The Wanderer (short story- non-sports)

The Wanderer
 
I once met a man, who wasn’t a man. He stood about six-two, and weighed in at about an even deuce. Two hundred pounds, that is. Wasn’t really wearing anything that would set him apart from anyone else, other than the small white flower peaking from his left breast pocket. Around these parts, that is a rather strange thing in itself, but the contrast created by the canvass of solid black, that was his entire dress, seemed to paint a spotlight on an already glaring abnormality. Other than that, though, nothing set him apart from any other man. I mean, other than the fact that he was not a man.

He did breathe, did sleep, did think and feel, did abide by what he called the seasons of life, birth to death to birth and so on. By death he did not infer the definition you or I would recite, if asked, but would prefer to label it a door. Nothing but a link from this face to the next. After describing this last line he was sure to make clear that, unlike a man, his face remained always as it was. As if to explain why I may or may not have found him vaguely familiar.

Of course, you have to understand that, unlike you and I, memory did not rust and die for him. It lived on door after door. How he craved the amnesia that promises to cleanse us of us when the day comes, when that door opens. On this jealousy, I am not speculating, for he told me himself. He did. Right out there. Just beyond the pumps, where the gravel starts to eat at the pavement. Perhaps I’ll invite my wife to convince you. No, I couldn’t deprive myself of the story. It is mine to tell, after all. Hers is all together different.

He stood, this pseudo man, and told me of his envy. I don’t know if that was the strangest day of my life, but if it wasn’t, it was close. It’s certainly not everyday you meet a man who is just not a man. Though he seemed bound by the same sorrow in a strange way, he was left hollow of the happiness that can be everyday life, of change. Rather, held eternally by the confines of a single day. Left without variation, save the faces he came across as he wandered not quite aimlessly.

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It was a Thursday, if I recall correct. Maybe a little after two in the A.M.. So, you could call it Friday morning if you chose. I had stayed at the store with Jim and a small black and white television. It only got three channels, but that’s enough for me. Background noise was all it truly was anyway, a wall between me and the emptiness of silence. That’s not right, now is it? Silence isn’t empty. Not for me. Crowded by memory it whispered in a constant drain that night.

Jim sat on the counter, I was sitting on a stool behind the main counter of my small store (Oz’s Map is the name of my store, if you were wondering- No, my name isn’t Oz. Again, if you were wondering, it’s James.), with the television concealing the silence in front of me. Having spilled half its belly, I reached out and unscrewed Jim’s crown again to fill my glass, now barren, shimmering ice resting instead of floating.

A quarter of an inch from the rim of the glass I stopped pouring and put the Jim Beam back on the counter, added a splash of water from the sink behind me (a sink built only to wash gas or oil coated hands and to top off my many drinks) and took a big sip. Nothing’s like that first sip from a fresh drink, quality alcohol or not. There’s nothing like it except, perhaps, a first kiss. Should you be so lucky.

My wife passed nearly twenty years before that night and a kiss was something I hadn’t known between. You’d think I’d of missed it more. Sex, I mean. Don’t get me wrong. I missed it. Sometimes immensely, but I think after a certain period of time, once memory loses its texture, some things can quietly slide away. I’ll leave it at that, or I’ll melt your ear on the subject. Perhaps it was missed more than I’ll admit, but that said, I missed her far more. Just a single mental glimpse of her sent a wish to be gone from this place pulsing through me.

Again I must digress, before I regress, as someone once said to me.

That night, the night I met a man who failed to be a man, I was drunk, but that’s not to say I was too drunk. It was a state I had grown accustomed to. I only say, because there is no need to lose trust in my words. What happened, happened. There is no changing that. No explaining it away, or dismissing it.

Such an easy way out that would be. To say it was all Jim’s fault. Easy, but not true. Right or wrong who’s to say? Do true and false mirror right and wrong? I’d say it was wrong, but true. Everything about that night was somehow wrong, at first, a shadow where nothing lies.

In hindsight it was right and false.

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I was sitting behind the counter on my small bar stool when something caught my attention, a small glint at the extreme of my peripheral. Before I even saw him everything fell away, like the air had settled beneath the floor and failed its climb to me, leaving a vacuum which swallowed all sound and life. Space became empty, almost two dimensional. Slight, yet overwhelming.

Most nights will pass with the crossing of a possum, raccoon or deer as the only traffic. So, when I saw what had grabbed my eye appeared to be a man, my first thought was of either a wreck or an empty, someone that’s run dry of gas, not far up the road. Empty seemed more plausible, lack of traffic and all, but the man’s gate was that of one left dazed and incoherent. He didn’t quite sway, but rather leaked along with brutal slowness.
Noticing the vacant feel of the world around me, I wandered out the unlocked front door of Oz’s Map towards the man. Forgive me for calling him such, but I think it’s of no concern to him. Though my suspicions were already raised, there was nothing to define them.

Once outside, the feel of being in a vacuum became complete as the very air pulled at my skin, threatening to tear me in all directions at once. The normal squeak for oil of the front door pulling closed behind me came wet and muddled, as if buried deep in a dense liquid. My footsteps and the clinking ice from the glass in my hand were ghosts whose cries went unnoticed.

Had the earth quit to rest from its endless, dizzy spin? Had the moon claimed the day for its own? Was I trapped in a dying bubble left in the ocean’s belly, left unsettled from the continents swallowed? It was surreal in its haunting awkwardness, that night. Not dreamlike, but rather a painting gone awry.

“You alright?” I finally mustered with failing courage. Why didn’t I just turn and run, leave my spilled drink to accompany this that was clearly not a man.

No response. He only leaked a little farther along.

Regretting it as I did, I asked again. “You alright there?”

Like barely warmed wax his head dripped towards me and his eyes stopped me mid-stride. His left eye, the one farther from me as I approached from his right, was a shiny almost bright gray or silver, like a cat’s eye reflecting bright light in the darkest throes of night.

While the right eye, closer to me, was still gray, it appeared lifeless and faded, long dead. Along with the small white flower against his complete black attire, his eyes made two complete contrasts within his features.

I stood frozen under his gaze, blazing and dead eye alike, having forgotten that a question had been asked.

“I am fine.” he said, leaving me oddly confused. “Is this your trading post?”

“My what? Ah, yes. I own and run Oz’s Map.”

“I have no cartomobile in need of sustenance, but could I barter for a beer. Flavor or ferment matters not.” He reminded me of a gunslinger entering a new town without fear, but tired of the fight none the same.

“I’m actually closed to trading for the night, but I don’t mind parting with a bottle if you’ll wait here for a second.” I was truly asking permission to leave, for a moment to breathe outside the vacuum.

“I’ll do so gratefully.”

It’s funny how things seem to work sometimes. I barely remember the walk back into the store and the thin walk in cooler. Time simply leapt forward leaving me feeble and dreading the walk back out, where it slowed down again. Enter the vacuum, but breathe deep before going because there’s no breath to find there.

Maybe a hundred years later, so it seemed, I was once again standing before the not quite man. He took the bottle from my hand, opened it and took a sip with a slow bleeding grace.

“Thank you for your kindness.” he said while looking at the bottle with an eerie smile, as if he hadn’t had a beer in ages and hadn’t seen a bottle in much longer, if ever.

“Not a problem.” I wanted to ask his name, or what he was doing here, or comment on his eyes and their extreme polarity but the words would not come, instead taken back to sleep before their conception.

“You do well out here? Haven’t crossed any other travelers in awhile, and seen even less as far as homes go.”

“Enough to get by. I’m too old to try to get rich, and the seclusion of this place was half of its draw. Just a place to feed my time.”

“Aye, it does you well.” His voice was quiet, but not small or meek.

“It does.” I couldn’t find where the will resided that was moving my vocal chords, but as the words themselves escaped, they did so without strain. However, I couldn’t have screamed had I wanted to. Not if my life and the lives of all those important to me depended on it. It was like his questions freed me to respond, but the emptiness took everything else.

There were no crickets. No isolated bird calls. No frogs or coyote in the distance. Nothing at all, but me and this near man. Nothing but his two opposing eyes with the balance held therein and our voices.

“Do you refer to your feeding of time, your structured leaving from this place, with your map?”

“What?” It took me a second, but I followed his dual gaze to the sign atop the storefront.

“The name? No, it…” I was still a little confused by the question.

“Your map, does it symbolize or refer to your plan with this storefront, your route for this last leg of your life. Does it chart the path to the land on the other side of the hill?” he said and took another long sip of beer.

“No. Well, no. In a way, I guess it does, but not how you mean. Though that definitely fits, I just hadn’t thought of it that way before. My name’s not Oz. I actually came up with that name because of the desolate location. It feels misplaced and what could you use more than a map to or from Oz when you’re lost, misplaced?”

“I understand. I’ve heard of this, Oz. Why not Map to Oz then?” His question came without malice or sarcasm.

“I didn’t want to specify the coming or going part, with home being at the other end of the path.”

“I see. I am not sure that I would have chosen such a name, but it is strong, none the less.” He said and took another sip from his more than half empty bottle.

I still couldn’t muster an unsolicited word.

We stood there in complete silence for a moment, and I noticed something strange. Though there was not a cloud in the sky, not a single star. Only an unmarked seal of black wrapped us in.

“What name do you go by?”

“James, but you can call me Jimmy. Most people do.” I smiled but it didn’t fit, and quickly faded.

“Are you married, James? Jimmy if you prefer.”

“Doesn’t matter to me, and yes or at least I was.”

“Passed on, has she, over the next hill and on? Do you think of Sandy often?” He spoke slow and paused between every sentence.

I’d not mentioned her name. I’m sure of it. Hadn’t spoke it aloud in over a decade, in fact. Yet, there it was.

“She is without pain, if it suits you to know.” he continued.

“It does. Thank you for saying.” My mind had stalled. I was aware of how things felt, was aware of the small oddities, such as the hiding stars and the complete silence, other than our words: Our feet did not scuff the ground, drinks did not whisper a sound and clothes ruffling was unfound. It was like being in a sound booth with only our heads enclosed, and only our words caught. But, having something as solid as her name said right out loud sent the weight of the situation crashing down.

This wasn’t a man. No matter the costume, this was not a man.

Again, I wanted to turn and run until my lungs burst and my legs fell strained and broken as my heart popped, but the connection between what I wanted and my legs was lost. I stood, probably with my jaw agape, but unable to do anything about it. He must have noticed my silence for his eyes turned from the horizon to me, and I nearly did run, or at least faint.

“Sandy is in fact a happier version of you. She waits for you as you wait for her. You are merely caught in different seasons. Her in spring, and you in deep winter, but it won’t be long now. I can already see the door, the coming break of winter, but we’ll talk a little longer. You’ve impressed me, Jimmy, so far.”

“Thank you.” I said without really understanding why. I tried to take a sip of my Beam with a splash of water, found that steadying my hand was not a manageable task, and lowered the glass without touching it to my lips.

As I watched, the world around the road, which we were on the edge of where the gravel still struggled to cover my paved lot, began to gray and dry. It was like watching a cigarette burn with a time motion camera, like they use to show a flower bloom in only a couple of seconds. One moment there is a full cigarette and within five seconds a small ring of glowing heat devours the white and leaves only a stick of dry, wilted ash.

It was slower than this, but the world seemed to burn away as I watched. Long lines of confined flame swept in from the horizon, like a digital scan, leaving gray lifeless things behind. Before me Oz’s Map developed a glowing horizontal line at its top that slowly began to descend its walls. Moments later there was a lifeless ash husk in its place.

The glowing line did not stop at the base of my store. Instead, in crept on towards where I stood, swallowing all in its path. Up and over the two pumps it came. From all directions this fiery line crept forward, in a giant ring around where I stood beside the stranger with a quarter of his beer left, broken only by the road to my right (away from where the almost stranger had approached).

It stopped at the other side of the road, but cut the road off several feet to my left, behind the one wearing the costume of a man. Ash took all, up to about three feet from where I’d approached and all to the right except the road, which it left untouched to stretch into the horizon.

I was beginning to understand. I raised my glass in an attempt at another sip, but once again gave up before doing so.

We stood a moment in complete silence. There was no smell of burning or truly, there was no smell at all. Like sound it had been abandoned.

“Do you know the seasons? Do they change here, or are we too far south?” He said, his quiet voice a scream in the complete silence.

“I know them. Know them very well. Come to dread some of the changes for what they do to my joints.” I said.

“What I wouldn’t give for such pain. Nothing changes where I am. I adhere to the same seasons of life and death as you, but am left forever un-cleansed. Memory does not reset. I am forever in the winter of my tasks.”

I wanted to say something, to ask something. Anything, but my lips and tongue were limp and without will.

“Forgive my self loathing, if that is what it is. We are all born to a task, and I fulfill mine same as anyone else. Same as you, but I’m just so tired.” He took a small sip of his beer, now maybe only an eighth full. “Why can’t my past wash away?” As he said this he waved his arm and the ash skeletons of the world I’d known fell away. This only completed the feeling of being trapped in a vacuum. Now there was only the road, and only in one direction.

I stood unable to speak, and unsure of what I could have said anyway.

“Your door is close now, from this face to the next. Unlike me, you will soon find another place. Another version of you, but fear not. For this is an easy change. You merely shed your skin, and little else. Your time of reward is near, and Sandy waits.”
I felt her name surge through me, along with his words. Could she be so near?

“As for me, my door is also close, but there is no reward. Only another to hold a door open for. I’m so tired. Thank you for not fighting, for not running. That only makes the inevitable that much harder on me. You’ve lived a good life Jimmy and I’m sure your time of reward will not be short. Are you ready?” He said and finished his beer. The bottle top glowed red and then slowly fell away in ash that left no dust.

I tried once more to take a sip of my drink, this time easily enough. That done, the weight of my glass fell away and slipped like all else to ash. On the horizon in a world of dark gray, broken only by the road, there came a glint of light, and a small laugh. Sandy’s laugh. My heart leapt.

“I am.” I said.

“Let us begin our short walk together, then.” He then turned and began to walk down the road, slowly. I caught up easily enough. Thoughts of her filled my head, though I still dared not speak her name, for fear of jinxing myself and waking from the dream. The glint at the horizon was still far off, but now I could almost smell her. The vacuum was breaking.

I found myself once again in control of my faculties.

“Where did you get that flower, or does it signify something that I missed?” I asked.

“This,” he said and lightly stroked the flower, “This was a gift. Long ago it was given to me as a token of appreciation for the tasks I must complete. It is immune to my touch. It never dies. I love it with all that is me. It is the antithesis of me.”

She was all around me now. I could smell her. Hear her. Almost feel her.

And then this not quite man touched my wrist and she was there with arms and smile wide.

The End -

written by md

Author's Note:

Spoiler - if you care to not ruin the story, read this last....

I wrote this story shortly after my father passed away, and I suppose it was at least partially my way of making death not seem so bad. I also liked the idea of life being like the flame put to the end of a cigarette. Some cigarettes allow the flame to trace it's way to the filter, while others are put out a drag or two in. In the end, what lies behind falls to ash, and we can only move on down the only road remaining.

That's all. I hope you enjoyed it...and, don't worry (for all 2 to 3 of my readers), I will usually stick to sports. I think I just didn't want that "What WE want as Fans" to remain my most current post, as I don't think it's very good.

Also, this was written in Word and imported with Works- so, please forgive any formatting issues. I think I caught them all, but I did it quickly.