With You On Division Day

With You on Division Day

By Ryan R. Latini

And you are telling me that you’ve never stolen a man’s wallet—not even a lady’s purse?

Yes, I do think it strange. I’m the type of creature—from my youth, my father called me a creature, you see—that would steal a man’s wallet and then help him look for it. That is how my father described me to people.

So, not a thief?—Then I assume it was by playing your cards right that you came to live under this bridge?

A wise ass? No. No, boy—wisdom did not get me here either. The cars pounding the roadway there—that rubber slap against the expansion joints—that never gets to you? Wake up, son. It is not polite to drift when your elders are speaking.

Are you Scandinavian? A Norseman? They believe in trolls under bridges and the like. It has never been trolls, you see—nothing so exotic. Just men like me—creatures like me and you.

Yes, you too. The rabbit hole and the looking glass are often one and the same. We are too much the same man. Your self-portrait or autobiography would blend you with every other troll.

Your depression and misfortune? Give me a break. That is your one-of-a-kind saving grace—your birthmark?

I doubt it. Your forearms and the backs of your hands tell a different tale. It’s like bruised brail—a brail I do not need to touch to read.

Are you a voodoo doll then? A pincushion? A Seurat canvas? He would never stipple such sadness.

I don’t want an answer, son. It’s the middle of the night and I’m under a Camden bridge with the likes of you—you think I came here for answers?

Don’t shy away.

No—I‘m not from the Needle Exchange—no—not NJ SOS Outreach. I am a hotline of sorts—it’s a curse—the phone is always ringing.

Indeed. I wouldn’t have stopped to talk to you if I didn’t have something to relate. It is what I do.

Me? I’m a floater across your eyeball—a thread, a cobweb, a handful of dust. I was just floating down Newton Creek on my back, saw you sleeping—well that’s not entirely true—I saw your aura. Your wretched glow drew me in.

Yes an aura—it would mess up nighttime air traffic if you weren’t sleeping under this bridge.

Well, then forget that business about auras. Let’s just say I know my audience. You must always know your audience. You wouldn’t go around Ethiopia if you were a dinner bell salesman. Would you wander among pygmy tribes in the Congo Basin to find just the right place to open a big-and-tall men’s boutique?

Precisely. That’s why I chose you. You are my captive.

Oh—really? I know the dealers in this neighborhood and—

You don’t think so? You aren’t going anywhere. This is the Morgan Boulevard Bridge, correct?

So, you could walk up the Boulevard, make a left on Olive Street, a right on 8th Street, and get fixed up at 8th and Tulip—correct?

Who’s out there at this hour—the Spanish or black boys?—Not a damn soul. That’s who. We both know it. Even the dope man has a home and a family to go to.

Ok, then why don’t you get up and go? Your sickness is just setting up shop in your bones and your meat.

It’s warm for April, so why are you shivering?—It has been said that April is the cruelest month. I think the man was right.

Influenza? I think we both know that’s not the case. No one will answer your call at this hour. You have at least three hours until the Spanish boys get back on their corner. Why don’t you just settle back down on your pallet there? Pull up your tarpaulin. There. Tuck it under your chin. Just try and enjoy the company. We know neither one of us can leave.

I know.

Yes, sure it hurts. It will feel like you are one rack too close to the coals, while at the same time, someone is injecting your veins with glacial melt. Just a few more hours. Hang in there, son.

Do you think when they constructed that pallet that they ever imagined it would become a man’s bed?

A human should not have to feel this way, it’s true. But don’t fret. That is no longer your race.

The human race of course. The race is run. You haunt now—it’s what we do. You’ll exist at strange hours, much like you do now. You are like me, you see? You float through streets and alleyways and beneath bridges—it was never trolls, like I said— at witching hours, pitch black hours, and hours of burning sun—all hours.

Jesus Christ, am I not being clear? Are you just a dunce? Is that it? Are you not sick and tired of the clock’s hands punching your face? It’s cruelty, pure and simple. I’ve said that from the beginning. It’s like father sending you to your room and at the end of the allotted punishment, you open your door and it leads where—back to your room. Again and again. Wherefore I praised the dead which are already dead more than the living which are yet alive. Yea, better is he than both they, which hath not yet been. Terrifying, you see?

No, it’s Ecclesiastes.

I’m talking about—I don’t know. I’m sorry. I am a bit of a zealot in these matters—I apologize. I have my own angst I wrestle with. You are fighting back cold sweats and diarrhea, while I am fighting back—resentments I suppose. Father toiled in the sun, drank through the twilight, and disappeared behind his eyelids—the starlight was too bright perhaps. That’s what mother said.

Your father was an addict? Interesting. You think this is some genetic bonus infused in your marrow at conception? A gift from the great I Am?

Of course it hurts. Of course you are sick. You have no home except this bridge. No bed but this pallet. You are not in, nor are you out. Am I right?—You are decapitated by the threshold—you see? Am I hitting close to home?

Wake up cocksucker. Open your eyes.

There’s no I Am that I Am. There’s only I and I. The Rasta’s have it right. But back to your genetic predisposition—what does the smith forge first: the lock or the key? Is it the tumbler and cylinder first? Or is it that jagged, toothy key that gives the lock its meaning?

Don’t look at me for an answer. I’m just a lost little baby like you—that infantile swirl—it’s all around. I goo and gaa with you.

The devil? Stop it with that devil stuff—trolls and the like. It was always us. Have you learned nothing? Have you been listening? I and I. It was always us, spinning impressions with light against walls like some boogiemen dandies. It is mere proximity for us—do you follow?

Infantile—yes.

Oh, you have a baby girl.

Libby? Lovely. How old?

That’s the perfect age. She is probably tucked in at this hour—tucked in long ago—no?—A story has been read? Who read the story?

Molly—that’s a lovely name. Married?

Oh, well in due time. So—her story—Libby’s story has been read, Molly has kissed her forehead, the hall light has been left on, and little Libby’s door left ajar? Am I right?

Molly probably says—what—goodnight Love—or Doll or Darling?

Angel? Oh, I do love that. Angel. Goodnight Angel.

What does Libby like?

The circus, really?

The animals and magicians and acrobats are fascinating. She probably shuts her eyes, but does she drift off right away?—Does she ever dream bad dreams?

Calm—calm now! Lean back, boy. You are just a bit sick. Turn your head so you don’t choke. Oh, don’t be embarrassed, just a bit of spittle. Infantile. It’s not you—it’s that—that swirl we’re in. You’ll be fixed up right in a few hours.

Libby, does she drift off right away?—Well, think. Back when you were allowed to live in the house—before Molly gave you the boot—presumably, of course, with all due respect.

Of course I’m right. We are not snowflakes boy. You are not a snowflake. A dime-a-dozen man. You could hear her feet in the hall I bet, running to lie in the cozy valley between you and Molly.

Indeed.

Oh, no. The boogeyman? Is that who she would fret about?—Frightful. What have I told you about boogeymen and trolls and devils?—It is not some unsolvable riddle meant to stump baby girls in rabbit holes.

She’s checking under the bed for you. Dunce. Molly is checking the locks on the doors and windows because of you. She has probably checked them twice since we’ve begun our talk—awoken, just to check the locks. It is us—you—it always was. Say it. Say, I am The Junkie—The Dead-Already—Libby’s Boogeyman.

Of course I’m right. I’ve been at this for a while. I’ve been under bridges before. In governor’s mansions. In palaces, too. I must say, the palaces were my favorite. I bet you imagine your home with Molly and Libby as a palace, a castle, a kingdom from which you were exiled.

And if only you could get back in—yes—you would be fine. Molly would be fine. Libby would be fine. I think we know that’s nonsense. I think we know that’s just pearls on a pig—mountains on the moon. I’d give you a week, tops. Then, you would start asking too many questions—questions are poison for us—like, what if this all leads to ruin?

I think you know by now that I don’t care much for the rotten, ego-stink of debate. Let’s look at the facts. Heroin always works—it is not theoretical. Swallowing the barrel of a pistol—it is not theoretical. That bridge up there, at mid-span, seventy feet or so, wouldn’t you say? Gravity is not a theory—or is it—I can never remember. These are all the facts we have, dear boy, among the darkness.

Well, if you think you could get it together for them and make it last, then we’ll take a look. The moon is a bit too low, but the sun will start its climb in a few minutes. Let’s go down to the stream and take a look at you. I don’t know how to relay to you what I’m seeing—I can’t map it back to you. We are too much the same man.

Come, you’ll be my little Narcissus. Steady now.

Oh, I know. Try not to think of those joints and shoulders and hips of blown glass.

Yes, you can always lean on me, but not right now. Let me walk ahead.

Soon enough now. I think all the hookers have left the banks down there. Watch your step now. Did you see the man come through in the leather jacket earlier?

Yes. I saw him down there too—sitting on a milk crate on the muddy bank, a mess of blonde hair in his lap. Ain’t love swell, I had said to him when he walked out. I didn’t see where that poor girl ran off to. Off to rinse her mouth in the stream most likely. Water cleanses everything, my boy. The souls of babies. The hoods of Chevys. The brake dust in the gutter. A lantern would be mighty useful right now.

Rinse those arms. Of course it’ll sting. Liable to get a blood infection, though.

You’re just another feverish pincushion to them—no doctors. Doctors can’t see from where people like us are bleeding. We’ve got a special sort of wound—require a special sort of triage. When they can’t see your wounds, they’ll always put you at the end of the queue. Now rinse those arms.

Yes—maybe I was wrong about the water. But we shall see. We’ll be fine. You need sleep for starters. It looks like there is coal dust around your eyes. You look like a chimney sweep.

Oh, Libby likes “Mary Poppins” does she?—Chim, chim, cher-ee—ha!

My reflection?—Don’t trouble yourself about my reflection. This is all there is. Go ahead, wave hello. Have you ever wondered what would happen if a Siamese twin on the right painted a self portrait—would he include the twin on the left?

Never mind. This stream has a lovely trickle just the same—the rocks arranged just right.

Right through your backyard? This very stream or another tributary?

How about that. A rope swing or a tire swing?

Oh, I bet she loves that.

Indeed. A half-mile upstream then?—The sun’s up just enough now, so I bet we could see it.

No, the bridge, boy. Imagine the vantage. Chim, chim, cher-oo.

Yes, it is a rather lovely song. When there’s hardly no day, nor hardly no night, there’s things half in shadow and halfway in light. Sing. It will distract you from your pain on our walk up the bank. On the bridge-tops of New Jersey, coo, what a sight. Let’s get up there and have a look.

I don’t see her rope swing. Perhaps farther out near mid-span. What do you see out there?

What’s to be seen?—Well, Libby’s swing is upstream, and we both know what’s downstream. Camden’s skyline is a sad sight. I think it’s El Dorado, just stripped of shadow—Sir Walter Raleigh and such—these things always end the same way. I just hope Libby is content in cities of brick and never sets off looking for cities of gold—like we did.

Yes, yes. Watch your step, the rivet bumps plus the dew make for tricky navigation.

We won’t be coming down this time—you know that?

The only thing that’s carried you down safely in the past is when those sharp talons of need picked you up and carried you gently to the dope corner. Not this time. Right?

You can’t keep getting better, going home, and going back out—that sloppy coitus of coming and going only wears out the household. It’s so easy to disappear, so just be content in that. You’ve been practicing disappearing—now do it perfectly.—Reappearing, that is a team effort. It’s out of your hands. We know this.

Just a bit farther, boy. This should do the trick. The water is shallow there, you see? You’ll crack nicely on those rocks. Hurry now, the sun is rising.

Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll meet you down there with the catfish and the sediment and the runoff. I’ll be right behind.

Yes, those are blackbirds flying by—grackles actually. Their iridescence—lovely. Shut your eyes. One more step. You’ve been up here twenty times.

Don’t worry how I know, I just know. Just a little step. We’ll do it perfectly.

Let it be the first thing you’ve ever done perfectly.—Libby, yes, I bet she is perfect. Let this be the second thing then.

Oh, I don’t need to hold on. I could dance on these beams. Just step. It’s a blink—a mere blink.

I promise it’s soothing.

You’ll be just fine.

No, you can’t go back. You’ve tried that. Again and again and again.

Picture Libby on her rope swing. Over the stream. Over the land. She’s back and she’s forth.

You’re already flickering—a celluloid projection.

No, it’s ok. A measly flicker, a gaslight flame. Stop thinking and do.

They’ll be just fine—better even.

Chim, chim cher-ee.

It’s too late—you won’t even fall. You’re a whisper now—too light to fall. Chim cher-oo. Either shut your eyes or focus on the grackles. Their beating wings are a timpani roll—you’re high atop center ring—it’s a circus. Libby is in the crowd, somewhere, yes, munching caramel corn, waiting for her father to finally do something perfectly.—Yes.