Puzzling Pieces

Chapter 2

Why is she staring? A couple of scars on my face might be the answer: one a tribal embodiment to the gust of the Aquarius wind or water on the left cheek. Whatever those 3 – lines represent: Air sign or gales, I've reinvented the scar into a tattoo that really looks like somebody is blowing a downward and gusty P across my face.

Another is a 4 – centimeter line on my right cheek with 4 small dashes that complete the visual of a railway line. I got that after I had a run-in with my own sense of the law which involved a razor blade to my zygomatic bone and a pink tongue running down the whole side of my face: wet, warm, a snail's slime would've been more pleasurable considering breath mints was lost on this fool.

The guy wanted to let me know that my sexuality was why most of these men around our ends picked a fight with me. They wanted to test how street-credible I was. And usually, that would be playing peek-a-boo when I'm walking home and to see if I would shove a - head into a bin full of reeking dead meat, or shaft a knee into a gut and hope it deflates.

I never disappointed. But I had to leave when this happened. I was 19 – years old and it would be the last time that I'd come close to death by a homophobe who couldn't even spell the word. I was fed up. Lost. And like all these people packed on this bloody train, I refused to accept being a condensed sardine in a tin-can.

The woman's turned away now, good, her face was far to crinkled with fake-tan for me to take her seriously. But she's now more concerned with the pushing of pedestrians trying to get into an already packed carriage. One man raises his newspaper high and inhales his jacket-potato stomach until he manages to squeeze in … to the annoyance of everybody who lets out their frustration in a huff and gruff.

Then the sliding arch-shaped doors shut; and arms swing for the nearest support without committing any harassment charges. They all try, but a few women give a few embarrassingly apologetic men a leery look of don't you come any closer with your cheap suits and briefcase full of paper.

There’s a lack of oxygen in here and if anybody dares blow I'm off! But all these minor distractions like a man digging his nose with such gusto, another younger guy with his woolen bumblebee hat - thinks it's funny to try and grip an attractive woman's arm and let the man in front of him bare the grill. She's too afraid to say nothing, so he continues to do this by slipping his arm through the small gap the man creates.

These are the main 2 I notice. But there's many more. A woman who's more than hungry is too scared to ear her MacDonald's because eating smelly foods is banned. One man with his dirty dreads and earthy colored rags that are massive compared to his slim frame is rolling a rizla on top of a spare newspaper.

The man next to me is stamping his leg onto the floor. He doesn't want to fall asleep and it's a good tactic to use. I try it for a bit because these distractions are wearing thin and the old man is a couple of stops away.

I'm tired. So tired, that I could do with an energy boost and some Adderall if I had any. I haven't slept for days … the next stop comes, and a few get off and others on. We're like robots waiting for permission to come aboard. The idea scares me, but the concept has some stone.

2 – stops to go now. No worries I think. I should've packed my Walkman even though the times say you should just use your android phone and listen to the radio, or Spotify, or something along those lines. It's lasted me for ages, battery operated, and vintage to the new age s**t that's spraining out so fast.

1 – stop. Music would help me drone out the conversation between 2 men who must've pulled a dime-a-hooka because they seem to repeat;“ she had nice double x's. Big bazookas, a very tight kitchen, the sink was flooding so I couldn't add my spanner in the work. And all the time I think it’s just about s*x. But then he says she wanted me to fix the living room next. I get off this stop and clear my dirty mind.

…

I wonder if I'm dressed properly? Then I think that’s just retarded. He knows my style is pretty much sports slacks that are less flexible than sweatpants but stay true to my image: including my t-shirts that are one size up to give me amped room to feel spacious. They're usually plain or with some image of a m*******a reefer or sporty affiliated like Adidas or Nike.

I got my ear pierced which I feel for now. The right-side with a decent sized stud: fake, not real gold, and then my gold chain that's no higher than 10 – karats and extremely fine. So thin that I hate to touch it in case it snaps.

I stay street. Even for men of his caliber who make me question my attire. I hate that it does, but what I do … it sometimes means I get the wrong analysis. If you don't dress the part, then why you even bothering to turn up for the job? That's what I've had to deal with when it falls down to fit in with others.

I remember this route only because he told me in a few words to leave the station, take a right by that tree that’s going to be cut down soon, and then keep going straight until you see an abandoned and run-down caravan. It's only 25 – minutes he said.

He was right because I walk that in 20 and see the caravan missing it's 4 – wheels behind a fence with a few other cars that would make a few bucks in the scrapyard. There's an empty oil can right in the middle, with burnt scraps of paper and sticks surrounding it that have been singed. And a few stray and filthy cats are hunting for mice vigilantly.

The old man did say where he lived was a mixture of trash and those who help to create it. I pass more than 20 – trash bags outside of a stuffed bin and the smell is rotten fish, sweaty armpits, moldy cheese, decaying and expired foods, and pretty much anything a person can imagine that gets tossed.

The flies are having the time of their lives, and I wonder how many complaints to move it has started? But he mentioned this as a sign I'm close. Everbree Close is the street. I see the name stuck in a post directing me to go right now. First house on the left … I see it. It's homely when I come close to it and enter the gate.

The lights are off, and I wonder why I didn't hesitate to come inside? I suppose …

“You're here then?”

I hear the voice come from the home next door. On a chair … swinging without me even noticing as it's dark now, is the old man himself that is revealed via the moonlight. It's a rocking chair; woven and handmade with some impressive detail that lattices itself all over the chair in a darkish – brown hue It's like a basket finish and sturdy.

“Why you over there?”

“Come inside?” -

“But isn't … “–

“Come inside, Sia.” He stops the rocking, and the creaking goes with it. Then he heaves himself up rigorously and straightens out his back and tilts his head for a well-deserved stretch before unlocking his front door with his single silver key and letting himself in.“Take off your shoes. Please do that.”

…

Inside his home is as I imagined but only more creative. Judging by his retired profession I expected more in the realms of emblems, badges, memorabilia, globes, maps, and compasses.

He has all those! So, I win my own bet when I see his living space full of trinkets that range from combat helmets suited as personal armor: special crops, red band, all that malarkey is marked on them. Then there's his cabinet with a couple of vintage lighters, unused pipes shaped like the winning tick.

Variants of teas and coffee’s that have never been touched. Some cutlery that looks older than the birth of Jesus. Maps rolled into tubes stick out of a standing umbrella stand that I just miss. A couple of domino pieces out of there place are on the floor. Then I see that he was playing this alone as a box with the board is inside, and pulled up a chair for me to join him.

Then I could be wrong. As there are 2 – glasses on the table with one finished and the other still with some orange juice left inside. I smell tobacco, and the old man doesn't smoke. But he comes in and opens the window to let in some air. Yeah, I don't remember the smoking.

He then goes to turn on the knob and brightens the room. And then we face each other with years drifted and jamming in that wedge. He’s wrinkled and even uglier. I joke on the ugly, the guys James Brown with a better leg and shorter bangs. Only 58-years old, but his hip makes him more prone to groaning when he forgets his step and puts too much heavy down.

He groans all the way to the seat with the empty glass. No hug. I didn’t expect that anyways. No offer of a seat. He lets me stand and I do so with pride. No use in feeling like I would be made to feel at home. He considers me ok. Not good. Not trustworthy. But ok-ish and no sprinkles.

If ever there was a soldier in that man, he's hiding and waiting to be reborn. But an old photograph that I see of him standing with 3 – other men reminds me that he once had a position of authority, even if now he looks the complete opposite of that.

“Out of all the pictures in this room, you turn to the one that I was about to discard.”

“Huh," I admit I'm still studying it. I don't recall those 3 men. He told me stories, but never in the shape and form that they take. I ignore it for now. Turn to the man who's watching me like I'm upsetting the calm and free-spirited waters. I'm no tranquillity pill. He of all people should know that by now.

“Why did you come?”

“Life had me lying under a guillotine and I had to escape before it took my head off completely.”

“The big apple won't offer you any refuge, Sia.”

“It's big. It's loud. It's rowdy. And it's a walking disease with people journeying about their business with no time to stop and look at the urban intruder in their city. It's where I need to be. And if I came, and you answered, then it means there's a reason for that.”

“Running.”He shakes his head disappointedly. "You're always running.”

“Usually to protect me from the bastards I help.”

“What about this old bastard that sits here now like an old fart? You willing to hear his story and help him out of a dilemma?”

“I'm retired.”

“You're 28. Peaking, if I remember from the last time we met?”

“You figured I was mediocre.”

“No. I think you're more than you see yourself to be. Different from the rest. And that’s why you can help me.”His hands slowly tremble. I've never seen the tough old nut tremble before.

His body gives way as he reaches into his trouser pocket: it's the tambourine cymbals going off when he brings out the prescribed medication that's rattling a racket in his hands. I see the label: Inderal. He unscrews that lid and pumps more than a few into his mouth with me darting over to him immediately and snatching it from him. –

“Give me that!”