Forward

The night was cold beyond belief. It was the kind of cold that makes your muscles burn and your mouth emit clouds. Icy crystals blasted any exposed skin like a whip.

The young man on the street was alone.

Not physically alone.

The street was packed with holiday nightlife. Drunk tourists and street vendors all mingled together in a blur of sensory bustle despite the snow.

He was alone in other ways.

Hands in his pockets, he trudged along thinking only of the cold. He couldn’t seem to escape it. He’d packed on the layers. He was mummified from the neck up with a scarf. His gloves were lined and leather. It wasn’t enough. The cold traced his skin like fingers through the clothes, clutching at him like a beggar.

He was so uncomfortable, he talked himself into taking a shortcut home. It required him to cut through the part of town he hated.

The crowds and the snow–if not the cold–lessened.

He found himself shuffling into the maze-like inner city. He must’ve taken a wrong turn because he ended up facing an alley with no exit, choked with garbage and the stench of rot.

A group sat within the foul mounds, gathered around a fire fueled by cardboard and wood pallets. Their voices echoed off the confining walls.

He wasn’t a trusting individual, not at this moment. He had been through enough interpersonal disasters in the past few weeks to scorch his belief in the innate innocence of others. No one trusts a homeless person anyway.

Still, the fire temporarily distracted him.

Despite the garbage, the alleyway was otherwise clean of snow. The fire had its noxious odor, but he could feel its warmth radiating toward the mouth of the alleyway.

He crept cautiously forward.

There were three men around the fire. All three were grimy, but otherwise distinct. The one on the right was a large, younger man, wearing blue and orange flannel pants and a dingy yellow jacket over a red sweatshirt. It sported the prominent athletic mantra “just do it”.The leftmost man was rail-thin and short with a silver beard. Between them, the third man was sort of an average of the two. Bearded but large in stature, his graying hair was threaded through with black.

The young man wondered passingly if they’d sat that way on purpose.

“Evenin’ fellas,” he said when the men noticed him approaching. “Mind if I join you for a moment? I just need a second out of the cold.”

“What do you need warmth for?” the one on the left barked, eyeing his gloves and scarf.

The young man paused, unsure. The fire tempted him, but not strongly enough to get robbed.

“Technically, in this weather, which must be below freezing because of the snow, any man needs to be careful,” the right one said. “I’m being careful by wearing three layers. This jacket, my hoodie, and an undershirt.”

“Ignore them,” the middle man said, “I built the fire, and I say you can stay.”

Something about this man’s words, spoken almost paternally, decided it for him. The middle man gestured to a plastic pail, and the young man took a seat.

“Name’s Peter,” said the average man. “The stingy one is Patrick…”

“Watch it, Pete!” Patrick snarled.

“…and he’s Fred,” Peter continued, unfazed, gesturing to the colorful, blubbery one who waved emphatically. “What’s yours?”

The young man hesitated, fearful they might be able to use his name somehow. Perhaps to speak over the fire three times and steal his soul.

“No name, huh? We’ll call you Nemo then.”

“Like the captain in Twenty Thousand Leagues,” said Patrick, elated. “That’s clever. That’s a good one. You’re always coming up with great ideas, Peter. I’ll try it out now, Nemo. Ha! Isn’t it a good one?”

The young man shrugged. He didn’t care much what they called him so long as he was by the fire. He could already feel the icy fingers beginning to withdraw.

He watched Peter turn to rummage through a garbage bag. Amongst other junk, Peter produced a crumpled carton with exactly four cigarettes.

Three were lit with the fire, and two were passed to the outer men.

“You smoke, Nemo?” Peter asked around a lit cylinder.

“Don’t give him one!” It was Patrick again. “We don’t have enough to share.”

“Aw, what’s the harm, Patty?” whined Fred. “Would it really be that big of a deal? There’s only one left. It’s just the one. We’d have to split it anyway.”

Peter offered the cigarette. The young man did not smoke. He took the cigarette anyway.

“What brings you to this part of town?” asked Peter.

“Why do you ask?” the young man said, suppressing a cough.

“It’s just odd–a man like you on this side–‘specially during the holidays.”

“Yep, it is odd,” Fred piped in. He would do that after Peter–or anyone–said something he agreed with. “No one is walking alone here during the holidays.”

At that, the young man grimaced.

“Why the long face, Nemo? Not in the holiday spirit?”

“Holiday spirit?” the young man chuckled without a hint of mirth. And just like that, the floodgates opened. “I lost my job today. We didn’t perform well enough this quarter to maintain staff. My boss was nice enough about it, but then again, everyone is nice about everything these days. I barely have enough saved up to make my bills. I’ll probably have to get a roommate, downgrade my phone, and sell stuff online until I can find a new one. God knows how long finding a new one’ll take. My family ain’t around neither. Holiday spirit–give me a break. I can’t think of one thing worth celebrating right now.”

“Champagne problems,” Peter said softly.

“I might end up homeless!” he snapped.

After the words left his mouth, he remembered his audience.

To his surprise, Peter laughed. “You think that’s suffering, son?”

“What?”

“Humans started homeless, way back when. Hunters and gatherers with no stable homes, no stable anything. We’ll probably end up like that again at the rate we’re going.”

The young man was perplexed. Was this dirty homeless man giving him a lecture on stability?

“Yes, exactly. That’s the problem with stability nowadays. Well said, Pete,” Fred said, nodding sagely.

Patrick rolled his eyes as if to say, “Here these morons go again!”

“I like to think there are two kinds of suffering,” Peter went on, “there’s necessary suffering, the kind you need to experience to become a real human being–like falling to learn to walk, for instance–and then there’s unnecessary suffering–that’s more like wallowing when you fall down. That kind is often self-inflicted. It doesn’t serve people, doesn't teach them anything. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“And I say there’s just plain ol’ suffering until ya die,” muttered Patrick.

“Of course,” the young man said. He had recently graduated from college. This man's speech was reminiscent of the few liberal arts lectures he’d endured to get his more practical major. He felt the same way he had then. That what had been said to him was vaguely philosophical but largely obvious.

Before the young man could change the subject, Peter tacked on. “I think you got yourself a case of the latter kind of suffering, son.”

The young man stared at Peter, speechless. No one had even spoken to him so directly before, except maybe his parents. He hadn’t said it in a mean way. He had spoken matter-of-factly, not a hint of judgment in his voice. It was…oddly disarming.

“Now, that’s a little harsh, Peter, don’t you think?" Fred interjected.

“At least Pete has the balls to be honest. When do you ever tell someone like it is, Freddy?” spat Patrick.

“I do tell it like it is,” Fred fired back. “I’m honest. I tell the truth. I just care. I just don’t wanna hurt nobody’s feelin’s is all.”

The two men continued to bicker, Peter calmly enjoying his cigarette between them.

The young man watched the exchange, still perplexed.

“Did you go to college?” he asked after a moment. Something about his little speech still irked him.

“Yep, got myself a doctorate back in ‘06.”

Fred, of course, added that he, too, had gone to college. Many, in fact. Which was promptly ignored by the rest of the group.

Nemo’s eyes bugged. “But you’re–you could…”

“I chose this path,” Peter explained. He didn’t sound despondent, but neither did he elaborate.

“But not for long,” Fred said in a chipper tone. “We have a plan. We’re getting ourselves a van and travelling round the country to tell our stories. Right, Pete?”

Peter chuckled–whether at Fred’s words or Nemo’s expression, it was hard to tell–his mouth letting out a gray cloud.

“Nemo, the world is a complicated place. Everything–and I mean everything–is obscenely tangled together. The more you try to untangle the knots, the more knots you find. The sooner you learn that, the better.”

Nemo mulled over his words, swished and gargled them around in his mind.

“So…then what’s the point if you might end up…?”

At that, Peter really laughed. It boomed off the concrete walls. “Oh, son, don’t expect me to have that answer for ya. I barely have it for myself. All’s I know for sure is that the right way is and always has been one way. Forward.”

The conversation drifted after that, relaxed into topics that anyone in the city would be able to keep up with. It’s funny how that is. They knew the same small shop owners and sports teams. They grew up blocks away from each other. And yet they had lived completely different lives. Nemo became absorbed in the natural rhythm of these conversations. He began to anticipate Fred’s optimistic rambles and Patrick’s rough remarks, and Peter’s wisdom. For a moment, he truly forgot where he was. He forgot the filth. He unconsciously forwent his damaged trust.

He could’ve been at home among friends.

There was a lull in the conversation. He noticed he was sweating. The fire, he realized, was no longer warming to him. It was hot, too hot. He looked into the molten flames, which sizzled and popped like acid.

It wasn't a fireplace fire, or bonfire, or even a camper's fire. This fire was keeping these men alive, curdling the cardboard and eating through wood from dumpster trash. The moment he remembered that, the garbage smell came back to him, ripe with decay.

This wasn’t the place for him, he realized. This wasn’t the place for anyone.

“I think it’s time I get going,” Nemo said hastily, rising to his feet.

At that, both Fred and Patrick scowled. Whatever truce had existed amongst the four, it seemed, was broken by these words.

Fred was quick to cajole him to stay longer, to whittle out of him a promise to come visit. Patrick’s mask of disdain was frozen in place. It was a mask well-worn, settled into the lines of his face.

Peter, ever the middleman, nodded knowingly. “Safe travels, son. Hopefully, you’re able to enjoy the holidays after all.”

He escaped the alleyway and finally located a familiar street. He walked eagerly forward, back into the winter night. The young man was shocked by how quickly the cold set back in.

He didn’t feel the relief he expected when he reached his apartment. He pulled off his scarf and gloves and settled himself down in his small but cozy living space, feeling the cold slowly leak out of him.

He didn't feel relief until he remembered Peter’s slow, wise nod as he left.

Nemo didn’t feel so alone after that.