Our Modern World Ben Tibbetts In Apartment 42 on the corner of Wilfree Street, Las Vegas, just before you got to old Lucy’s strip joint and the All-You-Can-Eat Mexican Buffet and the casinos that stood high in the smoggy sky, Mr. and Mrs. Matthews prepared to go out for their evening walk. They were awful hard on their luck, these two, and they could scarcely afford to keep their bare apartment. As a matter of fact, besides the blanket they shared on particularly cold nights they each had but one possession; the missus, an ancient weatherworn brimmed hat, bent in a thousand odd places from misuse; the husband, a violin without its case two strings missing. And every night, at six o’clock, they left their dingy abode and set out onto the Las Vegas streets. As they walked, the thousands of promotional cards with half-naked ladies on them left over from the strip joint were scattered on the sidewalks of Wilfree Street. Tourists bringing their families to see the famous glittering of casinos’ lights in the night would notice them on the ground; husbands would sneak lusty looks at the beautiful women; little boys would chase them as they fluttered in the warm breeze, openly excited by the prospect of such accessible entertainment. And it was on this particular night that, as they had done every night before, they walked ‘till they were directly underneath a certain old and rusty streetlamp. They always went to the same one; it had been there since before the strip joint had been built, and was of a distinctly different style than the rest of the streetlamps. And though Las Vegas was full of many brilliant and colorful lights, this was the only one that did not move like the lights in the shows, nor flicker like the hundreds of animated billboards that polluted the city with propaganda. Having stopped, Mr. Matthews wordlessly put the violin to his chin, and Mrs. Matthews laid the hat on the ground. They were still, and the only noise were cars with their horns honking and the casinos’ jackpot slot machines playing their optimistic little tunes with all the bells and tinkling sounds and beyond that the poor folks having some sort of drive-by shooting and the police sirens echoing into the hot night air. Mr. Matthews brought the bow up and, in one beautiful and simple motion, pulled it across the violin strings. He played an introduction, and Mrs. Matthews opened her mouth and closed her eyes and began to sing. When peace like a river attendeth my way When sorrows like sea billows roll Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say: It is well, it is well with my soul. Passerbys stared a little as they walked past. Mr. and Mrs. Matthews began to tap their feet to the music, and under the streetlamp a little child stopped to listen. Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come, Let this blest assurance control: That Christ has regarded my helpless estate And hath shed His own blood for my soul. A beggar and stopped and listened with a resentful scowl. The child tried to put a quarter in the hat, but her mother stopped her and hurried her along. In the distance the drive-by shooting came closer, and from an apartment window someone with a crying baby yelled at them to shut up, but he kept playing and she kept singing: For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live If Jordan above me shall roll No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul! The voice of Mrs. Matthews grew as the shouting came closer and closer. The baby’s cry from the window became hysterical as people began to yell, “Get out of the way! They’re coming! They’ve got guns! They’re coming!” as the sirens grew, and still you could hear the violin playing as Mr. Matthews closed his eyes and swayed with the music, and Mrs. Matthews sang louder, her arms outstretched as though to grab the world and triumphantly raise it to the heavens. And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight, The clouds be rolled back as a scroll! The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend! Even so, it is well… BANG! In one slow and silent motion Mr. and Mrs. Matthews crumpled to the ground and lay in twisted positions on the pavement. They did not move. On the ground the strip club’s cards fluttered gently in the hot city breeze. All around them life continued as before; people began again to walk around with their families, strange looks on their faces conveying some mixture of fear and selfish discontent. The shooters’ car continued in the distance, and all the policemen pursued them hotly, their sirens ringing into the night. One of the children walked by and, not knowing any differently, dropped a penny in the hat and smiled, pleased at her own great generosity. And it was on this particular night that, as he had done every night before, a certain old homeless man by the name of Bartholomew took his evening walk on the sidewalk of Wilfree Street. This night, like every other, he walked with his hands in his pockets, his head turned down in wistful solemnity and thought again about ending his wretched and lonely life. But on this night, this night like every other night, a glint of light caught the corner of his eye and he looked up at a certain old and rusty streetlamp and marveled at its antiquated beauty. And as he stepped forward to better see the captivating light he felt the protest of some object under his sole. He knelt down and picked up a beaten bow and violin, two strings missing. Bartholomew smiled; he’d played a little violin in his youth. On the ground also was an ancient and weatherworn brimmed hat. How odd, he thought, for these things to be left ownerless on the street! Bartholomew bit his lip and looked about. Around him everyone walked on as they always had, the dancers to the strip club (or were they some fathers’ daughters?), the parents with their children and infants cradled in their arms, all wanting to see the newest attraction and entertainment. The colorful blinking lights of every casino beckoned, and old Lucy’s strip joint’s doors were open to every unsuspecting wanderer, and no one could understand, upon passing, why on earth there should be a strange fellow standing still, holding in one hand a half-broken violin and in the other a worn-out brimmed hat. Bartholomew saw all this and said nothing, but looked at the streetlamp for a long time with a strange and half-fearful look in his eye. Then, in one simple and beautiful motion, he brought the violin to his chin and began to play.