The Puppeteer

There’s magic in these old strings. In the precise twitching of the wrinkled hands guiding the marionette. The seafoam green tiles of the subway station are its stage, and the passing scuffle of shoes its only audience, however fleeting.

Sitting on an old weathered bench, its once emerald paint dulled by the onslaught of time, sat the marionette’s puppeteer. He, too, had been dulled by time; deep were the wrinkles in his forehead, and heavy was the weight of age which bowed his back. However, his gray eyes remained fixed on his puppet. One made in exactly his likeness, albeit, far less wrinkles. The puppet had a spring in its step, the clink, clink of its wooden shoes across the tile like a happy metronome. A storm-cloud gray bowler hat sat on the miniature’s head, complimenting the soot-colored suit adorning its small frame. The outfit perfectly mirrored the old man manipulating its strings.

The old puppeteer cared little about his lack of audience. No, all that mattered was his performance. He knew that if he focused hard enough, he could coax the magic out of the old strings. Clink, clink, the puppet went, its steps drumming against the tile.

The subway melted away as the puppeteer’s marionette clinked along, the little steps drowning out even the roars and whistles of the trains. And suddenly, the little steps of the marionette were his own. The old man blinked. Gone was the puppet, and what lay before him was a station some fifty years younger. Here, the subway cars shone a little brighter, the emerald painted benches were not so dilapidated, and to his utter amazement, there was a spring in his own steps.

The magic had worked.

He turned on the spot, trance-like, as he savored the old sights and smells. Breathing deeply, he caught the aroma of the hot dog stand just outside of the entrance into the underground. Instead of a mechanical voice droning about the comings and goings of the trains, a system of belting whistles blared through the cavernous tunnels, their dark bowels illuminated by canary yellow spotlights.

But all those things, as wonderful as they were, was not the reason he was here. His magic, as it always had been, was for her.

She waited for him on one of those emerald painted benches, her scarlet, wide-brimmed hat obscuring most of her face, save for the matching red lipstick she wore. There was a certain stillness about her; she could be a mannequin, were it not for the rhythmic drumming of her fingers on her leather pocketbook. The rushing of the trains throughout the station teased her short, blonde curls – daisies, dancing on the wind.

It seemed she sensed him before he even spoke. With a slow, deliberate turn of her head, she beheld him with such a loving intensity, he thought he might float the last few feet toward her. She always had that effect on him. Of making him feel as though he himself were a marionette being suspended on invisible strings, and she, his puppeteer.

“Careful now,” she said to him, the honeyed tones of her voice carrying easily through the surrounding bustle. “Leave your mouth hangin’ open like that, and you’ll end up droolin’.”

This was their routine: Their meeting here after the long day, and her, blessing him with her own special brand of magic which never wore out. The way one look, or a simple touch, would reignite something inside of him.

He finally found his voice. In this memory created by magic, he could recapture those younger days with her at his side. “Aw, shucks, you make it so hard to think straight sometimes, you’ll have to forgive me. Walkin’ out of that office building, I feel like a robot, ya know? Then I come down here and see you and well…it’s like you’re bringing me back to life!”

He joined her on the bench, setting down his briefcase and pulling the bowler hat from his head, revealing a full head of hair underneath. Oh, to be young! He sighed and turned to meet her blue eyes. Eyes which met him with the full strength of her being – bright and full of life.

She tutted, bringing a hand up from her pocketbook and fixing his tousled hair with her finger. “Oh, George. This world is full of people trying to mold you into a machine part. But that’s not the man I know. There’s something greater inside your heart. I see it everyday when you wake up – a bright little light behind those brown eyes. And it only grows brighter when you’ve got those puppets in your hands, makin’ em’ do all those silly dances.”

George smiled sheepishly, but almost automatically, his hand went for his briefcase. From it, he withdrew a little puppet on strings.

“You mean, like this?” His fingers twitched, wrist tilting this way and that, causing the puppet to do a little jig.

Her laugh was like wind chimes – a tinkling that only grew louder as the air rushed around them. But then her hand was going for her pocketbook, and from it, she produced her own little marionette.

George stopped, his breath hitching at the surprise. “Where did you…I thought…”

She leaned in as though to share a secret. “My little puppet doesn’t know any dancin’ moves. So, I thought I’d bring her here for some lessons. Mind givin’ an amateur a few tips?” She winked at him, then mimicked his hand’s position.

“Yeah,” George said, blinking back a certain wetness from his eyes. “Yeah, my little guy here is great at given lessons. Right. Let’s tilt our hands this way, like so…”

Evening waned, and the bustle of the subway ebbed to a near standstill. The old amber lights of the station flickered on, casting everything in the orange glow of a sunset. Hours later, George still sat there with his lady, their puppets still dancing.

The quiet subway station suddenly struck George with an inspiration. He stood from the bench, and offered her his hand.

“Oh, I couldn’t!” She playfully batted his hand away, but he persisted. She gently laid her puppet down, then stood and placed her hands in his. A train’s whistle sounded, and as though it was their signal, they began to sway on the spot.

The tiled floor became their stage, and the occasional passerby, who paid them no mind, was their audience. George glided easily along the floor, sweeping his wife away with him. She said nothing, but her twinkling eyes seemed to tell him everything that words would never do justice for. Something about strings, and marionettes, and a light within him only she could see.

But eventually, she did say something. She paused their dance and pulled him close, her lips brushing his ear. “Never forget your magic, George. They – and you know who I’m talkin’ about – can never take that from you. It’s your magic.”

George blinked. And she was gone. Her smell. Her face. The subway station from fifty years ago. All that remained was the one from present day.

There were marionettes in both of his hands. One of himself. And the other of his late wife. Together, they danced, suspended on string thinner than fishing line.

His cheeks were wet. He hadn’t even realized. But before he could wipe them away, he realized there was a child standing in front of him, looking at the puppets curiously.

“Mister, how do you do that?” The boy asked, innocently.

George nodded warmly, then held the puppets up so that the old lights of the subway could properly reveal them. “See those? There’s magic in these old strings.”