My body's an antique. It's as if my limbs have hardened to the point where movement could be a potential disaster: I reach for an item and my whole arm breaks; I'm handled too rough and a crack could shoot from my head to the bottom of my soul, like an earthquake ripping through the heart of a city, leaving me to pick up the pieces...if I could find them in the first place.

My organs, however, are as sharp as the day I first received them--more sharp, if I'm being truthful. If there were competitions for best working organs (and there are none, as far as I know), I would win first--without a doubt! Take my eyes, for example. My gorgeous--this I'm told--green eyes with hints of blue. I'm told--by everyone, I might add--they look like emeralds, glimmering for the world to see. And they are by far my greatest asset. From where I'm situated, my eyes can see the world. Though a small world it is in my present position. For as beautiful as my eyes are said to be, they don't encounter much company.

You see, not too long ago I was in the company of men and women, all of whom were of the highest status. I was an actor, you see--and a fine one at that. My presence on stage was matched only by the greats: Chase Sanburn, they'd say, you have the comedic timing of Charlie Chaplin; the booming voice of Humphrey Bogart; the powerful presence of Lionel Barrymore. Mr. Sanburn--and here their voice would gain muster--you are the next big thing. . . !

Well, the next big thing I never was, and the next big thing I never will be. In fact, the only thing I'll ever be--is forgotten! Ah, I can only sigh, as I suppose I'm already there. Forgotten by those around me that's for sure. I have no one of any significance in my life. My own name, a once renowned name, is but a memory even I forget at times. You would too if you ceased hearing your name for...for--hm, it's been too many years to recall. Seems my memory is escaping with my body. Ah, my memory: once full of youth, love, excitement; now, nothing but the shards of painful memories reside. One such memory, I recall instantly, is the memory of one, Miss. Lisa Ideal. Ideal...even the name suits her, for she was certainly flawless.

Ding-a-ling-a-ling! Oh, my. The ring of that bell never does grow pleasant to the ears. If my eyes are my glamorous organs, than my ears are it's fine-tuned, ugly-little counterparts. Nevertheless, it used to be a signal of possibility; a signal someone has come to pay a visit; a signal of friendship or camaraderie or lessons to be had. But I'm afraid the bell is nothing more than a warning, or a lost traveler, or an old friend looking for a lost soul.

What is the time? If I may be so bold to ask? Five-o'clock? Well then, it does make sense the dang bell would be ringing. If you'll excuse me for a moment...interactions, as I've stated, are becoming a rarity; and I'd rather not miss it. --Hush! It must be silent! Ah, if my eyes dare deceive me! It's the old whipper-snapper himself: Mr. Pritchard Mendison. Ding! ding-ding-ding! "Hello? Is anyone running this d--n place!"

Mr. Mendison will wait for hours--but he won't do it solemnly. He has, and has not, the ability to remain patient. He's like a rattler waiting for its prey, but rattling like a mad-man as he waits. "Mr. Allan? Danny?"

Poor fellow--if only I could help...oh well. It's not like I can leap from this furniture and help the fellow. No sense fussing over matters out of my control. Sure makes for good entertainment, though. Don't you think? Besides! no one sees me as I am anymore.

"What is the meaning of this? I've driven in solely to see an old friend--and you don't have the courtesy--I've known you for many things--but rude ain't one of 'em!"

You do see the impatience I was referring to, do you not? No worries, it will be over soon. Was nice hearing the sound of a name though. Funny...it wasn't mine--what was it he said? Mr. Allan--Danny, was it not? The name sounds so familiar, yet, no matching face comes to mind.

"Anyway, folks out here seem worried 'bout you. Say you haven't been out in a long while. This true?"

Oh, how I wish I could say a word. Just one word!

"Well then, I suppose if you're too busy for an old friend, you want mind me moseying 'round. Pungent in here! A smell this vile has no business in a place like this!"

If that isn't the most insolent insult I've ever heard--and from an old friend. By the looks of it he isn't faring much better; Looks haggart and out-of-sorts, if I do say so myself--and I do! And his voice sounds like two-packs-a-day. Raspy fellow, like a cracked exhaust lives in his larynx. --Look at him, touching everything like he owns the place. What do you suppose he's looking for? If it's me, there ain't much to find. And I never heard of a Mr. Allan Danny before in my life. Suppose he is looking for me, and he did find me. I wonder what he'd say about what I've become. He'd be ashamed--I'm certain of it. . .just like everyone else who left me. Everyone, but her. There! Don't you see? Behind Mr. Pritchard--by the door. Yes, that's her: Lisa Ideal. The woman from my fragmented memory. I believe that was the first photo we ever shared--I had to hang it, of course. It was the same night we met:

The year was 1943. I was a young lad of 22- years, living in the heart of Times Square. Theater, dare I say, was booming! They were sprouting up as fast as radishes in a garden. It seemed every day brought forth new adventures in theater. And none were bigger than those on Broadway. I remember--I remember! I remember--oh, this is so silly. I remember leaning--on a lamppost across the street of the miraculous theater known as Astor. I--I wanted to smell it; to feel it; to get a piece of the theater life, if you will. There were, uhm--pigeons! Yes, pigeons would gather in the streets during the day, on the same concrete sidewalks as I; sidewalks full of the dreams of every man and woman in the city. They'd roam the streets looking for food and attention (food more than attention). They starved just as I starved, doing whatever they could for enough food to get them by.

At times I would leave the comfort of my lamppost and travel the city. I'd weave through building after building, each one I'd seen before, but each time they looked brand new, like a wave coming one after the next, and if you just glanced--you'd miss it! You'd simply see the same wave as the one before it. Then again, observe the waves and you'll notice each one has its own crash; its own height; its own scent--its own...history. This was Times Square. This was the city! Each building a site to behold. But the night brought out a different story; a different adventure in its own right. It felt like a whole new world. At night--Oh! the nightlife of Times Square! What you see, outside you now, is nothing compared to what it used to be. The pigeons would take their proceeds and escape to their lofts in the sky. Meanwhile, like a herd of wild buffalo, people would run around just to get a look at the place. At night, the buildings came alive--and so did the people who stayed there. The concretes filled with cigarette butts, ashes, and the ooze of every drink imaginable ran through the concrete cracks and poured into the streets. The lights lit up the sky like constant flashes of lightning, with an aura that said one word: come! And we did, like moths we were dazzled by the lights and attracted to the possibilities they could bring. And one of those possibilities--the possibility I wish deeply was inevitable--was the night I met Lisa Ideal. . . .

I suppose you're in no hurry, either? those were the first words she said to me. You don't forget words like that coming from a girl like her. Inviting words. Words wishing for a response back. I hadn't even responded and I knew she was going to change my life.

Hurry? No, I ju--how do you speak when you don't have the words? I was lost and so were they. I had--and certainly never will again--no words to speak to her. She took my breath and my heart went along with it. She was breathtaking, to say the least. Her hair was burning red and smelt of irresistible trouble. Her eyes were green, same as mine, but they were powerful. It was as if she could hold the world's sorrows in her eyes and still come out with a sparkle. And her dress, as if she planned it, matched her eyes. It was an eloquent dress, one of riches and fame, and it swayed in the light breeze as if she was standing on air. It took me some seconds, but I eventually gathered my breath...I just like the view from the outside; this was all I could muster.

It's certainly lovely. A little lonely, I'd imagine. her voice was silk. A voice so soft and inviting. And she pronounced every syllable, giving each sound a stage to shine. She could talk for hours and I would be mesmerized by every word.

It was...lonely, but now, well, there's no place I'd rather be. I ashed my cigarette, leaned back so my eyes were level with hers, and tipped my imaginary hat: The name's Chase, Chase--

Wait, no! That doesn't sound right. I do apologize, it's been sometime since I told this story. You understand? Yes, yes, I'm sure you do. You know, it's getting far, far too late for stories. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, good friend. --Oh, don't be saddened. I'm here every day. Every...single...day: it sure is a sad realization. Hey--hey, I don't suppose you'd do me a favor on the way out? Ah, you are much too generous. Yes, well, if you could, would you just give that globe...yes, the one by the entrance door--would you give it a spin? I'd like to look at a new place for a while. Thank you, kindly!

Yes, from where I'm situated I can see the world...but what a small world it is.

Nights now-a-days are desolate: no more cars, no more lights, no more interactions, no more love, no more sidewalks, no more pigeons--oh, how I miss feeding the pigeons! There's no more--anything! Even my memory is a fleeting glimpse of what used to be. All there is now is a globe, sitting atop a stack of dusty books. A framed photo of two individuals: Lisa Ideal, and a man that reminds me of my youth and what could have been. Then, a window. And when the sun falls and the moon shows its face, it shows me glimpses of my reflection. A reflection I don't recognize--but it must be me. I can only believe what I see. And what I see is three, rusty tins, one on top of the other; arms, which look to be cracked and plastered to the side of the top can; and on top of it all, a head the size of a dolls--as if some sick monster did this to me. Who did this--this-'terrible act! Whoever did has the sickest of humor, as they labeled "Chase Sanborn" front-and-center on the middle tin. Though it is the only name I hear in my head, I know it is not mine. For my name...for my name-is--

Ding-a-ling-a-ling! "Danny? Danny Allan?" hints of emerald green light up the dark room. The world may be small after all.