A Harbor For Jack

“Suffering. Ah, hell. All suffering. All loathing or pity. Damn shame…”

“Damn dames.”

“What?”

“I was finishing your bit.”

“My what?”

“Your bit.”

The two men looked at eachother, heat clouds leaving their nostrils, like exhaust from little trains.

“Ah, hell.” Hank threw his hands out in dismissal and turned away from Jack. In front of Jack was Hank’s back cloaked with a ratty peacoat, covered in grime. In front of Hank was a wet path littered with trash of all kinds and at the length of three dumpsters away was supposedly the end of the alleyway; but before the supposed end was a manhole raising a thick curtain of steam. The curtain reached out to the rooftops of the nine story tenements. The nine stories were always full of restless tenants, screaming madness or begging for mercy or scolding the mad and the beggars altogether. Although it was never quite apparent as to what exactly the neighbors were upset about, the cries and distress are what tethered the neighborhood together.

“O, hell. O, suffering. All loathing or pity. Damn shame. Damn dames never batting an eye for my beating drum heart…”

“What are you doing?” Hank turns back to Jack.

“You like it? I’m finishing your bit.”

“For cuntssake Jack! It’s not a fucking bit. It’s not a goddamn poem…”

“Sure it is.”

No! No it’s not. It’s life. MY LIFE! MY SHIT STINKING LIFE IN THIS SHIT FUCKING CITY WITH SHIT FUCKING PEOPLE! ALL THERE IS TO IT!” Hank pulled shut the opening of his coat. There were brown rings of scab at the edge of his nostrils with semi-dried snot blocking up the rest of itself from dripping into his ashy mustache. He then pulled his dark red beanie down to his black caterpillar eyebrows. The faintest whistle whined through his breathing and was shortly followed with a sniffle of snot back upward then down again like some kind of Sisyphus mucus. He’d wipe away the runnyness that slipped through the crusty barrier with the back of his hand, sometimes breaking the scabs, leaving a snail trail of blood and boogers on his cotton gloves.

Jack watched the heat coming off of Hank and sank into his seat, there on a stack of old newspapers. He breathed on his hands and rubbed them together. He looked up at a midnight sky with a chestnut hue burrowed between clouds holding rain that could flood the earth, yet never letting go of a single drop. Jack set his tongue behind his teeth and tried not to think of water. He looked away from the sky and the floor had a puddle of pavement sweat, reflecting the warm light coming from the streetlamp on the other side of the road. He began bouncing his heel and pushed his head into the palms of his clammy hands. His second heel joined the other then he let out a chuckle.

“Oh man, oh man.” He lifted his head and shook in disbelief of the circumstances and then crossed his arms and leaned over his knees.

“With nights like these, huh?” He looked back over at Hank.

“What?”

“With nights like these…”

“With nights like these, what?”

“It’s just…” Suddenly the wales of a siren bounced off the buildings and an ambulance barreled past the alleyway. “It’s just that I feel like with nights like these… the breeze sets in heavy, ya know?”

“The fuck are you on about?” Hank huffed and a cloud puffed above his beanie, “Nevermind. I don’t care. Just shut up so we can sleep.” He pressed his shoulder against the brick wall and a cockroach scurried in Jack’s direction. The roach paused a moment at eye level then began again hurrying around the corner of the apartment building. Jack watched enviously then a quarrelling couple, a few floors up screamed at one another and the echoes of crashing glass joined in the noise pollution, shortly thereafter. Hank pulled his beanie as far down as he could, stretching it to the end of his mustache. This made Jack think of when they first met, on the docks.

“Hey, Hank.” He began.

“What.” Hank muttered from his throat, still holding his beanie over his face.

“Over at the Green Sea, you said you hated the ocean but then you also said you were a sailor by nature. What’d you mean by that?”

“I don’t remember that.” Although he did.

“It was the Green Sea, I was looking for grass and I wandered to the beach, ya know? ‘Cause I was sure I’d find a ‘wave catcher’ or a ‘long hair’ that could hook me up. But, then I found you at the docks…” Another loud crash had come from upstairs and then a mug made its way to its’ bitter end at the center of the alley way into the puddle of pavement sweat, rippling the reflection of a dying streetlight across the road. A shard of the mug landed at Hank’s feet, who then stood up after having grabbed the porcelain shaking it at the upper level.

“HEY! PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO SLEEP HERE!” The couple went quiet for a second then a man’s voice yelled back.

“HEY FUCK YOU!”

“NO, FUCK YOU”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

“NO, YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Hank clenched the piece of mug so hard his palms began to bleed through his gloves. He clenched his jaw so hard he could hear his teeth like they were rocks pressed against window panes.

“SOMEBODY WANNA DIE TONIGHT!?” The man upstairs shouted.

“I’M RIGHT HERE MOTHERFUCKER! CMON! DO ME A FAVOR! COME GET ME!” Hank looked around for the right shadow to peek out the window but instead it just got quiet. The street lamp flickered and a buzz could be heard whining from the bulb. The cries and distress are what tethered the neighborhood together. Hank sat back down and tossed the piece of mug into the street.

“...Hank?” Jack called softly. He watched as the steam seemingly subsided from the top of Hank’s head.

“I don’t know, kid…” His voice tightened. “That was a goddamn lifetime ago…Now shut up so I can rest.”

He’d spent so long sleeping ever so close to the gutters that he’d convinced himself that it had always been this way because it was easier. Right?

To remember that things were better- before- That life was better-before- To accept such an idea would mean that one has gone over the hill and naturally from there, it descends. But on the contrary, If it had always been bad then there would still be time. Right? You know, for the arc? There has to be an arc. Right?

“So, stupid.” Hank thought to himself. “This ain’t some stage play. This is life…” And as far as the old man was concerned he had never had an arc. There would never be an arc. The very idea of such romanticism belonged to Jack’s world. A world full of fantasy; a world full of horrible paintings with beautiful sonnets written at the bottom. But this wasn’t Jack’s world, Hank thought. This was the real world. As real as it gets. No sonnets. No songs. No poems. Just survival. Just garbage. Just the inevitable weight of waiting to die, depressing a mere existence. Just depression and maybe a brown paper box he had carried for some time then lost or more so let go of because the burden of such blessings never made up for the curse.

Two years ago an ocean breeze rolled in and the waves kamikazed themselves onto the shore. Seagulls laughed like a gang of cackling jesters soaring over the beaches full of people packing up their towels and coolers. The sun was ready to clock out early. It had been a long day. The highway traffic had finally died down now that all the seashells had been plucked from their resting place. The restaurants’ kitchens were closing and the fish that remained in the tanks were thankful to their fish lord for having made it another day without being served up on a plate before a big fat grin reeking of bloody marys. The beach cruisers and sedans vacated the lots.

This was a typical evening at what the general public recognized as The W. Horn Harbor, but the locals (which mostly consisted of vagrants and short term apartment residents) nicknamed it the Green Sea. This neglected beach strip was really a dying, glorified fisherman’s wharf. The “fresh fish” restaurants made their business off of middle class cash that paid for an ocean view. The natural view was washed out by beachgoers and rusting boats and when the evening settled in, all that would remain in the coming hours would be the leftover riff raff, either drunk off their asses or sun scorched looking for a fix or maybe just a basket of french fries.

However, it was the seasoned vagabonds that would be tucked in by the sand, beneath the boardwalk. Among these veterans of misfortune was Hank. He sat down there with his heels dug in and beside him was a beat up brown paper box with a stamp on the side, reading “Vincent’s”. The bottom of the box developed a darker shade as a result of dried liquids settling in; aging. And the bums napping with their heads in the sand beside him laughed with madness and others dug shallow holes to piss in. One passed a bottle of wine and hiccupped. “Here, here. Take this.” Hank took the wine and liberally gulped until some of the red leaked from the corners of his mouth.

“Ay! Hey, cmon! ‘Less you sharing what’s in that box…” The bum plucked the bottle from Hank’s eager grip while the blood of aged grapes dripped down to his chin and with drunken grin, stained teeth and lips, Hank stood up then started howling like a hound. The ocean called back with echoes of waves crashing in hopes of being reborn. The sky was torn with subsiding light from the sun and dark clouds full of The Almighty’s tears. Hank went on howling then undid his zipper and set the box at his feet as he relieved himself.

“You see those high tides out there? You know what that means? It means it’s time…” Hank began.

“Time?” Another vagrant responded.

“That’s right.”

“Time for what?”

Hank let out a wild laughter, buckled his pants and went on. “It’s time to get drunk! Get drunk! Get drunk and never pause for rest! With wine, poetry or with virtue as you choose! AHHOOO!” He hollered then held the box above his head like it were a newborn son of kings. “Baudelaire, anyone? No? Ah, forget it. There’s a bottle here” He swiped the wine and allowed himself a hefty swig. He shook his head and laughed then leapt and kicked sand around until his neighbors shooed him off. “Move on you crazy sombitch.”

So, our seasoned vagabond made his way to the upper level and there on the docks was a young couple strolling shoulder to shoulder, making their way to the end of the line and the beginning of a polluted sea side. Upon catching sight of these stray lovers, Hank felt a compulsion to follow close behind but as he got closer he saw the sky bleed and an orange hue burst out towards him. He was suddenly out of breath and the box now weighed a ton. His bones felt sharp and his chest caved in. The sounds of the seagulls retreated into a deafening silence that consumed the world around him. He looked up and the couple was gone. He wanted to scream- He felt a life draining from him. His mind’s shadow cried out in a mocking manner that there was no material sanctuary for the starving artist.

“Need someone to take that off your hands?” A voice called from behind him. It was Jack.