The Vagrant

Living is an elusive evil. All communion between human beings is fractured, and I’ve always been on the deprived end. Take eating, for instance; what about the human beings that go and starve on the street? Isn’t ignorance a sin? I’m not benevolent by any means. I eat not because I am starved, but solely because it is what I desire. If it were eating for the sake of subsiding hunger, I would never eat again. That’s a chore, and chores are for children, though I never truly grew into the face of a man. If I were to live a good life, I know I’d be a sailor. But I’ve got no name and no papers, so as far as I’m concerned, I’m stuck meandering between the muddy port cities of New England.

At the dock, the men toss their sailor caps on the rusty spokes in the sand. They leave them there, getting wet and worn through the rain and hail and cold. J.D. was the name on the hat I swiped, stitched in with navy blue thread. I scratched it out with a carving knife I dug out of the trash. I’d rather be deprived of a name than wear that sloppy costume. I wore my new sailor cap out on my walks. On Sundays, I’d stop to watch the children playing in the courtyard in front of the church, hovering in a dingy alleyway wedged between a pub and a drug store. It was a small town. I’ve had my musings about attending church, but I can’t shake the superstition that they would turn me away at the doors, dismissing me with contempt. “Look, this roguish imbecile, and his dirty face.” I can’t detach myself from that feeling.

There’s a young girl who attends that church—Matilda. That’s what her mother called her: “Matilda, go fetch my purse.” That’s where I heard the name. Matilda has rich, red hair tied up in two pigtails, splayed out like Honey Lilies. Matilda is a sweet girl. I can tell because she perceived me, and when she did so, her first instinct was to smile. I was so taken aback that I hadn’t had a chance to return the favor.

I want to make it abundantly clear that my watching of Matilda is that of a genuine fondness, I have no malicious intent. In a way, I’m learning from her and her simple, unburdened way of life. She’s been acting peculiar as of late. She hasn’t been playing with the other children, instead opting to sit in the grass and survey me. It was unnerving, to say the least. Had I faulted her in some way? The very notion made my stomach churn with guilt. I thought I might retch, but then I’d truly repulse her. 

One day, she began to trot toward me. A terrible sense of dread set in, and I felt an urgent need to flee. When did I become such a coward? Did I fear Matilda, or was it those around her?

“Hi, mister,” she smiled innocently, clasping her hands together.

I recoiled, evading her eyes. Perhaps I was imagining all this. She laughed suddenly, a short burst of amusement, and then she ran back to play with the other children. I stood still for a moment, dazed, and then laughed to myself. I was stunned, she had me fooled!

We played this game every Sunday after the church service was let out. She’d humor the children for some time, get bored of them, and then come to amuse me. I don’t know what she found so gripping about my mindless tricks. I had exhausted the “quarter behind the ear” and “floating tobacco” gags, so I decided to change the pace this time. 

Preparing myself, I fished my carving knife out of my pocket and adjusted it in my grip. I plunged it deep into my body, curling around the silver blade. To finish off the show, I leaned forward and sank into the earth—like a deflating balloon animal. The knife clattered out of my hand, and I subsequently discarded the newspaper that had been deftly tucked into my coat. I laughed and looked up at Matilda. A blizzard must have swept through town when I wasn’t looking; I had never seen such rigidness. What a dreadful expression. She finally blinked and scurried back toward the others.

____________

I knew I had to disappear after that. Matilda shouldn’t have to see me anymore. That was my form of repentance. There were plenty of other alleyways. It’s summer now. The days were brighter, but the air was hot and mucky. I could smell everyone at once. The nights were the best, crisp and refreshing after a long day of sweltering in the sun. It almost reminds me of Italy. I’ve never traveled to Italy, but I’d guess this is what it’d be like if I sailed there. Ironically, I eat better during the summer; the food tastes better, so I eat more. There’s a butcher in town—this old man Karl, who lives with his wife and son. Karl’s a bit of a sweet talker. It seems to be his strategy for attracting so many loyal customers. His cunning nature makes him entertaining to be around, almost magnetic. His son is much less charismatic. He’s this brooding, humorless husk of a young man. He looked to be around my age, but his face was unnaturally boyish. He’s the second person to perceive me, but unlike Matilda, he frowned. I mirrored his expression promptly.

I’ve gotten rather close to Karl and even offered to help around the shop, for which I get paid modestly. I don’t have his aptitude for slicing meat, so I was designated to wash the grime and blood off the floors after the day's slog. His son accompanies me when he isn’t busy fishing. His son’s name, as I haven’t already mentioned, is also Karl. How unimaginative. I place the blame on the son, out of spite. Perhaps it’s my natural covetousness, but it feels extraordinarily good to detest someone aside from myself. Once I’m finished with my duties, I watch him fish at the dock. Neither of us says a word. I wonder how easy it would be to have him drown.

Then there was Marta. She always ushers me into the house with this pitiful expression, “Come, come… look at you, you haven’t had a bite to eat, poor thing.” Such customary sentiments usually sicken me, but she expresses them so earnestly, I can’t help but be obliged. She unveils these dubious-looking cakes, arranged on the table in rows of six with the precision of a ritual. “Thank you, thank you,” I’d say bashfully. When Karl, the son, makes an appearance, his mother’s tender glow dissipates, and she doesn’t address him, as if she’s staring at a shriveled animal.

____________

Today was Karl Jr.’s birthday. Marta gathered everyone around and set this astonishingly hideous cake before him. It was funny seeing him like that, equipped with a cone hat and a scowl. What a wretched boy. I say boy, but he was newly 26. He looked like a child. After everyone took their turns taking precarious bites out of the heap of frosting and butter, the party, so to speak, concluded. Karl Jr. went outside for a smoke, throwing the fringy hat to the side. I immediately claimed it and strapped it onto my head, just to amuse myself.

I observed Karl Jr. from deep inside the thicket. He was an ugly boy indeed, with gaunt cheeks and raggedy clothing draped over his bony frame. You would’ve suspected he was a wandering beggar, not the son of a wealthy butcher. In fact, he carried no resemblance to Karl or Marta at all. Feeling a chill, I stamped out my cigar and headed back inside. The cake from earlier was gone, and perhaps a branch had flung off my hat. It was all too tiresome for me, so I headed to bed. The father had put me up in Karl Jr.'s room. It beats me where his son was staying, vanishing for hours some days. That night was another restless one, and I thought it best to go out and clear my head.

I sauntered down the winding path toward the dock, the feverish wind nearly throwing me off my feet. I caught a glimpse of Karl Jr., who was fishing on the edge of the platform. The sea was awash with fury tonight, yanking and tugging at his bobber. I could see him clearly now, his beastly form, his dirty face… oh, I couldn’t bear it any longer! I lunged for him, but the platform was slick with seawater, and I found myself flailing, submerged under the current. Water poured into my lungs, salt stabbing at my eyes, but I just barely managed to open them long enough to see my reflection gazing back down at me. I had never seen such rigidness.