Ducks, Bottles, and Literature

Right now the man is thinking about ducks. He doesn't know why. He just is. He's wondering how they can run so damn fast on those stubby, gnarled little legs and about how they have the balls to come up and bite the shit out of your hand if you don't have any bread to throw them. He hasn't seen a duck in years…

A kid in cut-off jeans, all attitude and pierced flesh dangling with gold, wanders close enough to snag his foot on the man's tattered, soiled trench coat.

The man spits at him.

Laughing, the kid quickly scurries out of range, his hi-topped feet skip-beating across the sidewalk until he reaches the corner. He punches the button for the crosswalk and turns away, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as traffic roars past his bouncing form.

Part of the man, a very small part, wonders what kind of drug the kid's off to buy. Another part, much larger, much more feral, laughs… a deep, hidden inside laugh, the kind that makes people run when it escapes and barks its inane message to the world. He lifts the bottle of wine to his stained lips and allows himself a liberal swallow. As he drinks he gauges that the bottle is now under half full… or more than half-empty. He laughs at this also.

A light tap-tap on his shoulder causes the man to flinch. A fleeting memory of pain, of fist after fist pounding relentlessly against his sagging flesh, jolts through his mind and he raises his arm in impotent defense.

A moment passes. There is no pain.

The man slowly lowers his trembling arm.

A young girl of thirteen or fourteen stands before him. Her eyes are large, brown and sad. Strands of lush red hair drape gently over her shoulders. A small purse dangles from one arm and three books nestle comfortably under the other. Kneeling, she places the books and the purse on the sidewalk before her. Delicately she opens the first book and begins to read:

"That blossom in my heart, I'll fling to you - Armfuls of loose bloom! Love, I love beyond breath, beyond reason, beyond love's own power of loving! Your name is like a golden bell hung in my heart; and when I think of you, I tremble, and the bell swings and rings-"

"Rostand," the man replies, dragging a shabby sleeve across his chin.

The girl reaches into her purse, extracts a ten dollar bill and gently places it in his hand. She opens the second book and begins to read:

"Her ideal of masculine beauty had always been slender gracefulness. Yet the thought still persisted. It bewildered her that she should desire to place her hands on that sunburned neck."

"London," the man answers without hesitation.

Another ten dollar bill is softly pushed into his palm.

She opens the third book and begins to read:

"That moment she was mine, mine, fair, perfectly pure and good: I found a thing to do, and all her hair in one long yellow string I wound three times her throat around, and strangled her."

A shock, a sudden recognition leaps into the man's eyes. He stares at the girl. Though she is no more than two feet away, an infinite chasm rests between them.

"Maria," he sobs, staring deep into the girls eyes.

"Wrong," replies the girl. "Browning."

She reaches over and plucks one of the bills from his hand, nimbly gathers her belongings. She turns away and walks to a limousine nestled against the curb. The door closes behind her and the sleek automobile disappears in traffic.

The man weeps, tears exposing tiny streaks of clean skin beneath the layers of dirt on his face. He lifts the bottle to his lips and thinks about ducks.