He Walked

         He walked. It was all he knew how to do. He slept, a newspaper taking the place of a blanket. He had been walking all day. He woke up. There were icicles on his beard. The sky was grey. He came upon a town. His stomach grumbled. There were no beaneries here. He left.
         He did not know himself. He had woken up, two days ago, on the side of this road. It was a wide road, having four lanes, but in all his time walking he had seen no vehicles save those in the towns through which he travelled. Those vehicles were decrepit, run down, and, most likely, did not run.
         He wore a blue tee-shirt. It had no tag. His jeans were torn in places. They had no tag. His underclothes had no tags. He had no personal belongings. He had no socks, nor shoes, but his feet, so calloused, neither bled nor pained, despite his daily trek. Perhaps he had never worn shoes.
         He had, when passing, once looked in a shop window. His face was round and, yet, had a gaunt quality. His hair was auburn. He had small cracked lips, hidden under his beard, small ears, and a small nose. It was obvious it had been some time since he had last shaved.
         On his first day of walking he had noticed a wallet on the ground. Inside there was no ID, nor a credit card, only two-hundred-thirty-six dollars in cash. He had taken it with him. In the next town, he promised himself, he would stop to find both a barber and a diner.
         It rained that night, and the newspaper, spread thin over his body, disintegrated. The weather cleared by morning and he began walking soon after awakening. That day he came upon a bridge. There river below was churning wildly, it looked challenging, he decided he would swim across rather than walk over the bridge. He was already wet, and his journey would be more fun this way.
         The river bottom was slick, and the water cold. He lost his footing early, and was taken downstream. He was grateful he did not sustain a head injury. Unfortunately he never made it to the other side of the river.
         He slept, that night, near the river, in a tree, with his clothes laid out nearby so that they might dry. His pants were still moist the next day, and his shirt was nowhere to be found. He walked back to the bridge, and crossed over.
         The sign he had passed named this town Cinson. He could see a barber’s pole in the distance, indicating a shop. He went there first. The barber asked him his name. He chose not to give it. The barber asked him where he was from. He had no response. He received odd looks from people at his lack of a shirt and shoes. The buzz-cut and beard trim cost seventeen dollars.
         Next to the barbershop was a small department store. Its name was Reny’s. It looked like a good place to buy a shirt, shoes too. He went in and chose a green, plaid, button-up, long-sleeved shirt. The shoes were Nike, they were grey. On a shelf next to the checkout counter he found a box of Iced-Tea Icebreakers. Together the shirt, the shoes, and the candy cost fifty-two dollars and forty-five cents.
         He walked around town till he found a suitable establishment. It was simply called “Café.” It was clean. Inside there was a sign, next to a tray filled with newspapers. The sign said “Please, seat yourself,” so he sat at the counter after grabbing a paper.
The waitress was pretty. She was tall, thin, and had blonde hair. Her eyes were brown. She had on a yellow blouse and a nametag, which read Sherry. She took his order and left. He stayed there reading the paper and sipping coffee, hardly touching the club sandwich he had ordered, till it got dark. That was when Sherry sat down next to him and sighed.
         “Whiskey,” She said to her fellow waitress. When her drink arrived the waitress asked me if I would like anything more. I shook my head slowly. The newspaper was horrible. It was small-town and small-minded with little analysis and less importance. The writer’s consistently referred to themselves in the first person and expressed opinions freely and without subtlety.
         “You’re the silent type aren’t ya,’ Her voice was melodic.
I nodded.
“Can’t ya at least tell me you’re name?”
I shrugged.
“Is that a yes or a no.”
I shrugged again.
She raised an eyebrow.
“I am unable to tell you my name.”
“Why not?”
For the third time, I shrugged, “I do not know it.”
“What,” Her tone was incredulous, “You got amnesia or something.”
I shrugged, this was the fourth time, “I would not know.”
“So you have no idea where you’re from, who you are, or how you got here?”
“I am from the road, and that is how I got here.”
She complained, “That’s not what I mean. Like, where were you born.”
“That I am unable to answer, just as I may not tell you my name.”
“Everyone needs a name.” This was said bluntly.
“What would you call me?”
“Cal.”
As he tore his eyes he tore the paper, walked to the door, and placed the rag in the trash. When he sat back down, with his shoulders hunched and his hands clasped in front of him on the counter, he asked “Why?”
“It’s short for Calvin. That was my boyfriend’s name.”
“Was?”
She threw a few bills on the counter. “I’m sorry,” She left.
He, for the fifth time, shrugged. Calling the waitress over he handed her fifty dollars. He left. His shoes were uncomfortable. The thought occurred to him that he did not know the day of the week.