Artwork © Craig Robertson/Toronto Sun/QMI Agency, All Rights Reserved - http://www.torontosun.com/2014/01/07/brutal-cold-descends-on-toronto
Story and Characters © Brannon Hollingsworth, All Rights Reserved
Brought to you by Four Fools Press: “Crazy Good Stories”
"They must first be tested; and then if there is nothing against them,
let them serve as deacons."
- 1 Timothy 3:10
"Get up!" the disembodied voice pealed discordantly. Cletus wished, for the billionth time, that
it had feet, or hands, or something with which to deal physically with this
particular charge. "I said get up, Deacon!
Hurry!"
The great, grey block of a man rumbled like a sliding tectonic plate
but successfully ignored the all-too familiar voice in his head. He levered an
eyelid open – a bit – and groaned at the stabbing intrusion daylight brought. He could have sworn those blinds had been closed before. He’d no doubt that
Cletus had somehow worked that “little miracle” just for him.
"Shush, Cletus, my head’s splittin'."
"Just desserts, my friend, or have you forgotten the bit about, 'not
indulging in much wine'?"
"Yea, yea. Just give me a bit'o'peace, will ya?" The man
feebly swatted a thick-fingered hand through the air. He knew that he would not
be able to strike Cletus, but the symbolic gesture seemed to work: Cletus' echoing
voice had dissipated. The damage had been done, though, and now that he was
awake, he could not coax his hammering head back into submission. He only had
two options, lie on the cold floor in misery or get up and get to feeling
better. Being the man of action that he was, he chose the latter.
***
The shadows of afternoon were creeping up the long, narrow streets by
the time he rose, splashed some aspirin down his throat, some water on his face
and tossed on a shabby coat to ward away the late fall nip. Steam billowed out of sewer grates along the
traffic-clogged streets; the venting columns of haze reminded him of the cheesy
fogger machines he’d seen in the cheap plays downtown.
A lot like this world – just a low-budget, second-rate version of that
which was real…
He grunted to himself, tucked his scraggly, badly-in-need-of-a-shave
chin to his barrel chest and trudged onward through the gathering gloom. He
caught the whiff of coming snow in the air and quickened his pace, if his
mother – God rest her soul – had been there, she’d have chided him about going
outside in the wind without a hat. The man raised his eyes to the skies as he
passed from the lemony glow of a sodium street light; or was she thinking that
right n--
"Heya dere big fellah! Spare some change?" A gap-toothed
voice issued from a gap-toothed mouth connected to a ragamuffin-of-a-man
hunched over a steam vent in the sidewalk. The way he was crouched over the
steaming vent, wrapped in several layers of warm, smoky air, shredded cardboard
and cast-off, filthy rags, all woven into a make-shift blanket, made him look
like a nightmare Humpty Dumpty.
Deacon paused, and looked the man over with steely grey eyes. Long ago,
he’d been given a gift, some called it discernment; some, that was, who did not
know any better. He’d had a long time to hone and focus that gift into what it
was meant to be: a powerful tool for learning lots about potential enemies and
allies. As his gaze fell over Humpty, Deacon knew that the man would only use
the money to buy booze, which he would then use to drink himself into oblivion.
Oblivion that would come quickly and help the man bear the bone-numbing night
spent on a frost-limed, coarse, concrete bed. But that was not all - he could
see much further, deeper, into the man than merely that.
Humpty drank to escape things: things like the frigid, biting, night
air and his shattered, scarred past which sprang, screaming and frothing into
his terrified dreams each night. Humpty drank to give the world an excuse to
hate him, because he was filled with self-hatred; if the world despised and
loathed him, he reasoned internally; then who was he to argue? Humpty had
willingly placed himself in a vicious, down-spiraling cycle of self-deprivation
followed by self-loathing.
Steely grey eyes blinked and the gift had done its work. One corner of
the big man's usually down-mouth cocked up in a half-grin. He extended his hand
Humpty Dumpty - to what many would have considered to have been no more than a
pile of human refuse – and replied.
"Th' name's Deacon. How's about somethin' even better than some
change? How about a change?"
It took some convincing, but eventually, Deacon coaxed Humpty – who's
real name was Carl – up from his grate-roost as the first frosty flakes fell.
They went and shared a hot meal and two bottomless mugs of steaming joe in the
back corner of a no-count diner in the wrong section of town. As his belly
warmed, so too did Carl's tongue; he soon discovered that Deacon was actually
listening to him and what's more that the big man wanted to listen to him.
And then the real work began.
Before morning, the first real snow of the season had fallen: six feet
of wet, white wonderfulness. Another wonder had occurred – Carl had stayed warm
and dry through the whole of the night – and by morning, had made a decision to
turn his life completely upside down and strike off in a totally new direction.
The words that his new-found friend resonated with him, as did the compassion
that came with them.
Deacon took no pride in what had been done; he was just a player and
had done his part – like he’d been doing for years and years. It was just part of who he was and he could
not change it anymore than he could the color of his thinning grey hair or the
fact that he cursed way too much.
As he trudged home in the cold, still light of the morning something
stopped him dead in his tracks. It was Humpty’s – Carl’s – grate and it was
covered with a huge snow drift. Sometime during the night, the warm air had
stopped flowing and the snow had begun piling.
"I told you to hurry." Cletus’ voice chimed like a silver
bell in Deacon's head.
Deacon, eyes wide with fear and awe, could only nod in silence.
***
12-12-14 Writing Warm-up
2:39 PM
