A Hard Place, Henry Song ’21

Henry Song ’21

A Hard Place

The smell of sawdust and raw wood was overpowering. Soft light shone through the open window, giving a tawny glow to the hammers and chisels scattered over the sculptor’s tables. In the middle of the room sat a large block of stone, cold to the touch. A man walked around the block, occasionally prodding it here and there. Of short stature and with a scruffy beard speckled with bits of marble, he wore a hat to cover his bald head.

The man grumbled to himself as his work sent dust flying into the air. After the air had settled, the stone’s maroon shine reflected the splendid sun’s rays. He paused for a moment before leaving the room. The workshop was deathly silent except for the occasional gust of wind. Soon, the flaxen shine of the room dimmed until a silver sheen replaced it. The stone sat still.

The sculptor’s face was the first thing it saw when it woke up. It did not even realize it could experience being awake until a toothy grin had suddenly appeared on the face it was looking at. While the stone was still confused as to where it was or what was going on, there was a sense of comfort in staring at the face. Soon, it heard the soft breathing of the person in front of it, the chirping of the birds outside, and sounds of chipping as well.

“Ah, so I am a statue,” it realized. “He has completed my ears.”

He could not feel anything below his neck, so he imagined he must give the utmost trust to the man holding the chisel. And so, the statue was content watching his creator work. These idyllic days lasted for six months. When the sculptor put the final touches on the statue, his grin reappeared. The statue felt happy watching his creator be so carefree, but at the same time feelings of dread and trepidation came over him as he wondered what would now become of him. Over the time he had spent with the sculptor, the statue had come to learn that he was to commemorate the hundredth anniversary of a certain town ten miles from here. The statue had been fashioned in the image of the town’s founder, Gerald Fitzberg, a man of impeccable stature who exuded authority.

The clicking of heels against stone was unbearable. The heat was unbearable. The worst of all, though, was the stench of the people surrounding him. The sights and sounds he thought he would enjoy were overwhelmingly tedious. In fact, it was only in the wee hours of the day

that the statue was engulfed in silence. Even then, his respite could be interrupted by a drunken buffoon making his way home at far too late an hour. One hot night, an angry yell interrupted his reverie. Two men were arguing. The statue’s interest was piqued instantly; it had never witnessed a fight and did not want to miss out. One man was a little portly but welldressed in a slick suit and a tie with a fresh stain on it. The other man was taller and lankier, wearing a simple t-shirt and shorts that gave him an air of slovenly laziness. Upon closer inspection, the taller man was carrying a beer in his right hand while trying to pacify the man with the other. Those who had fallen asleep hours ago noticed the commotion, emerging from their homes and directing their attention to the two men. Suddenly, as if the heat had made the man reach his boiling point, the porkish man charged, without warning, at the taller one. The statue’s excitement quickly turned into horror as the taller man easily avoided the attack. The portly man’s miscalculation led him directly into the statue.

The statue had expected to feel pain radiating from his cracked leg and was surprised when he felt nothing. He looked down at the man, whose head gushed blood with considerable force. The statue could not tear his eyes from the crimson pool at his feet. Much to his disappointment, people in yellow vests arrived to tend to the man’s wounds. No one looked at him once, completely ignoring his broken state. He was, quite literally, a pillar of the community—the thing that attracted people to this obscure backwater town. Yet, he went unnoticed amidst the commotion. No one tended to his wounds.

A tarp was laid over him, as if he were the marble casualty of a drunken brawl, until a suitable sculptor could be found to tend to his maligned leg. The statue was horrified when he overheard the townspeople discussing this. A whole week in which he could not see anything? The impending boredom would surely be so much worse than his broken leg. His leg he could not feel, but he could feel the longing for daylight. Alas, the statue cursed the stocky man, the wanton beast. The following week was even worse than the statue had imagined. The tarp was sturdy material, made to let neither light nor sound through its texture, and engulfed the statue in total darkness.

What could the townspeople possibly be doing on the other side of the tarp? How was the old lady who had complained about her back? Or the little girl selling the flowers she had picked on a walk? The dog at the

corner? He recalled the small details of the village, of the people who lined the streets. A feeling of sorrowful impatience filled his chest. The statue was confused; why was he so attached to the people of the town? Somewhere along the way, the extensive time he had spent observing them had made him their guardian. It was useless pondering when this had occurred, as the damage had been done.

He felt an ache in his leg for the first time. He wondered, for a brief moment, if he would become alive and move among the townspeople. But no, the future did not hold that for him. He realized the pangs of loss had traveled down to his cracked marble; his feelings of tedium and boredom over the months had distorted into an ugly pleasure at the expense of the townspeople. It made perfect sense to him why he was now undergoing this ordeal.

This was his second chance, a wake-up call from his creator. With his oath renewed, the statue felt more at peace. Beneath his tarp, he began to look forward to the bustling sounds of the town he once so detested. The tarp suddenly shuffled, and the statue heard voices yelling outside. He held his breath; he would not be in this darkness for much longer. The birds were chirping, children were laughing, and the clicking of cameras was ever present. The routines of the townspeople were the same. But if one were to look up from the bustle of the daily life, a hint of a smile could be seen radiating from the marble under the sunlight.