A Snake Tries To Run

The air appears to carry a great density to it. The turk cheerless sky helps emit the illusion that you’re surrounded by an enclave of physical darkness. It’s only after you take a prolonged breath that you realize the air is just as clean and synergetic as any other night. The aftertaste settles in the back of your throat as another brief thought whisks by: is air delicious?

The asphalt you walk on reaches a rump and you're shook from your reverie. Beneath your white shoe are the stained wood planks, brown complexions that appear to have endured a thousand cuts. It stretches out in front of you, leading several feet higher onto the main deck. Hardly anyone is around yet something screams in the night begging for something to make noise. Sugar infused children and the conversations centered around sweet nothings appeared to not slake the lust that the area had. The solitude is dull for the earth. 

For some reason, you resonate with that idea. Except for the part where solitude is boring. 

You take a step onto the platform, surprised to find no moans in the decade old boarding whatsoever. The rest of the thirteen foot walk passes by within a second even though you walked with such lethargy. Turning to face the street, several rented properties of contemporary architecture, with asymmetrical slants, smart colors, and excessive use of glass, are at attention like the terra-cotta warriors you read about in school. Above you loom the smokey clouds that have no logical order or method, but serve a key purpose to the earth nonetheless. Despite their dismal color, you say, they must be one of the most content forces in nature. 

Your envy rises as you sit on the bench, facing southeast toward the shore. You wish you could go there. But it's disguised by grass, which slithers as far as your eye can see like the snake that won’t stop eating. A place made to bring pleasure to those around it but remains for ever unsatisfied. You find a great kinship to this shore. It’s been with you all your life. Every time you stuck your toes into the sand and let the wave feel the warmth of your legs. No matter the whether or texture. You never shivered when it did. It was always nice to you. 

You normally don’t reminisce. Reenacting a vivid memory can swallow a full hour and leave you an inanimate doll gazing at some indiscreet object. Your friends would have to say your name several times before you woke. Your family only ever said it once. But in this instance it is fine. You recently graduated college and now a dose of nostalgia is a less than generous way to celebrate. Actually the celebration was in an hour but you had time on your hands, more than you knew what to do with.

“Ahhh.” You hum out loud, “I forgot what this felt like.”

Then you see it. The silhouette moving in the darkness. The lamps are primarily lining the 25th, 26th, 27th, 28th, 29th, and 30th streets, and thus grant the houses a large shadow to cover it. 

You think back to the many times that you would come and sit on this boardwalk. Hoping that one day, someday, a passerbyer, young or old, would stop in their course and consider you. There were many aspects of your body on display that would give incentive, you thought. You had a scar on your chin that you got from skateboarding a long time ago, or at least so you’ve been told. Somehow, you always envisaged the unspoken law that visible injuries are intriguing to others. Thus, you’d always pull your hair back in a bun and flaunt it so people would stop and see the mark. There was your crimson hair, which drew much attention from the boys. And although your taste in attire was different from most girls, your friends told you that the unbuttoned flannel paired with tight jeans was ingenious. It took you four days until you found out why.

But for all your features, your attentive posture, no one even made eye contact. Well, except for that boy last year who leaned against the rail for nearly an hour pretending to be waiting for someone. 

But with this figure, heading towards the staircase, perhaps the problem wasn’t so much your presentation, but rather the environment. Your friend Jane said once, “Don’t pick the ballroom. Just dance.” 11pm and devoid of any life, the perfect experiment. 

Deciding not to return by the planks, you cross a two yards from the left along the boardwalk to get a better view and stop him before he makes it up the stairs. 

That’s when you see his twisted curtain haircut in the dark. Dread.****

The boardwalk stretches thirty streets back the way you came, but forward, there is an aurora of glowing lights which can only be the the more centralized part of the city. You have memories of times down that line. You were always careful to keep your distance, but the liveliness and movement was even more vibrant and staggering than where you were sitting. It was always comforting. 

You scuttle to the lavatory, the only other source of light besides the lampposts.

You try the door, but it is locked. Shit, who would want to burglarize a restroom. Unconsciously, your body orients ninety degrees to the left so you face the sand. There is an opening in the unimpaired grass snake. You sprint for it, and check your right expecting him. 

But the shadow is gone. The empty parking lot holds nothing more than the five lampposts of old. They stand at the orgin of each white axis like a ribcage, only five lines apart but looking lonely as you do. The night has a strange way of recasting your perception that most, so wrapt in the gaudy spectacles of entertainment and languid mood that follows, fail to even acknowledge. But not you. You learn to appreciate every moment and idea that strokes the hairs on your skin. 

Your body not at ease, beckons you to sit. But rather than return to the bench, you think it better to lean against the rail along the boardwalk. Maybe you wanted to keep watch for more shifters that sulk about in the dark. Or maybe you wanted to find out if that boy really did like the feel of metal against his ass. 

Nope, he was a perv. The metal is perspiring with droplets, despite you and the forecast calling for no precipitation today. Still, you let your jeans wedge comfortably on the bar. They'll dry, and no one will notice at the party. You keep your head over your shoulder to survey the lot.

Between the first line of bumpers and you, there is a garden patch, bordered on all sides by a chain-link fence, no door. The ground is wet and shimmering from the lamps, but the plants are motionless and obedient in the night. Ever since the patch's construction three years ago, there were only green ferns and bladed bushes. No aurora of flowers. Your friend Sharon decried it for lacking any roses, daffodils, petunias, hyacinth and lack of any fragrance whatsoever. It use to amaze you that she knew so many species, even their smells. Perks of a botanist's daughter.

Yet, as usual, the world seemed to grace you with unprecedented oddities that no one else was privileged to witness. A rabbit emerged from beneath the fence and scampered beneath the boardwalk once. A grounded seagull walking through the plants, desiring aid but too timid to accept it. You begged your father to save it that vacation, but he pelted a shell at it claiming that 'it was hungry', and you departed.

No motion still. The patch has made its bed, and so have the buildings and atmosphere around you. At least in this area. You still had a party to go to. When you stand, you think you're doing it because you want to get to your car quickly. But you're not.

The creak sends your springing to your feet. You aren’t sure where it’s coming from until the seventh step. The restroom conceals the plank from your sight and you prepare to run. But after four more steps, they stop. You hear no voice but thew wind whispers. You see no shadow but the darkness seems to close in. You feel nothing except for a screaming void. You were right. 

Silence. From a birds eye POV it looks as though two outlaws are in a standoff, but neither can see each other. The absurd length beat that you are floating makes you ask if perhaps it was that rabbit that hides under the floorboards which you used to catch as a child. Next to your foot is a shell, discarded from the shore. The sand rusted against it indicates that this was dropped here recently. 

The opening leading to the shore is two paces in front of you. But the specter will surely see you if you run. 

“Hello there?"

Dread. The shell flies from your hand at the sound of the voice. Your throw lands it with an even more unforeseen ring against the metal bar. You hear a gasp/snort of bewilderment as you make for the entrance. No stopping to look back this time. If this is who you think it is, you have no way of anticipating his next move. Assuming his odor is not because of his whereabouts and not because of any improbable cause, then he’ll likely tell you to piss off and do so himself. If not, then he’ll likely chase you, regardless of whether you were Ted Bundy or just a girl.

The pathway leads up a mound of sand and then decrescendos more deeply than it rose. The grass is nearly yellow like the sand would be, and appears more like unkempt hair than groomed shrubberies. As the grass parts ways, the pitch black shore comes into view. The sand you notice, gets heavier with each prance. The beach is more colorless than the boardwalk and the moon is nowhere to be seen. The roars further away must be the ocean. 

Only after you find cover behind a nearby garbage can that you fall to a squat. Your white shoes still retain their freshness, even in the sand. No shame in running, as they say. 

You quickly erect your legs as you peer from behind the can, finding the point where the mount is higher than the grass. Just as you feared he is there. Thanks to the waning light from the lampposts, you see his curtain cut, obscuring his face like a mask. It hits his face as he turns left to right. Then, he springs down the slope. 

Keeping as close and low as you can to the grass, you run. You pass one of the lifeguard chairs just as the sandbank undulates to the left. There is a batch of four horseshoe crabs, black and patient, with one disemboweled entirely. Not stopping to observe your surroundings you pray he takes his time to scrutinize the dark, deciding which way his assailant went. 

"Who's stumbling around. State your shit or prepare to get winged.” His vinous accent seemed to lean heavily on every vowel.

Dread. Within the sea of fear that was rising lies a driftwood of poisonous nostalgia. This drunkard, at least ten minutes sober you reason, has spoken with a meticulous volatility. Your dad always reprimanded you for mumbling, not caring whether you were exuberant, downcast, or just bored. By the time you went to school all of that was corrected in a matter of weeks. But once you remedied a dislikable characteristics, chastising your abnormal inclination for snacking between meals, with no discernible pattern, became the forefront of your relationship. Stop being such a placid bill, he would say.

All you could do was correct, or at least mask, these fallacies in order to postpone his methods of discipline.

Move now, your conscience shrieked as you return to half a squat. Running the length of the bristling border would be futile. Instead, you wait until his back is turned. He jogs to the left, as if he has picked up the assailant's scent, and exposing himself for a yet another head to toe frame. You leap from your nearly submerged bent stance, no longer caring about the noise. As you intended you're heading towards the ocean at an acute degree. After thirteen steps, count them, thirteen thigh pulsating bounds, you make an obtuse turn beach to the mounds. Three life guard chairs face opposite you.

As you've said before, it's typically wise to not let emotion fuel your actions. Now you remember that your high school English teacher said that in response to your rather unconventional response to modern day culture. 'Narcissistic', 'prejudiced', and 'dangerous', were the words he used. Made your day that he didn't tell dad. But in this instance though, playing by the rules was not a priority that came to mind. Yours was to escape, preferably without him seeing you.

Against your better judgement, he is not chasing you. In fact, he's not even on the beach. Guess he looked the other way.

Your run comes to a jog as you try to smirk, but to no avail. It’s funny isn’t it. How fear can enervate even your most admirable qualities faster than the lights going out. 

Up ahead is the next entrance of 30th street. You know it lies in between that Emily's resturant and the recreational hall that you visited for the first time earlier today. You barely stayed, as it was your friend Chloe’s idea to come. You let her introduce you to some of her friends. Unambitious and dull as they may have been, it was nice to finally solve the mystery as to what people expended their time doing there. 

Afterward, the two of your duck out and went to Emily's. Your other colleagues from the university joined up with you after changing into formal clothes. Their hair looked like mops and their excitement bemused you, considering they were among the best in their class. We spoke of many things, hopes for our futures, and stories of our childhoods. Although you were always cautious of what information you shared, even with friends, you felt strangely relieved to share your past in this city. 

You told them about the time you got lost and jogged through the streets looking for your car. It was the day you told your father that you didn’t want to go to the bar with him. You felt guilty then, looking at the immodest dress he bought you and the challenging smile of his. After you said no a few times, he made the most crude request yet, and you were speechless. How could a 10 year old girl refuse her father? Why would he ask anything that would prompt fear from her? Questions no girl should ever ask herself. 

He left you at the curb and told you to walk home. Much to your friends relief, you revealed the long walk allowed you time to reflect on your situation. You took many things for granted then, but after that walk of solitude, you never did. 

Not wanting to be more obtrusive with details, and worrying that they wouldn't bring any satiety to your friends, whose restless breath practically suffocated you, you conclude positively stating that it got you a career now. They laughed, and so did you. After seeing both buildings that morning, your friends departed for Chloe's house while you went back to your own. There would be time later. There was only so much jubilation you were equipped to handle and the walk was what was needed. The walk was always relief for you. But with them, you hadn’t felt that good in a long time-

Off. The harumph from behind tears you from your memory and glance behind out of instinct to see him collapse on the ground, clearly unprepared for the jump he made from his lush hiding spot. This time you see the watch glisten, even in darkness and you freeze when his eyes meet yours. A million memories fullsiade your vision but you resist them. Though the emaciated lights are certain to reveal your identity, you have little choice.

You’re not blanking out this time. 

The initial bend of the deserted pathway wastes no sand in making every step arduous. As you climb higher, the sand recedes, and you can feel the black carpet providing your more stable ground to run. Your arms are close to your sides as you scrape the precipice, and you don't slide down but take larger steps. Sports was never a part of your life, nor did you ever necessitate it being so, but by some impromptu, running timed lengths became habitual for you. Self Improvement, contrary to popular belief, is not masturbation.

PART ll

Don’t stop at the boardwalk. You’re not going back the way you came. Instead of treading the steps in rapid secession, you leap the full case and land on the pavement. You notice your white sneakers have done a golden blanket that shifts with each movement. You sprint on the walkway and jump over the parking beam. Your Chevrolet is parked along the sidewalk rather than the lot, which makes it easier to get away. 

“Stop, girl!”

Dread. Every time you feel it, now and then, it becomes horribly intoxicating. You feel astringent, and your senses fall victim to impulse as it crawls through your veins. Vomit bubbles in your intestine, not waiting for you to make another break for the bathroom. The same nausea and helplessness that a snake receives when it is plucked from the grass before barreling into a burrow. It's like the one drug that you legitimately want to discard but chases and strangles you like destiny.

Though you've got no reason to stop running, no reason to turn your head, keeping your feet parallel and pointed towards your car, no reason to not speak, you do all three. There he is. The single most cardinal component of the scene.

A split second analysis of his face tells you that you've seen this man before. As he stands before you, several wooden steps above you, there is a certain malignancy to him. His back is creased with his denim jacketed arms held outward. His fingers are all sprawled like claws on an animal. Far more perceptible, however, is stenciled beard that wrapped around his sagging jawline, but his forehead appears to be pulled tight against his temples. His lips are melted together despite having spoken a second ago and the furrows beneath his brown eyes are the darkest thing you have seen all night. With the amount of inky marks on his skin, one could be certain for perceiving some parasite to emerge from a diminutive crevice or crater. You'd seen it happen before and you nearly vomited. Not unlike now.

"Just because the sand will cover up the other sand don't mean no woodcock saw it. Lookin for somethin?"

You're not sure which baffles you more: the fact that he was unfazed after seeing you here, with your unmistakable auburn hair, or the deluded asshole of a sentence he aimlessly threw at you.

You refute his question and assumption, with calculated and disinterested language to preserve the mystique he has inadvertently associated with you. Recognizing a weakness and using it against your opponent instantly is one of the cleverest things you liked to do. Knowing that Sarah was your english teacher's daughter, you revealed that you would use a less permeable filter in future papers should he give me an A on that one. Through other consoler's, classmates, and adults, you exploited a myriad of secrets to utilize, even if they proved to be inconsequential later one. Likewise, you're probably going to be cursed by this man regardless of whether you play it smart, or in this case dumb.

"Well, excuse me. Some of us are having a troubled night. I came here cause it's the one place where you don't need those."

With an unwavering finger, he points at the medical mask that rested upon your face. It's been in your jeans this whole time, and despite it being a long shot, the last thing you did before he barked at you was snapping it on.

Focusing on him, you could deduce many things, from this uncomfortable crosshair. His appearance, as previously described, had all the lazy fatigue of a man who had more than he could chew, or in this case, drink. Yet, when he spoke, his speech was miraculously purposeful. Licentious as it may be, there could be no doubt that he was unapologetically aware of his choice of words. Against the rules of the human condition, half his consciousness appeared lost to the unthinkable blemish of his mind while the other was fixated on the girl in front of him.

You had either caught him in a state of insanity, or courage. Either way, you didn't want to find out. He's still holding you by your hands over the fire, letting the helplessness grill with no end.

*

Dread. No, Worry. You admitted that you won't freeze in this man's presence like before, so it is imperative that you swap, or at least transfigure, this emotion into something more respectable. Fear is as vital to our courage as adrenaline is to a 100m race. What's the word one uses when describing a weakness being used as a strength for certain quandaries? Irony. Yep, that's fate of both of us now, like it or not.

Relying on the happenstance fortune that you were wearing your mask was the cowardly action, or rather inaction. No more.

You're definitely going to show up late now.

"Must I spell it out for you? Well, I'm about to go to a party. I came here because here is the only place I thought was private. But then you came strutting about here like this is your home, like you're a big man. I should have expected that from people here who think of this place as serving no other purpose that gossip and performance. Privacy is not a luxury that I can afford here apparently, even at night. I just wanted to watch the stars and regain some semblance of resolution in my past life. It's complicated, but to digest the picture so that your witless graceless fat-fucked mind can better understand, I'm missing a piece of myself. A feeling that I thought I lost, and another I choose to forget. I've been neglecting it, putting my persistence to my future, my friends, my new life. But some randomized chain of events, call it what you will, has whisked me back here. But instead of regret and self-deprecation what do I find? The piece I was missing. I almost had it back, but then another feeling came to fill that empty space. The one I wanted to get rid of. So because of you, I'm somehow left more vacuous than before. You think I surprised you?"

By now, his eyelids were so compact, I was convinced he was going to keep bulging at me until he could properly translate his surprise into verbatim, or until the parasites prevented him from ever trying.

"Nancy! What the fu-. You're Here! Sweetie!"

Unknowingly replicating your earlier move, he surged the staircase and landed on all fours. He runs to you and seizes you by the shoulders exuberantly. To any overseer of the action, his euphoria would be enough to make anyone smile.

You, still frozen in shell-shock, are confused. Memories have usurped logic's control over the steering wheel that is your body.

"Fuck off!" You push him off, but his expression barely acknowledges it. "You think I want to see you, after you've threatened me, chased me, scared me, and thrown yourself upon me? I can go further back if you'd like!"

*

You had either caught him in a state of insanity, or courage. Either way, you didn't want to find out. He's still holding you by your hands over the fire, letting the helplessness grill with no end. Dread, no, wo-. Screw this!

You didn't actually give that speech. You've been tinkering with it for the past few years. Your Sarah-suggested journal entries even have outdated copies. It's been your weapon, your Fat Boy. Though it has long collected cognitive dust, you couldn't wait to use it here. But instead, you tell him that you just wanted space. You choose the latter word with intent.

His brown eyes consider you for some a moment, as if the word referred to the title of his favorite book. It feels like ages. His stance tries to posture itself. The wrinkles in his skin fade. His mouth turns one corner and fails the other.

"Just had to say so, kid. I stopped prying on innocent people a long time ago." He smirked to himself, then to you, "But if you're so hellbent on goin', maybe I'd give ya a ride?"

I shrugged, "It's nothing that concerns you, sir."

You then tread lightly away. Both feet attempt to cut in front of each other on your path causing your body to involuntarily bounce left and right like a sinusoidal wave. The aggregate of gravel and white lines of the lot float underneath you, any physical exhaustion is barley perceptible now. The rocks hiss as your foot thrusts you off the the lot and next you your car.

You hear him holler into the night, a mixture of shame, sarcasm, and truth. "Wouldn't be the first time a women's walked out on me!"

You don't even realize that you never locked its doors until you've hit the gas pedal, its engine humming a amnestic continuous tune. You're headed backwards, en route past 27th street, but your destination is uncertain at the present moment.

Then you decide: the real surprise here was how even in his delirium, he never stopped annunciating every word. He was persistent like that. We both were.