Pulp 005

     Sunlight. A second morning. A short turn left and the outside world is visible, perhaps a hundred yards. My guide shies away. This is as far as he goes. I rifle through my pockets and come up with the stale bread wrapped in a clean handkerchief. 

     “I thank you.” The bread is held out and the boy feels it in his hand. He breaks off half and returns the rest to me. I watch him take a few steps back towards his world. It’s a world of night and gas-lights, of swamps and deadly things unfit for the surface. This might be as close as he comes to seeing the sky, this cavern leading out to a world so white and blue.

He’s gone forever before I turn around and make my way to the day. Air weighted with humid spray and the tinge of salt hits my face and I know I’m out near the ocean. It’s a far peak that this drain pipe leads me to, nowhere near beaches or boardwalks.

     “I’ll have to catch a train back,” I catch myself thinking before reminding myself that there is no ‘back.’ Bloody Ben’s visit didn’t rob me of a home, only clued me in to what I already knew. It was time to move on. There’s no settling down for me.
 
     I swat at nothing, bumbling out a bad curse too dumb to fly in this air. Too heavy. Too weak. I start to climb around the pipe and down to the rocks near the water. Slippery rocks for a fool’s foot. Charity! I nearly crack my skull with a poor decision, stepping on a rock that moved! A stone crab that would like to snip-snip away one of my toes. Not today!
 
     My feet sink slightly on the strait of sand leading from the drain pip back to civilization. The embankment is low enough that after a few long stretches of my legs, I can see over and find only roads and grass. It’ll be a long walk back so I’d rather take my stroll seaside.

     It’s the first moment to rest and relax, the first time to feel warm. Really, the first time I can breathe, really breathe. It’s good, real good. It’s my favorite feeling, to slap my chest and stare out into this wild world. If I had a laugh within me, I’d toss it out, a long net of joy cast out to the sea, caring not what I may or may not haul back.

     I gnaw on a corner of the bread, hard as it may be, to quell the grumble from my gut. I pick up a stone to skip across the water and count how many wishes will be granted today but stop. A woman stands by the tide-line, in a tangle of flowers in her hands. She might appear young in appearance but goodness, how old is she really?

     “Walyon,” she says without looking at me when I come up to her.
     “Hello Bonnie.” The heaviness is back in my shoulders. I could use that laugh now. In her hands are the white flowers from a funeral’s mourning. “If you're casting your flowers out to sea, means somebody isn't with us anymore. Tell me, who's had died?”
     "He isn't dead," she says, turning her head to look me dead-on. "But soon he will be."