The Wind

The wind burned. The old man shifted the fabric draped over his shoulders and tightened it around his face. He lumbered another step against the persistent acidic breeze and cringed. His fingers were blistered and cracked. They wrapped themselves deeper into the rough thickly woven throw, and he continued forward.

At least he was on his way back; the sun shone a hazy weak white but was not yet at the horizon. He thought it looked like a drop of skim milk hanging in the sky. The grit blew like snowflakes, but burned any exposed parts of his face like hot oil.

At first glance, the street was still paved and the sun shone on the skeleton of a small town. Row homes in varying states of decay huddled against each other. These ones now were empty of anything useful. They held only broken glass and torn furniture too large or useless to move.

Grunting, he stepped alongside something metal jutting out of the ground. It was corroded and sharp. He half-turned back to look at it more closely, eyes squinting and watering behind plastic goggles. He remembered wearing similar ones in college while swimming laps. The burn in his eyes now felt like when they weren’t on tightly and filled with water mid-lap.

It was the fire hydrant that marked his final turn to his goal. There were a few flakes of red paint still clinging to the bottom. He tapped it with his toe, twice, and carried on toward a building, with a solid door, and bricked windows.

Could a place be home if the low hum of anxiety was always thrumming in one’s heart? The man didn’t think so, but the former auto-body shop, smelling of stale gasoline and motor oil, was where his worldly possessions lived.

“Another rough one?” A voice echoed as he pushed open the door, dropping a canvas bag inside and shutting it with both weathered hands. The wind gusted in protest against the blockade.

“M-murderous,” he spit, trying to clear his throat. He dropped the blankets that had served as his armor next to the door and delicately pulled the goggles off. The rubber was already weakening and he wasn’t sure when he’d find another pair. They were useful, goggles.

“I’m sure a cuppa and some sustenance will do ya,” the voice lilted. He gruffly acknowledged and continued peeling layers of clothing off. A faded forest green sweatshirt, a flannel made for working outside, a white shirt so worn and stained it could be mistaken for skin, and two layers of sweatpants pulled down to boots a bit oversized. He kicked them off too.

The wind sounded much more comforting inside – like it were instead blowing sand along dunes. He dunked a plastic cup in a bucket of water and rinsed his hands. More then, to splash his face and wipe off any grime still lingering. He had to be careful with water, he knew, but letting the steady collection of acidic grit sit on his face could result in a more serious predicament. Medicine was even harder to find anymore.

The place was dark, so he shuffled around and flicked on lanterns. Batteries, strangely, were one of the easier and more common conveniences he came across. It seemed that everyone had enough concerns with dust laced with sulfuric acid – they didn’t want to play around with battery acid. He chuckled to himself and sat at one of the wooden chairs next to a small unmatched table. He ran his fingers through his coarse gray hair and let himself relax a bit. It may not feel like the place that had been home, but it still felt nice to sit down.

“Any luck? You’ll be needing Vitamin C in your diet.”

He shook his head and looked at the bag propped against the wall.

“I only got about 2 and half miles out before the winds really kicked up and most of those places are picked clean. I did find some eggs – they may still be good – and a little gift for you.”

He could see a gleaming smile in his mind’s eye. “Well?” her voice asked.

“Old bottle o’ brandy and some honey, half a jar. It’s crystallized, but should still be tasty on a cracker.” He nodded his head to the canvas bag.

He was pretty sure the eggs were bad, and likely cracked after the shuffle back, but the honey was a surprise even he hadn’t expected. The brandy he’d found in the back of a closet – probably forgotten – when he’d successfully also found himself a new flannel. This one he’d wrapped everything in. He stretched to pick up the bag and begin unpacking.

“Or by the spoon,” he could hear the smile in her voice. When they’d lived in the condo – the one he didn’t visit now – they’d spend entire movies passing a jar of honey back and forth. They dipped spoons and, when the jar was low, scraped fingers along the sides. The wind gusted against the building in agreement, reminding him where he was. He smiled, which hurt, but it was worth the pain remembering her laughing at him shoving his whole hand in the jar.

He sat and ate mostly cooked pasta, half a can of tuna, and a large spoonful of the honey. He clinked her glass as it sat on the table, with a thumb of brandy, and took a sip. He knew music wasn’t playing, but could hear the faint tunes of an old song they used to dance to – a song about coming home. She’d put it on one of their streaming devices and blast it when he got home from work – swaying toward him.

“A little Vance never hurt anybody,” she always insisted. And they’d dance.

The evening was quiet save for the wind, as they usually were. He rubbed toothpaste on his teeth and on his face where he still felt a slight burn. He propped himself up near the dim lantern that sat next to the bed and turned the pages of a novel he’d read countless times. One that talked about the end times – different end times. Eventually, after pouring one more small glass of brandy and downing it, he set it on the ground next to the bed with a heavy thud and sank down into the mattress.

She’d picked out the quilt he lay on when they’d first started searching the townhomes down the lane for supplies. It had come from their friends Jerry and Erica’s place. She’d admitted she’d always loved the red and blue checked quilt – bought at some farmer’s market or flea market. He’d carried it home under his sweaters to try and protect it as much as possible and she’d laughed at him, calling him Santa. That whole night she referred to his ‘bowl full of jelly’.

“Night love,” he called to the empty room, his voice echoing quietly against the walls. The red and blue checked quilt was now faded but still warm and soft. He climbed into bed.

In a habit as familiar as bowing one’s hands in prayer, he lifted a finger and touching the heart-shaped locket that hung over his mattress. The one with their daughter’s picture on one side and the smallest lock of hair that she’d worn for 20 years.

He’d worn it at first, to hear her voice as he picked out the quilt she’d coveted from their friends’ house. She reminded him to look beyond the liquor cabinets and find the canned carrots.

But it hadn’t been safe from the wind, so he pinned it above the bed and still heard her in the former auto-body shop when he came back each day. The old man gave it two taps on the engraved rose in the front. He closed his eyes and stretched out on the empty bed.

The wind whistled like a song as it blew.