Dead Awake: The Last Crossing

  ***

  I arrived at Noelia’s house overheated and frustrated at the world. Against her mother’s request, I made my way to her bedroom and gave her a piece of my irate mind; but I shouldn’t have done that. My situation, after that, was much worse. All hopes for a quick makeup were again freshly scattered. She had thrown me out, screaming.

  I gave up and left, but only because I was so embarrassed in front of her mother. Otherwise my stubborn stupidity would have made me try to debate some sense into that girl. So, with a hanging head, I left embarrassed and still angry. It was in that manner that I found my way easily, with tail between my legs, to a nearby bar. The mother of all consolations.

  Needless to say, it didn’t take much to get through to my bad side. Immediately, the place got on my nerves. The whole island was annoying, and it was all Noelia’s fault. I couldn’t help thinking that this had been our first fight. My insides were churning, and the pit of my stomach felt hollow, for up till then I hadn’t imagined us getting into a real serious situation – one that could possibly have an effect on our relationship. The thought of losing her, although buried deep within, made me even madder.

  I tried to make some sense of it as I sat on a chair in that lonesome bar. What was she thinking?

  I wasn’t asking much of her, but what was she asking of me! She was demanding that I leave my life behind, and just live here. How ludicrous! Here, in this place! What was I supposed to do, live like lice on a pig without civilization?

  Then my mind turned with anger towards those people in the bar. I watched them and every second made me madder, looking at them and thinking of all their wasted lives. “Maybe she’d like it,” I said, speaking between my teeth, “if I were more like one of the slobs in this bar, all full of beer and smelly like a skunk. She could be happier with one of them, maybe, since she had so much to complain about.”

  I got more and more upset as I thought about those wretched men touching my Noelia. “How would she like it,” I went on talking to myself, “if she had to be with one of the men at this bar? I’m not such a bad man. In fact, I’m the best man for her! She would see this, if she were to think about it for a bit... If she makes the wrong choice about me she’s going to learn to regret it! Maybe then she’d recognize the big mistake she’s making; but it will be too late then. I’d be long gone, and she’d have lost her only chance at happiness. Maybe she’d ruin my chances too, but at least I wouldn’t be the one to blame for it.”

  “What does she want?” I muttered, “To stay in this third world country that is not even comparable to the USA? She thinks she can be happy here... She doesn’t know; she hasn’t seen. I know what is better for the two of us, and she is just going to have to trust me; if not, then she can stay here, on her stupid island, and live like a peasant! These stupid bums will treat her better than I...”

  Just as I was muttering those words, one of the bigger, uglier guys in the bar gave me a look that didn’t please. It wasn’t the kind of look that really expresses any kind of hostility, although to me it meant the man wanted to start something. Poor guy, he was probably just trying to acknowledge my existence. Unfortunately, for him, the mood I carried was enough to bring on an encounter.

  The bartender must have been alert and keen on my intentions. I was kicked out before I had a chance to release my fists on everyone there. Still, it wasn’t so easy to get rid of me. It took three other big guys, who were also on the alert, to throw me out. I could have stood them off, but I’d been drinking the beer like water, and my balance was long gone; so I found myself in a puddle, face down and full of mud. The barkeep yelled out some obscenities, telling me never to come back. It all served me well. Maybe I’d had enough to drink. Maybe it was enough to just go home and sleep. Maybe it was laid out for me in the cards... or maybe not.

  I played on the idea, but decided that I’d better take the safe route, before I got in trouble, and sway my way towards my room; when a thought came... It would be comforting to find one of those poems on my door at the moment. Sure, there was no reason why one shouldn’t be there. There had definitely been a major event, and now was the time when some newly written luck and direction could bring me out of this calamitous pit of despair.

  “Yes, there had to be one there!” I decided, and convinced myself that there was no way I’d be disappointed once I arrived at my doorstep. But as life and irony would have it, when I needed it most, it was not there.

  I approached the door and began to speak to myself with a very bad temper and a tongue that could do nothing but slur. “I see no note! Where is my letter? I don’t know what to do now. Why are these people trying to fool me? There’s been a note here every time I’ve needed one, and all the times when I didn’t want one, so where is my note now? They are laughing at me, these savages! Where is my poem?” I stumbled around like a clown, in search for the missing poem. What a sight I must have been, if someone were watching, tripping myself and falling face-first into the bushes as I desperately searched for the piece of paper that would fix my life.

  The surroundings seemed to shudder as I swung my fist in the air in demand for an answer from that unseen force that I felt was somewhere close. It was as if the person with the note was sitting down a short distance away, looking at me, taunting me. I threw my fist menacingly in the air again, because I almost knew he was there.

  “So where are you, you beast far from grace?” I continued shouting, promising that he would be sorry and that he’d have to pay. “If I could see you I’d murder you, do you know that? One less savage for this world! One less leach on society! Your kind should be put to death and not be allowed to suck off the substance of others. I should kill…” I trailed off. Conscience must have struck. My last words, to this unseen man, made me stop in my tracks and reflect on what I was saying.

  It was as if I was not only talking to this man in particular, but to the homeless, alcoholics, and addicts that lived in my own city back home. All the ones that I was so sick of seeing, coming up to my car to beg for some spare change. As I reflected on that, my thoughts made me shudder. My words sounded hideous, even to me. Did I really feel that way? I could imagine the bums and the homeless, with their beer and their walk, while I said and thought of those things. Surely it had been them that I was crying out to, as well as to this man that was so heartless at torturing me.

  Could I have meant all that I said? Had I been a hypocrite all this time, thinking of myself as a compassionate man? Had I gone to all those charity dinners in my life, just to promote my social status, in sight of all the upper-middle class society; or had I really been mindful to help those people that so desperately needed help?

  In any case, something had to be done about all those less fortunate people. They could not stay in the street all the time. I mean, their pathetic way of coming up to the cars, my car, and rubbing their grime and dirt on my windshield for one of my dollars. That was the real problem. I had to admit it. But what could be done? Was I really just the type of man that didn’t care particularly about them as people, but just didn’t want them near me? What had happened to me along the way? Was I one so selfish as that? No, that could not be me! I could not be such a person because I had always cared more than that; or at least I thought I had. Yes, I had always spent some time or money, to help them, although I must admit I had never gotten in and dirtied up my hands. That was when I had to dislike myself a little... I hate to see myself in the real light... It is hard to stand such truth.

  “It is all your fault, you thing!” My thoughts of self-analysis made me cringe, and therefore angered me, because it was his fault that had made me look at myself that way. “You are the cause, and I should kill you! You thing! You wretched thing of dirt!” I found myself actually shouting to that man, that hid somewhere in the shadows, and no longer to all the transients that had bothered me; but just at him... And a little at myself.

  My feet dragged down the dirt road in search of consolation. I had not e
xpected to find the man; I just wanted to shout at him. My arms were tired from the fistful-accusations, and my heart was heavy. I couldn’t go in to the room now. I had to think, so I walked on as the moon dragged a shadow across my path. The stars were glowing brilliantly, as they always do, away from civilization and smog. They were dancing tonight, but not with me. They waltzed in a merry flight across the constellations, always happy, always hopeful, looking down at us, but never really noticing our pathetic ways. Problems are so completely meaningless to them, in comparison to what lies in the path of their dance. These things I thought, as my feet shuffled along.

  There it was on top of me, dimming the brilliance of the lights in the skies, with all its artificial color, and blocking out all un-feigned beauty. A sign in neon-red that crossed the barriers of all language: Cantina! My feet had managed to take me to the only place where I might forget myself, and all my troubles, for another while. I knew it would only be an artificial numbing of my grief, but what did it matter? I was already pretty drunk anyway, and more would help me forget. Yes, it would all come back tomorrow, with twice it’s strength, but for today I could see my island in the sea of ease and glassy lull.

  It was a small cantina, not at all like the bars in New York. In fact it surprised me to see the electric sign. The owner must have been doing well enough to improve on his advertisement strategy. Of course, even in the poorest of places, you will never find a bartender who goes hungry.

  As I entered, hard smoke and the smell of liquor, hit my face. There were three barstools and a couple of tables with rough chairs, but no luxuries. No pool table, no darts, not even a fan to keep the mosquitoes off; but it didn’t seem that the mosquitoes were too interested in that crowd anyway. The men there had very rough features; almost puppet-like: deep, wrinkled, bulging eyes, with the same international feature that every wino has, the potbelly.

  Their clothes were torn in different places, but not quite as worn as a bum’s. Angry faces, probably angry at some other problem like my own, were the popular expressions. Some were sad, in their own grief, but most of them were mad at each other.

  One of the larger rougher men spoke out to me in a menacing way. “Oye che! We don’ts like yous Yankees here in our village. Why you no go home to your own sissy!” I’m sure he meant “city,” but that was excuse enough to let out my frustrations.

  Before I knew it, I was on top of the man, and we were both on the floor. His forehead was bleeding from either the impact on the floor, or my fist. I noticed more details than usual during the fight. Things got slower.

  I don’t know if it was because of the Spanish alcohol or from the adrenaline. Either way, twice as strong a man as I was now laying flat on the floor, getting pounced on. As we fought, the bartender snuck around and slammed a chair on my back. The impact made me fall back, as the man under me tried to gain his posture. But I wasn’t about to let him take the upper hand. Grabbing what was left of the chair (still in the bartender’s hands), I snatched it and grabbed the bartender’s throat. With foaming rage, I knocked out the bartender with one blow square to the temple, and then threw him with my legs across the bar.

  The man on the floor, that by now was beginning to stand, began to look mean again, so without measuring the risk, I rushed him headfirst. I’m not sure what the other three or four people around us were doing, but certainly no one else was getting involved. My memory after that point is a little foggy, except that I remember the other man never had a chance. I was on top of him again, with one fist closed and the other holding some hard object that had been produced out of nowhere. I proceeded to thrash upon him with my fist, and gave him an occasional devastating blow with the hard metal object.

  After two or three of these hits, the sides of his head were looking like a beaten cantaloupe, gushing with blood. I suppose one more hit would have killed the man. Luckily he stirred a little before I gave it to him; and that made me think he was on his way up in a final attempt to wallop me. I yelled to deny him his attempt, grabbed his collar (making me let go of the metal in my hand), and held him pressed against one of the round pillars that held up the bar.

  I wasn’t sure whether to choke or beat him, and went from one action to the other; insuring that any attempts at recovery would fail him. Maybe a little more of this and that would be the end of that man, but he started to cry just then. I didn’t see it at first, as my fist continued to land the blows, but it must have registered anyway. I had just picked up the metal and was about to land the deadly blow, when his tear fell and it stopped me in the middle of the action. It rolled down his rough wrinkled face like dew of a dying plant. He couldn’t have been more than forty, yet his wrinkles were deeper than a man of sixty, rougher than the leather from the jacket of a cowboy.

  I threw the object from my hands and screamed to him in anger, shaking him so hard that his blood sprinkled onto me. “I’m not going to kill you! You hear me! I’m not going to kill you! You’re going to live, you bastard! I’m not going to kill you!” I involuntarily slapped him again, although at this point I no longer was angry towards him. The shock must have been so scary that it made him start to cry like a little boy.

  I let go of him and went to pick up the bag I had brought in. Then I went to recover the last of my Spanish beer, took a sip, and then set it down. (All of this was done in the coldest of attitudes, that I can scarcely remember it being me). But then I realized what I was doing and threw the bottle down. I turned to the bartender and saw him lying (still unconscious but breathing), and relief ran through me. I sat there motionless as he regained consciousness and saw me. He tried to back away and hide under the bar ledge. I just felt sorry and turned to the other man.

  I felt a deep sorrow, as I looked, and hoped he would be ok. I knew he would, but who can take back something done out of hate? What can one say to someone intentionally harmed? In the middle of thrashing them, to realize you’ve done wrong and just say “sorry”? After such lunacy, what good could it do? I’m sure he was so scared of me by then that anything I tried to say would have only made him more terrified. I didn’t want to see that, or have him beg for mercy like a child, so I walked out of the cantina without another word to say. And finally, it was on the way to my room when my humanity hit, so I started to cry.

  I must have noticed the stars and their dance again... I thought about how earlier I had thought of all those things about them, looking up with a soaked face, and saw that they were still dancing without the slightest care to any of my woes. They had gone on, without me, through the fight and all, and hadn’t even regarded any of it. I thought of how much worse it was now. It could have been much better if I had just gone home before.

  Then there, on my door as I approached, hung the wrinkled note. For a second I didn’t know what it was. But then it hit me. It was the poem I had so eagerly anticipated earlier; but never received.

  Now there it was; soiled and wrinkled, as if someone had misplaced it, and later stuck it to my door. Maybe he had lost it, I thought; but when I read it I knew different. I could give no sympathy for a simple misunderstanding. The author had merely waited for the entire course of events to play out, so he could laugh and not warn. It was done on purpose.

  There was a skillfully buried explanation, in his poem. He had detailed the day so well, even down to the perfect description of my arrogance as I had entered the bar. All had been laid out. He had just wanted to wait till after, so that I could hate him – and I did... I began to hate the man.

  FIGHT

  Force feels through me as a vapor of hot steam

  Every melting rock of ice is useless in the struggle

  There is no straining,

  Like a whirlwind breaking wood

  Just a smoothing motion of volcanic clay

  Shame they show resistance

  Isn’t as they have a chance they might be persistent

  But as hot masses melt all will fall to fight

  Intelligence, a brass of work

/>   Freely giving of its considerable substance

  More than muscle of its own

  Arrow of a striking force with an eye for any target.

  If it stood before: now it stands, but penetrated

  Inhale It’s victory!

  Was there ever any doubt?

  But you had striking harmony

  The power shot from high, into your hand

  With all the Fight

  There is no Fall

  I clasped the note tightly as tears ran down my face. Again I screamed out to him, because I was sure he was watching and laughing at me now. “I am not like that, you bastard! I am not like that! I would not kill a man... I would not hurt him!”

  But as I yelled, the image of the badly beaten man came to my mind, as a small drop of blood dripped from off my forehead onto the poem.

  I put down my head in shame. I could no longer shout those words, only whisper them. “I am not like that... I would not kill... him.” The poem seemed to burn into my hand as a witness in contrast to those words. It felt as though it had been written and sent to judge me, and now was pronouncing that awful verdict on my character; so I spoke to it directly, as a man would speak to the jury for his defense. I spoke to it, and not to the man who had written it, as if the poem were an entity of its own.

  “I am not that way, I tell you! I will not fight to kill another man.”

  I crumbled the paper and cried for a while on the porch. There was nothing left to do that could change what had happened, so I went inside to sleep – to wait for tomorrow. Perhaps a better tomorrow.