Rover

I'm thinking of a story about a homeless man with a different twist

 I’m a rover.  Alone.  A king without his country.  Invisible chains wrapped tight around my feet anchored down hard with memories of a better life- not allowing me to roam too far.  Home for me is a basement-scented tent with a river view and a trackside backyard.  The old growth forest, out beyond the tracks, is my neighborhood.  At night the whistle of the passing train, the blast of the barge’s horn, and the lonely howling of the coyote are the sounds of my city.  This is my life- a life of choosing to be set apart and above it all.

Hello.  I’m Sammy.  Of average height, wind-tangled greyish dark hair, and red eyes.  The red eyes are from when I used to cry a lot.  They’re still red, but the scotch took the place of the crying.  So good and smooth, so easy  on the mind.  Easy on the memories, too.  Scotch never freezes in the winter either, something I’m grateful for come Christmas.  This isn’t Arizona.  The bottle so skinny and sexy.  She’s my pocket wife- never leave home without her.  I had a real wife once, but the bridge took her.  Steel green beams rising out of the cold dark water, reaching into the fog of prosperity.  SUVs and Rovers and RVs riding on her potholed deck, going no place.  No place that matters anyway.  People jumping into the better life of the dark moody waters of the filthy river.  Drivers passing them by in their make believe world of toys.

She was a short wife.  Huge on patience.  Cuter than a bug’s ear.  Skin smooth as vanilla ice cream.  A voice found only in paradise, and paradise was wherever she was, my little Mary Ann.  My pie baker, heartbreaker, card player, life maker.  The pressure.  Oh, the pressure.  Yes, that is what ended it. Poisoned through and through,  from her mind to her mouth- movies, sitcoms, newspaper coupons.  The poison led her away from me and into the deep.   

It was a  year ago they found her body bobbing up and down, up over the roller dam.  The locals call the roller dam “the washing machine of death” because of the up and down action of the river water where bodies can never be retrieved until they are completely water saturated and nearly impossible to identify.  Then they float down river, after weeks in the pool of the roller dam.  I claimed the body, there at the morgue in town.  Told the coroner I wanted to bury her out of state, to be near her mother.  I signed the papers and the coroner made sure the body was prepared for the ride.  But I went and dug the grave myself, out past the tracks, out in those woods.  I haven’t been back since.  I couldn’t bear it if her grave had gotten dug up by some jerk animal.  Do I miss her?  Where’s my scotch?  Where’s my Mary?

I’m sitting next to the fire.  Captain Pabst is gone hunting and there's a cold bright moon shining boastfully in the sky.  When I’m alone like this, my thoughts stray backwards to Mary Ann.  She was my hot pistol.  Green eyes of dynamite.  A keg of dripping honey in a forest full of hungry bears.  I was the hungriest.  I was her life.  She was my prize.  And now she’s gone.  I never provided for her anyway.  But life is more than that, isn't it?

Exactly what is life?  The fire is getting much hotter as I move back a foot. Life is fire.  It could consume you- if you let it.  Kid worship.  Hero worship. Spouse worship.  Job worship.  It goes on and on.  Life's little things that people worship.  Empty souls who empty their pocketbooks to go shopping to get some more stuff.  Yes- stuff worship.  So, this is America?  What exactly is her identity?  Where is her soul?  What does she stand for besides getting more stuff?  Woe to the shallow masses who labor in vain.  Whose necks are forever broken- staring down at their smart phones.  Whose mind is forever wasted on frivolous text messages and the wide-screen tvs hanging on the wall waiting their turn to be used by big brother.  Big bro will have an easy time with these bunch of morons.

It’s cold.  I hope Captain Pabst is warm.  He should've stayed home with me, next to the fire.  I miss the ninety degree days of summer.  It’s dead and gone. Hello winter.  In all her beauty, all her splendor- her whiteness.  Her brutality. Her hatefulness.  Her power-hungry winds that keep getting stronger and stronger, her frozen rain that hurts, and her fluffy snow that sucks.  You spirit- draining animal.  May you rot and burn in hell.  Where did I put that bottle?

I’m thinking of going to BirdLand for a drink and a nap.  BirdLand is an old man pee in your pants bar down on Division Street.  My warming center.  Dick Worthalot is the dive’s owner, who is never there, and probably doesn't realize he owns it.  I arrive after a thirty minute walk.  As I push the door open, the old familiar smell of urine visits my nose.  Ahh...I take my seat at the far end of the bar and order a Bloody Mary.  Heavy on the black pepper and Worcestershire Sauce and light on the Mexican pepper crap.  It’s always dark in here and it’s a good place to rest your head on the bar for a quick nap.  As long as there is a drink in front of you, the bartender lets you nap.  Up in the air I hear the tv, its reruns of All in the Family, and that's how I feel- I'm home and Edith is my bartender.  The next thing I see the lights are on and man it’s bright. “Sammy, you're on,” Edith says.

I grab my bar towel and go to work.  You won't believe how sticky this bar gets, like I’m cleaning a candy shop.  So, this is my life cleaning the bar for twenty bucks a night and getting to go upstairs and sleep when I'm done. Sometimes I let Captain Pabst inside with me.  I miss that guy.  Wonder where he is?

The sun is up and I am too. Leaving the bar, Captain Pabst joins me.  It’s minus 12.  We cross the street and I go into Meatballs to grab a slab of salmon  and a pound of chicken breast for my cat.  Ed wraps them separate in brown paper.  Ed is a nice guy who has a heart for downtrodden animals.  Instead of throwing about-to-be expired meat away, he gives it to me to feed my friend. The Captain follows me back to the rear entrance to the bar.  I let us in and we go upstairs to eat.  It’s cold outside, isn’t it my friend?  He rubs up against me and starts to purr.

I’m looking at the frozen street through my window and see a yellow cat walking on the sidewalk, hungry and alone.  I look at the Captain and he seems to say “go down and get him.”  I obey.  His name is now Winston and in months to come we are the trifecta of the streets- me, Captain Pabst, and Mr. Winston.  We’re so lucky to have each other.  A blast of mean air flows through the window and hits my chest.  The cats are sniffing one another and finishing the fish I gave them.  I’m thinking of better days to come. Will I ever find another Mary Ann?  If I do, will she kill herself too?

Reviews

[Amanda Cary]

Jesus. I absolutely love the form here, the disjointed thought pattern that is splayed enough to feel like he's running tangents but connected enough to flow in sequence. I find that this feels representative of exactly the way you'd think a person in this situation would have to function in order to stay relatively sane. But it all comes together in a very surreal way, somehow feeling sorry for him but also happy for him. He's asking these questions about his life and when things might change, but you get the feeling that he's pretty settled and almost content.

Wonderful story! You could easily turn this in to a short story series! Thank you so much! :)