F.F. Troubadour

The business card read, 'F.F, Troubadour.' Underneath was, 'Franz Friedrich Troubadour.' No address, phone number or email was given, only 'See Me My Joy.' The man behind the shoe rental counter at the bowling alley lifted his eyes from the card and regarded the little man who had handed it to him. The little man, presumably F.F. Troubadour himself, was humming quietly about himself.1

He was no more than four and a half feet tall, dressed in a blue shirt with tiger heads and Chinese characters on it. He wore long shorts that hung to mid-calf and heavy, black boots with bronze metal shod toes. His hair was long and dyed a Hulk green, though the dye job had been botched to the degree that one could see the original blondish-brown color around the edges.2

"You again?" The man behind the counter snorted, "Told ya not to come back here botherin' people." There was no response, the humming stopped.3

"Well, go on, get out," the shoe jerk's voice was rising, "go on, out!" He pointed impatiently to the exit where sunlight beckoned welcomingly outside of this dim joint, "Now! Not gonna have you handin' out these damn things all over the place again," to emphasize, he savagely tore the card into ever increasing and shrinking pieces. The little man turned and slowly walked towards the exit.4

Only the frizz-haired bleach head in the miniskirt and 'I Give Up' tattooed on her chest, took notice. She winked and flashed some thigh at the little man as the lights winked and flashed behind her. Bells went off in agitated bursts, he quickened his pace accordingly. Something told him, 'she doesn't need a card.'5

F.F. Troubadour was an impressionist. Not to suggest he led a school of painters which ran contrary to the Monet, Renoir, Degas, et al. art form. He didn't paint. Though he was anti-, contrary. It had always been a harrowing experience for him when people began to make him out less clearly the closer they came to him. 'Transient effects' were precisely the problem, a certain insubstantialness seemed to pervade his life. Not surprisingly he couldn't quite put his finger on it.6

Someone he once knew used to say, 'Did you lose your mind out there?' He didn't know why the person used to say this, but he remembered it. Upon reflection, it's difficult to say with any certainty, there must be bits and pieces of it lying about all over the place. Some at school, some at camp, others in friendships won and lost. Of course, for some this may have been their particular problem, but not for F.F.. He was well outside the bounds of such distress.7

He passed down the sidewalk enjoying the light, the warm weather and the clouds. The people passing hurried along with not a hint of recognition of anything untoward, just another day in a city of no particular distinction. Outside the great arch of the cathedral, a man in black with white collar stood alone, looking somewhat forlorn. He took no notice as F.F. approached, and then, only when F.F. flashed a card from his pocket with stubby fingers. The priest handled the card, beckoning F.F. inside,8

"Come on in, son," F.F. sidled away, turning to go.9

He couldn't be entirely sure what was inside, but he suspected it would cost him, with no noticeable alteration in his own presence. The priest grew hot under the collar,10

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure you'd come inside if Minerva were here, huh?" F.F. Troubadour hurried away down the sidewalk, "What are you looking for ... Apollo, Zeus?!" The priest's shouts were soon drowned out by the passing traffic.11

Just ahead, occupying a corner of the intersection, stood a hotel at once grand and nondescript. A lone man stood at the head of the entrance steps. The gentleman, for F.F. had seen similarly dressed men before, was impeccably outfitted, tall and lean, he was neat and polished from head to toe, his cap not even slightly askew.12

As a couple hurried up the steps, the uniformed gentleman quickly and smoothly held the door at the top open for them. They passed through without a glance or a word. F.F. scampered up the steps just as the gentleman was descending. Another card was proffered, the man's gloved hand accepted it.13

"You a troubadour, eh?" The little man nodded, "You know, there haven't been any real troubadours for centuries. Medieval lyric poetry ain't what the demand is anymore, nowadays." The little man shrugged, turning away, descending back to the sidewalk. His calling might not be what it once was, nevertheless he was confident that he could lead a resurgence.14

"But I'll keep this anyway, just to remind me," F.F. heard from above him, whispering a little ditty he skipped off down the sidewalk. Though 'skipping' may not be the right term for his awkward movements. It was more of a rolling shuffle, as if he'd spent too much time at sea or on horseback.15

The words on the front page of the newspaper at the kiosk seemed to be proclaiming something, but the meaning was lost. Was it positive or negative? Hard for Mr. Troubadour to tell. The writer seemed not to be able to make up his mind -- in a fashion that only the truly bored or truly cynical could have vagued their way through life. To F.F. the vagueness was familiar, though something he was trying to work his way through. On his way again, he was almost finished with his rounds for the afternoon.16

It always marveled him how little people were really aware, most especially of the other people around them. The soft drink machines, and car washes which abounded, populated the landscape in a way more fully than the humans who had created them to serve themselves. But who was being served? Once it was people, then it was machines. Soon, F.F. suspected, it would be no one at all.17

"Don't you see it?!" The shout came from the stoop of a whitewashed store front. F.F. looked around, the raw voice continued, "They can't!"18

F.F. watched the ragged-armed man wave his, "I'll wager you can, though," the man said. Was this a statement or a question? F.F. couldn't figure, but he ambled over and proffered a card nonetheless to the bundles of castoffs and odor. There must have been a face in there somewhere, but only the gray, matted whiskers quivering gave any sense of this. The dirty, shaking hand took it, read it, spit on it and stuck it deep inside the layers of rags.19

"Now then, little fella -- oh, hold up, got work to do," he said, brushing F.F. aside, dissemblingly composed himself and humbly implored the passing man, "sir, can you spare a dollar for the bus?" The passing man walked by without acknowledging anything out of his ordinary.20

"They're like that a lot. Even those who give, they don't really see ya," the filthy vagrant raised a paper bag to his lips and sucked, then offered it to the Troubadour. F.F. declined, gently shaking his head from side to side and politely offering quick little bows as he backed away.21

"Come on back, ya wanna share this stoop sometime," this was said to the retreating little man's back, which didn't answer.22

It was getting late, he felt he should probably call it a day. The sun was lowering and he had movies and video games to occupy him this evening, as he did most. So, without further ado, he set his face in the direction of home and walked off the stage.23

This his stage, the stage of his life, of his most important and dramatic adventures and accomplishments. Adventures and accomplishments, admittedly, which had gone completely unnoticed by the larger world. But that was O.K., he knew eventually he and his house mates would be recognized. One day, when the rest of the populace had nothing better to do, really nothing better than to finally take notice. Until then he could let it ride. He decided to run then, on the final leg home. Chest thrust forward and arms flailing behind, his legs freely bounded in great, leaping strides.24

Shortly he was knocking on the glass door pane which read in gilded, block script, 'Dashmore Heights Home of the Blessed.' A woman answered promptly, in skirts and apron, dusting her hands she looked down at the little man and beamed,25

"Fritzie love!" Holding the door wide, he shuffled through.26

"Where have you been all day? Did you have fun?" Humming up a storm now he bobbed his head repeatedly.27

"Good, good, now take your coat off and go on in with the others. It's almost dinnertime," the woman gave him a peck on the cheek and bustled off. F.F. wandered into the large parlor where the other residents were gathered. Some few looked up before quickly averting back to what they had been doing. They were all like F.F. Troubadour: down syndrome men and women, boys and girls.28

At home they sat around a lot, each invested more in his or her own doings, so as to seem oblivious. They were not. The residents got by communicating more through bare glances and slight movements than anything so vulgar as gesticulation and spoken words. Perhaps even psychically -- who could tell? Only they, together in a world of senses and a world of mind, far away from the world outside that they've left behind.