In case you were wondering, the title of today's post is not a reference to "snowmageddon," "snowocalypse," "snow-my-god," or any other cute name the media is using to call "winter." Rather, it is the title of today's story, which is an excerpt of a short story by Dylan Angell.
Dylan is a Brooklyn writer and musician who is also working with the documentary film company, The Ripple Project. He is currently working on a documentary about youth who choose travel over easier routes in life. After reading his amazing short story, you should go check out The Ripple Project and his band, Dark Meat.
Winter's Beach
By Dylan Angell
Richard Bram awoke on the beach. The sun sat upon him and the winter's beach rhythmically reached for his dampened shoes . He rolled over onto his stomach and pressed his face into the sand. The cold covered him in spite of the sun and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into the earth. A great cough filled his throat and forced him to roll over and sit up. He looked out towards the ocean, sand still crusted into the side of his face and white beard, as if the earth had tried to decompose him not knowing his body still breathed. "Bram..b..b..bram..." he said, practicing his speech. This was a consistent practice for him, repeating his name so he could hear it. It was a reminder that he was a part of this world, that he was present amongst the people scenes that he saw. His head pounded as if a church bell was inside hitting the walls as it swung side to side.
He needed a cup of coffee. The sky broke.
He walked down La Rambla stumbling, stinking in the spring rain. His body had developed a coat of nature's elements and whatever other fluids had dripped or leaked from his body . He found a covered cafe and sat down. His smell followed him, a smell he detested. It was his smell and it sat upon him like a virus. It made him hate himself, as if he was his own uninvited guest. He could not separate from himself. It was a shadow that hovered over his every move.
A group of waiters whispered to one another in the corner looking at Richard til one finally sheepishly and relunctantly made his way across the room.
"Buenos dias."
"English?"
"No."
"Espresso, double."
"Si."
Slowly the damp molecules of H2o that where embedded into his skin and clothes evaporated into the air. The coffee warmed him and the corpse had been resurrected. The workers of his head began their day, and the machines went into effect. From his seat he watched unfortunate homeless men walk to and from nowhere . Doing their daily dance. He hated them, they called him brother, look at what they had done by doing so. They are pathetic. They beg before they even speak, they may be his mirror image but inside he was wealthy, he was on an adventure, and they wanted nothing more than to steal the fruit from his tree.
It had been six years since the old man "retired." Once a successful lawyer in Texas, he had accumulated a small fortune and with a small amount of fame, a general disgust for his surroundings, a family he did not know and an unfulfilled secret life as a homosexual, he decided to disappear. One day, six years or so ago, he walked into an airport, closed his eyes, spun in a circle and walked toward the closest line. The plane was headed toward Barcelona.
The beard sat upon him as a proud ornament, his yellow teeth a blinding shield to those who knew him. He refused to learn Spanish or Catalan. He wanted to be alone and become mute, deaf, and dumb. Just view the world as it truly is. Language became the enemy, along with the weight of material things. He wanted to wake up a child everyday and erase himself every evening. One thing kept him from this: he believed his son was looking for him. He also knew his mind was cracking and could not be trusted. He could not remember his sons face and therefore did not know when it may be peering upon him.
He walked towards the train station. As always, the policer officers study him with their eyes, waiting for him to slip up. He cursed them silently in his head - they were puppets working for another mans ideals, he thought. He kept a locker here where he kept clothes and notes about his old self, pictures of his family, his kids and his parents. He kept a stash of nicer unworn clothes just incase a situation should call for them. He grabbed a white button up shirt and some slacks that now smelled of moth balls. He made his way to the train station's wash room, packed almost wall to wall with tourists. He carried some scissors, a razor, a bar of soap and a change of clothes. He spent about an hour dragging the rusty razor across his face. His hair was spotted as he cut out small chunks till it left a look that was manageable. Then he undressed and bathed himself in the sink. Standing in his soiled briefs he kept his gaze forward, ignoring the tourists as they came and went. He put on his new clothes. He was handsome, still young and exposed, he thought. He packed up his things and walked out into the station. He walked toward the security guards.
"Hola," he said. "Hola, English?"
"Little," said the fat one.
"Have you seen my son?"
"I do not know... How would I know?"
"He looks like me, but his teeth are not yellow."
"I do not understand. Do you need help?"
"Not from you."
The old man stomped off triumphantly. He had passed the test. He was unrecognizable to his present enemy but now exposed to the old.
He rented a hotel room. He sat in front of the mirror, perplexed by the face he had left hidden. Memories flooded at the sight of this face, a face he counterattacked with expensive whisky. He stood naked - he had just taken a bath. His stomach strangely swollen, his penis stained with dirt. The dirt that had clung tight to him, his new friend. His uninvited guest. A penis he wanted to clean for the expected company. He took 5 naps in the next 12 hours and 3 showers, drinking whisky in between each. He modeled in front of the mirror his nice clothes. He got the the hotel barber to finish off his haircut and give him a clean shave. He ordered room service and ate a steak that hurt his teeth while sitting in bed without his shoes on watching an American game show in Spanish.
He awoke at 2 a.m. His alarm going off this time. He got dressed and began to walk. He walked down La Rambla. Drunk tourists stood like bowling pins that would not fall. Watching the streets performers and listening to the heckling of every language's tongue. He felt no longer exposed, his smell no longer calling attention to him. The prostitutes emerged as the bars let out. A beautiful African woman reached for his hand, but he stared forward. He found the bar he wanted,and spoke to an older African man about his own age. Within 10 minutes, he was back in his hotel room. Lying on his back smoking a cigarette. He thought nothing, he felt nothing, and if he was nervous it did not show. The phone rang. "Gracias, send him up." He sat cross legged and bare foot on the bed. He reached for his cracked glasses and put them on. He lit another cigarette, staring forward. There was a knock on the door. It opened. There was a teenage african boy, wearing bright street wear and bright make up,with his ears pierced holding tiny little diamonds.
"Sit down," he motioned to the boy. The boy did so. "You speak English, yes?"
"Yes," the shy boy whispered, not sure if he should look at the man.
"How old are you?"
"Um... seven and ten."
"Oh, seventeen."
"Yes, seventeen."
The man felt strange and could no longer look toward the boy. "You are from Africa?"
"Yes."
"How long have you been here?"
"Two years."
"Ok, how did you get here?"
"On a boat."
"Did it take a long time?"
"Yes ."
"Is your mother beautiful like you?"
"Yes."
"Does she carry buckets of water on her head like the woman in magazines?" The old man let out an awkward laugh.
"No sir."
"If I give you three hundred dollars will you kiss me?"
"It is fifty. You paid my father already, yes?"
"I know, I just want a kiss."
The boy leaned forward and kissed Richard Bram. He closed his eyes and then opened them. He got up and reached into a drawer and pulled out an envelope. He counted some bills and came and handed them to the boy.
"I have one question."
"Yes."
"Have you seen my son?"
"I do not know? Is he in the streets?"
"He looks like me but his teeth are not yellow."
"No, I do not know."
"Ok thank you, you may leave."
The boy did so. The man took a bath and began to cry. He could not make love to the boy because he was ashamed of his dirty penis.
He awoke early determined to find his son. He wanted to go home and he wanted his son to take him. He dressed himself up, pacing between bathroom and bedroom. There were mirrors in both rooms but the angles and the difference of portraits they left discouraged him. In one he looked like a father, in the other he didn't. Their was no doubt that his face had changed. It had rearranged itself beneath the beard. His teeth yellow, face thinned, and the power he once held now stripped of him. He looked like a man. Like an average man and he liked this, but he was afraid his son would not recognize him. He put on his cracked glasses and lit a cigarette and looked himself up and down. He pounded his chest. "You're still alive, boy!" He shouted. He closed his eyes and opened them to make sure his words were true.
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