"Rumination" Yates Boykin

 

Some time ago, I do not know the exact time, I decided to pursue a certain task that was asked of me. I write for a local magazine called “The Local Magazine”. Imagine that. My boss wanted me to write an article about a homeless man. Without a lick of street wisdom, I agreed to take on the assignment.

            For the setting, I chose the downtown park. Now I needed a character. I decided to be adventurous and take a taxi to my setting. Well, I was not being that adventurous, parking downtown is hectic. When I arrived at the park I was stunned to see so many homeless people, all sitting on the concrete ground or on hard, uncomfortable benches. A stench of cigarettes and nasty garbage hung in the air. I do not particularly like that smell, but I had to get over it if I wanted to write the article.

            I searched around, looking for an interesting character. Odd stares were directed my way with every step I took. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a young man with a tattered shirt and a toboggan sitting curiously on his head. I intended on talking to him, but as I neared him he walked away as if he knew what I was trying to do. I just wanted to share his story to everyone. The thought of that, I learned, proved to be the thing that scared away most of my prospects.

            I did not want to leave without a character for my story, but I decided to get back to my apartment before dark; being in the park after sundown is not a very good idea. So, I grabbed my stuff, called for a taxi, and headed back to the main office to pick up my car. On the way back I got to experience a beautiful, colorful sunset. The sunset never ceases to amaze me. When I got to the apartment I immediately began my presleep routine of brewing coffee, changing out of my work clothes, and watching some TV while enjoying the fresh coffee.

            The next morning I awoke with a sense of determination in my mind. I had to find a character today, no matter what it took. I hopped up from the recliner that I fell asleep on and began my prework routine of brewing coffee, taking a shower, changing into my work clothes, and enjoying the fresh coffee while I drive to work. But on that day I decided to be even more adventurous than the day before; I drove my rusty old bike to work. Drinking coffee while pedaling a bike is a task I thought I would never have to endure.

            I arrived at the park with the same sense of determination that swallowed me earlier. A few hours went by and the once hungry determination spit me out with disgust. I felt like there was no subject worthy of my article. I thought to myself, ‘Maybe that is the problem; I just need to find the most unworthy person out here to be my subject’. With that mindset, I grabbed a hot dog from a local vendor and looked around for the most vile, shabby, foul person in the park. I walked over to an old green bench and sat down, scoping like an avid falcon. This technique did not go my way. The lions had already devoured everything; I was left with the scraps.

            I balled up the foil that was wrapped around the hot dog and heaved my best basketball shot towards the nearest trashcan. It clunked off the aluminum side. I heard laughter coming from beside me. I looked over to see an ancient homeless man. His appearance made me laugh. He wore a plaid blazer over a dingy Bulls jersey, and a large pair of faded blue jeans that camouflaged his bare feet. What I thought was funnier though, is the fact that he tried to act like he was innocent. I knew it was him; there was nobody else over there. Or was he? He appeared to be talking to someone beside him. I leaned over to see who it was. There was nobody there! This man was having a conversation with the air.

            I tried to be friendly, so I jokingly said to him, “Alright, I know it was you, and I do not blame you. I am not much of a basketball player anyway. I learned that while I was in high school.”

            He did not respond. He just kept talking to his imaginary friend. I tried again. This time I was a little more exacting, “Hey man, did you hear me? I know it was you.” There was still no response. I got up from my bench and went over to where the man was sitting. He did not even glimpse at me. He just kept talking it up. I noticed he had a leather bound book in his hand. It had no elaborate title, or an author’s name that gobbled up a title. I concluded that it must be a journal. He was reading out of this journal to the unknown, invisible person.

            I got a better look at the strange man. The skin on his face was like parchment, and covering it was a scraggly, snow colored beard. He looked like he had been on the streets since birth. He finally noticed me and looked up and said, “Please, have a seat young man.”

            I obeyed him. I took a seat right next to him in the same spot where the invisible person was sitting. Being a very stereotypical person, I immediately expected him to ask me for money. To my surprise, he did not. I reached in my bag, looking for my pen and notebook. He reached out his hand and stopped me.

            “Take mine,” he said with a powerful voice.

            He handed me his journal. I opened it and began to read it.

            “No, do not read it here,” the man said, “go home and read it.”

            I asked, “You do not want it?”

            He responded with a simple “no”. That was it. He then got up and picked up the foil that had once been my basketball and walked a few yards before tossing it behind his back. It went straight into the trashcan, uncontested. He let out a huge roar of laughter while he wandered away, out of sight.

            I decided to do what he said, so I hopped on my bike and took off to my apartment. A beautiful sunset once again painted the sky. The wind blew through my hair and my legs felt weightless. I was part of the painting.

            I got to my apartment in a daze. I rushed in, kicked off my shoes, turned on a lamp, and relaxed in my recliner. With anticipation, I opened the black, leather journal that had been suffocated in my right hand since I left the park. I began reading. I stayed up all night, scrutinizing and pondering the words written in the journal. Those words would prove to have an everlasting toll on my existence.

            The following morning I woke up in the recliner. I did not get up and begin my prework routine. I just sat there, thinking. 

 

 

 

 

 

It is with thanks to my brother that I am able to recount my story.

            As the frosty chill invades my body, I slide deeper into my jacket and attempt to pull the zipper up even higher around my neck.  I lean back against the wall of snow and ice in this hole in the ground I have dug and thought back to the events that had led me here.  The holes in my gloves that I obtained sliding down the jagged rocks after the avalanche did not make burrowing through the snow any easier. I have to pause as my fingertips become frostbitten. My home for now, dug out of this frozen hell with my own hands, my only shelter from the brutal cold, is my cocoon and almost assuredly my coffin.

            The day had started so well, as many tragedies do, with a casual hike through the rocks and the snow. Our heavy boots sunk deep into the frost, allowing us to walk across dangerous slopes as we headed through the mountain range. Our goal was a small camp run by the company that owned this section of the range that sold passes to those wanting to venture into the wild. While many hikers would scoff at us for taking a hike on a mountain that was operated by a company only interested in profits, we were seeking only an interesting way to spend the weekend and not a challenging climb. We took our time crossing the large snow covered mountain side, going at whatever pace was necessary for everyone to enjoy themselves. I had invited my brother along for the weekend and as we had both been avid soccer players we always headed the group, occasionally annoyed at having to stop completely for some of the slower group members. As the sun beat down on us, we began to sweat heavily and discarded much of our outer layers of snow gear. The temperature seemed much higher than it should be for this time of the year, but we did not worry. However,  the sun’s rays did seem to be affecting the snow as even though the top few inches were still solid, the snow below was begining to melt, causing a few of us to lose our footing from time to time as the ice slid.

            Bending over to adjust the straps across the top of my boots, I heard a scream.  The slush and snow slid beneath us as our entire group began to slide down the side of the mountain. As I was tumbling on top the rush of snow, I saw that the entire top of the mountain had begun to fall on top of us. Sliding on my stomach, I attempted to dig my hands and feet into the ground as I rode the waves of snow down the mountain side; this caused me to catch in the ground and flip end over end down towards the bottom. The next four hours or so are black in my memory.  I awoke with the sun about to set under the mountain tops as I brushed the powder off of my face as I stood. The sharp pain in my ankle caused me to wince and limp, but I was able to block it out as my first and only priority then was to find the others that had been taken to the bottom with me. The setting sun allowed me to see off in the distance further than I could earlier in the day due to the fact there was no glare off of the snow. I noticed my backpack had been ripped from me during the fall but was not worried about it at the time. I noticed just behind me was a small patch of trees that had a few knocked over during the avalanche. I saw what appeared to be a bright orange jacket, the same color as my brother’s, whom I had coaxed into this adventure.

            I approached the downed trees with caution as I was able to see that it was in fact my brother face down in the snow, pinned under a large limb. I mustered all of my strength to roll the limb of off his chest and noticed he was still breathing.  I called his name and he responded as I drug him slowly through the upturned evergreens and to where I had originally awoken. I remembered the snow was rather soft and deep where I had landed after the fall and began to dig a hole into the snow, much like I had seen on those wilderness survival shows on the Discovery Channel. Never in a thousand life times would I have ever thought I would be using survival tips from television in real life.  We settled into the snow cave (as much a cave as a matchbox car is a monster truck) for the night. I ignored the hunger pains as I tended to my brother. His breathing had slowed and his skin grew cold, so I removed my jacket and wrapped him in it as he began to cough. His coughing worsened and blood began to fill his mouth.  I held him tight as he coughed one last time and ceased to breathe. I rolled him over and removed my jacket and some of his clothing from him for myself; I had a long night ahead.

            I could only sleep for minutes at a time then I would wake to a bone chilling frost and the sight of my brother. My eyes would water, but I could cry no tears as they froze before they rolled down my cheek. The dawn broke to my blurred eyes. I could now count the eleventh day I had been in the cave simply sitting, losing the will to leave or live. However, I could not ignore my hunger anymore. As if being snowed in the cave had awoken a primal urge inside me, one not seen by most humans since the time of dinosaurs, I pulled my knife and my small Zippo lighter from the pocket inside my jacket. I removed the slices of meat slowly, piece by piece, and cooked them over the lighter. My only sustenance, my brother.