"A Story of the Night" - Short Story

The sidewalk glistened after the rain. The smell of tread asphalt, dusty graffitied glass, weathered steel, stale exhaust, incinerated weed, all assumed an almost fresh quality. A chilly, joyful breeze traversed each alleyway and street corner, bringing glad aromatic tidings of the recent rainwater that had fallen from the generous expanse above. Joyful breeze though it was, it remained woefully ignorant that much of the rain was lost for usefulness by falling on the porous fields of asphalt and the tar-thatched roofs of dirty strip mall buildings.

An oblong shape spanned half the width of the sidewalk in front of a shuttered performance theater, covered end-to-end by a damp quilted comforter, white in color in its better days. A passer-by had only to guess that some unfortunate soul was making a hearty attempt at slumber. Stepping to the side and continuing their way, perhaps passer-by would give a half-hearted thought to checking the shape for signs of life or, worse, expired life. But thought quickly returned to the mundane, the comfortable things of life, and no more considered the curious shape.

The shape moved slightly against the cold.

Dark clouds outlined dramatically against the twilight sky. The clearing of the air and the sparkling of the streets somehow made the approaching evening seem brighter than normal in the cloudy moonlight. It made the inner romantic desire to sit outside amid the rain-cleansed scenery, next to a loved one, to stay awake all night and see what the world did between the hours of 1:30 and 6:00 in the morning. To chat about beauty, to inhale life’s misty essence before it disappeared with the coming of the evaporating powers of the sun. To observe moving clouds and moving people, dripping tree branches, steamy breath. To feel inexorably connected to all, and yet removed from the nitty gritty of all. Lifted high by staying still, low to the earth.

An aspiring rock star hauled pieces of his drum set up the basement stairs of a nearby bar. The gritty stench of cigarette smoke and stale beer following him up after the conclusion of his band’s half-hour gig before a grand audience of nineteen people. He paused at the top of the stairs, stick bag in hand, to take in the fresh night with a deep inhale. If he wasn’t reminded why he loved life at this very moment, perhaps the twenty-five dollars in his pocket would help jog his memory. The night’s take was not as much as at other gigs, but at least he had enough to fill up his gas tank and grab a bite to eat on the way home to his wife and warm bed.

His car now fully packed, the drummer shared a final laugh with his bandmates before bidding them farewell until the next gig. He turned around to take in a final view of the downtown street and the boarded-up theater across from the bar. It was then that he spotted the oblong shape outlined brightly on the damp sidewalk, covered in dirty white. His right hand fingered the twenty- and five-dollar bills in his pocket, and his mind pondered. He frowned and turned his back, cinching his scuffed leather jacket tighter around his skinny frame; the laughing memory of raindrops filled his olfactory senses as he slowly walked back to his car.

The heady feeling of the bills in his pocket inexplicably slowed his feet down even further, as if by bewitchment. He turned back around and, struggling to make a decision, noticed that the shape had moved yet again in the cold just as a couple-in-lust walked by without even a glance. The shape was just another piece of street litter barely registering in the consciousness.

But the shape had a name, and it was called James. And James still felt the chill rain deep in his bones.