Air

Santiago reached into his bag and pulled out a faded red handkerchief.  He used it to wipe the sweat trickling down his forehead and then shoved it into his pocket.  He looked around him at the barren landscape and sighed cheerfully to himself.  He had never disliked the desert.  Even now, with miles to go before he reached the road, he only felt mild irritation at the sun beating down and the dirt swimming in the air, making its way into his respiratory system like a thick gas.  Dirt was dirt, and the sun was the sun, and neither had anything personal against him, so why hold them responsible for his current discomfort?

                He began to move forward again, taking calm, measured steps, one foot in front of the other.  As he walked he sang a little song in his head, his feet plugging out a ponderous rhythm.

                               

        When I was a baby I cried for my mom

                                And then she would feed me or sing me a song

                                And now that I’m grown I am always alone

                                No mother to soothe me out here on the road

  

                Santiago enjoyed making up little songs as he walked.  He would sing this one for a while, and then, when it lost its charm, he would make up a new one.  Sometimes other noises, besides the shuffle of his two feet, would add a little something to his song.  A desert bird, chirping in time, or the heat waves along the horizon dancing like sweet violin voices in front of his eyes.  This latest song, in particular, had a certain lilt to it that seemed to welcome accompaniment.  But he wouldn’t miss it when it drifted from his memory; a new melody would come like a gift and he’d like it just as much.

               

Twilight came and went quickly as Santiago continued across the flat desert floor, and before he knew it the sun was gone completely.  His steps began to slow as the moon grew bright above him, until he came to a stop in front of a large rock.  The rock was a little taller than him, and twice as long, nicely rounded except for a relatively flat surface on its top.  Santiago hefted himself up onto the top of the rock and lay staring up at the sky.  There were stars up there, of course, but he didn’t pay them any mind.  Stars were stars, and, pretty as they were, he just couldn’t get excited about them.  It was the same with the moon.  Bold and bright, but just the moon after all.  What Santiago looked at was the air. 

Nearly black, the spaces between the stars and moon were fascinating.  So was the air he could feel touching his nose and hands; it lay against his forehead and arms.  He reached a hand up and tried to take a handful of it, but, as always, when he brought his hand back down, it was empty.  Not empty, he told himself, just invisible to my eyes.  For there it was, when he looked hard enough, sitting in his palm like a precious jewel, a trembling, living piece of… space.  Now that was beautiful.

He fell asleep wrapped in a blanket of it.

By the following afternoon, Santiago had reached the road.  It was a dirt road- really, not much more than a track- not used very often.  But he could never have missed it; it was too familiar to him. 

For the first time since his journey began, Santiago turned from the straight line he had been tracing through the desert and began to follow the road.  Now his songs were more buoyant, jubilant even. 

                                                Little Lana Lopsytipple

           Went west to climb a tree

           Fell into an ol’ goldmine

           Broke her arm and scraped her knee

           Broke her arm and scraped her knee

And:

                                                Tuesday drags

                                                Wednesday trickles

                                                Out by the old brick wall

                                                Thursday I’ll be far away

                                                And Friday will be nevermore

                                                It’s Monday Monday Monday  

                He chuckled as he repeated the little ditty, his feet kicking up big puffs of dust on the last line.  Inside his head, his voice began to grow louder with each step.  The sound of small rocks hitting each other or the ground as he knocked them out of his way was a loud and glorious percussion, the crescendo of a victor’s final fanfare.  He alternated between marching, skipping, and striding, his arms pumping in the air.  Ah, the air.  Although he couldn’t see it like he could at night, he knew it was there.  Knew it was dancing in circles around him and through the dust.  Pushing at his back and bouncing under his feet.  He was almost there.

The path stopped.  So did Santiago.  Standing about four feet in front of him was a sturdy-looking post with a box secured to its top.  The mailbox.  Santiago walked forward, for once his mind completely void of all thought or sound, save one…  He had made it; he was here.  He reached a steady hand out and opened the little door on the front.  Inside was a letter.  On the front it read:

                                                                                Santiago

                                                                                All the Way Out Here

                                                                                The Middle of Nowhere

                He slowly tore open the flap on the other side of the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper.  The paper made a slight crinkling sound as he unfolded it.  It had only a few words on it and no signature.  He read.  It said:

Santiago,

                Go home.  Get over it.  Get real.

                He read it again.  And again.  And again.  He tried reading it backwards, and then through the opposite side of the paper, the sun filtering through the thin sheet.  He tried translating it into another language and then back again.  He counted where each letter stood in the alphabet, added them all together, and then divided by 2, 4, 6, and 8.  His forehead was creased and his lips were pursed.  He put the paper back in the envelope, back in the mailbox and closed the door.  He took it out again, opened it back up,  and read it again.  But it still said the same thing.  “Go home.  Get over it.  Get real.”

                For the first time since his journey began, Santiago felt himself getting angry.  He felt- before he realized what he was doing- his hand contract into a fist and the paper crumple against the folds of his fingers and palm.  He quickly opened his hand and tried to smooth the paper out.  He put it carefully back into its envelope again, and placed it gently on the ground.  Then, making sure he was a few feet away, he stomped his right foot once, hard.  Then again.  Then the left foot.  Harder.  Then he jumped once, making sure both feet came down with full impact.  Then he sank to his knees, and pounded his fists on the packed earth.  He glanced at the letter and pounded his fists again, even harder this time.  Again. 

                Santiago felt something warm and sticky, wet and clingy, drip once and fall into the dirt.  He glanced down.  A little bit of blood was dripping from his right hand, down his wrist and onto the ground.  He stared, incredulously at the blood and then down at the brown earth beneath him.  He wondered why the earth had done that to him, had made him bleed.  His scowl deepened.  He thought about how stupid the dirt was, how hard and unyielding.  He looked back at his hand and noticed the blood was already drying.  That’s when he noticed the sun for the first time that day.  The stupid sun.  He thought about how it hadn’t even given him a chance to get out his handkerchief to wipe off his hand and how angry that made him.  He realized he hated the dirt and the sun.  He hated the desert and the ugly brown colored dust that made him choke and wheeze.  He hated the blaring sun and its unforgiving heat; that one big staring eye, unblinking, sizzling him with its scrutiny.  Even when descending into the horizon, like it was now, the sun taunted him with its unmerciful intensity. 

Then it hit him.  Not only were the sun and earth stupid, but his body was too.  He hands hurt.  As if they had anything to complain about, he thought in disgust.  He looked at his hands again, still clenched into balls, and wished he could chop them off.  He thought about how ugly his skin looked, blood and dirt and sweat all mixed together- he couldn’t even tell what he looked like underneath all those layers.  Yes, his body was stupid and he hated it.  He wished it would all just go away.

Santiago spent the next twelve days finding different things to hate.  He hated the little rocks on the ground that got into the cracks of his shoes and made his feet ache.  He hated the rises in the ground that he didn’t see coming that made him stumble.  He hated the stupid desert birds that would chirp until his ears felt like they were going to explode.  He hated his red handkerchief because it was dirty and could never wipe all the sweat from his face.  He even hated the stupid air that he had used to find so much to wonder about.  It’s just air, he told himself grimly, and there’s nothing more to it.  At night he would try to grab pieces of it to recapture some of the old magic, but he had to acknowledge that he had been fooling himself all along; he couldn’t hold the air any more than he could get one of those stupid birds to shut up.  There was nothing that he didn’t hate.

                Out of all the things Santiago realized he hated in those twelve days, there were two things he hated the most.  He couldn’t stand the stupid sturdy little mailbox with its dumb little door that opened and closed.  And most of all, he hated the letter.  That stupid stupid letter.

Now, Santiago either went home or he didn’t.  If he did, he may have begun making up little songs in his head again as he went.  A song he could have made up if he did go may have sounded like this:

                                                Oh where do the dogs in the street go

                                                When I’m drifting fast into sleep

                                                Are they singing to heaven when howling and barking

                                                Can dogs hear a song in return?

                                                Oh howl little dog if it makes you feel good

                                                Though I have a few doubts on that score

                                                To me you sound sad or unwell or insane

                                                And I’m counting the hours till you’re done

                He probably would laugh at that one and think it was one of his more clever ones.  And he’d probably walk a little faster, to get the beat right. 

If he did, in fact, go home that is.

                If he didn’t, he must still be out there, finding more things to blame his unhappiness on.   For one thing’s certain: his current predicament couldn’t possibly be his fault. 

If he’s still out there, that is.