Dipping and bobbing, rising and falling, a bottle climbs and surfs the sea’s patient swells.
It does not sing.
It merely waits.
It is stopped tightly with a smooth, rubber cork.
It was once a piece of trash, perhaps,
a discarded night of lust,
or a formula never fulfilled.
The air inside is saturated with hope, but also shattered dreams.
Its precious cargo remains dry, though it cries more each day as the sun and moon chase each other into infinity.
Days and nights flash and freeze, taking picture after picture of this lonely, aimless thing.
Slowly, the bottle glides from current to current, randomly approaching the ocean’s edge.
The bottle’s glass reflects the sun, the moon
the water, the clouds
and magnifies the vast blue emptiness beneath.
But it does not reflect upon itself.
It has captured a message hand-scrawled, rolled, and inserted with great care from some unknown time in the forgotten past.
It keeps, temporarily,
reverently,
a moment in time when Monroe’s Island was still a child,
when women were not yet a machine,
when men still had the faith,
the drive,
and the resources to attempt escape.
A time when courage, not consternation, was dominant among them.
It holds inside the stale, hopeful air from that evil, newborn place
and brings it ever onward
toward the unknown beach which might one day end its journey.
The glass bottle holds
protects
inside it a paper deeply yellowed and brittling.
But it is tainted also with love and overwhelming desperation.
Blood, not ink, bears its message of distress.
The unknown man who had cut himself for such a small chance of freedom
has already died
a horrible death.
Run over by a car.
Perhaps beaten with a club.
His ashes have already been lost to the strong Pacific winds.
Yet his leisurely, patient message has long outlived his speedy legs.
Dipping and bobbing, rising and falling, the bottle nods hello and goodbye to yet another new moon.
But on each swell of the sea,
in every storm it survives,
it slides.
Sideways.
Random.
East or north, south or west,
across the massive skin of the world.
It sometimes approaches a place for months
only to recede through new currents
and attack another shore.
It relies on chance,
not effort,
to find its fated harbor.
Distance is its enemy, but its ally is time.
It isn’t strong-willed.
It isn’t afraid.
It is merely patient.
As patient as the ocean itself.
Miracles don’t happen every day.
Many claim they aren’t even real.
Or that they only breathe life once in any given lifetime.
But they do still happen.
They are born when a wrong greatly outweighs a right.
They appear when whole cavalries have dismounted and gone home,
when knights in shining armor have been slain by savage dragons.
They sing their magical song most often
when hope is wholly lost.
That is what makes them miracles.
And this patient bottle with its amazing message did become a true miracle,
began to sing its song,
began to live its life,
began to share its old, dead message,
the instant it finally sighted land.
Yet the burning question any discovering fingers would have
is not why,
or when,
or even where,
but simply who.
Who, exactly, is its martyr?
CHAPTER 6
OFFERINGS
1
When he woke the next morning in the chilled dark hour before dawn, Obe’s stomach gurgled audibly every few minutes. As the sun rose, he sought out the grocery alley. He knew confirming its location was a form of weakness, but it was honestly very difficult to think of anything other than food.
For months the prominent dialogue in the back of his mind was what he’d come to think of as the “Voice of God”.
The voice had been his own, of course, not God’s, but the way the women pumped it through the little holes in the back wall of his box,
My name… is Obe.
it often felt like it was. Continual, that voice was. Even in his sleep. It was a recording he’d been forced to make which had then been played back on repeat for all those weeks until, eventually, he’d begun to believe its message. It was in his own voice, after all. So it must have been true.
But now, for the first time since his release from the fortress, another, louder message was sounding in his head.
My brother, it said. I must find my brother.
Its persistence was becoming like an infection in his mind. Why hadn’t he acted on it yet? Why hadn’t he simply walked across the border into green sector and begun looking?
It’s against the rules! his mind proclaimed. But he’d already broken that rule and others, so for once this was an easy voice to ignore. Yet he didn’t have any better answer. He knew only that he could not yet take on that burden as well as what he was already dealing with. In the meantime, he couldn’t get the thought out of his head, and it was slowly killing him.
When he found and memorized the exact location of the grocery day alley, he eagerly wandered off in search of good conversation. Anything to take his mind off his troubles. It did not take long to find opportunities. Men, it seemed, spent much time in the streets surrounding the wide dead-end alley where they got their food.
To Obe’s discomfort, the first man he encountered was Jain, the man who had violently confronted him about his theft of the sneakers his first day there. The man smelled of body odor.
Obe checked for the tell-tale signs of loyalty to either one of the gangs he had identified, but Jain wore neither a rock in the hole of his zipper tab nor his right pants cuff rolled up. This was actually a bit of a relief until Obe reasoned that perhaps a man like this wasn’t accepted in either camp.
“Well if it isn’t the GOPHER,” Jain said.
“Hello JACKAL,” Obe replied, cautiously.
There was a moment’s awkward pause before Jain seemed to reluctantly say what was on his mind. “Make any more friends lately,” he said, “or are you already sucking Leb’s dick?”
“Fuck off, loser,” Obe said, and turned to go the other way.
“Wait,” Jain half shouted, and Obe stopped. Jain mumbled something to himself for a moment then offered Obe a big, fake smile. “I’m… sorry,” he said. “Or whatever.”
Obe was shocked. “Um… what?” he said.
“Okay, look. We don’t have to be friends or anything, but the last thing I want is another enemy. I still think you’re an idiot for bringing the women to the alley like that, but… for what it’s worth, it wasn’t a bad move. Probably saved your life.” He shuffled his foot and added, “Just don’t do it again. You damn near gave half of us a heart attack.”
Obe almost laughed. “You’re not very good at apologies,” he said.
“No shit. I got an anger problem. And a big fuckin’ mouth. No wonder I’m a loner, right?”
Without thinking, Obe seized the opportunity.
“You’re talking about the gangs,” he said. “I didn’t notice at first, but lots of guys wear their right pants cuff rolled up.” Jain was nodding already. “And some have little stones stuck in their zipper handles. They’re gang signs
, right? I ask because you have neither. I figure you’d have an unbiased opinion.”
“Oh you finally saw that, huh? About fuckin’ time. Yeah, I can tell you about that. But it’ll cost you.”
Obe pursed his lips. Shit, he thought. I forgot about that. Everything comes at a price.
“Nah,” Obe said. “Never mind. I didn’t get any food last time and I’m not about to start paying for common knowledge. See you around, asshole.”
He turned to go a second time and actually got a few paces away before Jain caught up to him, grabbed his shoulder, and spun him around.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll talk. But understand this. You’re still payin’. After this, we’re done, you and I, alright? No feud. Like I said before, I need another enemy like I need another hole in my head. I tell you what you want and we’re square. Deal?”
Obe restrained a smile. “Deal.”
Jain actually did smile and shared more than Obe could have hoped for.
“The guys with the stones are the Hillbruhs. The pants guys are what you already know as the Family of Blue. Hillbruhs call ‘em Cretes, though. Like Concrete Jungle? I guess it’s supposed to piss ‘em off or something.”
“Oh!” Obe said a little too enthusiastically. “I get it.”
“There are lots of Family guys,” Jain went on, “but only a handful of Hillbruhs. The Family controls the city streets, which means the food alley, but the Hillbruhs control the hills and the stream. They’ve got some kind of semi-truce or something going. Men who need water pay for it with food, which is how both sides survive.”
“But you don’t belong to either,” Obe said with a questioning voice.
“No. The Family never made me an offer to join ‘em and Hillbruhs aren’t my style. I don’t like being told what to do. But the Family is cool with me getting food, and the Hillbruhs are happy to sell me water. There are a plenty of us who skirt both sides. They call us loners. I hate to admit it, but sometimes I think about joining the Hillbruhs just to save on food. I’d pay up front, but their dues aren’t as bad as the Family.”
“Dues?” Obe asked.
“Oh, hell yeah. You don’t get the benefits without paying your dues.”
“What are they?”
“It’s three-” but then Jain interrupted himself. “Actually,” he said slowly, “I think I’m paid up. You can figure out the rest on your own.” He sneered a little, somehow forgetting that the point of all this was to lessen the tension between the two of them.
Obe wanted to punch the guy. “Fine,” he said instead. “We’re cool, then?”
“We’re cool.”
“Good.”
“See you around, Greenhorn,” Jain said. Then he tipped an invisible cap and jogged the other way. Jesus, what a jerk, Obe thought. But as he turned and finally moved on, he couldn’t help feeling that Jain had been hiding something else. Something important, he thought. Still, at least I learned a few things. The Family controls the food and the Hillbruhs control the water. That’s important info. And the Hillbruhs are cheaper than the Family. I learned that too.
He stored it all in his mind and tried not to think of whatever secret Jain had been keeping to himself.
2
Elton hadn’t given up. Not exactly. But he was definitely very discouraged. The day after his near-catastrophe at The Honey Hole, he’d bought a case of Schlitz, gotten drunk, and masturbated several times to a stack of magazines which were illegal in the United States. Today, however, he was trying to get back on his game, and he was doing well.
He was at a bar this time- he’d given up on strip clubs for now- and a girl who was both young and pretty was actually talking to him. He had only thought enough to choose a bar with a live band because that meant dancing and girls liked to dance. And it was amazing how well it had worked, really. He hadn’t even tried. She’d just come right up to him when he’d been looking at another girl who was grinding away on the dance floor, and everything seemed perfect right away. Elton thought she was probably drunk, and that was another very good thing. The drink in her hand was already down to the bottom inch and she wasn’t very big. Wasn’t it true that smaller girls got drunk faster? In his pocket was a baggie stuffed with a saturated handkerchief.
He kept looking at her upper legs. They poked out of her red leather miniskirt and kept calling to him. The girl either didn’t notice or didn’t seem to care. Partly, Elton thought she liked it, but he knew that probably wasn’t true. Probably he only wanted that to be true. Wishing thinkfuls, his mother had called that. Wasn’t that right? It didn’t matter. He was already wondering what it would be like to make her lick him the way that Jiggles had licked him. He’d liked that. He wanted his next angel to do that a lot.
“I have a puppy,” he finally said. He’d been waiting for the just the right moment to try out his big pickup line. “She’s cute. You should see her.”
“Reeeeally?” the girl said. “Ohhhhh, I just love puppies! What kind is she? What’s her name?”
Name? Elton thought. Oh no. I didn’t think of a name. But unable to change course mid-stream, he instead plowed through with his prescribed dialogue. “I have a picture of ‘er in my car. You wanna see ‘er?”
“Elton!” the girl squealed. “Are you tryin’ ta get me alone in your back seat?!”
Elton blushed and laughed a bit like a girl himself. In truth, it was more of a giggle.
“Maybe,” he admitted. The girl’s legs were really smooth. Really really.
“Oh I bet you just would!” She slapped him lightly on the upper arm, and Elton giggled again. He lowered his head and looked directly at her thighs and at the small space between them. God, didn’t she know how mean it was to do that? Why did she have to open her legs like that here at the bar? It took all of his energy to keep his demon hands off of her. She could open her legs all she wanted once he had her tied down in his basement, but here in the bar it made it hard for him to think. The music was making it hard to think, too. And now he was in trouble because he hadn’t written down any words after You wanna’ see her? He had no idea how to proceed now that the moment had come.
Then, in a truly rare moment of inspiration, Elton thought of something else he could offer her.
“I have better beer than this shit at home if you wanna really drink,” he said. “Sam Adams. It’s the good stuff. Really really.”
The girl pulled her shoulders back and looked down at him in mock disapproval. “Now you are tryin’ ta get in my pants!” she laughed.
“But yous ain’t wearing pants!” Elton said, and together they laughed loud enough to be heard over the band.
“All right!” she suddenly said with finality. “Let’s go see that puppy and drink that beer!”
“Really?” Elson asked, genuinely surprised.
“Really, really,” the girl said.
He didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask again. He dropped off his stool and went immediately for the door, and it was crazy but the girl was following him. Then, as he was about to push it open, another thought struck his mind and he stopped and turned back to her.
“Wait,” he shouted into the din of the band’s nearby speaker. “What’s your name? Is it fake or real?”
“What!?” the girl shouted.
“What’s! Your! Name!?”
“Oh! It’s Feather!”
“Feather!? That’s fake! That’s not real!”
“No!” the girl shouted and pushed him through the door and outside into the blessed silence. “No,” she said, laughing again and pawing his sizeable chest. “It’s Heather, you silly goose. My name is Heather.”
“Oh,” Elton said. “That’s a nice name.”
“Thanks,” she said. “But I don’t like it. It’s my mother’s name and I hate that bitch!”
Together they laughed and walked toward Elton’s Buick, arm in arm. Before they reached it, however, another woman stepped in front of them. She was huge, Elton saw. The most muscular woman he’d ever se
en.
“Very good,” she said to Heather, and suddenly Heather’s arm was gone from Elton’s chest and she was backing away. She looked scared and Elton was very, very confused. “Next time you’ll have to get him all the way to Hawaii on your own. Start thinking of a strategy to do so. But this is good enough for your first time. Especially on such short notice. The Cause appreciates your flexibility.”
“Now wait a second-” Elton began to say. But before he finished, the giant woman moved with lightning speed and stuck him in the neck with a needle. He became woozy almost immediately and he fell to the gravel parking lot, hard. The last thing he saw before he passed out were the tips of Heather’s black boots.
3
Obe met two more men wanting to hear his fabulous story, but by then he was annoyed with it and gave them both a watered-down version before making his excuses and moving on.
He went, then, to the grocery alley, where the food would later descend and the fights would resume, unaware he walked through an invisible border constantly under surveillance. He was proud for making it three whole days with only a single tomato to eat, but his stomach felt like it had grown a mouth of its own and was consuming him from the inside. It was disquieting to realize this was, in part, very true.
As he entered the alley, he saw several other men already gathered. One of them was Terd,
Terd with an ‘E’, but shitty just the same
the man who had taught him how to make a camouflaged bed of tall grasses several days earlier. He remembered he owed this man a ‘future’, in this case a bite of bread, an though it hurt him to know he would be giving up even the smallest part of his upcoming meal, he had used the trick already since then and reasoned it was well worth a single bite. They approached each other naturally and Terd spoke first.
“So how’d you make out?” he asked. “You didn’t starve, I see.”
Obe thought of the tomato and smiled. “It could have been worse.”
Terd laughed. “You got that right, brother. You could have this.” He lifted his right pant leg- it was the right one and it was not rolled- to showcase his foot. Obe had forgotten the man’s sad condition and was quickly reminded there were other ways to die than starvation or being run down by the women. The foot was infected at the base of the pinky toe, but the contagion had now spread all the way to the ankle. The pinky itself was nearly black. Terd had said Obe would probably never pay back his single bite of bread because he wouldn’t live long enough to collect it.
Woman Scorned Page 14
