Morris was wet to the skin. He sneezed. Overhead sunlight broke the cloud cover. He glanced upward as a breeze whistled through the surrounding office towers. The rain had chased everyone inside, but blue was now overtaking gray. His eyes traced the line of reflected sky. It began in the highest windows and bounced ever downward. As the sun crested the clouds a silver streak ricocheted across the panes. His eyes followed it to the pavement to watch the inevitable sparkle. He had come for the same show countless times and still never tired of it.
The paperback in his coat pocket felt soggy. Everything about him felt soggy. He took another lingering glance at the natural light show, then headed westward toward the piers. He cut from street to street, making the subtle descent to the bay. Images from the early hours began to rise in his mind. He pushed them away. They rose again. He crossed the final street between himself and the bay, then walked out onto the nearest pier. Wind whipped the water. Waves shattered against the thick concrete legs of the pier. He watched nearby ferries rise and fall with the incoming waves.
Morris moved purely by impulse, as though an unseen force tugged at him. He could never explain why he followed the streets he chose, why he turned right or left, caught this bus or that. He was leaning against the railing of the pier, without any notion of why or how he had ended up there. He was alone, save for a few shabby fishermen, and an army of gulls. He watched a freighter crawl across the choppy bay toward the open sea. He tried to read the distant hull, but lost it in the haze. He wanted to forget what he had seen. He'd thought the marijuana would clear his head, but it only brought the image into sharper contrast. He closed his eyes, and leaned his face closer to the water. Salt spray wet his face. A fog horn sounded. He wished the echo to reverberate in his head, obliterating his thoughts. A feeling of dread crept into him. Flynn had been indifferent. She had hit the animal, then drove right over the broken body. The initial collision had not killed it. It was the follow through. He had seen it twitching. He could not shake that image. Nor could he forget her blank face. No remorse, no shame, not even annoyance. It was a face of perfect indifference. He shuddered.
A yelp broke his dark reverie. Several plump sea lions bobbed out from beneath the boardwalk, and swam toward open water. They moved gracefully and decisively, with primal confidence. He watched until they were out of sight. They were intent in their purpose, but to what that purpose might be he could not guess. He felt something like envy rise within him. His own empty days hung overhead, without even a mundane sense of purpose. He stared after the animals and realized his high was waning.
He reached into his pocket. feeling for the joint he’d stowed between the pages of his novel. It came out damp. He rubbed it between his fingers, scanned the dock, then reached for his lighter. His fingers clawed the lining of every pocket, but reported empty.
“Fuck.”
From across the planks a fisherman looked up. Morris met his eye but did not smile. The pole behind the man began to tremble. He turned, immediately losing interest in Morris, and clutched the pole. He yanked it upward and spun the reel with practiced force. His shoulders tensed beneath faded nylon as the creature below fought back. A nearby fisherman abandoned his pole to watch the struggle. Morris stood to move closer, but just then the tension broke. The fellow’s shoulders sagged as he stared absently into the depths. The second fisherman wandered back to his own fruitless endeavor.
Morris felt a stir of regret for not smiling before. He wanted to take it back, but the fisherman wouldn’t look up. He stood silently and still, staring sadly at the choppy ocean below. Morris could not bear it. He walked briskly up the dock, counting his strides, until he reached pavement.
The paperback in his coat pocket felt soggy. Everything about him felt soggy. He took another lingering glance at the natural light show, then headed westward toward the piers. He cut from street to street, making the subtle descent to the bay. Images from the early hours began to rise in his mind. He pushed them away. They rose again. He crossed the final street between himself and the bay, then walked out onto the nearest pier. Wind whipped the water. Waves shattered against the thick concrete legs of the pier. He watched nearby ferries rise and fall with the incoming waves.
Morris moved purely by impulse, as though an unseen force tugged at him. He could never explain why he followed the streets he chose, why he turned right or left, caught this bus or that. He was leaning against the railing of the pier, without any notion of why or how he had ended up there. He was alone, save for a few shabby fishermen, and an army of gulls. He watched a freighter crawl across the choppy bay toward the open sea. He tried to read the distant hull, but lost it in the haze. He wanted to forget what he had seen. He'd thought the marijuana would clear his head, but it only brought the image into sharper contrast. He closed his eyes, and leaned his face closer to the water. Salt spray wet his face. A fog horn sounded. He wished the echo to reverberate in his head, obliterating his thoughts. A feeling of dread crept into him. Flynn had been indifferent. She had hit the animal, then drove right over the broken body. The initial collision had not killed it. It was the follow through. He had seen it twitching. He could not shake that image. Nor could he forget her blank face. No remorse, no shame, not even annoyance. It was a face of perfect indifference. He shuddered.
A yelp broke his dark reverie. Several plump sea lions bobbed out from beneath the boardwalk, and swam toward open water. They moved gracefully and decisively, with primal confidence. He watched until they were out of sight. They were intent in their purpose, but to what that purpose might be he could not guess. He felt something like envy rise within him. His own empty days hung overhead, without even a mundane sense of purpose. He stared after the animals and realized his high was waning.
He reached into his pocket. feeling for the joint he’d stowed between the pages of his novel. It came out damp. He rubbed it between his fingers, scanned the dock, then reached for his lighter. His fingers clawed the lining of every pocket, but reported empty.
“Fuck.”
From across the planks a fisherman looked up. Morris met his eye but did not smile. The pole behind the man began to tremble. He turned, immediately losing interest in Morris, and clutched the pole. He yanked it upward and spun the reel with practiced force. His shoulders tensed beneath faded nylon as the creature below fought back. A nearby fisherman abandoned his pole to watch the struggle. Morris stood to move closer, but just then the tension broke. The fellow’s shoulders sagged as he stared absently into the depths. The second fisherman wandered back to his own fruitless endeavor.
Morris felt a stir of regret for not smiling before. He wanted to take it back, but the fisherman wouldn’t look up. He stood silently and still, staring sadly at the choppy ocean below. Morris could not bear it. He walked briskly up the dock, counting his strides, until he reached pavement.
He looked up. The clouds hung heavy, pregnant with impending rain. It was time to find shelter, he knew, but he did not want to go home. His paperback had several crumpled bills pressed between the pages. He flipped through the chapters collecting, finishing with a total of three fives and seven singles. It was plenty. Across two streets, somewhere behind a brick plaza, there was a set of stairs. He had found them two summers earlier by accident while wandering. They cut between private residences and gardens, leading the bold and curious ever upward toward Coit tower. He'd rarely seen others up there, lending the place a sense of secrecy. Tourists always looked sideways at him when he emerged, but he'd only smirk at their ignorance. He found the stairs and sprinted up the first set. They began in concrete and steel, which in turn met a second wider set. He sprinted up those as well, but it winded him. He rested against the rail and reached again for the joint. "Hi." He jerked around. A girl sat mid-flight. She smiled awkwardly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Um..." She bit her lip. "Uh, yeah, no worries man. I didn't see you there." "Yeah... I saw you coming from the plaza. Is that weed?" "Uhh... yeah. Yeah it is. Um. Sorry man. I don't even have a lighter anyway." "I do." "Oh." "We could smoke it. What are you reading?" "Oh nothing. Bulgakov. Its about the devil... Do you want to?" "If you do. I'm Naomi." He started to reach for a handshake, but then awkwardly scratched his shoulder instead. "I'm Morris. What are you doing here anyway? Do you go to school?" "Do you?" "I'm home sick." "Oh. Are you in high school then?" "Yeah. Aren't you?" She smiled. "No." "Are you in college?" "Sort of. How old are you?" "Seventeen." "Damn. We'd better smoke that before you get caught with it, and I get caught with you." She reached into a small purse by her feet and brought out a lighter. He walked up the stairs and sat beside her. "How old are you?" "Why do you care? Twenty one." He passed her the joint. She lit the end, then took a deep drag. She held the smoke in her chest, then unfurled it slowly between her puckered lips. He watched, but tried not to. She noticed, but only smiled. He took the joint back and mimicked her. They sat in silence while the joint burnt down. "So you like to read?" "What? Oh.... yeah. I mean... a friend gave me this book." "So your friend likes to read?" "Yeah man, I guess." She stared at him for a moment, then looked out toward the bay. He felt like he'd offended her, but did not know what to say. The silence persisted as the buzz settled in. Their vantage was broad. The staircase, though hidden from the street below, offered wide views of the bay. On a clear day they would see for miles, but fog obscured the scene. Somehow the awkwardness between them began to dissipate despite the silence.
"How did you find this place?" He let the question rest on the air for a few seconds before looking for an answer. "I don't know.... I just came across it. It happens a lot. I mean... I find places like this a lot." "Me too." He did not know what to say. The drug had taken full effect and he found conversation difficult to maintain. She did not persist, nor seem to mind. They sat in silence again, watching. Naomi stood up and stretched her limbs. She grabbed the railing and sunk into a sideways L shape. "I can't sit still like this. Not anymore. Do you want to go somewhere? We can go anywhere. Where were you going before this anyway?" "I don't know. Coit I guess. What about you?" "Here. Nowhere. Same I guess." They looked fully at each other. Her smile broke, but only halfway. He stood and stretched himself out as well. Without another word, they lunged up the staircase. She kept ahead of him, but they were both panting when they emerged below the tower. Few others lingered on the hill, as the usual crowd had been driven off by the weather. They rounded the stone steps, finishing at Coit's door. Naomi dug into her pocket, retrieving a small wad of cash. She counted off five. He opened his paperback to collect his own fare. She noticed and smiled, but did not say anything.
They paid the doorman and entered the rickety elevator. When the doors opened they found the tower nearly empty. Two boys, too young to be out of school, sat beneath a window arch playing chess. A woman walked from arch to arch taking photos out the windows. Otherwise they were alone.
Naomi walked toward the southern view.
"I've paid five bucks for the same view too many times."
"Me too."
She laughed and pressed her face against the windowpane. She breathed against it, fogging the glass. The weather preserved the effect, so she began tracing. Her focus entranced Morris. He thought again of the sea lions. Grace and intent, but to what purpose? Her picture faded as she drew it, and yet she drew. He stared until she stopped drawing and stared back.
They paid the doorman and entered the rickety elevator. When the doors opened they found the tower nearly empty. Two boys, too young to be out of school, sat beneath a window arch playing chess. A woman walked from arch to arch taking photos out the windows. Otherwise they were alone.
Naomi walked toward the southern view.
"I've paid five bucks for the same view too many times."
"Me too."
She laughed and pressed her face against the windowpane. She breathed against it, fogging the glass. The weather preserved the effect, so she began tracing. Her focus entranced Morris. He thought again of the sea lions. Grace and intent, but to what purpose? Her picture faded as she drew it, and yet she drew. He stared until she stopped drawing and stared back.
"What?" "Huh? Oh... Um. Are you from here?"
"No. I moved here last year." "From where?"
"Up north. Small town. You've probably never heard of it. Are you from here?"
"Yeah."
She waited. He looked away.
"I moved here to get away."
"From what?"
"Myself."
His eyes darted to her face. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know. I don't know why I even said that. I came here for this."
"For what?"
"This! Just.... randomness."
"Randomness?"
She rolled her eyes.
"oh mon ami, nous avons assez lutte ..." "What?" "Vous etre un mort demain!" She turned from him then and walked away. He watched her go, but did not follow. The elevator doors slid shut, and she was gone.
Morris leaned against the window and watched below. She emerged from somewhere below, turned toward the windows and waved up at him. He laughed.
