The City

He loved to argue. He didn’t call it arguing, because for him arguing was a petty, whining, pointless texture of noise, like the boy upstairs who never wanted to go to bed and ran back and forth across the hall until he grew weary, lay down, and fell asleep., He loved to argue because it was easy for him, because he was good at it, and because he noticed things. That is why he was so good at arguing. It could be said that his entire life was spent arguing, because his entire life was spent noticing things, like the way the desk he kept his writings on was stained and smattered, but it was always covered in beautiful white and black sheets of paper. He said that this desk was like our town: smudged and frayed, but beautifully black and white, the rolling whorls of inked wood only adding a firmness and solidity to it. Maybe that was why he loved this town –because he could see those things.

He would tell me what he saw in our town. “Lads,” he would say (he always addressed us as a plurality) “Lads, do you like this town? Shall we move on, say?” We would never say yes, one part because we were frightened of him, three parts because he always had a different reason as to why we remain. “This city is our spouse. Yea, we have families, and wives. But we, the company are gifted with what even our Queen the famous Elizabeth is gifted with, and they say she has married the kingdom. We, in this room, are sowing in secret the seeds of arguers. Even as we speak, the gentlemen in their coifs and caps, their camerick and linen shirts, their jeweled codpieces, hang their brocaded cloaks upon the mantels of hosts around our city, and argue us! They argue whether we wear silk or satin, whether we should perform better in the theater of the round or on a flat stage, they argue rhyme, meter, and measure. This, dear lads, is the whisper of our city, the whisper of our streets of cobblestone, of our high building whitewashed, This is the beggars and the carts and the bread, butter, and beer of our taverns.  
Our argument draws over these differences. Our argument is Romeo’s sweet words to his lover dear, Macbeth’s horror, Shylock’s thievery. The winds of our words blow through the foul alleyways of our city; they blow up through the chaos of our courts and nobles and overturn the Armada of the ruining Spaniards. Turning the heads of all as they wisp through, they are closing the wounds of brothers and bringing together gentlemen and beggars. All hear our words, all see our actions, and all retain a part of it in their hearts. This is our gift to London. London will forever argue of the beating of the bells in our hearts, and the whisper of the words on our lips, and the waving of the flag above the Globe.”

I see now that though he was poor and his coat, as well as his heart, was frayed, his soul gave to his city what not many can give: the gift of arguing peace. I loved his writing all the more for having had part in the acting of it. I sit alone, rubbing the darkened swirls of this wooden table, remembering and listen to the arguing of gentlemen around the fire as they ponder the meaning of this line or that, the friendly chaffing as they agree it is altogether beyond their depth, but I do not say anything. They need not my comments. Shakespeare gave them this gift, and I, the last of his troupe, who am I to spoil it with the truth?