Color

Cold slid down his hand. He watched a bead of red water and sugar slip from the top of the Popsicle down its side and settle between the cracks of his fingers. Under his stained fingernails, the red thickened like gum. His hand slowly turned into a murderer’s—a hand recently back from blood and death. He threw the Popsicle away.

“Would you like a napkin, sir?” the girl behind the counter asked, propped on her elbows.

He stepped toward her. “Thank you.”

As she disappeared into the back of the food stand, he picked at the gum under his nails. The dried, hardened bits flaked off to the ground, dusting the cement. It looked like someone tried to season the ground with Red Pepper Flakes. He brushed his shoe over the amassing mess, hoping to grind it away.  

“Sorry, sir.” The girl reappeared, a fistful of brown napkins at her side. He settled his foot back down. “Thought I had some right here.”

She pushed to her toes, stomach pressed against the counter’s edge, and held out the napkins. His eyes watered at her perfume as he retrieved the napkins, but it was a welcome smell. The melted Popsicle on his hand had taken on a metallic odor in his mind.

Scraping the rough napkins across his skin, he heard faint crying. He shook his head and dragged the napkins over the red with more vigor. The red stuck. Jerking the napkins back and forth he searched for a wound. Where was it? People didn’t just bleed for no reason. Eyes lighting on the darkest spot, he pressed down there, hoping.

The crying grew louder, but didn’t seemed loud enough. He pressed tighter because pressure slowed bleeding. Pressure saved people. He needed to save whoever was crying underneath his hand. Everything shook and he didn’t know if it was him or the person painted in red.

The smell of iron filled his nose and mouth and he gagged. He buried his nose in his sleeve, closing his eyes. The shaking escalated from trembling to an almost convulsing sensation. A weight made itself known on his shoulder. The weight gripped him, fingers digging into flesh.

“We need help,” he whimpered, sweat rolling down his cheek. He was hunched over the red skin, casting his shadow onto it, blocking the sun and its heat. The fabric of his shirt clung to his back with sweat. “Need help.”

The shaking became isolated to his shoulder where the weight gripped him. It wrenched him back and shoved him forward, screaming at him. The weight screamed at him to calm down.

“Sir!” It screamed. “Are you okay? Calm down!”

“Private?” he asked, not opening his eyes. “Is he dead? I can’t look.”

“Is who dead?”

“The bleeding man.”

“Nobody’s bleeding, I don’t think. Should I call an ambulance?”

The thought of an ambulance with its sirens on weaving between bodies and enemy fire to save them made him laugh. Not because it was funny, but because he wished it to be true. The way he laughed at the idea of winning the lottery.

He must have dropped to his knees at some point because he heard voices above him. An old man and a young woman spoke odd words, providing shade from the sun on his back. He shivered.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know, he just started freaking out.”

What were an old man and a young woman doing out here, he wondered. A General, possibly. Had he gotten orders to protect these two? He shook his head, trying to remember his orders.

Behind his eyelids, he saw pink. He preferred the color over red. He yanked his eyes open, getting met with blinding white. They closed on instinct. Back to pink. Taking a deep breath, he braved the light again.

“Wait, he’s opened his eyes,” the girl said, then the weight moved to his back as she knelt beside him. Her shoes were green with purple flowers, he saw. That wasn’t regulation. “Are you okay, sir? Do you need an ambulance?”

The faint crying faded, but didn’t disappear. He heard it under his words. “Where am I?”

“You’re outside on the beach, right in front of Sandy’s food stand. You were wiping your hands off and then… I don’t know.”

“What happened, son?” the old man asked, out of view.

The gray cement no longer burned his eyes, so he inched his gaze upward. A wooden picnic table stood a few feet away; no one sat at it. Beyond that, the cement turned to sand which led into water. A few men in swim shorts splashed in the water.

“Mister, can you get that please?” the girl asked the old man, pointing to a napkin caught in the wind. The man harrumphed, but waddled over, stabbing his cane at the litter.

“Can I get you water or something?” she asked him, shuffling in front of him. He shook his head. “Would you like to move to the table right there?”

The question didn’t register for him. He’d seen his stained hand. A torn napkin stuck to his finger and fluttered in the breeze. The girl’s small hand plucked the napkin away, tucking it into her apron pocket.

“Here,” she said, providing another.

He didn’t take it, turning his head away from the offending limb. He cleared his throat and asked, “Could you wipe my hand off, please?”

“Um…”

“I, uh, I can’t look at that color right now. Not on my hand.”

Her fingers loosely wrapped around his wrist, drawing his hand closer to her. Starting with the back, she worked meticulously, using a small circle pattern. Each finger was wiped down with care.

“Mister,” she called to the old man who’d finished throwing away the napkin. “Could you grab me that water bottle? Some of this just isn’t coming off.”

“I’m not your damn butler,” he said, turning to get the bottle. “I saw a man on the ground and wanted to know what was happening. Doesn’t make me involved in this shit-show. Here, take it.” He handed her the bottle.

A few inches of water rolled at the bottom and she upturned it, wetting the napkin. Cold wiped down his hand again, his raw skin thankful for the chill. After she’d finished, she let go of his hand and the breeze froze his skin.

“Do you need help up?” she asked.

“It’s alright.” His pants stuck to him and bunched around his knees as he stood. “Thank you.”

The beach came into full view when he was upright. A cloudless sky overlooking a beach bustling with people. The white noise from the waves drowned out the soft crying still in his mind. He’d been at the beach, he thought. Relaxing, reading, ordering a Popsicle to cool down.

“I’m sorry,” he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“It’s alright as long as you are,” she replied. Behind her, the old man waited, listening. Trying to see the end of the story. “You are alright?”

He nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“I need to get back to work.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. The food stand had sun-bleached yellow vinyl walls and a fogged front window. A tip jar sat on the counter, the few curled dollar bills in it baking in the sun. “I hope you get home safe.”

As the girl walked back inside the stand, the old man nodded and departed as well.

The parking lot lurked behind the stand. With the two gone, he set off that way, rubbing his hands down his pants. The skin was tinged pink still, but they felt heavy with red. He may not be able to see it anymore, but it remained.

“Next time I’ll just order a blue Popsicle,” he said to himself as the sound of the waves receded and the crying returned.