Another Full Circle - May 20th 2009 rewrite

***ANOTHER FULL CIRCLE

He carried a tiny transistor radio, clutched to his chest as if he were afraid of someone taking it away. The radio was an old but well-made Magnavox, with the carrying handle and the antenna long since broken off. The speaker warbled and gasped, rendered almost useless by time and the elements, just as old Rudyard Kepler himself, though originally well made, was worn down, by a cruel and unjust world, along with time and those same harsh, impartial elements.

The manner in which he grasped the radio was not a matter of trivial obsession; it was a mechanism of survival. For only with this lifeline to the world was Rudyard able to know about important matters, the most critical being the winter weather reports. Here in Chicago a blizzard could scream down from the frigid north, almost as suddenly as a police cruiser could turn a corner. But while the police might intrude upon his comfort, by rousting him from a covered stairway or a cardboard box and sending him to the uncertainty of the streets, it was the merciless cold that posed the far greater threat.

Old Rudyard was bundled inside a collection of clothes that had absolutely no business being together on the same body. From the worn-flat heels of his cowboy boots to the tip of his woolen knit cap, the man was a walking monument that laughed in the face of everything that purveyors of fashion held sacred. From beneath his cap flowed a natty birds-nest of rust-colored curls, half hiding, half framing a wizened facial diary of abandoned hopes and forgotten dreams.

His burgundy-colored pants were of thick corduroy, and were only visible from the knees down. This was a good thing; for the seat of the pants had been worn away, and only the massive woolen overcoat draped over his hunched shoulders kept the man from being charged with the most indecent of exposures.

Beneath the coat was the crown jewel of the fellow's numerous fashion infractions. Blazing away like a barn on fire, a ladies' red turtle-necked sweater, made the more conspicuous owing to the lack of the overcoat's upper buttons, screamed in defiance of Rudyard's obvious shyness. Indeed, as the man hugged that radio to his breast, one could easily believe he was actually attempting to cover the garment from view, as if he had just become aware that he was, in fact, wearing a bright red woman's sweater.

The clear but chilly afternoon waned into darkness. Rudyard had drifted tentatively toward an area that seemed familiar, at least he thought he recognized a landmark or two; but his ruminations on such matters were cut short by the announcement, on his raspy but ever-vigilant radio, of an emergency weather report.

He listened intently as the reporter talked about a record- breaking freeze that would "lay a blanket of ice and snow over the city by morning". The word 'blanket' reminded him of the bedroll he had set down somewhere. Now his brow furrowed as he glanced to and fro, searching the horizons for a clue as to where it might be. If he could only remember where he was, or from which direction he had come...

He wandered a little farther down the street, then turned into an alley that seemed familiar. But he stopped abruptly, as he realized that he had no recollection of the scenario stretched out before him. Now he became aware of the scattered groups of people, huddled in the doorways of abandoned buildings on either side of the alley. He stepped backward, intending to turn and leave, but then his gaze halted upon a tiny patch of red, almost hidden behind a pile of boxes near the mouth of the alley.

Looking more closely, he realized the patch of red was actually a mass of curls, crowning the head of a little girl huddled amongst the boxes and debris. The girl's face was turned away from him, and he thought at first that she was asleep. But then she coughed, a feeble and pitiful attempt to clear what must be the congestion caused by a cold, or a sore throat. As she did so, the girl stood up, then turned to look around. She seemed confused, as if she too was unsure of where she was, or how she had come to awaken there.

The child's blinking eyes stopped as she became aware of the odd- looking man who was staring back at her. Now her countenance took on the slightest trace of fear, and Rudyard, not wishing to alarm her, took a step back. Indeed, he still wanted to turn and walk away, but something about the child held him from doing so. She smiled, then asked in a tiny voice, "Have you seen my Mommy, mister?"

The old timer tried to answer, as he shook his head, but he found he could not speak, perhaps because he had not spoken to anyone since...he could not remember when, so he continued to shake his head....

"Mister, please, have you seen my....."

The girl's hopeful inquiry was cut short as a young, burly fellow swaggered into the older man's line of vision. The man raised his fists threateningly, while barking out, "You get the hell away from her, you filthy pervert!"

The newcomer came at Rudyard, to push him roughly against the chest, forcing him backward. Then a bottle glanced off his back, so he turned and stumbled away, still clutching the radio to his breast.

The swarthy young fellow stepped toward the young girl, saying, "You know you can't go talkin' to strangers, Trisha! Now you stay put, and I'll go and look for yer mama, okay?"

The little girl nodded weakly, then coughed again before lying back down on her meager bed of cardboard and newspaper. Her champion made his way back toward his companions, where the arrival of a gallon bottle of wine was creating a babble of activity. But before settling back into his cups, the fellow made good on his promise by looking thoroughly up and down the alley for a good half minute. He commanded his cohorts, "You guys keep an eye peeled for that old man, an' Trisha's no-good junkie mother Sally, an' let me know if you see either one, cause I'm gonna kick both their asses when I catches 'em"!

An hour later, as night descended with the first flakes of snow, the entire alley fell deeply into slumber. But from the mouth of the alley old Rudyard crept cautiously toward the pile of boxes where the tiny child lay shivering. As he gazed down upon her trembling, pitiful form, a strange light shone in his eyes, as if he had just awakened from a deep trance. After looking around nervously, he began very purposefully to unbutton his overcoat.

Dawn crept in on the tails of the last flurries of snowflakes, to find a lone figure, a young woman, walking hastily toward the alley from the depths of the still, silent city. As she approached the pile of white-capped boxes at the alley's entrance, she began moving more quickly, calling out "Trisha! Trisha, where are you?! Trisha, I'm so sorry, baby, oh God, please, where are you, Trisha...!"

The sound of a radio, playing a song from long ago*, lent its voice to the subdued sounds of awakening, as the group of men nearby began to understand that a new day was upon them. The champion from the night before rose up, shaking off a rude hangover as he made his way toward the young woman.

"Where the Hell you been, Sally? Where's Trisha, we had to chase off an old pervert last night, and.....What the Hell..?."

Sally, still entranced by last night's dose, had kneeled down next to a pile of clothing that covered her child's bed. From deep within the garments, a weak little voice called out "Mommy, is that you, Mommy?"

Now Sally began digging into the clothing; but she found the going slow, due to the meticulous care with which someone had wrapped the little girl in a heavy overcoat, over a red woman's sweater, topped off with a woolen cap that fully covered the child's bright red curls. Wrapped around the child's waist, to secure the overcoat's buttonless opening, was a gold-red lei, shining forth in stark contrast to the dust-flecked snowflakes. 

Their attention was drawn by the sound of the radio, coming from beyond the pile of boxes. While Sally continued digging through the clothing to retrieve her daughter, the young man bulldozed his way through the boxes and debris.

And there they found him, the old man, curled up like a child on a bed of soggy cardboard. He was clad only in his tattered pants and a meager pair of flannels that had proven a very poor defense against the frigid, impartial elements. His frost-covered body was trembling weakly, and as they watched in mute fascination, he looked up at them, and they saw that he was trying to smile, perhaps to speak. He gazed at the woman, his eyes now focused and alert.

"Sal...my Sally..." Then he shook once more, and was still.

As the old man slipped away, he found himself in another place, in another time...

He was standing at the railing of a ship, waving to a red- haired girl on the pier who was waving back at him. Her lips were moving, but her words were swept away on the wind. He could Imagine what his daughter Sally was saying, because that morning she had made him promise to bring back a grass skirt and a lei from Hawaii, for her tenth birthday. He had hugged her goodbye, while assuring her that he would return in time to celebrate that most auspicious occasion.

That was the last time he had seen his dear little Sally; yet not a day had gone by during which he had not thought of her. He had never stopped hoping to find her, to beg her forgiveness, to tell her so, so many things...

*Aqualung Copyright 4-29-2001 glenn allenson / taurus ink productions 415