Digging up the Past

The air burned like acid in the back of his throat. It was dryer than he remembered, denoting the fact that some things did, indeed, change. His cracked and comfortable leather boots scuffed up clouds of dust every time he took a step. The incline wasn't much to put the perspiration on his brow, the journey could do that alone. The sun was a merciless task master as it drove him to his destination. The trees looked as empty as his soul, barren of all life except for that stringent will to keep standing. Their position was the same; some things didn't change at all.

It took him an hour to find the spot he needed. Sometimes it took longer, other times shorter. There was no rush today. He saw the top of the great oak before he cleared the last rise. That one sight never drifted from its constant integrity. The branches were stretching out their ambitious behavior in twists and turns that led ever up and outward. There was no rhyme nor reason to their reach. Only limbs seeking the resources that their brethren have denied them in the cluster of family life. The grey and gnarled trunk was the massive head in which the twisted thorns sat. He smiled and waved at the ancient giant, as if a man could greet a tree like a long lost friend.

He shrugged his back pack from his shoulders. The weight had become heavier over the years. No matter how many times he told himself that he would not make the trip this year, he found himself thinking of the things he should add to his pack to make the trip this year easier for him. But this time he was adamant. He would not be returning. You can't keep going back to your past.

With one final look around, he situated himself under the bare branches of the giant oak. He took a sandwich from his pack. It was turkey on rye and as dry as the atmosphere around him. Each bite was accompanied by a deep swig of water from the large plastic bottle he carried. There was a time when he used a canteen, but he preferred the warm plastic taste of a bottle over that of sweaty socks by drinking out of an old canteen. He used to prefer something a lot stronger. The woman who made his sandwich at the cafe would have been inclined to give him a beer or two if he asked for it. She was the type of woman who gave freely with her conversation. Though he never gave her any indication that he shared that same trait. His replies were always of the one-syllable word category, or the occasional mumbling grunt; some women were blind to obvious dismissals.

He might have given her his name sometime in the past, but if he did he didn't remember the name. He had many names over the years, some good, others bad. It was the bad names that fit him the best. Perhaps the woman at the cafe assumed that having a name meant familiarity. As if you could own some part of a person by the simple fact that you know their name. Who the hell knows. He didn't care either way since all the names he used were false. Maybe next year he'll bypass the cafe and pack his own lunch for the trip. He shook his head at that line of thought. He wasn't going to be making the trip next year. This will be the last year; of that he was certain.

He finished his meal, again there was no rush. He placed the plastic bottle of water next to his folded knees. Wrapping the unfinished crust of his sandwich within the surrounding napkin, he placed the trash inside of a zip-lock bag to be disposed of later. He almost laughed at his careful observation of the law. What would it matter if he left the half-eaten sandwich out here in the middle of nowhere? But old habits died as hard as it took to kill him, and he was still breathing. Careful was now his middle name, followed by conservative and ordinary. The man he is now wouldn't dare leave any evidence of his presence. Even when you're at the crossroads of "Off-the-map" and "B.F.E.". And what would anyone say if they did come across his little display of litter? Would they shake their heads? Would they pick up after him? Would they point to the ground and curse him for his callous treatment of the environment? Would they know what was directly underneath their feet?

He leaned down and patted the dry, dusty ground. "I'm here, baby," He said. There was no one here to admonish him for speaking so openly to the ghosts that haunted him. There was no one around to listen to the embarrassment of his under-used voice. He needed to clear his throat. Picking up the water bottle, he took another swig, rinsing out the dust in his mouth. He attempted another word but chocked on the sound. His vocal cords refused to function properly. It was like a python wrapped around a nice juicy rat. He was strangling himself with the misuse of the muscle that had atrophied from his years of silence.

At one time he could command a room with the sound of his voice. He remembered that it was deep and as strong as his body had been. Men trembled before him, dreading the inevitable utterance that would set them free. There were a lot of freedoms in the world; but he specialized in the freedom from pain. There were also a lot of different pains in the world, and he was the expert on all of them.

He picked up a hand full of dirt from the ground and let the sand sift through his fingers. Surgical fingers, someone called them. He didn't know who it was that first spoke that title, but it seemed to stick to his personality like the lid to Super-Glue when it's not affixed to the tube properly. He liked it when his skills were compared to surgical precision. It was the closest he would ever get to being part of a profession. Not that he didn't think of himself as a professional.

He smiled at the inflection. Then he grabbed his head and shook it. No. He wouldn't go there. He wouldn't think that way. That path leads to the man he was running from. No more would his voice be used as a weapon of terror. No more would his hands be used to inflict and finally end the suffering of pain. Like so many other things in his life, he had killed that man. He did not relish the idea of that man ever returning to the world.

He opened his mouth again, saying, "I almost didn't come back for you. I know you hear it every time I visit, but this time it's for real."

Taking in a deep breath, he contemplated what he wanted to say. What he always needed to say. His boots made a parallel path in the dirt before him. It resembled a highway, his feet moving back and forth as the only traffic. Just as his mind drifted back and forth from his past then coming full circle with the now. These boots were the only thing about him he couldn't bring himself to change. Making them the same vehicles to ever travel this road. He loved his boots. Steel toed and sole plated, it was the only weapon he ever carried.

Well, not the only weapon.

He did have his pocket knife on him. It wasn't like the long blade of seven inches of blue steel that he had handled before. Nothing could compare to that shining piece of intimidation. How it could cut skin as easy as an afterthought. Point. Draw. Crimson line. He had been an artist with that knife. Not like the foreign made POS digging itself into his hide. That particular contraption was a sorry excuse for a knife. Barely two inches of cutting capacity, snuggled in a sheath which held a collection of emergency tools. As if there could ever be an emergency to open a bottle of beer.

He felt that small knife in his back pocket now. It was burning a hole through his yearning. He might not like the idea of owning such an inferior piece of steel, but it was steel nonetheless. All he could think of was pulling that blade from his pocket and running his finger over the sharpened end. He would close his eyes and savor that smooth glide of pain as it cut into you. You don't feel it at first...the pain. The body has a way of denying such sudden intrusions. But you feel it when the red comes. When oxygen is introduced to the corpuscles, making the nerve endings scream with synapses. He knew all too well what a blade could do to make a statement, send a message, or just to pass idle time.

"Surgical fingers," He said as he looked at his empty hands. "They never understood that fact, baby. They always looked at the knife. They were always afraid of the knife when they should have been afraid of the man."

After all, it was his hands that were his greatest weapon. He didn't have to worry about checking them onboard of an airplane. He didn't have to state the fact that he was carrying them if - by chance - he was pulled over by the authorities. They are an unlisted lethal deterrent that is always a part of him.

He looked at them now. Scarred with swollen knuckles that equated with a man who fought for a living. Well, it wasn't a living; it was more like trying to live. The one thing he couldn't stand nor understand was that darn saying: "Know it like the back of my hand." He didn't know the back of his hand worth shit. Every time he looked at his fingers, palms, or that area on the other side, it was like looking at a whole new map of his life. Sure, some of the larger scars - the ones that you couldn't miss for looking - he could point to and say, "Yeah, I got this sucker at a bar near San Jose." But he couldn't say that for all the nicks, cuts, burns, and scrapes that he's received over the years. Hell, each time he looked at his hands, there was always something new. There was always that mystery of where he had received such a grievous injury. There was always some missing point of his past. He liked it that way. He already knew he was a bad man who did many bad things. He didn't need to remember all of his actions. He appreciated the holes in his memory, even the ones that created a road map across the back of his hand. They were better left forgotten.

He rose to his feet, pacing a six-foot trench as he followed his aggression. He kicked his backpack. He cursed at the tree. He destroyed the highway he had built. This wasn't his intention. He wasn't here to bring up the past. If only he could rid himself of his former life like he did of the simple objects that were strewn in his way.

"I'm trying!" He yelled out. "God knows I'm trying, baby. But I don't think God ever did look out for me. I've got the devil in my shadow, and I'm wearing the chains to hell around my neck."

He fell to his knees. A brief touch of wind swept passed his face. The only reason he felt it was because of the water on his skin. Naw, he didn't cry. his hands - the devil's hands - rose up to wipe off the residue, leaving dirt tracks on his cheeks.

"I'm not made for a suit. My day ends when it should've begun. Seven jobs, baby. I've went through seven jobs that fit my skin like a snake looking for a new one. They don't fit. None of them fit. I could be in a yellow vest with a hard hat, or some coveralls and a broom, and I'd need to shed them as soon as I put them on."

His hands made contact with the ground once more, but this time he did not remove them. It was as if he was touching her just by placing his palms on the dust that lay three feet above her. He closed his eyes.

"I'm here, baby," He repeated. "I'm here, but you're always there. Always in my head. I was a man with you, only ever with you. I pretend to be someone else, but you know how bad my acting is. And it's just that, acting. Putting on another man's face so I can get through the day. And just like all of those jobs I took up, none of the faces make any since to me. I can't...I can't take it anymore!"

He started to rub his hands back and forth, like he did with his boots earlier. But this time he was picturing her. How she felt beneath his fingers. Making his way across her straight lines, her narrow curves. Have the years been kind to her, or were her bones as barren as the landscape around him? He needed to know.

He started scratching the ground. The indention became a hole, the hole became a desperation. Never before had he gone this far. But this would be the last year...he was certain of that fact.

"I can't forget my past, baby," He cried as he dug. "I look at one thing and it tells me of who I was. I can't even get rid of my boots! What kind of man buries the thing he loves the most but holds onto his boots?"

He was on his knees now, widening the hole around him. His fingers hit a rough patch of hardened earth, breaking and pealing back his nails to the quick. He didn't care, he didn't even feel it as his blood soaked into the dry ground making muddy spots of humility. She was fighting him back with every drop of effort he spilled onto her grave. Was this a sign? Was she trying to tell him to go back - face the man he had promised to be?

"Don't make me stop, baby!" He screamed at her. "I need this...I need you!"

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the pocket knife. Using the ruined nubs of his fingers, he opened the blade. With a tool in hand he redirected his efforts and stabbed at the dirt, opening more ground to his mutilated fingers. He was huffing now, his lungs working over their limit to bring oxygen to his deprived limbs. He knew he should have given up smoking the same way he gave up so many other things. But that was his safe zone. It was a habit that was as regular as watching television. No one ever pointed a finger at a smoker and said, "You are evil. I know what you did!"

Every ordinary character on the street could light up and not be accused of being a monster. Unless you came across some "Save the Whales" fanatic who was concerned about the atmosphere. They would walk by and sneer at him. Some even stopped only to spout out some nonsense of "I don't wanna die from your second hand smoke." That was all well and good as he would turn around and offer them a cigarette so they can die of the first hand variety.

The truth was, he had tried to stop. He would go a few months without lighting up until that one day when someone would be taking a smoke break and he would get a whiff of the haze inducing cloud that broke down his reserves. He compared it to the smell of coffee; the rich, dark aroma of a legalized drug as addicting as nicotine. He had seen men fight while lined up to get their fix for the day. No one ever fought him for his last smoke.

Yeah. Well. He was regretting it now as he panted to the point of fatigue. He had to stop to catch his breath. Reaching for the large bottle of water, he drank deeply and poured a good amount over his scorched skin.

"You're making this difficult, baby," He hissed between breaths. He looked down onto his progress...at least he was making progress.

"You know it's the ink," He said as he continued to control his breathing. "It's the tats that give the tale. I can try to hide them in long sleeves, but every once in a while they peek out." As if the colorful decorations on his skin had a mind of their own. The variations of anger that marred his flesh spoke for themselves. They were just as animated as he was. Just as angry. It was why people offered him a smoke in the first place, because they expected him to accept it.

He took off his long sleeves now. There was no point in hiding his story. He needed the air against his arms more than he needed the sweat soaked shirt he wore as a mask. He bent down and started to dig once more.

"I'm almost there, baby. Hold on for a little bit longer," He told her.

His back ached with muscles straining to acquiesce to his demand. He didn't stop. He couldn't stop, not now when he was so close to achieving his goal. His hands were working furiously, scratching and scraping against the earth. Digging to such an extent that they became the claws of an animal. He always knew he was an animal. No human would have ever done the things he did.

He stabbed down with the knife, which had dulled to a shiny piece of flak. Punching, then pulling...pulling, then punching as he worked his way down to hell. And that was when he heard it. That hollow thump that reverberated up his arm. It was the sound of a man reaching his destination. It was the sound of victory.

Breathing in and out of his mouth, he gave our a whimper of levity upon every exhalation. Joy infused his tired limbs. He scrambled to wipe the dust off of the face of his retribution, crawling back and forth to remove the remaining barrier of dirt that dared to force his hand. Revealing the truth of his life in slow increments as he brushed away that last bit of his false persona.

He moved his fingers to the edges of the box, clearing the debris from the lid. He tucked his fingers amongst the gap between spaces and - using his legs - he pulled with all of his might. Unlike most of the things in his life, the lid gave way easily.

There was a smile on his face as he looked down. His mouth was twitching erratically with the features, almost as if the nerve endings of his happiness had atrophies along with his voice.

He had forgotten that he had placed his leather jacket upon her bones. It was just another part of his past that he left behind him. But it was the only thing he owned which was good enough to cover her. He reached down, his skinless hand gripping the soft cow-hide, remembering the many hours spent in lavishing the leather with oils in order to make it so pliable. He brought the jacket up to his nose and inhaled the scent of his pride. Nothing in the world would ever come close to this smell, this feeling of belonging to something greater. He threw the leather jacket over his bare shoulders, his arms slipping into the sleeves like the embrace of a lover. It fit.

"None of them ever fit me before nor since, baby," He said. "Like a snake looking for a new skin."

And with a finality that was as inevitable as digging up his past, he looked down into the hole he had unearthed.

...And there she was.

"Hello, baby," He whispered, letting his eyes peruse those luscious curves that he remembered all so well.

The years have been - indeed - kinder to her than they were ever to him. She was beautiful. She was sinful. She was the epitome of his downfall and his salvation.

Six-feet of chrome and steel. Massive, 110 cubic inch, V-T engine. Exhaust pipes that burned hotter than the fires of hell, and two tires that ate up the asphalt as if hungering for more road than the world could offer.

The sun was setting by the time the pulleys and ropes had brought her out of her grave. He had to make a few adjustments to get her to purr. But once she did...

She roared with her presence. She made a sound that woke up the dead. It was a sound that screamed out, "Get the fuck out of my way!"

He was laughing as he pulled away from the great oak. He left behind the things he used in his other life. The backpack, the large water bottle, the pocket knife, and his long sleeves shirt were left in a trail of dust as he blazed down the path that he had walked upon for years. It wasn't a beginning - it was a re-birth of the man who he was meant to be.

His right hand twisted the throttle, accelerating onto the pavement...screw the phrase "Like a bat out of hell" because he was the mother-fucking devil himself, burning the bridges of his captivity of careful, conservative, and ordinary.

And he had places to go.

People to see.

One thing was for sure. He wouldn't be making this trip next year. Of that he was certain.

The End