Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead Page 0,3
Henry David Thoreau might hold. Whoever he is. And whoever I am.
2
Yeah, I looked through that damn book. I sat for a good twenty minutes and flipped through every single page. There was nothing. Not a train ticket, not a receipt, not a name. Nothing.
So. What now? Burying my face in my hands, I fight an urge to rock back and forth, crying like some lost little kid. Instead, I’m distracted by the feel of soft stubble on my chin. Not much of a beard, but apparently enough to shave. My fingers explore my cheeks, nose, eyelids, and ears like a blind person. I don’t even know what I look like yet. Would I know me if I saw me? Got to find a mirror.
As soon as I step into the men’s room, the strong smell of piss and disinfectant stings the inside of my nose, and some guy is puking in one of the stalls. Ignoring this, I freeze in front of the mirror. I blink, and the guy in the mirror blinks back. Stuffing Walden into the back waistband of my jeans to get it out of the way, I lean in to stare at the stranger. Damp hair, black and straight. Messy. I rake my fingers through it. Eyes light, maybe gray. He’s tall and lanky, but his shoulders—my shoulders—are wide and I look strong. That’s something anyway.
“Hey, ugly,” comes a voice. There’s a skinny kid leaning against the wall by the urinals, one boot up against the concrete, dirty blond hair falling into his eyes. His clothes look like they could use a washing. Or better yet, a Dumpster.
“Hey, asswipe,” I say back. Among the things I’ve just learned about the guy in the mirror are: One, I could easily take this loser. And two, I’m no rock star, but I’m definitely not ugly.
The kid’s mouth twists to one side, and his eyes blaze. I just want to be left alone. But if he wants to start something, okay then. I’ll fight him. My hands curl into fists as I wait for him to make the first move.
“Yeah? Wipe your own ugly ass,” he hisses. He takes three steps toward me, eyes never leaving mine. We stare into each other’s faces, neither giving any ground, not one centimeter, not one twitch of surrender. Then before I can react, he pushes me forward with hard palms, trying to slam me against the concrete wall. I barely waver.
“That was lame,” I say.
He gets close, peers into my face, his mouth a tight line of aggression. I stare back, not flinching, not even blinking.
Then he smiles. He laughs and slaps me on the shoulder and I’m so tensed up, I almost react with a fist to his jaw, except that his attitude seems friendly. Weirdly friendly.
“I’m Jack,” he says. “Don’t ask for a last name, because I don’t have one.” He crosses his arms across his chest and smiles at me, and I realize that I’ve passed some kind of test. My fist relaxes, finger by finger, joint by joint.
The puking guy stumbles out of the stall to shuffle toward the sinks, and Jack and I give him plenty of room. His eyes are bloodshot, cheeks caved in like a decaying jack-o’-lantern, his flannel shirt grimy. His glassy eyes drift toward me, and he gives me a slow smile. The few teeth he has left in his mouth are black nubs.
“Later, boys,” he says. He lurches out the door.
Jack ignores him. “So who the hell are you?” he asks me.
Good question. Who the hell am I? I clear my throat, adjust my jeans to buy some time. And I feel the bulk of the paperback book stuffed into the waistband. A picture of the cover swims into my mind again. I see the lake, the trees. Then the title and the author’s name.
“Henry,” I blurt out. “Henry David.”
Jack pauses, and for a second I think he’s going to call me on it. I probably didn’t say it with enough conviction. Henry. Henry David. Next time, I’ll do better.
“Henry,” he says doubtfully, trying it out. “You don’t look like a Henry. I’ll call you Hank.” And just like that, I become Hank. “So, Hank, I think it’s about time for a midnight snack. You got any money?”
I shrug. “A little.”
“Good. You can buy us some food.”
I narrow my eyes. This guy has some balls. “Why don’t you buy us some food? Since it was your idea and all.”
“Relax, Hank. Give