Page 1 of Lightness In My Dark

Chapter 1 - The Encounter

WREN

The day came when work kicked me to the curb—literally—left me depleted. A feverish exhaust radiated from the street, coating my skin with a grimy shine as I did the walk of shame through the financial district, carrying a box of the few personals I had in my cubicle. I replayed my boss’s words in my head,“We’re making some cutbacks, and unfortunately, Wren, you’re one of them.”Nice! Right on time for the Labor Day weekend. And how thoughtful of them for allowing me to work the entire day before cutting me loose. I looked down at the box. A faint smile appeared when my eyes fell on the pens and post-it notes I plucked from the supply room. That’ll teach them.

I released a somber sigh at my failing life while the world churned around me. Dazed by thoughts of no job and a dismal future, my shoe squished and slid forward as I shimmied front and back to prevent myself from falling. The smell alerted me before I saw the crap on my shoe. It was quite poetic at that point in my life. Tears no longer hidden. I went over to the gutter to scrape the sides and bottom.

The cardboard box kept slipping from my hands as I scooped it higher into my arms. I approached an up-and-coming part of town that had cranes, sawhorses, and piles of building material sprawled throughout the area. Vines poked through fences, flip-flopping in the wind.

I neared the corner of the old 1918, Bar Fly. Broken bricks and a lone sign hung for dear life—Bar Fly—as a strung gossamer spider web stretched from sign to brick, dead bugs stuck to it. Shattered alcohol bottles riddled the sidewalk and street. Cigarette smoke and stale beer drifted out the bowels of the bar from a conveyor belt of newcomers and those catching their footing on the way out. The bar and its sign were a fixture the neighborhood residents wanted removed to keep with the revitalization of the area. It’s so easy for them to discard it. Like my work discarded me.

As I stared at the bar, an older gentleman tumbled out the door, legs deadened by drink, the rest of his body swayed from defeat or relief. I could only guess. His steps hit the ground, looking to be rooted. He had a wrinkled polo shirt with tan pants spotted and wet from Maraschino cherries and alcohol. I kept my distance and next I heard a soft sob, followed by vomiting. I turned my head for a minute to give him privacy and me fresh air.

Damn! I feel for him. Buddy, I’ve been there too often.

Since high school graduation, I had enjoyed secret meetings with the bottle or out with friends. It didn’t matter what color or type, as long as it left my body in a euphoric state. I also liked how it invited a disregard and cluelessness in moral judgment. Sometimes, ignorancewasbliss.

After more dry heaves, I approached and squatted a few feet away from him, balancing the box on my thighs. “Sir? Do you need help? Can I call someone for you?” He was in no condition to go anywhere. His face sagged, sadness etched in his expression, his hands shook, and eyes glistened with tears. I noticed a smudge of red lipstick on his collar. He glanced around as if he didn’t know how he got there.

His arm swiped across his nose, smearing snot and boozy spittle on his face as clouded, red-veined eyes looked up at me. “My friend?”

My heart softened at his response. I walked over to a bench some twenty feet away. With a tilt of my head for him to follow, I placed the box between us. He sat leaning over to pick up a picture, put it back, handled a book, and got bored with the contents.

Maybe he could use a post-it note that says, “Stop boozin’ around”.

I handed him a napkin stuffed in my jacket pocket from lunch and asked, “What’s your name?” I got my phone.

His body wavered from side to side. A scratch on the head, another swipe of his shirt, which gave him an opportunity to search the depths of his slumbering mind. “Cole.” He swallowed before repeating.

“It’s nice to meet you, Cole. I’m Wren. Now, what friend would you like me to call?”

His finger went to his lips with ashhhh.

I couldn’t help but smile at his secrecy. My voice and tone lowered, sounding like theGodfather. “Okay, I’ll be quiet, but can I have a name first so I can call?”

Cole’s head flipped toward me in surprise. I let out a laugh. He did a double take and then searched the area, his finger still pressed against his lips, making sure no one heard. “I have to be careful.”

In my normal voice I said, “Yes, you do. You don’t want it to become a habit.”

With wide eyes and a chortle, he smacked his knee, losing his balance as he fell to the side yet able to upright himself.

Focused on the building across from us, it appeared he resumed his melancholy state. “Call Finn. He’ll be mad, but he’ll come.” Tears ran down his face.

“Aw, don’t cry. We’ve all been here at one time or another.” I waited and then said, “Give me his number whenever you’re ready.” When his tears subsided, he stuttered, backtracked, and then forced each digit as if spitting out watermelon seeds. The action alone tired him out by leaning back and closing his eyes.

I tapped each number, pressed send, and someone picked up. “Hello. I’m sorry to bother you. I’m calling for your friend, Cole.”

A loud shout came through the phone, forcing it away from my ear. “No, no, he’s fine! Nothing time, aspirin, and sleep won’t cure.”

The man asked for the address. I gave it, and before another uttered word, he hung up.

My eyebrows dipped with a scowl at my phone.Well, that was rude.

By the time his friend arrived, it was close to dark with only one corner yellow dimmed streetlight. The man got out of the car, opened the backseat door, and stalked toward us. With one swoop, he gathered Cole and put him in the backseat.

When he past, I caught a whiff of a campfire and a hint of caramelized butterscotch.

God, he smells good.

---