The Bearer of Bad News

The sun rises over The Big Apple. Light reflects off the glass buildings in blinding radiance to every corner of the city, shadows cowering in the nooks and crannies of urban living where most people dare not tread. The city that never sleeps is rejuvenated as heels hit the pavement in fulfilment of their morning routines as they prepare themselves for another day of the repetitious grind. Newsstands and coffee carts open for business as men and women hail taxis for destinations all over the metropolitan area. Cars begin to honk, and people begin to curse. Construction starts early with the gyrating of jackhammers and the scraping of shovels. Sirens are already blaring as emergency vehicles fight their way through congested streets to the first accident of the day. To Marlon Birch this is just the gentle morning nudge that lets him know it's time to start his day.

Marlon sits up and scratches his head just under his red and green flying reindeer beanie. He tries to remove that tacky feeling and moisten his mouth by working his tongue against the top of his mouth, wrinkling his nose at the taste of decay. Marlon’s face is tan and wrinkled by both the sun and time. His unkempt hair and beard are a dirty grey that make him look older than his fifty-five years. Dirt lines his cheeks and the heavy brow that hides green eyes. He wears a dark green army jacket over a tan cardigan, over a light-blue dress-shirt, over a red T-shirt with a navy-blue pair of corduroys and distressed brown dress shoes he can’t seem to keep tied. The clothes have been tattered by time and nights sleeping on the concrete of damp alleyways behind restaurants where he hopes to find discarded food for his evening and morning meals. He scratches his head again, more fervently this time, trying to fight away the lice.

The old mangy dog that might be white under the dirt and street filth sits beside him excitedly wagging his tail. Marlon calls him Bummer because the scraggly little dog is always bumming food off him. He keeps inching closer and closer to Marlon, motioning with his nose to be petted. Marlon ruffles the fur on his head and says, “I know, boy, I’m hungry too,” with a hoarse voice.

Marlon is slow to get up, his bones complaining like a weathered gate that time forgot. He bends and stretches, trying to push to the point where he can get the old bones to crack and bring relief to the knots in his neck and back. He turns to the dumpster that he calls home and hoists himself up. Swinging his leg over, he rolls in. He ignores the putrid smell. The worst of it is the dumpster itself; those things that splatter and stick, never getting cleaned off, left to decay. Then it goes by layer. At the bottom things begin to rot. He stays close to the top. He tries to keep to food that is within a day’s age. That’s why Marlon chose the alley behind Lugosi’s. Unfinished food galore and they have never run him off. Marlon finds an unfinished T-bone and throws it out Bummer. The dog holds the steak in its paws and works the meat off the bones. Marlon sits back atop the trash and enjoys handfuls of cold spaghetti and stale bread. After finishing his meal, he starts tearing open trash bags. He goes through three before finding half a bottle of water and sits back down to sip on it.

At his feet, Marlon notices an old broken watch. It’s the exact same watch that his son gave him for Father’s Day many years ago when his son got his first job. Tears creep into Marlon’s eyes as he reflects on days past with his boy. He misses him dearly and wonders how life is treating him. Last he heard he was following in his footsteps and was studying mathematics at MIT. The broken watch made him ponder the passage of time, how we try to keep track of it, how it seems to pass slowly at first at a nice steady pace. Then at some point it breaks and speeds off the rails. Days become weeks, weeks become months, months become years and before you know it, you’re wondering how long it has been since you’ve seen your son, talked to a friend, or focused on a hobby.

Marlon scratched his head and shook away the thoughts. Memories for him are like a cancer that eat away at his soul. If he thinks too much about them, he will bury himself in newspapers for the day and forget to eat or drink. Not even old Bummer will hang around him on days like those. He will wander off looking for more entertaining ways to spend his day. Yep, it was time to get out of the dumpster, both figuratively and literally, and start the day.

The day is warming up, and in his layers of clothes he is starting to sweat. He doesn’t dare remove a single article because he might never see them again, and he might need them sooner than later. Marlon sits down with his back to the brick wall. He grabs his cardboard sign and begins to fan himself with it. This is the part of the day where he has to mentally prepare himself to go out there and do what he was called to do; to do what he left his family and prestigious career to do. He has to prepare himself for the endless heckling, the disgusted looks, the threats. Somedays he wants to give up, go back to the life he left behind, but he can’t – he just can’t.

Marlon sets aside his sign long enough to tie his shoes. He takes a deep cleansing breath and walks to the end of the alley. He steps out onto the sidewalk, squinting to shield his eyes from the brightness of the day and walks to the corner. He takes another cleansing breath and lifts his sign over his head.

“The end is near!”