The day began with the kind of thick grey fog that made walking dangerous, but it was his routine, even on vacation, to begin the day with a nice brisk walk, fog be damned. He’d just have to walk more slowly than he preferred and listen for anything that might be in his path. Several minutes in, he found it hard to enjoy the walk when he couldn’t see a thing in any direction and had to keep his eyes on the ground to make sure that he didn’t wander off the path and onto the street. But then, who would attempt to drive in this dark grey wool morning? he thought.

The path began to take a slight incline and much to his relief it led up to a small paved courtyard with concrete benches and drinking fountains and because of the shift in elevation appeared to be somewhat free of the fog, though he still could not see the sky, the sun or the horizon. This must be the center of town, he thought and noted that several others had taken refuge in this spot to wait out the fog’s dispersal. After a few moments several others found the spot and the din of the place quickly went from near blind silence to several light hearted conversations. 

He kept to himself, as was his custom, but a pair of young men in matching rugby jerseys introduced themselves and asked him where he was from, clearly not being a local. He was taken aback at the brazenness of their assumption, but then this might be a very small community where everyone literally knows everyone else, so a visitor would be relatively easy to identify. 

“I’m on holiday… from the south,” he offered. 

“Then you’re probably a bit disoriented, because of the fog,” one responded with a smile. 

“You’ll get used to it after a couple days,” the other said with a slight laugh.

Days? he thought. They could see the revelation flow across his face that this really wasn’t a place that one goes to “on holiday” because the weather can be so unpredictable and sour.

“It’s pretty much like this year round,” the first one offered.

As if reading his mind the second responded, “Really.”

“There might a few days in July or August when an unfamiliar heat washes over this place, but other than that, it’s almost permanent fog, year round, morning, noon and night. Welcome to Gendington,” the first said. Then they turned and walked away holding hands with a slight chuckle. “At least it’s not raining buckets,” the second said over his shoulder.

The visitor didn’t quite know what to do with this new bit of information. Was it true that the fog never lifts in this place or were those two just taking advantage of a stranger?

He wandered over to where two older gentlemen in ruffled trench coats had taken out a pair of folding stools and a small camping table on which they’d placed a chess board and pieces. “The problem with you is that you still believe in certainty,” one of the fellows blasted at his opponent. The other gentleman rebuffed the accusation with a silent head shake never taking his eyes off the pieces on the board. 

“Can you believe this fellow?” said the second gentleman still staring at the board, while his opponent gave a slight side-eye to the approaching stranger. “We’ve been playing chess in this place for over forty years, nearly daily, and he thinks that he can distract my concentration with an insult. Ha!” And with that he moved his piece aggressively. 

“It wasn’t an insult. It’s the truth!” The first gentleman made his move with a conquering smile. “I myself am a fan of chaos.”

“If you’re such a fan of chaos, why are your moves so damn predictable,” and the second gentleman countered his opponent’s move. “This might be one of our shortest games ever,” he added with a smile. 

The first looked up at the stranger, “Do you play?”

The stranger stammered, “No… sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” the first continued, ”consider yourself lucky, that you haven’t fallen into this endless trap of having to contest with this one across the table from me. It’s hardly a way to spend one’s life.” 

“But you wouldn’t have it any other way,” the other interrupted with a grin, but never taking his eyes off of the board. 

“Sad, but true, my friend, sad but true. I wonder if there’s any way out of this mess,” the first said as he made a hesitant move on the board. 

The stranger didn’t know what they were talking about, chess, the fog or life, and turned to walk away. “Whatever you do,” the first called out to him, “never bet on Certainty, always go with Chaos! That’s what I always say.”

“Yeah, we know,” his opponent responded. 

The stranger felt the air cool down and brought the collar of his light jacket up to his ears. Then he heard the first crack of thunder and then the heavy downpour in the distance, as it approached in the direction he had originally come from. He looked around for where he might shelter and saw the locals quickly disperse in every direction including the two old gentlemen and their stools, table and board. But because of the fog he couldn’t tell if they were jumping into vehicles or even if there were any buildings around. He had to do something, he couldn’t just stand there and let the rain drench him. Or could he? He had no where to turn to and didn’t know anyone who could help. If he headed back the way he came, it felt like he’d be heading right into the storm. 

He stood alone in the courtyard waiting for the storm to literally wash over him. He surrendered to the possibility that he was about to get the drenching of his life and then would have to make the embarrassing walk back to his lodging like a drowned rat. He could hear the rain coming and the wind picked up, and he hated that he didn’t really know where he was or have some idea what to do besides stand there and brace himself for the deluge. 

But just as quickly as the courtyard had cleared of locals, the sound of the rain and wind went away, like someone had turned the damn faucet off. And much to his surprise the fog lifted and he could see the village that surrounded the courtyard and the green acres that surrounded the village. And then high up above, peaking through the clouds he could see just a hint of the sun. He was almost disappointed that he hadn’t been washed away in a flood. Then he raised his arms and spun one time around in the courtyard and said, “Chaos, indeed.” As he started his slow jog back to his lodgings, he quietly said, “Welcome to Glendington… and chaos. Ha!” JBB

Sources:

Tags: Certainty v Chaos, Joe Bustillos short stories, short stories, stuck in the fog, writing projects

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