment
swings open and he emerges, emerges carrying a bicycle hoisted up near his shoulder.
He begins to descend a series of stairs, rhythmically hopping down them as his
cumbersome bicycle bangs noisily against the walls. Upon reaching the cacophonous
street below, he tosses a leg over the bicycle and mounts it swiftly. He pedals
hard, gaining momentum and speed. He darts around the pedestrians on the sidewalk,
sometimes cautiously, sometimes not. Quickly, he rotates the handlebars to move
him from sidewalk to street traffic. He gains more speed. Tiny beads of perspiration
begin to form on his forehead as he pushes his potential. Darting. Weaving.
Moving in and out of and around a plethora of slow-moving and parked delivery
trucks, taxis filled with anxious passengers, and adventurous motorists. He
is quick, an experienced bicycler in this energized city. He moves with confidence,
pushed on by his own adrenaline meshing with the fevered excitement of the city.
Faster, faster. Must make up for lost time. He immerses himself in the confusion
of the city streets, traveling streets and alleyways known only by a few, splashing
through putrid puddles of unknown liquid along the way. His shirt begins to
stick to his body despite the cooling effects of rushing against the air. A
quick right. A quick left. Dodging bullets disguised as Volvos and little old
ladies with grocery bags. Then, immersed, lost, swallowed by the energy of the
city.
The streets talk. They scream. They speak to one another in an audible but ignored language. Passer-bys, their heads full of potential thoughts, rush past each other, shoving, pushing, bumping, but no one caring. They pound their feet against the weathered sidewalk in high-priced shoes while trying to read the business section of the Times. Everyone and everything moves within the confusion according to their purpose. Men yell orders in foreign languages as they unload heavy boxes from and illegally parked van. Above their heads, a billion tiny light bulbs scroll the moments stock quotes as electrified billboards next to them scream advertising for everything from underwear to bottled beverages. It’s thick. It’s so thick, so thick that most live within it everyday without even knowing it. It’s tangible, full of invisible sparks that fill the air, every ionic particle charged and ready to explode with potential. It grows like a beast. More energy, more rhythm, more potential every second that it continues. It invades every haven, every calm place. It travels underground filling the pipes and the sewers with a resonating hum. Out through windows of office buildings and in through windows of homes. Incessant noise, never relenting, never retreating from any place. There is no escape. It grows. It grows fast. It grows faster and faster each second. Charged. Electrified. It extends itself in every direction, taking on unseen, unspeakable forms. It reaches toward the sky, pushing its limits. And then, somewhere high, very, very high above it all, near the heavens, there is a release. A crash. Forces stronger and older than any synthetic, man-made energy ignite, filling the sky with a deep gray-green hue. A low, distant, rumbling noise begins to exercise its voice, drowning out all that speaks below. Potential. The greatest potential stuffs the sky full. Slowly, very slowly, the drops begin to fall, traveling downward, gaining power as they fall, gaining potential, potential to cleanse, to wash away the old and prepare for the new.