Jeremiah Brown
(A Trilogy in D minor)
C.B. Smith
This book is work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Eli
Copyright © 1997 by C.B. Smith
Published by C.B. Smith
at Smashwords
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*****
Jeremiah Brown
The cruelest lies are often told in silence. -Robert Louis Stevenson
The rain drizzled down in a fine mist, covering the windows in tiny droplets. In the warm breeze, the tall palms gently rocked in place, following the rhythms of nature's symphony. It was one of the few rains of the short, spring season and from the looks of things wasn't going to amount to much more than a weak threat. So, while El Nino stormed across the Pacific, pounding the islands of Hawaii, here in California the result was nothing more than a light spring shower.
He had just settled down to his glass of Maretti's and the fifteen-dollar Macanudo when he heard a knock at the door. Shit!! Who the—? He climbed up out of his soft leather recliner, and ascended the three steps leading into the expansive, vaulted ceiling entryway.
He walked through the large, glass doors that lead into the central trading area. Around the office, they jokingly referred to this as "The Pit." Here, the deals were made. Deals where the stakes were high. Deals that could potentially garner millions in profit or drive someone to destitution and bankruptcy. Watching the action from a distance, it was hard to imagine a more frenetic scene.
The front line—rows of telephones that handled inquiries—was lit and alive; mouths rattling away like clicking typewriters. Spinning out numbers. Quoting figures. Invoking the name of God or whatever deity may be listening. It was a scene that could be taking place on the floor of the New York Exchange—Wall Street itself. Instead, all of the breakneck pace, caffeine and nicotine induced hysteria were transported cross-country to this building in Southern California—the brokerage house of Kantner, Lincoln and Todd.
As he turned past the front line, into the main broker area, a couple of his long time associates shot him looks of weary resignation. One of them, Skip Morrison, made a gesture with his hand depicting a duck-like yakking. Jeremy smiled. Evidently he had himself a real talker. Those were the kind of calls nobody liked. Calls from customers more interested in visiting their money than actually negotiating trades. If you want a true picture of the nature of human motivation, spend ten minutes where people have their money at stake. And in those ten minutes, you'll gain details that illustrate man's basic nature more clearly than a thousand doctoral theses.
He arrived at his office and was glad to be there after the events of the last couple of days. It still was unclear to him why the coroner's office kept calling him. Wasn't it as obvious to them as it was to him that they had made a mistake? That the woman they had found on the cliffs was not his wife, but someone else? They should be spending their time locating the real family of this woman, he thought, I'm sure they're wondering where she is. He remembered the conversation he had with Linda, yesterday afternoon. How she sounded so upset. Concerned. Bordering on hysteria. A bad cycle of events that began late Monday evening, had reached across state lines to Arizona, knocking on Linda's door as surely as they had on his. He had thought of going down to the coroner's office, just to prove them wrong. But he didn't have the time for this nonsense. The police are known for their blundering, he thought, And if I wasn't so damn busy I might consider helping them out. But that's what I pay taxes for, let them figure out their own problems.
He was deep in thought, replaying these conversations and scenarios in his mind when he heard a rap on the door. He looked up and standing there was Rob Maynard, the President of the firm.
Hey old buddy, he said, in his typical jovial manner, Thought we lost you there. Everything okay?
He had always like Rob. And it was in fact because of him that Jeremy had been allowed his first big break in the business. Rob was six foot four and thin except for a slight paunch, the hallmark of success. And his shoulders were so wide and thick, it looked like he was wearing shoulder pads. Jeremy remembered a couple of times bumping into him, as he rushed around not paying attention to where he was going—it was like running into a wall. Rob just looked down at him, his dark eyes and square jaw lighting up in laughter, saying, What's the matter old buddy? Am I in your way? He was quite a clown, all right. But it was difficult sometimes to tell whether he was kidding or being serious because the tone of his voice never varied; always even and unwavering.
He now stood leaning against the door frame and because of his size, looked like he was a column of support holding up the building.
Everything's okay, Jeremy said, No big deal.
Rob's expression changed to one of concern. Are you sure? he asked, You're not hiding anything, are you?
No, really. Everything's okay. He changed the subject. Did you see the latest numbers on Durant? Looks like a fourth quarter boom is in the making.
Really? Rob said, No, I haven't looked at those. Good then? He would never say he didn't know, because that would make it appear that he was unaware. Instead he would just say he hadn't looked at them. But Jeremy had known Rob a long time, and he knew it meant the same thing.
Oh yeah, he continued, Could be a big winner. We might want to think about upgrading them to a buy recommendation.
Really? What's the upside?
I'd say you're easily looking at seventy percent in six to eight months. Maybe better.
Wow, that good, huh? He paused in thought a moment. I can think of a couple of clients who would be very interested in that kind of potential. So, what's the buy point?
Well, they're currently trading right around fifteen. I'd say buy up to twenty.
Rob's face took on a look of excitement. His eyes narrowed into slits and a wide grin crossed his face.
Are you holding out on me old buddy?
What do you mean?
I mean, are we looking at another Triton situation?
One thousand percent?! No…I don't see that much upside in the short term, although I will admit that my seventy percent estimate is somewhat conservative. He winked at him for emphasis.
Rob threw his head back, opened his arms wide and said to the ceiling, Damn! I love this guy! You can pick 'em boy, you sure can pick 'em. And with that, he turned from the doorway, and walked into The Pit whistling Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho like the eighth dwarf. Jeremy watched him walk through, patting some of the brokers on the backs and giving them the thumbs up sign. When it came to making money Rob was like a kid with a new toy. And he just couldn't wait to share the good fortune.
Triton was a company that became a very big winner. A "Stellar Performer" as they would say in the trades. The biggest money machine that Wall Street had seen in years. At the time, Jeremy was working as a broker. He had always demonstrated a unique talent for picking out the leading stocks from the laggers. It was a natural ability that would serve him well. He had gotten the job through a mutual friend of Rob's. And as a result, Rob had always kept his eye on him. Expecting big things from the kid who came so highly recommended. It wasn't long before Jeremy made good on those expectations.
That particular year for stocks had been down. It was in fact, the second year of a bear market that some in the industry were calling "The Great Bear" because of it's unusually long duration. Every now and again a rally would begin, a possible signal that the market was turning. But they were uninspired and lacked any follow through. So all of the brokerage houses were essentially recommending the same things: Blue Chips and Safety Stocks. This meant that the recommendations were for Blue Chip companies like IBM, Dow, and Bank of America as opposed to smaller, riskier issues. And Safety Stocks, like Gas, Electric, Telephone, Grocery chains; things that people would buy regardless of the state of the economy or the condition of their wallets. Because of the essential nature of these issues, they were considered "safe bets."
The upside is that investors could put money into those stocks without much risk of their capital diminishing. The downside is, that neither would their investment grow quickly. It is equivalent to putting money in a savings account at the bank offering the scant three or four percent a year—no risk, no appreciable growth.
For long term investors, these issues were just fine. In fact, these would be considered wise choices. But for the maverick investors. Those who dreamt of making enough money in five to ten years to retire early, and extremely wealthy, those types of stocks offered nothing. What they were looking for were the overnight sensations. Those bottle-rocket companies that would appear out of nowhere, lighting up the phone lines across the country with "buy, buy, buy" orders. It was exactly what they were looking for, and what Wall Street needed to attract investors. New investors. Those with money to burn and a taste for excitement.
But the times were flat. With the Dow hovering around six-hundred and trading in a tight range for what seemed an eternity, it appeared unlikely that much would change soon. All the experts were predicting the doom and gloom to come. Disappointing profits. Downside surprises. Recession. The whole enchilada.
It was into this dull void of investment purgatory that the young Jeremy Hardison made his entrance. Things were slow, so the brokerages were willing to take some chances. Besides, he would be doing no different that anyone else during this time. The mantra was the same: stick to the Blue Chips and Safety Stocks.
And nothing more was really expected of the brokers anyway. All of the firms had their own technical departments. These were filled with specialists who would research particular sectors of the marketplace to spot trends. And within that broad spectrum, they would look for those individual companies that showed promise of out-performing the companies in their particular sector if not the overall market. If anything was to be noticed, any one company that showed promise of serious upside movement, this team of professionals, combing every inch of every conceivable market sector were sure to spot it.
Funny though, that one company-Triton—denied their scrutiny. And Jeremy, who had just begun in this industry found it more than curious. He had his eye on this company before he joined the brokerage firm. In fact, he even had a few thousand invested in their stock. He had found out about them from a friend who worked there at the time. Even went on a tour of the facility. He was impressed by their products, their efficient production environment, and the fact that the President of the corporation had a little, sparsely decorated office, furnished with beat up old furniture, right on the production floor where he could keep and eye on everything at the ground level. Jeremy was no expert on the subject, but everything he had learned said that the less ostensible the displays of grandeur at a company, the more likely the money was being funneled to the right place: investment in the business. He event got to talk to the President a bit about the company and his plans and projections for the future. Jeremy found, like he had been taught in his high school journalism classes, that people were more than willing to talk about themselves, share their unique slant on things if given the chance. And he had found that with a few simple, incisive questions he was able learn enough about the company to get a sound impression that they were going places.
So strong was this impression, that he raced home to his new bride, anxious to share this information that he was sure would make them rich. Of course, it would take an amount of charismatic persuasion.
He opened the door of their one bedroom apartment and heard his wife, Jenny, in the bathroom, humming softly to herself as she cleaned. Their home was modest, and they lacked much, but Jenny insisted on keeping everything at a sharpened sparkle to somehow compensate.
The carpets, once a plush, maple brown, were now blackened in spots and worn to the backing in others. And the edges all had exposed carpet tacks so that great care was necessary when going barefoot. The drapes, a yellowed muslin, showed the wear common with too much sunlight and repeated assaults by young kittens with restless new claws. While they didn't themselves have a pet, it was clear from the ravaged drapery and the distinct odor in the front room, that the prior tenants did. The walls were in need of paint and hanging on them were only a few pictures of the happy couple at various parties, one Ansel Adams print they had found hidden at a garage sale, and covering a good sized hole in one wall, an afghan that Jenny's grandmother had sewn for them as a housewarming gift.
He called out to her, mimicking Ricky Ricardo, Honey! I'm home!!
Hi honey, she answered from the bathroom, Just tidying up a bit.
That was Jenny. Always tidying up. She didn't mind that they lacked the finer things, but she was not going to let that stop her from having pride in her surroundings, however meager.
Jenny? he said, I need to talk with you about something...something important.
She popped her head out the bathroom door, a worried expression on her delicate features, Nothing bad, is it?
The slanted light from the bathroom window, glinted off her hair in sparkles. And her fair skinned face against this backdrop suffused her with angelic beauty. Even in her baggy clothing and cleaning gloves, her image was striking.
He paused, suspended in time as he looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time.
Honey? she said again, brushing her hair aside, Everything okay?
What? he said, Oh…I'm sorry. I mean…I just forgot how beautiful you are.
She rolled her eyes and giggled. Oh, come on! That's what you wanted to tell me?
Well, not exactly…sort of…I don't know.
Come on honey, what is it?
Okay, he said, There's this really great investment I've found and I think we should go for it. He watched her closely for a reaction. She looked at him, looked away, then looked back.
How much money is it? she said.
As much as possible.
What are you talking about?
Stocks…I'm talking about stocks. There's a company I'm really excited about and I think we could make lots of money with them.
How much did you want to invest?
Last time I checked we had about five thousand in savings…I say we go for broke.
What?? That's all the money we have. I mean, what about saving for a house like we talked about?
They had been putting aside every penny they could for the last few years in an effort to buy a house. A real landmark of security. And now, he was asking her to give up that dream, a dream that had sustained her through all of the hard times that were necessary. She would not let go easily.
I know it's scary, honey. But I'm so excited about this company that I can almost guarantee big money.
I don't know…I really don't know. I mean, I've waited so long to buy a place of our own, you know? A place where we could start a family. And now, you're asking me to give up that dream?
He walked over to her, hugged her gently, and held her face in his hands. Looking into her clear, blue eyes, he knew he could never do anything to hurt her. Knew that her life and happiness were more important to him than his own. That his life was defined by the meaning she brought to it. He could never let her down, never abandon her dreams-never. He would sooner deny himself life than surrender her to fate.
No, honey, he said, softly, slowly, I would never ask you to give that up. That's not what this is about. It's about a way to get us there faster, and better off than we could have hoped for. I would never suggest this if I wasn't so positive about it.
She looked into his dark eyes and saw the strength of his resolve. That certainty of vision that had lured her to him like a magnet. She loved him for that, but at times like these, when she was unsure, it scared her. Because she knew, that once his mind was set on something, he would get it one way or another.
God, honey…look at me! she said, wiping tears from her eyes, I feel like a little girl! I mean, here you are…all strong and certain and I'm falling apart like a baby running to her daddy. She melted into his arms and nestled her head into his shoulder.
When the profits rolled in, they did so in waves. In the first six months, their investment doubled. Six months later, it doubled again. And at the end of three years time their investment had grown to over three-hundred-thousand dollars! It was beyond anything they could have ever imagined. The success of Triton industries set the stage for a massive stock market rally, and money was trading hands like hot coals. And Jeremy, right at the center of the whole discovery, found himself a rocket to the top.
It wasn't long after that he was appointed Director of Research. And continuing his methods of bottom-up research i.e., visiting companies directly to determine their investment potential, he soon gained himself the title "The Whiz Kid." It was a time of unheralded success upon success. And every dream that money could purchase, he and Jenny now had access to. So in true capitalistic style, they acquired; first a home, then furnishing, cars, clothing, exotic vacations—everything. It all happened seemingly overnight and soon the lives they had always dreamed of secretly—never daring to share the details for fear of jinxing the possibility—they were now living.
And for a time, life was full-almost. For with all that money could buy, there was still the one lingering element that alone would complete their lives like no other. And in Jenny's mind, the time had arrived. All of their discussions in the past, when turned toward the subject of having children were always met with the same argument from her husband: Not until we have a home, not until we're settled. But lately, reviewing this argument in her silent moments, where the only sound was the thunderous clanging of her biological clock, she could find no more grounds in its logical premise. They now had a home, and being settled was a relative term.
We lived in a one bedroom apartment before this, she thought, And Jeremy's career was just beginning. Compared to those times, we're certainly settled.
Her mind was made up on this point. The discussion must again be opened. All she needed now was a properly set stage.
*****
A man's first care should be to avoid the reproaches of his own heart, his next to escape the censures of the world. -English Proverb
It has been six-months and four days since his wife died, and his new life has taken form The world as it used to be, has no more meaning for him. Life is for the living, and he is no longer counted among them. Now he thinks of the simpler matters; where to eat, where to sleep, where to die.
He lay in the dirt lot, between the tall buildings. This was a choice position amongst his kind—dirt. Usually, the cold cement of the sidewalk would provide his bedding. But tonight, he had been smiled upon.
Staring into the vault of night, he remembered her delicate features, the light glinting from her gray-green eyes, the softness of her touch. Images that were still so vivid, so alive, as if in their thinking he could recreate her in the physical realm. And as he recollected, he tunneled deep within, trying to reassemble the pieces of a confused picture.
He reached into his pocket, removing a yellow envelope. Carefully, he slipped the note from its hold, being cautious as he unfolded the small letter. He held it up to the light pooling in from the street, and read again the words contained within:
Darling,
I send you this letter to clear any confusion that will result from my death. The last eighteen months has been more than devastating…beyond heartbreak. And each of us has dealt with this in our own ways. I have been lonely, confused, aimless. But I have finally come to a peace.
I know how important children are to you. And I also know, that I can never bear those children for you. After the last miscarriage, Dr. Murphy informed me of this fact. But I never shared it with you-I couldn't. How could I tell my husband, whose desire for a family overshadowed all else, that this would never be? That his wife had failed him?
While you have achieved great success, I have only had my role as your wife. It meant the world to me. But when I found out that even this role I could not succeed at, I realized my purpose had ended.
I love you, Jeremy-more than anything, even my own life. And for this reason I cannot stay, knowing that ultimately, I am a disappointment.
So…this is farewell my love. I leave you to your freedom and hope you will find a real woman to bear you children. Please forgive me.
Love,
Jenny
He paused to wipe the hot, stinging tears from his eyes, leaving a streak of dirt across his face. His throat tightened as he tried to restrain his tears. But the dam acknowledged no master, and the small trickle became a river of grief.
If only, he thought, If only I had known…maybe…maybe…
But these thoughts were of no use—not anymore—and this sad fact only increased his feelings of hopelessness and responsibility.
He remembered other mornings. Early morning hours like this. Waking up. Staring at the ceiling. The air warm and humid. And to his left, deep in peacefulness, his wife, the source of life's meaning. In the early morning light, her pale skin was luminescent. Angelic. And her long, golden hair cascaded across the pillow.
Looking at her, he could not help but caress her. Run his hand across the gentle curve of her shoulders. Feeling the smoothness of her skin. Wishing that by this, he could pull himself into her. Become absorbed into her soul. Taste her joys and sorrows and perhaps gain some understanding of what she found in him. A man who slips in and out of life's river. Standing on the banks with a face of stone. Seeing, but not being seen. Touching but not being touched. With her he had come close to life and a central connection. Closer than he had ever been. But now, with her gone, he has already begun the transition back in time. To the lone entity he had been before her light blossomed into his world.
I loved you, Jenny, he said to no one, clutching the letter to his heart. Loved you more than I could ever say. But now I understand how life is for me. For those I love most. To love is to be vulnerable...to hurt. And death is the deliverance. I violated the natural order, and now your death is the splintered cross I must bear.
Sleep visited in spurts. Fitful and without peace. And the noise of the streets was constant. The screeching of tires, the roaring of engines. In the distance, the sporadic report of gunfire. The city is not a place to be caught unaware. It is merciless and without discrimination in its destruction. So he remained vigilant, sleeping one eye at a time, with one hand on the knife in his pocket.
His perforated shoes did little to warm him. And his jacket, too, had many channels for the cold. He considered it fortunate that he had found a stack of newspapers with which to cover himself and make a pillow. It was also fortunate that the winter had not yet achieved ferocity. When it finally did, and its chilled breaths came bursting through the city streets, he would need better shelter or face the freeze.
I should think about heading south, he thought. Migration is the habit of many animals whom I am now counted among. These were his final thoughts as he drifted into a short span of sleep that would lead his pardon into the light of day.
By late morning, the windows of the city are mirrored with the fire of sunshine. Cars and busses rumble by. Footsteps slap against the concrete. Lights change forth and back, winding then unwinding the coils of traffic. While through the air, the disgruntled honks of the car-horn symphony.
Bodies race by in urgent transport. Faces tell nothing except of their haste. All move as one endless human chain. Streaming down one side of the street, and then the other. Doors burst open with flurried activity. The rank and file are absorbed in the business of business. Another day's tolling has sounded. And with it, all who do not move in harmony are trampled like trail dirt.
As he ambled down the bustling street, he deflected the sneers and intent stares of the rushing crowds. He thought about the curiosity that these very same masses were those he had been among until only recently. And he wondered if his behavior had been as openly hostile when he was on top of the heap looking down.
He pushed his way through the crowd, and around the next corner, spotted a cafeteria. Its bright lights proclaimed the breakfast specials and bowls of coffee. He dug his fists into his pockets as he glanced up, then away. An empty pocket was still new to him. And its hollowness echoed that which he felt in his heart.
He remembered the times he ate in restaurants, leaving a good amount of food on the plate as he finished. Often, as the waiter would take the plate away, he felt guilty as he recalled the chastisements of his mother, who had scolded him on many occasions.
Somewhere in the world, she would say, there are starving children.
But mom, he would answer, I'm not hungry.
She would look at him, shake her head, then pause and sigh.
Listen, she would say, crossing her arms in front of her, Never waste food. It's a sin!
But—
No buts about it. I will not have my children bringing sin into my home, you understand?!
By the time she got to the statement of sin, her eyes had narrowed into slits, and her mouth was pinched tightly, like a drawstring bag. Her foot tapped out the seconds while she waited for his response.
He could only look up at her, then hang his head in shame, finally answering, Okay mom…I'll eat everything, in hopes that the horrible sin would not fall upon their home.
As a child, he had given in, many times gorging himself beyond his capacity. But as an adult, he had back slid.
Maybe it's better she's not around to see me now, he thought. If I was sinful then, how much more sinful am I now?
He turned down the alley, heading toward the cafeteria's trash bins, hoping that at least a few immoral and corrupt people as himself had eaten breakfast this morning.
There was a low wall, with a twisted fence atop, extending from the rear of the building. As he came closer, he could hear the thumping and clanging of trash being dumped. He got down on his knees, keeping himself below the wall, and crept over to investigate. When he reached the right spot, he stuck his head up, and peeking over the wall saw a young worker loading stuffed bags of trash into the large, green bins.
The worker finished dumping the trash and went back into the restaurant. After he was sure the worker was gone, he pulled himself over the wall and worked his way to the trash. The door to the kitchen was left slightly open, meaning that the worker was not yet finished. His time was short, so he quickly got down to business.
Swinging open one of the heavy, green doors, he reached into the first bin, punching his hand through the overstuffed bag. He dug around, sifting through the wet and mushy mess, searching for something solid. He tried to see into it, but the sunlight was blocked by the open lid. The air was ripe with the humidity and smells of fresh breakfast trash. And flies buzzed around his ears, and tickled his nose.
He had both arms in, up to his elbows, when he felt something solid and dry. He extracted it from the pile and pulled it into the light-it was a breadroll. Untouched and powdered with flour.
Oh, he said. Now we have something!
He dug his arms back into the mush, trying to get back to the spot he had plucked from. Luck was with him and he found the mark, and soon he was stuffing his pockets with rolls.
Pushing the last of them into his coat pocket, he heard the door of the building creak open. He froze. And when he twisted his body around, a short man, with caramel brown skin and black hair, was staring back at him—-his eyes wide in fright.
Ay, dios mio!! the man said, slamming his hand to his chest.
Jeremy tried to calm him. Hey…look…I uh-
No golpe, no golpe!! the man yelled, waving his arms over his head and running back into the kitchen.
Jeremy stood there, wet slush dripping down his arms, stunned for a second. Then, he realized the urgency involved in a hasty retreat.
He ran to the wall, dropping a few rolls on the way, and pulled himself over, tumbling into the alley on the other side. As he got up, he could hear the sound of three or four excited voices babbling loudly behind the wall. He shifted his feet into gear and ran like a dog on fire. Behind him, he could hear them yelling after him, and the distinct sound of bottles and rocks hitting the pavement.
By afternoon, he was at the shoreline, following the tide southward. His shoes were
tied together, hanging over his shoulder as he slid his feet along through the wet sand. Overhead, birds of steel were gliding and purring, trailing long banners. Suntan lotions. Radio stations. Anything and everything for sale. Bring your coins, paper money too. We've got all that you need. Just look up into the sky, while the fiery sun melts your flesh into the sand. Isn't it magic? It is.
He walked for a few hours, emptying himself into the vast ocean, rolling in and out with the surging tides. Emptiness within, emptiness without. The whooping of seabirds echoed into the heat, while in his mind played a slow, plaintive melody. A melody that his Jenny was so fond of. She had told him that even in her darkest moments, the melody would help soothe her. Strange, isn't it? she said, That a melody so mournful can bring peace?
There are such melodies. Those that are so painful they ripple with joy. As the melody rang through him, he wondered: Was she humming this melody as she plummeted toward the cruelty of the jagged sea? If ever there was a time that cried for peace, that was such a time. And where was I? Locked away in my thoughts. Analyzing data. What else? And you my sweetness, alone even to the end. We are born alone, and we die alone. And if even one overhears the rattling of death, it is a crowd.
Now the heaviness of the sun weighed upon him. His shoulders slumped forward as he plodded along. He came upon a place of boulders, and perched himself on the high rocks that rose out of the ocean. Then, he lay back in the shade of the stony coverlet, listening to the murmuring of the tidepools.
By night he would steal into the shelter of rocks, or bushes, or doorways. By day he would travel from one town to another. Find work in canneries or abattoirs. Take his pay, and leave again. Stinking of fish guts and rotting flesh.
Sometimes at night, he stumbled into dockside taverns. Places where the ocean had vomited the filth of the shipping trades. Sailors with large hands and thick wrists. Quick with temper and tempered steel blades.
He took care to slump into the corners, hoping to be swallowed by the boarded walls. Drinking his poison and shutting his ears. But still it would happen. Sights crossed. Tongues uncoiled. And the black beast of the sea was unleashed. Fists and feet and crunching of bone. Men writhing in pain. Rolling in the blood and the dirt. In time, his battle scars and bloodstained clothes became his calling cards, and soon no man was his equal, no man his antagonist.
In one town, he caught a ride on the back of a produce truck. The stench of rotted greens and mulch rose to greet him as he stepped up into the wooden bed. Two brown skinned men watched him from their crouching positions in the corners. Their ragged, sweat stained hats pulled low, throwing their hard, flat stares into shadow. Their yellowed teeth glinting in the sunlight.
One man was laying against the side, covered in a dusty canvas blanket that stunk of urine. After twenty miles, the driver pulled over to the roadside, hung his head out the window and yelled that he was heading inland. Jeremy hopped out, as the two men looked at him, then at each other, wordless and dark. As if he had breached some silent code.
He travels like the mist. Appearing in coastal towns, then disappearing like an apparition. His past as vague and faceless as his destiny. Time does not accompany him. Only the wind, and the sand, and the sea. For now he is an element. No longer animal, but mineral. Taking the forms and expressions of the land that nourishes him. Shelters him. Humbles him.
But time indeed has passage. And the lines and scars of his weathered face show the miles of his crossing. Tell the tales of his voyage. While the steel horizon and the slate-gray sky have absorbed his color, his distinctions. Now all that remains is but a reminder of the vessel that went before.
Walking along the shore, he will step into his tracks, then back step, and walk into them again. Not recognizing the pattern. Noticing a difference in his gait, the pressure of his step.
He moves with stealth and slips through shadows. Visiting places where men go to disappear, vanishing like the dew. Places where no one knows you, and no one calls you brother. Places where the shifting eyes avoid contact, settling instead on the floor or the tops of thin and perforated shoes. Where a name holds no currency, a face holds no charm.
But he has a name, has taken one. Or perhaps has been given one by the parched earth that engendered him. A name suffused with the simplicity of the man: John Brown. This is the name he will answer to if called. The only name he recognizes. John, simple and common; Brown, like the soil he is part of.
If a name matters at all, then it does only to the extent that it clearly bespeaks of its charge. And that it does, fitting the man like a second skin. Delivering this man known as John into his faceless journey. An ever widening vista of rough hewn terrain, and expressionless skies.
Another day passed as he watched the sun falling in the western sky, flaring and creaking as it was devoured by the darkening sea. Casting its warm, orange glow across his salted brow. While north along the coast, splinters of light appeared, nestling into the silhouette of huddled buildings.
If he waits long enough, he will again bear witness to the curtain of stars being stretched across the black dome of night. But tonight, he will not remain idle. A town, rising white against the shadows, has pulled the light from the dying day to provide him a beacon. And as it dissolves into night's inkwell, its twinkling eyes will open, guiding him southward to his place of shelter.
The town was misted and thick with the humidity of the ocean. He walked along the heavy plankboard, feeling the weight of each step along the passage. In the air, only the sound of infant waves gurgling against the docks, and the hollow knocking of skiffs, rocking in place and into each other.
Further along, a flashing neon light proclaimed itself on the front of the Dixie Tavern. While an etched wooden sign, bearing its symbol of rope and anchor, was swinging in the pungent, coastal breeze. It rocked forth and back in its eyelets, squeaking and complaining of the movement. Inside, coming from behind the white-painted windows, he could hear the tumbling sounds of ragtime music and coarse laughter, muted and drifting like the tide.