Locked Out
Written for the Whetstone Society in January 2023
“Ok, I’m about to walk in the door, call me when you get in.” He hung up the phone, worked it into his pocket and pulled his backpack around to his chest. As he reflexively reached into the small pocket, his rifling lacked a distinct rattling metal ring.
He hurriedly leaned downward to pat each thigh, but found only the smooth rectangle of a phone and bump of a small wallet. He looked down and lightly bit his tongue. He put the backpack on over his other shoulder and tossed his head from one side to the other.
It was still early and there was nowhere to be. He turned and walked down the hill. The fading light cast the mess on the street in greyscale, complicating his delicate dance to keep his shoes clean.
A mass of cloth and detritus shifted in a nest blocking a now-shuttered waffle shop. Another lay motionless in a parklet, legs spread out onto the sidewalk, head crammed against the wall.
Moving downhill against the flow of uniform commuters immersed in their own stories, a small black flurry came to rest on a ledge. It looked at him, and made to fly away.
“Do you have a cigarette?”
He turned around. A hunched, cold figure wrapped in soiled blankets appeared from the dim street.
“A cigarette.” As if controlled by strings, the figure pantomimed raising swollen fingers to cracked lips.
“Sorry, I don’t”.
The figure stepped forward. “Go to hell,” and spat.
He exhaled and walked on.
“Hey, hey, where are you going?”
He didn’t look back. The figure faded to black as he headed on.
With broken glass crunching under his now-soiled shoes, he reached a neon beacon that read “Tunnel Top.” Pulling the door open just wide enough to slip through, he followed his feet into the warm glow of the bar.
He picked a high seat with a low back at the counter and motioned to the bartender.
“Your cheapest lager?”
With a nod, the bartender moved to the back of the bar, took a frosted glass from a chest freezer, and pulled the wooden tap handle to let flow the light, gold beer. The bartender returned an overfull glass and set it down on the counter with a knock, the foam spilling over.
“Thank you.” He wiped away the thawing frost and watched the foam recede. He found peace in the cold glass against his hands. The soft light and smooth rush of his drink felt familiar. It felt good.
Before he had fully let go, before he shed the weight of the day, he felt a buzz on his thigh. Leaning back, he pulled out his phone.
“I’m home, where are you?”
He set it down and looked back to his beer, intent to finish what he started.
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