Spanish Moss III

“Gateway to the Crossroads”

The alcohol and amphetamine withdrawals began to peak at the same time. I started to lose grip on reality. The world began to flicker in and out of existence. The shaking and cold sweats weren’t coming in waves anymore. The shitty twin mattress on the floor of my living room had become a torture chamber of my own construction. My brain and spine feels like they’re on fire. My senses are firing on all cylinders. The smallest light is blinding, I can smell the now stale red wine, the bottom of the ash tray, and the lingering oder of a fresh lay. It’s all mixing with the evening rain of a fall thunderstorm. The rain falls on the roof of my apartment and I hear every drop. The years long bender is catching up like a storm on the horizon—and there isn’t a fucking thing I can do about it. There’s no more scripts in sight, they’ve all caught on to the game. Frankly, even if I could get up and make it to a store no-one in their right mind is going to sell me booze in this condition.

…

The apartment is a shitty two bedroom, in the corner of the third floor. The apartment building is ocean themed. Some asshole decided it would be cleaver to have untreated wood slat floors with open catwalks and stairwells—an hour from the nearest water source—which was a river surrounded by swamplands. The wood is a slimy green color and the majority of all their edges have turned rotten and punky. There’s a layer of moisture, pollen, and mold on everything. They have to rebuild it every other year and it’s overdue. The grass beneath the six inches of pine needles and leaves is saturated from a combination of overwatering and daily rain. It’s humid, hot, and muggy. Trash piles up around the lone dumpster because people are too lazy to lift a lid. The old man on the first floor dumps raw meat out there as it goes bad for the hoard of stray cats and raccoons. The oder is thick, heavy, and omnipresent. It’s the sort of smell that lingers in your nose for several hours after you’ve left. If I manage to make it up the three flights of slimy green wood, then my apartment is at the end of the hall. Occasionally, I have to make a couple of trips because I dropped my key or a cigarette at my door and it fell through the floors to the concrete base.

Just inside the door, there’s a small table with a loaded .40 caliber pistol resting on it. Next to it, a small bowl with the essentials—headphones, wallet, keys, etc. Ironically, the gun isn’t the first thing people notice—it’s the basketball sized blood stain in the middle of the entry way on the now flat beige shag carpet. No, I truly have no idea how it got there or how old that carpet is. It has made my imagination run wild on me more than once in a haze of narcotics, alcohol, and oxytocin. More than the blood on the floor, what really disturbs me is the spare bedroom door. It took awhile before I noticed it, but someone had flipped the the handle around so the lock was facing the wrong direction. Large chunks of wood are missing from the frame. Sharp and jagged edges make it look like someone was stabbing into it with a knife backed with quite a bit of passion. The inside of the door has fingernail marks running down the back. The window in the room doesn’t match the rest of the windows in the apartment. It was replaced recently. Every so often I get letters in my mailbox from child protective services that are addressed to, who I assume, was the previous occupant. No one notices the door.

The bathrooms nice enough, I suppose. The ceiling light hangs about an inch down and I can see into the attic—sometimes spiders come in. It’s one of those double bulb numbers with a glass dome over them, the one that looks like a lone breast hanging from the ceiling. Dual sinks with a full length mirror. I never cared much about mirrors, but I can understand why some people don’t like them. The washer and dryer are also in the bathroom behind a pair of the bi-fold double panel shaker style doors. Well sort of, they’re cheap aluminum knock offs and they’re a little warped. Most of my personal possessions are in the master bedroom and its closet. The crawl space is a small entry in the roof of the closet that connects to all the other apartments. I moved the small twin bed into the living room a few nights earlier and laid it in the corner of a large L-shaped couch. We were playing a zombie horror survival game, knocking back bottles of red wine, and smoking joints. She got mad, and left—and I neglected to mention what I was doing. The argument wasn’t one we were going to come back from, no matter how badly I wished we could.

…

It feels like someone is laying a red hot piece of rod iron down the length of my spine. Another’s tip is being pressed into the center of my forehead, and another—square into the center of my heart. Admittedly, that last one is likely more from her than it was the drugs. There’s shock waves running up and down my spinal cord, like a hero’s dose of mushrooms. The next shockwave’s pain is so intense it knocks me out.

…

It’s a blue porch covered by a high angle roof. There’s a three foot privacy wall that wraps around it. A mixture of southern pines and poplar trees surrounds the view with only a couple of feet to spare on either side. There’s a couple of chairs, the soccer mom foldable kind, resting a few inches from the sliding glass door. Between them sits a small aluminum folding table with a large grey ashtray in the center. It’s over-flowing with the butts of more than a hundred cigarettes and the smell is not one that I notice but I imagine it's probably pretty terrible. All I can smell is her.

Leaning over the railing, with a cigarette held ever so delicately between her index, thumb, and middle finger. What is that? Sandlewood? Lavender? Something citrus maybe? I can’t pin it down, and I struggle to focus on anything else. The warm summer air blows across us pushing her long scarlet curls away from her shoulder that refuses to let them go. She turns her head towards me, into the opening created by the wind. Her eyes are a vibrant green, each with a couple of tiny hazel triangles. The sort of thing you wouldn’t even notice unless you were really looking. But I am.

She smiles and asks, “What? What are smiling at?”

I just shake my head, saying, “Nothing.” I realize for once in my wasted life, I am actually happy. I had nothing and yet I had everything. This garbage blood stained carpet, moldy walls and floors, minimal possessions. Hell, most of the time I didn’t even know how I was going to afford to eat. When I look at her though, none of that matters. At all. I take a deep breath and say, “I love you, that’s all.”

She smiles from ear to ear, creeping towards me. A wildcat prowling towards prey is the first metaphor I can conjure. Placing a gentle palm on my chest she says, “I love you too.”

…

I wake to a dead phone and my charger’s not working. I don’t have a watch. The playstation has been cycling the menu screen for some time judging by the heat coming off the console. The Internet modem is flashing, and the stove clock is flashing. The only thing in arms reach is a crystal lowball glass half full of three day old wine. I try to slam it and wretch into a small grey plastic trash bin next to the bed. One of those bathroom bins, the tiny ones. They are a waste of money, just hang a used grocery bag on the handle of the vanity. Vomit…vomit is the only true purpose of a bathroom trashcan. The culture of the bathroom trashcan belongs solely to heavy drinkers, maximalists, drug addicts, adventurous eaters, and partakers of vanity. She’s gone, I’m angry again, and my mind is reeling on meaningless rants.

My body is entirely exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally. And I am in an amount of pain that I simply cannot put into words. The simple act of lifting my head is excruciating. I’m still sweating, still shaking, and still dealing with shockwaves. I’m alone, it’s dark out, and there’s more than a fair chance I might die doing this dumb shit on my own. legitimately. I’m jonesing for a smoke.

I force myself to sit up on the soaked sheets, pulling my knees to my chest. Every joint and muscle feels what I imagine two velcro pieces feel when you squeeze and pull them apart from the wrong direction. The air conditioner hits my sweat soaked body and I'm freezing. The aches, smell of vomit, and old alcohol were enough. I force myself to my feet grabbing a ratty old hoodie from the couch. It isn’t clean, but it doesn’t smell bad. I pull it over and walk into the kitchen. I grab my cigarettes and lighter off the counter sitting next to a bag of coffee. I don’t drink coffee.

It’s from some local hipster joint in town. It says, ‘COLOMBIA: NOTES OF MARMALADE & TOFFEE’ on the bag. She love’s that sort of stuff. Anything hippie. Crystals, horoscopes, reclaimed clothing stores. She’s always wearing an assortment of tiny little talismans. Some deflect negative energy, while others trap it. Some bring good energy, and others send messages. One she wears gets hot when there’s too much EMR around her. Like a little Geiger counter. Or so she says anyway. She tried to show me once but I couldn’t tell if it was hot or just her body temperature. I grab the bag and throw it in the trash.

For some reason I feel threatened. The withdrawals, it must be. I grab the loaded pistol from the table. It’s top heavy. The slide and barrel are a blued steel, with rough scalloped ridges on the back. The lower half is a composite polymer. Lightening the receiver is suppose to give advantages in handling and performance. In my experience, it just makes the thing lighter to tote around. The surface is rough, with a half-moon pitted back-strap. The magazine release is dimpled, so you can find it without looking. There’s no safety. The serial number reads, DMZ-1996. I place the pistol in my waist band and walk to the sliding glass door.

I step out onto the blue porch, lighting a cigarette with one hand and closing the sliding door with the other. I lean against the railing, looking down across the bed of rotting pine needles and leaves but up over the years. A glaring of black cats passes, moving through the trees three floors below. The family of stray’s the old man feeds. Mom and dad up front, with the little ones in tow. The last one, the smallest, is the runt of the litter. I take a pull of smoke watching them walk by and suddenly—I don’t really care about the smell of trash bins any more. They arrive at the edge of the shadows on the far side of the trees and begin to disappear one by one. The last one, the little guy, stops for a second turns upwards and looks right at me. We both freeze for a moment before he turns and disappears into the shadows.

“Those things are fucking pests,” my neighbor says on his balcony.

“They’re alright,” I say without looking away from the shadows. “They’re just kittens.”

I didn’t even notice he was out here, nor did I hear him open his door. Since the day I met him, there’s something about him that just didn’t sit right with me. I still can’t tell if it’s distrust, or if there’s something more sinister at work.

“Yeah, but they get bigger,” he says looking at me.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say looking at him and shrugging my shoulders. I do not want to engage in an argument. I notice his eyes look at my waist band, not realizing at first that the pistol was showing through the hoodie. It was the middle of the night and I honestly didn’t expect to see anyone.

He leans over the balcony, taking a pull from his cigar, and says, “Trigger.”

Officially being done with the conversation, I stand putting my cigarette out, shaking my head and rolling my eyes.

“Have a good night,” I say walking inside.

I make sure the doors and windows are locked. I really don’t like that guy. I put the pistol where I can reach it and pull the sheets off the bed. I toss them in the floor and go to the master bedroom closet. There’s a range bag on top of a few boxes. It’s got some gun cleaning stuff, and precisely 250 rounds of hand loaded ammunition. I move it out of the way and open the box beneath it to grab a fresh set of sheets. They’re clean, but they have that smell that stuff gets if you leave it in the bottom of a closet for too long. I close the door.

I toss the sheets on the bed, and lay back down. Head still pounding and shockwaves still rolling. The shaking has slowed and I'm not jonesing anymore at least. My body still hurts, but the little bit of movement is enough to force some blood back into my joints. Those damn green eyes. My life, until this point has largely been meaningless.

I spent most of it so high, so drunk, so cracked out that until she showed up I had all but waved goodbye to emotional attachment. I couldn’t feel a thing most of the time and that was what I was used to. It became a defense mechanism. You abused me, didn't care. You personally attack me, didn’t care. Emotional manipulation, didn’t care. You Love me, you hate me, I couldn’t care less—until she showed up. She ruined everything. Someone once called me a psycho and I even believed them without hesitation.

She’s gone now though, and my dark world that had found some light—was once again a vast field of darkness. The damn had broken and everything was flooding in. No matter how hard I try push back against the concrete blocks, there was nothing I could do to stop it. Left with no other choice but to lay here and bleed.

There’s a painting on the wall, of a gold heart, I never expected that it would end up as a lowly parting gift. Looking up at it, two choices become overwhelmingly apparent. One, an eternity without her. When it’s true it never fades. You just sort of learn to live with it. Even years later, I know there will be days—more than I will want—were a smell, a taste, or another face will rip that wound open all over again. It’s a life in prison without the possibility of parole sentence. Or, option two, I can check out. Becoming a statistic, ironically becomes a preferable choice. Something I never wanted to be, but was beginning to look more and more likely. The choice alone, forces a tear from my the corner of my eye towards my ear.

Reaching up, I grab the pistol. It happens fast, in a blur. I sprint into my shitty bathroom. Leaning into the big mirror, I press the pistol firmly into my temple. I can feel my brain send the signal to my finger to pull the trigger. I hear what I can only describe as the largest book, falling perfectly flat, from a tall height. My heart begins to race, I can feel it in my ears, realizing what I’ve done. I lower the pistol, hands shaking. Looking around, nothing is different. Everything is exactly as it was. I look back at the pistol in my hand, then back at the mirror. I turn my head to either side, and nothing, just some unkept sweaty black hair. I look down at the pistol, and drop the magazine from the inside. Pulling the slide to the rear, I remove the lone round from the chamber. My skin is on fire, as I grab the magazine and furiously begin to unload it a single round at a time. I count them three times, 15 in total. I’m shaking as I push the pistol away from me. I fall to my knees over the toilet and puke. I can’t hear it, my ears are ringing. I flush the toilet and lean back into the edge of the tub.

“A hallucination,” I tell myself aloud. It had to be. I don’t remember actually pulling the trigger, only the feeling.

“Yeah, a hallucination. The drug and alcohol withdrawals are just messing with my head. I just need to get some sleep,” I say.

My head is leaned across the edge of the tub, sitting on the floor, starring at the ceiling. I take a deep breath, my ears stop ringing, and the adrenaline dies down. I try to get up but I can’t. I can’t move anything. I begin to panic. It feels like ten razor blades spaced out across the length of the sides of my head. I’m ripped backwards—through the tub, through the wall, and out. When I come to stop, I'm hanging suspended and weightless on my back.

Above me, a mountain range of clouds, draped in a glow of purple and golden light. I can’t turn my head to see what’s below me, and all I feel is fear.

“This is it. I’ve done it now. I guess it did go off. Jesus man, what a wasted life,” I say.

Nothing is happening. Nothing is happening for so long that I calm down. I’m not withdrawing anymore. There’s no pain, no shockwaves, no cold. I can think again I’m just stuck here staring at clouds. While they are beautiful, I start to examine my life in its entirety. The only good thing, that I can manage to come up with, is her. Not her specifically. God knows I could have been better, and I'm not claiming to be responsible for her. But I know, without question, I gave every molecule of love that I had within me to her. That was it, my one good thing in 27 years. Suddenly I feel ready. Ready for what exactly, I can’t be certain, I have no earthly idea. The mountains begin to get bigger, I feel myself getting pulled upwards. I am halted.

Something…I can only describe as…the longest tongue…I have ever seen, flicks past my ear. An arm raises over my left shoulder. There’s a bright dark blue hue outlining the form. Inside looks like another universe entirely, a vast sea of stars and galaxies. The hand alone is the size of my chest. It has sharp triangular nails, but no outline of a nail. The hand fall on my chest, other than a downward pressure, I can’t feel anything. Its other arm rises and falls on my stomach. I’m held there with simultaneous pressure upwards and downwards. I’m stuck. It rises its head up next to mine, and fear washes over me. It has no facial features. It looks at me, looks up, and then back at me.

“Anything you want,” is all it says.

Its voice is halfway between feminine and masculine. There’s a hissing in the underside of its voice and suddenly I realize who—exactly—has me. The large tongue whips out violently, and inserts itself deep into my ear. I swear, I can feel it swiping and circling my brain. Images of a spherical world between two opponents. Playing with pieces that resemble chess pieces. Images of entire lives then begin to flash in front of me. Lives of actors, rockstars, presidents, second comings, furniture makers, writers, directors.

“What…do you want?” It says.

I’m breathing heavier now. My hearts beating harder. I can tell it’s struggling to handle the fear. I imagine how nice, any one of those lives may have been. I know it’s likely not as glamorous as it seems, but somehow those problems seem preferable to the ones I have. I close my eyes. All I see, is two vibrant green eyes…with tiny little hazel triangles..sparkling in the sun. Scarlet curls blowing in the wind. That smile in my direction, that gentle hand on my chest.

“Her? You want her? If that’s all you want then I’ll give it to you,” it says hissing.

I hear the word no from somewhere, but I'm not listening.

“I want your guarantee that you will leave her alone, you will not take her. Your forces will stand down.”

“So, peace…and her…and you come with me?” It asks.

“…Yes…” I say.

I don’t know why, somehow it just seemed like my life was actually about to mean something to someone—even if they were never going to know.

“…Deal…” It says.

The sensation of the tongue being ripped out of my head is one that is hard to describe. Wet while dry, cold while hot, all combined with the popping of my ears. It gently begins to raise its hands from, what I assume is, my soul. Tiny diamonds raise to the surface beneath my skin, as my body turns over. I’m hanging there face to face with it. I feel a sinking pit in my chest when It reaches out and places Its hand on my shoulder. Before I can blink, It yanks me forwards pushing me downwards at a speed I didn’t think was possible. There’s fire, I can feel it, but I can’t see it. Only a faint expansive orange glow. I can hear their screams. They’re getting louder. That’s when I see it. A river of black fire. It’s surrounded by billions of solid black silhouettes all reaching out—all writhing in agony. We plunged straight into the river in an explosion of bright orange and black fire. I think I am screaming but I can’t be sure.

I take a breath deeper than I have ever had in the entirety of my life, and I'm on the floor of my shitty bathroom. In a panic I roll to my hands and knees in a blur looking behind me. The walls intact. Behind me, the guns on the counter. I run my arms across my body, around my head. Nothing, I’m fine, I’m back. What the fuck. I rise to my feet sprinting to the counter, counting the bullets again. There’s still 15. I sprint into the bedroom, slamming open the closet door. Panicked, I rip the range bag from the closet opening it. There are three acrylic boxes, each holds 100 rounds in rows of ten, one of the boxes is half full. I begin to run my finger down the rows counting—249. There should be 250.

“Oh, fuck,” I say. “I’m dead.”

I realize, there’s no turning back now. There’s a small part of me that’s grateful, knowing, at least I meant something to someone. Even more, knowing that it was in the name of love. Even if they’ll never know. I’m still staring at the empty square in the box when there’s a knock at the door. I hurriedly packed away the bag and stood to approach the door. I would be lying if I said I didn’t hesitate reaching for that door handle. I conjure the courage to turn the handle and open the door.

Sitting on the wood planks next my door, in pointed leather shoes with metal spikes, was her. I was speechless. Black leather pants, a black v-neck shirt, and a black leather jacket. Those green eyes and scarlet curls. She’s crying, or has been recently, with all the mascara it’s hard to tell.

“Hey,” I say. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I just downed a bottle of vodka and—I don’t know—all of the sudden felt like I needed to see you.”

“Wait, you did you drive here?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Jesus, alright come on,” I say extending my hand. “Let’s talk inside though, it’s late.”

She pulls another bottle of vodka from her jacket and I take from her saying, “I think you’ve had enough for one night.”

Closing the door behind us, she slides down wall by the door assuming the same position she was in moments ago. I take the bottle to the sink, unscrew the bottle, and pour it down the drain. Tossing the bottle in the trash, I grab the still clean bag of coffee, and make a pot. I walk over to her and hold out my hand. she reaches out to take it, I pull it back.

“No, your car keys give them to me. You're done driving tonight. I can take you home, or call you a cab, you can come back in the morning and get your car.” I say, “Cough ‘em up.”

“Fine,” she says. “Here—but I'm not leaving.”

“You don’t want to be here,” I say. “You made that very clear a few days ago. This is just the booze talking. Seriously, just let me take you home. I’ll even make sure you get your car back in the morning.”

“I was sober when I made the choice to come here,” she says. “I’m not fucking leaving, I need you.”

In that moment, I knew she was serious. There was a rage behind those beautiful eyes that said this is a fight to the death and you aren’t going to win this one. I took a deep breath and felt a compulsive smile. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t happy she was here.

“Alright,” I say. “You can stay tonight.”

“Thank you,” she says with a breath of relief and relaxing into the wall.

“Come on,” I say extending my hand. “Let’s grab you some pajamas and get you into bed.”

She takes my hand, and we move to the couch, “Fuck the pajamas,” she says ripping her boots off. She lays down on the bed and asks, “Why do your sheets smell weird?”

“They were in the closet for awhile,” I say.

“Come,” she says. “Lay down with me.”

“Alright,” I say. “Let me go brush my teeth.”

I go into the bathroom, and turn the water on. I scoop up the 15 rounds, the magazine, the pistol, and take one last look at the wall. It was like nothing had happened. I can’t make heads or tails of it. My withdrawals were over. And she’s here. I go into the bedroom and toss the items in the bag, zipping it up. I pack it away in the closet and go brush my teeth. I go into the living room. She ditched her jacket on the floor and covered herself with the comforter. I pick her jacket up and fold it over the back of the couch. I’m just happy to have that smell around again. I lay down next to her half sitting up. She rolls over and wraps her arms around my waist, digging her head into my stomach. I wrap my arms around her.

She falls asleep almost immediately. My world is a level of calm, I feel I don’t deserve. Looking down over her, I rub the sides of my head and look at my hand searching for blood. Still nothing. My phone clicks on. It’s officially October 14th. I look back at her. Am I in Heaven? Did I find some loop hole? Or is this Hell? Time alone, I suppose is the only thing that will tell, and for now I may as well enjoy the time I get. At least it meant something to one person.

Spanish Moss II

“Storm Echoes”

A long time and many miles would pass before I would see the old man again. Years, in fact.

The people here are complex and interesting. Some of them are the text book definitions of grotesque creatures and in truth it only makes me want to watch them more. The city bus always has the same familiar smell when the A/C is actually working. That smell of stale air and dirt packed into the fabric of the seats. When it isn’t working, it is a pool of sweat, body odor, and poorly brushed mouths. Across from me, on a long bench against the wall of the bus, sat an overweight woman with pink hair that’s trimmed very short. Black leather boots of some kind. I couldn’t tell you the brand name, but they’re popular ones. Dr. Marten’s maybe…I can’t be sure. I watched her dig at a scab on her arm. It was below a tattoo that looked like it was done in a kitchen. I have a kitchen tattoo, I'm not judging—rather still trying to figure out what it was more than anything. She reached into her bra—removing a large wad of tissues. They’re all balled up, like they were used earlier in the day. Like the one all our grandmothers carried in their sleeve. If you had something on your face, they would pull it out, and spit into it—before scrubbing the dirt off your face. Like a mother lion licking a cub that’s desperately trying to get away. The lady took the ball of tissue, and blew her nose in it. She blew hard, hard enough that her thick pale white fingers turned a flushed red color. So hard, that her nose ring was no longer located in her septum. She examined the mucus in the tissue, and with her still flushed pudgy finger, began fishing the ring and locking ball from the pool of snot. After reafixing it to the appropriate hole in her face, she extended her arm up and pulled the cord—leaving behind a wet sheen on the cable. The pink haired lady is why I carry hand sanitizer with me everywhere I go. It’s also the reason why I don’t sit on the bus.

The bus stop by my most recent apartment, is across the street from a little mom and pop gas station that I frequent. The stop has a handful of frequent flyers. There’s Dennis, a pure hearted man who struggles with a mental illness. He’s in his thirties maybe, possibly his early forties. It’s really hard to tell. He has a full head of thick black hair. Always immaculately dressed. I mean, he isn’t wearing Armani suits or anything, but he’s always wearing a button up pollo shirt tucked into a properly fitted belt, affixed to a pair of slacks. Usually some shade of deep blue, or a dark brown color. Size 12 dockers, slip-on, dress shoes. They look a little large for his body only because he’s a short man. Somewhere around five feet, I think. He’s always very friendly, and eager to have a conversation. I’ve had conversations with him about everything from birds to ants—and everything in-between. I like Dennis. Dennis tends to warm my heart when I see him. Mostly because in some strange way I'm jealous of him. Jealous of that pure innocence. Everything seems new to him, everytime. So, I am at once warmed and heartbroken in the same moment. I asked him once where he worked, he was always dressed like a man on his way to work. He just stomped flat footed on the ground, sort of pacing back and forth, rubbing his hair—and changed the subject to Shelly coming to see him. A girlfriend—perhaps a caregiver—he mentions her a lot. We talked about her instead. I attained the impression he didn’t care for his work much. Something about it seemed to upset him. In that moment I felt very protective over Dennis at the thought of coworkers possibly mistreating him. Then there’s Bob.

Bob’s a washed up goth with a receding hair line. Other than extending names to one another, we’ve never had an actual conversation. He always arrives the same way. Hair down his back in a pony tail. There’s more skin on top of his head then there is hair. He’s always wearing the same short sleeve button up pollo shirt. Black slacks always over black leather boots and a belt rolling over on itself. I think he works at some sort of electronics store, but of course this is little more than an assumption. Everyday, he steps onto the platform, sets down a heavy back pack, and takes a deep sigh as he pulls a cigarette out and lights it. No one says anything. They just step out of the cloud of smoke and allow him this brief moment of peace. I try to catch some second hand…I miss smoking. Dennis doesn’t like the smell, a detail he makes well known. Bob just rolls his eyes and takes another drag. Stella’s also a frequent flyer.

She’s an older woman. Could wave goodbye any day sort of old. She has a little rascal scooter. She’s a bit of a menace. Once I was standing a little too close to her self proclaimed spot, and she ran right over my toes in my new chucks. It hurt like hell, but I let it go. She’s the only other one, other than Bob’s cigarettes, who has a distinct smell. Like a little factory of Ben Gay and Werther’s Originals. She always has one of those little hard candies clacking around her dentures in a wet sound. Her hair’s a short little bun of white hair, rolled so tight I swear it erased some of the wrinkles in her face. Her skin is a brutal reminder of my own mortality, like a pile of latex gloves draped over a skeleton. She squints her sunken face in the sun behind glasses a half inch thick. Then there’s Frank.

Frank’s a preacher. An odd one at that. He grabs the bus just before ours. A short man, always in a suit, pulling around a little rolling carry on suitcase with him. His hair is only present on the sides of his head. He’s always bright eyed and happy. I have had a few interesting conversations with him. I once asked him, “What’s with the suit case?”

He said, “My church gets a little crazy from time to time. I usually end up sweating through my suit, so I bring a couple extras to look my best for my people.”

“I like that,” I said.

He retained my respect that day. It takes a special breed of person to put that sort of effort into their lives when it isn’t asked of them. It seems small but it counts for a lot, I think.

“You know, I deal with weather patterns a lot in my work,” he said.

In that moment, the hair on the back of my neck raised, my mouth opened slightly, eyebrows pinched, and I just stared at him. It was all I could do. I was frozen speechless. He just smiled at me. I had so many questions and in that moment—I couldn’t speak. That familiarity in his eyes, that bench back on those cobblestone streets several years ago. A bus pulled up and he patted my shoulder saying, “This is me, take care kid.” And I just watched him get on, thank the driver, and drive away.

It’s the same routine every day. I stare at the mountains until it gets here. Probably talking to Dennis, everyone else tends to avoid him. The bus arrives, and strangers pile out of the back like first shift leaving. Bob darts onto the bus, cutting off Stella. The bus deflates its air shocks and a large ramp unfolds from the interior. Little Stella, flips her rascal into high gear and zips onto the bus. A true speed demon. Then Dennis, and then myself. Dennis and I talk until my stop. I depart and they all fly onwards to their destinations. The ride home is usually late and I'm generally alone. I have never tried to have a conversation with the bus driver. I don’t know why, perhaps it’s because I'm exhausted…or maybe I just don’t care as much as I should. I don’t know.

…

I step off the bus in the dark. The sun faded hours ago. The building across the street is filled with students. A towering building in the area. From a third floor anywhere in the city, you can see it in the distance. It’s the end of the semester. Cars are flying in and out of the dorms. I’m careful crossing the street. I want to hit the gas station to grab something to drink, some snacks for the night, before making the trek home. I pull the door open and walk into the gas station. I wave hello to Mendez, the clerk. A sharp dressed guy who takes care of himself. He works here, and at the station down the street—and at a little Mexican joint up the street. The man makes one hell of a smothered burrito. I go see him all the time. He waves back to me and I walk to the back coolers grabbing some tea and an energy drink. I snatch a bag of sour patch kids from the shelf and walk up to the counter.

“Hey, what’s up man? How are you?” he asks.

“I’m good bro, finally done for the year. Gonna go home and play some xbox, I guess.”

A man busts through the door just as he was about to say something.

“A kid just got hit in the intersection!”

Mendez, grabs the phone to call an ambulance. I grab my items and run out to the intersection. To my surprise, I find an old classmate doing her best to tend to a tall man who is stumbling around a bit and trying to lean on an electrical box. I ask Kate, “What happened?”

“He was on his bike and an SUV plowed through the intersection. He rolled up over the vehicle and hit the ground hard—like really hard.”

She steps out of the way so I can tend to him. He doesn’t look good. His pants are torn up and blood is seeping into the frays of the clothing. He’s missing a shoe and a cyclist’s glove. Astonishingly, his backpack is still on and so is his helmet. Luckily, he was wearing one—most people around here don’t. He would be dead if he wasn’t wearing one. He might still die.

Placing my hand on his shoulder, I wave my hand in front of his face, saying, “Hey buddy, you alright? Can you look at me?”

He tries to walk ensuring me he’s fine and I gently press him back against the electrical box.

“Easy buddy,” I say. “Ambulance is on the way. You just took a really nasty hit. Try to stay still.”

I try to ask Kate if she got his name and when I turn to ask her he goes unconscious. He falls directly into my arms. His entire body is stiff, I'm pretty sure he’s seizing but I can’t see his face and I can’t feel it. I just hold him up saying, “It’s alright bud, I got you…I got you…you’re gonna be alright. Let’s get you to sit on the ledge.” Knowing he can’t hear me. I’m not sure if I'm saying it for him, or me—Kate looks traumatized in-front of me, she’s not used to this sort of thing. He finally comes back to, and takes his body weight back onto his own feet. Dennis comes walking over from the bus stop.

“Oh no, Oh no, Oh no…what happening?” asks Dennis.

Dennis couldn’t process what was happening, and I was trying to take care of the stranger at the moment so I said, “Hey bud, everything’s fine, he’s going to be okay. We’ll talk soon okay, I promise. Do me a favor and just take a step back, buddy.”

Dennis takes a step back and starts anxiously pacing back and forth in-front of the gas station. It’s making me nervous, he’s getting too close to the road, and there’s already been one casualty tonight. The stranger starts to wobble again. I get tired of asking the delirious man to sit and grab him. I force him to sit gently on the curb. He tries to stand up and I force him to stay. I feel like I'm training a new puppy. Sit—stay. Mendez comes out with a bottle of water and asks if he wants it by waving it at me. I step off to the side.

I tell him, “Don’t give him anything. If he has internal injuries, it could complicate things further.”

Mendez nods and walks back inside. I approach the man sitting on the curb. Reaching down, I tell him that I’m going to touch him, then begin at his feet. I loosen the laces on his lone shoe. Then rolling up the sleeves of his slacks I look at his legs. Lots of road rash, but no compound fractures so far. I undo, his belt, and loosen the cuffs of his shirt. Treating for shock on a patient who’s sitting up is admittedly a bit like showering before you get in the pool, but getting him to sit was hard enough. I don’t think anything is broken, and his lungs seem fine. Good rise, good fall, esophagus is straight and looking fine. I get him to give me his wallet, and I start asking him basic questions to keep him conscious. He’s getting them about 50% of the time. I hold up a finger and ask him to follow it. His eyes are jerking—starting and stoping—in a pronounced way. He’s definitely got a concussion, maybe a traumatic brain injury, but as long as he doesn’t have a brain bleed he’ll probably pull through. Kate taps me on the shoulder and points to the ambulance arriving at the intersection.

“You witnessed the accident, they’re going to want to talk to you,” I tell her.

“Yeah—alright,” she says taking a deep breath.

I smile at her and ask, “You want me to stay with you while you talk to them?”

“If you want,” she says, with a look that says yes.

So I stay. I brief the EMTs on his assessment. I brief a firefighter. I start briefing a cop. There’s another cop at the door of the SUV talking to a college girl who looks grief stricken. It’s the first time I can take a moment to see it. A large white thing, suburban of some kind. Windshield shattered, the entire front end caved in. The kid literally ate an engine block at 35 mph and walked away from it. Probably never even saw it coming. The cop snaps his fingers in front of me. I’m somewhere else. I finish briefing him and he gives me back my license. Kate is staring at Dennis. She’s already traumatized and can’t handle anything else at the moment. She stares at me.

“That’s Dennis. He’s harmless,” I say smiling. “Of course, he could totally be a serial killer I suppose. I don’t really know him that well.”

She smacks me, but she’s smiling. Across the street, I see Frank standing on the corner, suit case in hand. The smile fades from my face and wave, unsure what else I'm suppose to do. Dennis walks off towards, what I assume, is his home. We’ll talk tomorrow, I tell myself. Frank, slowly nods his head at me and walks away down the street. Just as I had done on that bench, I watch him walk away. The cop approaches us and tells us we can go. I say my goodbyes to Kate and turn towards my home.

I wish I could tell you the meaning behind it all. In all honesty, I'm still trying to figure it out. Either way, it seems my questions will have to wait until I cross over.

Spanish Moss I

“A Believer’s Tragedy on East Ave. ”

I sat there with the bustling city streets. The afternoon sun was flickering through the spanish moss while it danced with the wind. The concrete bench outside was rough on the palms of my hands. A few dozen engraved fleur-de-lises wrap around the edge. They were granulated and weathered over the years by the passing afternoon storms and annual hurricanes. It was only a few moments before my palms began to sweat. It’s hard to say if that was the humidity, intuition, or the stress—at this point it hardly matters. I was glued to that seat. Every time I tired to leave, my legs failed me. I couldn’t tell you why. The air was warm that day. It wasn’t unpleasant, but a gentle sort of warmth.

“You, alright?”

An old man stood in front of me. His hands were clean and well kept. The shoes he wore looked well worn, at least 500 miles worth. The pressed trouser cuffs of a pair of brown slacks draped around their frayed ends. Above them, a blue striped button up shirt hung freely around his waist. His face looked at once old and youthful. I couldn’t make sense of it. Then I looked in his eyes, and I knew him. I was terrified to say it out loud, but I immediately recognized him. My hands relaxed and I released the bench I was trying to break with my grip. I rubbed the sweat from my palms, and the uneasiness faded away. I relaxed my posture.

“I don’t know,” I said.

I looked away from him when I said it. I couldn’t lie to him. The old man looked up the street, took a deep breath, and slowly sat down next to me. I had no reason to be there except for the fact that my intuition compelled me there, and refused to let me leave. In that moment, I assumed that he was the reason. Interlocking his fingers, he relaxed into his legs.

“Mind if I just, sit here for a moment?”

“Not at all,” I say. “Help yourself.”

“You know..” He paused and looked up the street again. The wind blew and the scent of southern wild lavender wafted up the cobblestone streets. “…it will pass.”

I pinched my eyebrows together and looked at him. I genuinely had know idea what he was referring to. I asked him, “What will?”

“There’ll be plenty of time for that,” he said with a smile. “For now though, I’ve got to go.”

He tilted his chin upwards a little, placing his hand on his knee, and looking sort of down his nose. It felt more curious than it did condescending. Bracing himself on his knees, he leaned forward into his old worn out shoes and rose to his feet. Patting me gently on the shoulder he says, “Just remember what I said. Don’t worry, I'll see you around.”

I nodded my head. He returned the same, and turned walking away down the street. I watched him walk until he faded from view. A strong gust of wind rolled up the street from the opposite direction. I turned to face it, and that’s when I saw her. Her scarlet hair blowing in the wind. The doors of a four-star hotel closing behind her. I looked over my shoulder for the old man, but he was nowhere to be found. I sank into the concrete bench. The world became a little grayer and a little colder.

Somehow, I always thought you would have more answers—yet every time we meet, I’m left with more questions than answers.