Excerpt: Salamander

Prologue:

The brown leaves of fall swirled around the feet of the Saturday shoppers as they made their way around the retail district of the city. Everyone had an agenda, clear or unclear. Some were out to enjoy themselves and the last remaining days of acceptable weather, others rushing through their harried and urgent errands. A fountain spewed its freezing water nearby, its flow often interrupted by the small hands of children touching it just because they could.
A homeless man who no one cared about sat nearby, cup sitting next to him holding a few dollar bills watching them. He wondered if the children knew that what they were touching with the fingers they would later put in their mouths was recycled bathwater. Perhaps the parents knew, which was why they were pulling the children away a few moments later, stern looks painted on their faces.
A sudden burst of music caught his attention, and he tapped his toes to the beat. Such lovely music. He loved it when they played that song. It reminded him of when…no, that was a different time. If he wanted it to stop he could just move one block down, where another starving musician was spelling out a different tune. Pretty soon they would be playing holiday music, and he would have to leave the street altogether. Holiday music was too depressing, and there’s nothing worse than being depressed AND cold.
It had taken him a few starving weeks to realize that these days being talented paid. No one just gave away their money anymore. One had to either paint a clever sign that made them laugh, be musically inclined, or bend in impossible ways. This particular homeless man could do none of these, so he did what he did best. A small cardboard sign bearing the words “Storyteller” often accompanied him and his cup, and people paid. His stories were either endlessly extravagant or painfully short. A passerby would pay however much they felt like parting with and either would end up standing there for a half an hour or get a report on the weather. It all depended on his mood. On a beautiful day like this, he felt like reciting the fall of Napoleon. On a beautiful day like this, no one wanted to listen to poor Napoleon.
“Yes yes, that’s a sad story, but I have to go. Have a good day, and stay warm,” some had said. Such a pity.
Around what felt like noon the Napoleon loving homeless man abandoned his post and went on a grand food campaign. Emptying the cup and taking it with him, he stuffed his winnings in the only pocket left without a hole and proceeded to the nearest trashcan. Lean times were ahead, and he wanted to save all the money he could on affording warm food in the winter. For now, people were out, eating, and throwing away the leftovers. As long as it was fresh and well wrapped, it could be just as good as if it had just come from the refrigerator.
“I understand that, but I also think you should hold of on that for just a little while,” someone said as they passed by him elbow deep in possible meals. His head snapped up. He knew that voice. Brian Welsh, Intro to Russian History, received a B-. Quiet kid, liked to play solitaire on his laptop during a lecture. As Brian and his female companion got closer, the homeless man looked down once more, hoping to not be recognized. Instead he was tapped on the shoulder.
Looking straight into his yellowed, dull green eyes, Brian told him that trash was not healthy, and gave him five dollars. “I know it’s not much better, but there’s a McDonalds over there. At least it’s whole and warm right?” He accepted it, and thanked him, making his voice rougher than usual. “You stay warm big fella. It’s going to get cold here pretty soon.”
“Happy season change,” the homeless man replied. He wondered how much he had changed for someone who spent more than four months watching him pace around a room to not recognize him. Now he was going to have to buy something.
Enduring the stares, he walked in and ordered a couple things off the dollar menu. He avoided the soda. It had been so long since he had had any, but there was no point in drinking something that was going to dehydrate. He asked for it to go. It was mean to make diners endure his stench for more than a minute or so. Outside there was ventilation, inside, it was torture.
The burger was delicious, but sat in his gut like a rock. The parfait was refreshing, but had too much yogurt, fruit, and granola in it. After a while, he had to wander back into the source, hold up the bag to announce that he had been a paying customer recently, and journeyed to the back to relieve himself. Smiling with delight as the waste was carried away he reveled at how much toilets were taken for granted.
After it was done he decided it was time to check in on his lodgings. It was something he did every few hours, making sure it wasn’t stolen by the others. It was at the end of a long alleyway, in between two shops that rarely used their back doors. Most of it was paved road, but at the very end there was a small rectangle that was all dirt. Set on this was a small and ragged tent laden down with holey blankets. The blankets were often stolen, but no one dared to take the tent. It would be a difficult task, as it was staked into the ground and there were plenty of things inside it to weigh it down. The things inside were also frequently stolen, but it was okay because he would eventually find out where they went and steal them back. Blankets blankets blankets. They were everywhere. Inside the tent, on top of the tent, and even around it. They were his doormats, his tarp, his second layer, his bed. Some were bunched together in heaps of mismatching colors, other were placed carefully and aesthetically. Most weren’t his to begin with, as he had stolen them from his fellows who would eventually steal them back, or had died the previous winter. His tent was something to envy, for it meant sleeping dry and possibly warm. Of all the things he tried to sell to keep his apartment so long ago, he was glad he kept the tent.
It was there that he was found. The sun had set and it was rapidly growing darker. The homeless man was unlacing his shoes and placing them in their special spot inside where they wouldn’t be taken and rearranging his limbs so he would fit better inside. He twitched at the sound of footsteps nearing, but paid them no mind.
“Darwin?” a voice spoke softly. The second familiar voice of the day. “I was told I would find you here.” The homeless man froze.
“Who’s asking?” he replied hoarsly. He already knew the answer.
“It’s Paul.”
“Why?”
“I need to talk to you.” Rearranging again, he struggled out of the tent and stood to face the man who had once been his friend. Who had once been his equal. Who had once ruined everything. He waited for him to speak.
“How are you doing, Darwin?” The homeless man shrugged.
“Who’s that? I don’t know any Darwin. He’s long gone. I’m all that’s left. What do you want?”
“I want to set things right. I want to help.” Sun faded, greasy, unkempt brown hair swung as the head it was attached to shook side to side.
“It’s a bit late for that don’t you think?” Paul looked thoughtful for a few moments, before saying something rather thoughtless.
“We’re getting married.” It seemed to have struck the homeless man hard, and he started trembling.
“When?”
“Next month. But I want you to know that she never got over you. She hasn’t been able to let go. I’ve realized that I can’t marry her until she…” Paul shook his head and searched for another subject, hitting upon something that was not much better than before. “She got published. Her new book is pretty popular now. She was able to quit her old job and we moved into a nice house.”
“Good for her. And you.” The homeless man turned his head away, trying not to picture their happiness. Paul slipped his hand inside his coat pocket, fondling whatever was inside it.
“It’s about you, Darwin.” Their eyes locked once more, and a jaw moved in a continuous motion as a tongue was chewed. “She said it’s fiction, but everyone close knows it’s about you. Listen, you need to let go of her. She can’t until you do, which is why I had to find you. She gave me a lot of her revenue, and I’m going to give it to you.” Paul stepped forward, holding several hundred dollar bills held together with a rubber band in the hand that wasn’t occupying the coat pocket. When the man before him wouldn’t take it, he laid it on the ground before his feet.
“I have let go, Paul. I let go a long time ago. What do you want me to do?”
“Disappear,” Paul whispered, and withdrew his hand from the pocket, holding a book. He laid it down next to the money, and looked around, searching for something. Finding it, he strode over to a trashcan that the homeless man had piled old branches, pieces of discarded furniture and newspaper in and dragged it over close to the tent. He took out of his coat a book of matches, lit a few, and dropped them in the can.
“Stay warm,” he said. The other man didn’t acknowledge him, he just stared at the spot where he had been moments before. When he got no response, Paul walked away, leaving his old friend forever.
When the sound of his steps had vanished, the homeless man brought himself to look down at the things he was given. He picked up the book first. Salamander it read. By Sarah O. Smith. Then he picked up the money. He smelled it. He drew a finger across it. He stuck out his tongue and tasted it. Without another thought he approached the now blazing trashcan and dropped the green bundle in. He watched it burn and breathed in its fumes. When even the black traces of it blended it with everything else or was carried away on the breeze he reached out with an unprotected foot and kicked it over, sending a shower of sparks every which way and carefully collected fuel onto his precious blankets. Hugging the book to his chest, he waited until they caught fire and started tracing lines to the tent he had guarded all these years. He climbed inside. He was going to be warm tonight. He was a homeless man that no one cared about. He disappeared.