Litter for a Friend

Derek stared out over the Atlantic Ocean, its white crests succumbing to the will of the biting wind which hit his face. The deep cobalt waters spoke to him in whispers and howls. He closed his eyes as he leaned his elbows against the rickety, wooden pier. The smell of saltwater, pungent during warmer months, was absent here in the New England winter. Of course, he would say that saltwater itself has no smell, but the creatures which live in them do, and olfactory receptors are more prone to receiving stimulus in moist air. The smell never changes; our perceptions do. Derek placed his head in his hands. Those hyper-logical thoughts are exactly what kept him from smelling the flowers. 

"What an ironic turn of phrase," he thought.

Melody had always been able to smell the flowers. Life was a tapestry of intricate beauty waiting to be explored, according to her. This dichotomy of character was exactly what drew them together, as well as what split them apart. Derek had listened to countless podcasts and read several books, and their relationship boiled down to an unwillingness to incorporate the better parts of each other into their own individual being. It made perfect sense when he thought about it, but perhaps that was the problem–Derek had to think about it. Relationships came so easily to Melody, but for Derek they were arduous and exhausting. 

Seven years had passed since they last stepped foot on this pier together, and every so often Derek would return, hoping she would be there, and he wouldn't be alone anymore. 

Turning up the collar on his windbreaker, Derek stepped off the wooden pier onto the gravel walkway towards the post his bicycle was using for a kickstand. As he approached, he noticed a crumpled piece of paper. It was pure white, like the kind you would find in an office copy machine. Derek scowled. He hated littering. Climate change was hard enough to combat without people tossing their refuse everywhere. In a huff, he snatched the paper off the ground and went to toss it in a nearby bin. However, curiosity took hold of him, and he opened the page.

"Follow me," was all it said.

A brisk gale plucked the paper from his hands and down a road running parallel to the ocean shore. Derek quickly jumped on his bike and followed. Such a peculiar message had piqued his interest, but he could not allow a piece of rubbish touched by his hands to roam free. The whizzing sound of rubber bike tires on damp pavement signaled the chase. The wind was at his back, saving Derek the bitter bite of winter's breath, but the page remained out of reach. A westerly gale forced the paper towards the town, and he had to make a sharp right turn onto a narrow sidewalk. Rear tire skidding, Derek rebalanced himself with his right foot and continued the chase. He crossed over a small intersection onto a two-lane street, a symphony of honking cars behind him. The town was small, with quaint mom and pop shops lining the streets, only two of which had stop lights. The cold weather had kept most of the townsfolk inside, but the few brave souls who ventured out looked at him with concerned faces.

As the chase continued, breathing became difficult, and his throat burned with the frostbitten air. The paper turned down another street, then another, until Derek found himself riding across the saturated, hazel grasses of a local park. In the middle of the scraggly trees sat an old man on a wooden bench. Derek watched as the paper came to rest at the man's feet. Huffing and puffing, Derek approached the man who was dressed in a winter coat, a brown flat cap, and earmuffs. He reached down with his fingerless gloves and picked up the page with a shaky hand.

Looking to Derek he asked, "Is this yours, sonny?"

Derek set his bike on the ground and clutched his chest, struggling to respond. "No... I chased...from...pier."

The old man, astonished, said, "You chased this all the way from the pier? That's a good three miles I reckon. Don't think I could've done that even in my younger days. Why don't you sit down and rest?"

Derek needed little convincing and plopped down next to the stranger.

"My name is Otis, by the way," the man said. "You can tell me your name in due time."

"Derek," was all he could muster.

The old man smiled. "Good to meet you, Derek."

They sat on that bench for a while, Derek catching his breath and Otis sharing all the things he had done that day. He shared about his wife Margaret who passed away seven years ago and how they would come to that park to feed birds and talk. Otis spoke about "the war", though he never mentioned which one, and how him and his old man would work on the Chevy every weekend. He filled Derek in on his last trip to the doctor, why the internet was no good for society, and how the number of robots calling his telephone has "gotten completely out of control". 

Derek listened without interruption, even after catching his breath. Otis was a registered Republican, a fact he proudly shared, and though he didn't disclose explicitly, Derek was certain he practiced the Second Amendment. Surprisingly, not once did Derek feel the need to correct the old man on his 'antiquated' philosophies. He just listened because Otis was talking.

Finally, Otis asked him, "What was so important about this paper that you chased it down for three miles?"

Derek had nearly forgotten. "For one, I hate littering, but the paper had an interesting message on it."

The old man looked at the paper, squinting, then handed it to Derek. "Here, sonny, I can't read without my glasses."

Derek took the paper back and stopped. His brow furrowed with confusion.

"What is it? Do you need your glasses too?" Otis joked.

"No," Derek responded softly. "This is a different paper than the one I was chasing, but I had it in my sights the whole way here!"

Otis asked, "What makes you think it's different?"

"Because the paper I followed read, 'Follow me', but this one says, 'Follow me to the end'. How can there be more words on the page?"

Before Otis could respond, a brisk wind snatched the paper out of Derek's hands and hoisted it above the trees. Derek jumped to hop on his bike, but when he looked up, he noticed the page had not been whisked away. It was simply floating, waiting.

"I think it wants both of us to follow," Derek said, though as the words left his mouth, they sounded insane. Otis apparently didn't think so, for he stood and followed Derek without question. 'A magical paper that floats in the air is enough of a reason for me to get off my ass' was how he put it.

Derek and Otis walked, albeit at a much slower pace, following the parchment which lazily floated fifty feet above their heads. Otis complained about his neck and back; he couldn't crane them to see so he was trusting Derek to keep his eyes on the magical letter. It took them several minutes to get to the edge of the park, though Derek didn't mind. The company was good, and it was easier to pull his bike alongside at their gradual clip. As they walked by the shops Otis would explain the history behind each one and why he would visit them.

"Margaret and I would go here to get candles," he said. "That building has been here for seventy years. Used to be a barber shop run by a fellow named Leonard. I'd get my haircut and a shave there once a month when I had hair. Only cost a buck seventy-five back in those days. Poor lad went out of business in the early 2000's. His advisor lost a lot of money betting on internet stocks. Don't think that fellow has practiced since. Leonard passed away just a few years before Margaret. Lived with his son, I think."

They kept walking and Otis kept talking, all the while the paper kept floating wistfully above them. As they approached a local pub, however, a swift gale pushed the paper out of the sky and through the open bar door. Otis and Derek followed inside.

The pub was dull and dark, with burgundy leather booths on the right and similarly distasteful stools at the bar on the left. The barman was nowhere to be found. In fact, there was only one person about. At the bar, clutching a glass of bourbon, was a well-dressed man in a dark coat. Next to him lie the paper. Otis and Derek approached him.

"Good afternoon," the man said politely. "Is this your parchment?"

Derek fumbled with his words, "Well, no–er–not exactly."

Otis chimed in, "This lad's chased this piece of paper from the pier, and I joined him an hour or so ago at the park. It's a magic letter."

The man looked at them with a peculiar expression. His clean-shaven face carried a slight frown and squinted eyes as he examined the strangers in front of him. After a few moments, his expression changed to a friendly and welcoming smile. “Come, sit and drink with me. I am interested in learning about two contradictory men who have spent their day following a piece of garbage.” The man shifted the letter over to the side and stuck his hand out towards them. “I am Lucius, pleasure to meet you.”

Otis and Derek followed suit with their introductions and sat down at the bar. Derek ordered a hazy IPA, and Otis a Shirley Temple. The three men spoke for a while and learned quite a bit about one another. Lucius divulged his relation to a moderately well-known family which had founded and invested in several oil and natural gas companies. Derek cringed at the thought, but when Lucius explained why he was down in this seedy bar instead of the east wing of their mansion, his heart went out to him. Apparently, Lucius had been cut off from his trust fund and any future estate, outside of property he already owned, because of an affair he had with a local doctor. Neither he nor the doctor were married, but it was the nature of the affair that drove his family to disown him, for the medical practitioner was also a man. He explained that his father, about Otis’ age, could not live with the thought of a homosexual son, and refused to share his wealth from that day on. Lucius kept in touch with a couple of siblings, though it was scant and secretive, as they feared similar repercussions. Since then, Lucius had been living by himself in a house up on the hill. The doctor stopped taking his calls about a year ago.

After this revelation, Otis and Derek felt able to share their stories as well, and the three men talked for several hours about love, loss, and life. If one were to listen from a corner booth, they would have heard grand stories, boisterous laughter, and soft tears. By the third round of drinks, their sustenance became the company of dissimilar men, and their liquor was replaced with the dopamine high of friendship. They had all forgotten about the letter. When their conversation came to an end, the three exchanged information, paid their tabs, and exited the bar together. The parchment lay open on the bar top, its crumpled page reading one complete sentence–

“Follow me to the end of loneliness.”