Earlier that evening as the sun set, the upper air provided such a spectacular phosphorescent display. It seemed so close he felt that he could leap high enough, clutch the onliest cloud that was typical in this region of America, and ride, and never come back.
But that night, he walked as a child, as a helpless, hapless, child. Sauntering like a rhythm-less pimp; swaying with the prowess of a 600,000 ton oiler; heaving himself one direction, and then another; dawdling; stumbling; bumbling; rumbling; zigzagging; crossing-over; straight-ahead now; all the while incessantly babbling; sopping the slaver; tripping; the pavement—a pro tem resting place; waiting, lying there. . . . gripping the walls, as if it were the couch; the glass store front as an end table, the light poles as the tall skinny lamps, a mailbox as if it were the television, people as if he had not lain eyes on them in years, as if they knew and care for him. All as if they were the objects utilized during those initial uncharted expeditions.
. . .
Knock, knock, Knock! There was a knock at the door. He stammered, “wwhhoo isss itt”? There was no answer. He was waiting on a friend, though he knew that Leora would not arrive for some time now. Who could that be? He wondered. Could it be . . . them? How did they know he was here?
Duke began to approach the door as though his life depended upon who was on the opposite side of it—it did. His dreadlocks, sandy-brown and full of aesthetic texture swept across his face; in their eighth year of growth, they were quite long now. He resembled someone that a vacationer runs into on a holiday to the West-Indies, although he was as American as jazz and apple pie. He was a handsome young man, or so everyone told him so, and in his early twenties. His tan skin perspired as if someone had sent him out into the raging Saharan heat with a wool coat, donning long-johns. He searched his brain for whom it could be, as he had examined his soul for where he could have gone wrong—Charlie, Jason; how could they know his whereabouts. Even though they were friends, there wasn’t anyone he could trust at this point.
Two nights ago he fled, as a four-legged pest when the lights are produced, as a thief in the night. His throat tightened like a constrictor’s grasp upon her prey, as he began to recollect his escape—tighter; tighter. His mouth was arid, dry as scorched earth and he could not swallow, even if he wanted to.
His watery eyes drifted upward toward the metallic ring that slightly swung in a circular motion, up the accoutrement which was its rope—the hatch which concealed the attic, and thought as he had planned before, to stow away there in case some uncertain and unexpected guest arrived. But he had planned that he would see them coming. Nothing he planned lately had turned out the way he anticipated.
But what is anticipation anyhow, he thought, nothing but what had gotten him into this situation in the first place—hope. He had hoped to become a successful person. He had hoped to make his parents and family proud. He hoped to positively affect at least one person’s life; share things with them that could help them if ever confronted with the necessary nuisances of life. He hoped to love and to be loved; to reveal himself as one can with someone that occupies their confidence—without prevarication. He hoped for the things that to him seemed simple; well, at the very least plausible; things beyond him, things that had nothing to do with him directly, things that he could not absolutely affect. He knew that this thing was larger than him. He hoped for the future; the children at war with ‘civilization’. He hoped for hope, that his dreams and wishes would come complete with rejoinder; a response from the ether, the universe, God. He thought, of how sometimes that is all one possesses—memories and despair-tinged-hope. He hoped the judge would go easy on him. He was a councilman for the government for God’s sake!
Knock, knock, Knock! The knock was more thunderous now, each blow of the assailant’s knuckles against the steel door, felt as if a slug to the gut and he knew that it could not be his friend. But then . . .
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