Mural on a Blank Wall

by Edward Mason

When Jules Melan walked down the street, as he often did, for he did not own an automobile, he held his head up and looked straight before him; and, as he was tall and of a slender build and wore eye-glasses, strangers thought of him as being, perhaps, a teacher, or a musician, or, quite possibly, a counsellor, for, also, his clothes were good and, although he did not actually scowl, there were wrinkles on his forehead, indicating to the sober-minded that here was a thoughtful fellow not much given to frivolity but devoted to study and argument and certainly not a dunce.

But no one ever looked at Jules Melan with a heightened glance; no one ever raised an eyebrow when he passed and let the eye beneath travel down his leg and up again to rest upon his eye with that questioning look, which, at the same time, extends an invitation. In short, no one ever flirted with Jules Melan and, each time he dressed so carefully to go out into the streets, he regretted not having been born attractive, or invested with that vivacity the sparkle of which lures youth and age alike into the tentacles of romance.

For thirty-two years Jules had to be content with himself and with such crumbs as opportunity might bestow in the unexciting form of some long-term acquaintance, or a sporadic visitor, who would assume that Jules would pay to have his own heart broken and his dreams dashed crudely into dust.

Jules dreamed many dreams and read many books, but took little delight in any of his friends, his job, or his activities so that his life grew dull and devoid of the element of surprise.

Once he planned a suicide, but decided against it as unrealistic; and his days ticked on much as a metronome, once set in motion, beats out, monotonous, the rhythm of a dirge.

One Saturday morning Jules decided to make a shirt, for he had taught himself to sew and had become adept at fashioning clothes, which he wore with a certain amount of pride. He dressed and took the bus and went in town to shop.

People filled the avenue; the sun shone down on them deliciously; they went in and out of the shops like squinting, scurrying ants bent upon storing up for winter the foods that summer had laid down. Jules, with head erect, walked past them and around them, feeling more so than ever in this bustling crowd that God, the mightiest hand, must also be the greatest practical joker ever.

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