Holy Land Ch 1 Part 4

"Why would anyone want to leave this town?"

"Well, Rico, despite having such comfy accommodations here, the girls are flaky, and I don't get along with the mentality here. And add the night I had last night," I tell the one friend I have here.

His mouth is agape, and his eyes narrow. I can only assume he's trying to process another defiant retort, but it's hard to take someone serious when their appearance and manner remind you of Carlton from Fresh Prince.

After a brief pause while trying to conceive a thought to share, he finally says, "You're just running away. Running away." His forehead creases while his brow draws inward to further dramatize the scowl he's giving me to accent his argument.

"No, my misinformed friend. Running away is exactly why I'm here. Charging head first away from my problems and into this situation. I'm going back.
This is the Land of the Lotus Eaters. I don't belong here."

Rico remains in unspoken judgement, only showing the confusion of the term with the an exact facial expression of a young Gary Coleman. Before I'm severely let down by a half expectation to hear, "What you talkin' about, Willis?" that will never happen, I go to further expound my logic.

"It's from the Odyssey. Odysseus comes across a land perceived to be paradise, but finds it to be only an illusion. The inhabitants just sleep, fuck, and eat these lotus to remain high all the time until they wither away."

Turning my back to the intersecting chutes that snake around and overlap each other to spew the cascading waterfalls that form the fountain for the Embarcadero district, my attention focuses on several topless girls and their well endowed breasts amidst a cluster of unsightly, hairy men with layers of excess bulging from two piece bathing suits. A few hold signs stating the need for nude equality between men and women.

I continue to peer at the topless protest as I explain, "You see, it's the same here. Everyone I've met here is getting fucked up on something while obscuring and hiding from the real problems around them." I nod over to a man on our left sitting next to a tattered sleeping bag. His long, blonde hair drapes over his face as his head bows down and his hands clasp together in silent prayer for the sandwich on his lap. My own clothing is starting to mirror the same stains of dirt, rips, and fading his already has.

I assume Rico is done with the scene, as he almost immediately walks off and begins to chastise me, "Man. You don't know what you're talking about. You need to set your priorities right. You need to be like me." His voice is vindictive, and the smile on his face is the same when he's thought I've been put in my place.

Already irritable from my insides boiling, I scoff angrily, "My priorities are straighter than yours."

"I work," Rico says defensively.

"Which you've blown off every time"

"I go to school."

"You haven't made it to a single class, yet. You just smoke pot all day."

The rage in Rico's face is apparent; His lips purse while his eyebrows reach for each other. His voice keeps escalating as he yells, "Why you gotta come at me. You're always coming at me like that."

"I'm not..." I start to say, but Rico keeps cutting into my sentence until I'm riled enough to yell, "I will end you! I'm more than certain I can."

I realize the magnitude of what exactly I meant, and an awkward silence settles between us. It takes a few blocks to get up the courage to apologize and explain exactly how ill I am.

With a serious look he says, "Good, because I was about to have to wreck you.

My palm smacks violently into my face, and I hang my head while shaking it in disbelief.

●●●

I can feel my eyes watering. The liquid streaking down scalds the skin underneath. Every bone feels the weight of gravity crushing down. Every time I slip out and in to sleep, I catch only a glimpse here and there: a flower, laying on a green surface, my sword. It's all vague and distant with the feeling of uncertainty.

When the pain stops and the tossing ends, I open my eyes to a family of four staring at me from the door way. Wrapped in a floral curtain, I do a quick survey of a room in complete disarray. Slightly off center of the room lies the other four beds stacked atop one another. Clothing, a jar on its side with peanut butter spilling out, and papers reading Fuck, This Is A Nightmare, and other equally cryptic words in bold ink, are strewn across the room.

"Good morning." I offer a slight wave and a smile.

The father stares at me with a blank expression for quite awhile before responding, "We had this room reserved."

I go to stand, but the curtain snags onto the cot I had been sleeping on and pulls completely off. Entirely nude, apart the socks on my feet, I catch the of two women doing a once over with curious eyes while the son and father look away in disgust. I do the only thing I can do, reply, "Weird," as I give a couple of slow nods and wandering looks before gathering my stuff.

With everything in both arms, I weave through a minefield of overturned lamps and scattered bedding.  "M'ladies," I excuse myself with a slight bow while the two take another prolonged peek during my exit.

Rico had scrounged up enough money to buy me a few nights of bed rest to recover, but the last two days are just fever induced fragments of rampaging the hotel room during hot flashes. The odd feeling of coming from a nightmare trance to complete lucidity is only matched by how unusually sunny the day is.

Rico also had shown me the Homeward Bound office that would send me home, and now the only thing stopping my return is selling the motorcycle in front of the hostel. I make my way there to spend the last of the money for a night to stay, certain everything will fall into place.

The day consists of taking photos of the homeless, and the cold blowing in with the oncoming night brings me back to the hostel early to a very welcoming Frenchman in the foyer.

"You look chilled. Come over and take a shot!" he calls over, his voice thick with accent.

Taking the bottle of rum he offers, I pull back and take a deep swig. I hand it back saying, "You know what they say, 'The coldest summer I've ever spent was...'"

"Ah! Hemingway," the Frenchman interrupts.

"No, Mark Twain."

He scoffs, "Americans don't even know their own writers' words."

Something about the remark makes the French accent unbearable. Usually something so trivial would shed right off my ego, but now it soaks in, and a male pride starts to boil over.

I argue with a man who won't listen to reason until I place a bet for the bottle of rum if I can prove him wrong.

"And if I win?" he asks.

"My rum in return." I'm not sure where I would get this bottle, but worrying about a minor detail that isn't going to happen doesn't matter.

A man's ego is hard to prove wrong, maybe the hardest. Even when the proper information is brought up against it, its resilience and failure to surrender is borderline fanatical. Despite ten different references online to prove me right, he still hangs on to the one terribly wrong tourist pamphlet that agrees with his logic. Eventually I trap it under a growing mountain of evidence, including the opinions of several other folk, and crush him and his prideful egotism.

I take a hold of my prize and raise it high toward the ceiling. "To an American victory," I cheer, followed by another swill of the dark rum inside.

Since traveling, I've picked up that hostels are a great place for international parties. It's the same energy and camaraderie as going to a friend's house no one cares about fucking up. I decide to take my spoils downstairs to continue the night in high spirits. Stacks of twenty-four and various bottles of alcohol are intermittently dispersed on each of the five, long tables that make the basement's dining room.

Masses of people crowd around each other in large room swapping stories about their own debaucherous tales of sex, drugs, and traveling experiences, but one girl immediately stands out from the rest of faces. Brilliantly blonde, sharp features without lacking the feminine elegance, and these round cheeks that almost dimple when she smiles; This girl certainly stirs an awe for beauty out of me. Without hesitation, I take the seat in front of her.

"Nick Norris, luckiest man alive," I introduce myself.

In a British accent she asks, "And what makes you so lucky, Nick Norris?"

"Well, I just won some rum from a French man, and there's an open seat in front of the prettiest girl in the room. You mind if I join your group to drink?"

Because of either looks or hopefully charm, she doesn't mind, and shots are immediately doled out with introductions. Everyone starts to barrage each other with questions, but I'm mainly focused on the girl in front of me named Mym.

Only commenting on the others' inquiries to each other, I'm finally asked, "So what is it that you do?"

A little overzealous from the alcohol, I slam my hand down on the table and rise while answering, "I do adventures, and I do them damn well! Weird things happen to me, and I live a precarious life. Hopefully I can manage a living off of it."

"And what happened to you here?" Mym asks.

Unable to think of a reasonable answer without pausing awkwardly, I tell them in short what exactly I've been doing in a matter of fact tone, "I became homeless and fought crime."

Each person in the group looks up with an expression that demands an explanation. An unanimous, "What the fuck did you say?" posted on each of their faces. I decide to sit down and give the short story of the past few encounters, leaving out the small details of excessive blood and hallucinations.

"And now my adventure comes to an end. I'm leaving tomorrow before something seriously bad happens to me."

Mym takes my hand in hers and pleads with soft words, "You should stay."

"I can't."

There's a wistful look in her eye as she ruthlessly begs again, "Please, you should stay. We can hang out."

My mind races through several scenarios of happily ever after movie endings. I've never fallen so suddenly for a girl. This could be the exact reason I came out here, a perfect fairy tale.

I think of the day after though, and the reality catches up to replace my delusions. I do not live in a fantasy romance. I am a homeless boy with a stick, beating petty criminals until their blood starts dry on my hands and stain my clothing. A dark story opposite of what she's probably thinking.

I have to concentrate that I'm making the right choice, my decision waning even as I tell her, "I wish I could, but you don't understand what it's like." The look of dejection on her face makes me want to take it back.

"That's fucking bullshit!"

With what sounded almost like an Irish accent, I wasn't sure if it was another foreigner yelling over the crowd until I turn around with everyone else. Wearing a flannel shirt and a fading blue cap backwards, I recognize the bearded man as one of the staff members staring at me. Pure contempt emanates from a face trying not to lose its composure.

Unsure of the problem, I ask, "What?"

His voice, now with a tint of an odd Yankee accent, barely restrains its voice. "It's fucking bullshit! You think you're some kind of fucking guardian angel of the city?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"I had to listen to that shit while on the crapper."

"No, actually, I think quite the opposite," I explain calmly, trying not to get too involved in this conversation.

He points to my new drinking buddies and shouts, "You may have them fooled because they're European and all gullible," he points to me and continues, "but I know I'm American, you're American, and we go, 'Fuck you!' to anybody in that situation."

I'm completely caught off guard by this man giving me the finger.

He gestures to a small table in the corner with three other staff members. "You tell that to anyone at this table and they'll laugh in your fucking face."

Rage begins to swell, and my fists clench.
The lust for a fight starts to seep in and paint my vision with colour of an enemy. This isn't worth it. I only have one night left, and  I shouldn't lose myself in front of these people, but he's insulted me and this whole room.

A deep breath in slows my increasing heartbeat and the urge to strike first, but I refuse to yield, instead, my voice raises, opting to yell back, "Maybe where you're from, but not everyone shares the same horrible instinct as you. I'm not some goddamn guardian angel, but don't group me in your world of shit because you don't have the sack to do anything but cowardly watch."

Let him swing. Let him swing.

He doesn't swing. Instead he gives me a look that says he's far above this argument and says, "Whatever, man. Let's just drink to disagreeing."

There are not enough words to express, with justice, how much one can loathe a man. I can only give a stare empty enough to contain all the hatred pouring from my gaze. I mutter back a, "Whatever," before pulling up a bottle to cheers and sit back down.

"Are you ok?" Mym asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

"Yeah. I'm going for a walk."The atmosphere feels toxic, and I walk out without making eye contact with anyone.

From both sides of the road on my normal route up Post Street, I hear the calls of, "Ninja" and the occasional promise of pleasure from the women at each corner. I keep walking, a turn left, down a few darkened alleys, not sure where where I want to go but not exactly caring. The sound of yelling finally stops me. In front of a late night donut shop, a man demands another's wallet, while everyone inside is either ignoring the two or just watching.

I guess I couldn't make it through one more night.

My feet stomp heavily as I run forward, and my usual approach of a preemptive strike is an awkward stumbling. Before being able to make the strike, the man on the right brandishes a closed fist. I barely catch the shine of the lamp post off the blade in his hand, and, with reflexes slower than normal, the knife rips a jagged line into my cheek while trying to dodge forward and enter in. The feeling of blood dripping off my chin in a small, thick stream is immediate. I jump back and reach for my sword, only then realizing I had forgotten it.

Holding the knife towards me, the man hesitates to press forward and attack. His face floods with a look of fear . It washes away what little colour he had in his complexion and widens his eyes before making him run in the opposite direction. I look back, and, for the first time since coming to the city, see a cop car coming down the road with flashing lights. They're finally doing their job.
I dart across the street like Lot and don't take the chance to look back while running.

●●●

If You Can Read This You Can Read

        I stare at the message informing me I have the necessary comprehension. Following it down my arm, I find most of my upper torso covered with foreign characters and snippets of words written in black marker. In my own writing, right next to the word Olsem on my left arm, I trace the words Vini, Vidi, Vino. It sparks a few memories of Mym's silent treatment after getting back from the fight, but everything afterwards remains vastly blank.

        The urgency to get home returns, and I pull back a curtain and climb out a human sized cubby hole. Halfway down the ladder, the girl underneath starts to lift her shirt pass her breasts. Still unsure where I am, I freeze until she stops stirring in her sleep before grabbing my backpack and sword. After my ungraceful exit, tripping over numerous piles of clothes and bags, I glance at the door's exterior. There are no numbers, just the letters reading 'STAFF.'

        Only a few feet from the door, a sharp dressed man calls out my name across the dining room. The flat cap and silver cross hanging between his open shirt calls up a hunch, and I ask, "Cole?"

        Without realizing my confusion, he replies, "Here's the money for the bike."

        I pocket the money and shake his caramel coloured hand, but the news of finding a buyer sometime during the night feels more depressing than the relief I initially thought there would be.

        Cole follows me outside as I take off the license plate and climb on one last time. I lean in and place a small kiss on the tank, hugging the frame tightly. I grab the saddle bags after dismounting and nod to the owner while walking away from the alley.

●●●

        I was curious how I could get in a government building so easy with something that obviously looks like a weapon; a man with tattered, blue gloves only gave me an unthorough pat down, but staring down at the only toilet not covered in a black trash bag, in a bathroom with every wall ripped out and leaking yellow water from every cracked porcelain bowl, I start to understand. I can't even take a shit because the toilet seat is missing and a brown cream, which I can only guess is someone else's own shit, is smeared thickly around the top of the bowl. I decide it's best to ignore "The Call" and leave before the smell of ammonia makes me collapse.

        Retaking my seat next to an elderly, black woman named Audrey, we immediately take up conversation again. I recap where we left off, "So you were arrested in Arizona, protesting for immigrants' rights, and left in a cell alone for almost a month without medical care."

        "Everyone is complaining that they're taking our jobs as cheap labor, but without them a part of our economy would collapse. We need to humanize immigrants rather than seclude them with an eye of mistrust and persecution," she tells me. Her weathered features show a multitude ordeals in each crease and wrinkle, but despite all that, her demeanor is still cheerful.

        "And now you're here. A place close to spiritual disaster."

        My jaded remark is met with another one of her stories. "I met a couple living on the streets. The woman would wake up and start beating her husband. This large woman would beat this frail man three to five times a day. When I asked why does he put with the abuse, he told me, 'I know she cares enough to beat on me. If she stops, I know she doesn't love me anymore.'"

        I sit there listening  to her tell me about seeing the homeless trying to strong-arm food and money from people. She continues her rant, "A man demanding food and smokes from me was getting physical until I told I was homeless too. Why would you act that way? His excuse was, 'Because I'm old.' I don't understand. We're all in the same misery."

        The same misery; the phrase sits heavily on my mind. The conversation dies, and I'm left thinking how deep the corruption in people delves.

        To my right, a blonde man in a leather jacket, skate shoes of an unforgettable, deep blue, shades, and a mustache that screams pedophile slips inside through the exit. He walks over to a couple sitting in the corner waiting for the same bus to pick our group up. From his pockets, he throws a handful of packets marked as sugar.

        The woman starts to stuff them in her purse as the boyfriend asks, "Is this Grade A Colombian?"

        "Don't worry about that. Just stick close to that kid and make a sale," the dealer replies, pointing to a kid coming from that god awful bathroom. His hand reaches into his jacket and grabs an object bulging inside. "Now make some sales and put some money in my pocket. You'll find yourself happier in the long run."

        Quietly watching the drug deal, all three of them suddenly turn to me. I narrow my eyes and glare back until all of our attention is diverted by the speakers above. A man's high pitched voice yells over the intercom, "You with the phone. Turn. It. Off. Now. Turn it off, or I'll come at you with everything I've got. Final warning!"