Tethered

Dear Diary,

I lost it. I actually lost it. The one thing that means the most to me in this world is gone. Could I just get another one? Sure. But it won’t be the same one. It won’t be the one I shared all those memories with, told all those stories to, and spent all those sleepless nights protecting, making sure it wouldn’t go off on its own, or, worse, get stolen.

Have I looked for it? Of course, I’ve looked for it. But when nobody understands you, because you don’t speak their language, or because you can’t speak at all, it makes it difficult. I’ve gone around showing people a drawing, and I’ve only gotten confused, angry or threatening looks in return. I tried drawing it with my finger in the air for them, acting out a scene of myself walking with it down the sidewalk, or getting onto public transit, but nobody seemed to care to understand me. That’s why I’ve turned to you, Diary. I can’t talk, but I don’t think this breaks any rules—writing words on paper—right?

It was a day like any other. We woke up and ate breakfast, which was two pieces of bologna, half of a browned apple, and a glass of rainwater. I’ve been trying to make the bologna last all week. It came in a package of fourteen slices, so I have two a day for breakfast. It’s Thursday, and my tummy is begging me for a third slice, but I’d rather have a slightly grumbly gut today over a starving stomach on Sunday.

Anyway, we went on our morning walk together, catching judgmental looks from early morning cyclists, joggers and fancily dressed adults making like corporate zombies on their way to their office jobs. I used to have a job. The pay wasn’t great and was a bit humiliating—but what job doesn’t that describe? I liked my coworkers, an eclectic group of characters, all in a similar boat to me, just trying to leverage their uniqueness to make a buck to survive this crap world. Even without words, I knew they understood me.

I arrived at the public washrooms with an urgent need to pee, and I figured I’d take the opportunity to refresh my hygiene. So I tied him—because I do think he’s a him— to the bike rack and propped the bathroom door open so I could keep an eye on him while I splashed water on my pits and in my hair, washed my feet in the sink, and freshened up my face. When I returned to the bike rack, it was still there, but as was a small child who must have been about three apples tall, looking at him, wanting to touch it. I slapped his finger away and waved my own in his face, making it clear that this was a no-no. The child began to cry, so, begrudgingly, we put on a little show to cheer him up.

We made our way to the busy public market, catching eyes of tourists of all different backgrounds. Most of the kids smiled at me, though. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’ll find unfinished plates of burgers, soup, sushi, sandwiches, and even salmon when I’m really up on my luck. Today, I managed to get to an unattended bagel before the seagulls did. It tasted like it might have been herb and garlic cream cheese, and I figured it would tie me over until dinner.

Most of the benches here were designed with spikes or armrests in the middle, so they can’t be slept on by people who simply need to sleep. Which is why I’m grateful to still have my car. I can’t afford gas, so I walk everywhere I go, but it’s nice to have a home base and a dry, safe place for us to sleep. It rains here often. The sound of it on the tin roof of my 1996 red Chevy Cavalier reminds me of my childhood. Sitting in our family mini-van alone, listening to the rain, escaping the sounds of my parents’ rage, and safe from my older brother adding another bruise to his collection on my limbs. I lost count of the number of purple marks and the amount of times my parents told me to shut up. Not a happy time, but somehow, I’m still nostalgic for it.

A blister formed on the big toe of my right foot as we spent most of the afternoon walking along the ocean. The moisture that the salt water adds to the air makes it feel fresher—like it’s more breathable than the stuffy air in the concrete jungle. My mother always had a white noise machine playing ocean sounds at night so that she could fall asleep. Listening to the waves crash in front of me, I wondered if someone recorded that soundscape of hers right there. I took my boots off and watched a seemingly happy couple each holding onto one tiny hand of their baby girl, assisting her in taking the world’s littlest steps, water pooling in the damp sand, leaving minuscule shoe prints.

A wall of clouds began rolling in, and my blister started throbbing, telling me that a rainstorm was imminent. So I limped my way back into the darkening city, my stomach beginning to beg for sustenance. I’d never stolen anything in my life before, and I wasn’t about to start now. I hate begging, though I have stood on some street corners and meridians in my time. But it’s hard to ask for help when you don’t have a voice.

The rain turned torrential, and the bustling commuters and unprepared tourists all became increasingly frantic. Cars whizzed by, splashing dirty puddles into my boots, soaking my socks. The pelting raindrops and surrounding buzz became almost overwhelming, and my eyelashes hung heavy with moisture, blurring my vision. I stepped out onto the crosswalk, unable to see the glaring red light telling me not to cross, and the headlights blasting closer to me as they struck and sent me flying to the pavement, unconscious.

When I came to, I saw half a dozen faces gathered above me, staring down with varying levels of concern and confusion. Many asked if I was okay. Some suggested not touching me in case anything had broken. Others asked me my name. I couldn’t answer any of their questions. I simply stared at them, eyes wide. One of them yelled that I must have brain damage. I was hurting, but all my body parts were still accounted for. That’s when I realized what wasn’t.

I shot up, despite the pain, and looked around. He was nowhere to be seen. People started trying to sit me back down, telling me an ambulance was coming, which I could hear in the distance. I frantically spun my head around, looking for him, which caused sharp jolts of pain in my neck and shoulders. I tried wordlessly asking if anyone had seen him, to no avail. The only response I got was someone wondering aloud whether I should be taken to a mental hospital.

***

Dear Diary,

I’m out of bologna. I ate the last of it in my car last night, and now it’s Sunday, and I’m starving. But what does anything matter? It’s been three days since I lost my best friend.

I put up missing posters around the city, but most people have just been cruelly laughing at me. I don’t have access to a computer or a printer, so I used pieces of scrap cardboard I found in someone’s recycling bin, and I took a black marker from a whiteboard in a coffee shop. That’s not technically stealing, right? Since it was recyclable, and the marker wasn’t an item in the shop’s inventory? Unfortunately, the rain hasn’t let up, so most of my cardboard signs have turned to mush.

The rain hadn’t let up, but later in the day, the sun broke through the brightening clouds, and I decided it might be my only brief opportunity to look for him. Yes, I understood that by this point, three days later, our chances of a reunion were slim. I understood he was probably already in the clouds, but I’d be damned if I didn’t do my best to try.

I tried showing people what I was looking for, describing what he looked like with my fingers and facial expressions. Nobody had seen him. Few gave me the time of day. As I was walking with my head slouched down in disappointment, I saw a little girl with bouncing black curly hair in the distance. In her hands, to my utter shock, surprise and delight, she had him. I went bounding over to her and her mother, my distraught appearance causing them a fright. I pointed at it, then back to myself, pressing my hands together in a prayer. The mom called me a freak and spat at me to get my own. I tried repeating the motions with my hands, explaining that he was mine, but they didn’t get it. The little girl started crying, saying she just got it, and begging her mom not to let me take it. Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t take no for an answer, and I was determined to get him back. Fortunately for the little girl, her mom had a Taser.

***

Dear Diary,

It’s Wednesday, and I’m not sure what hurts more: my heart or my stomach. Not to mention everything that’s still aching from being hit by that car. It’s been six days since I lost him, and three days since I’ve had a proper meal. The more that I thought about Sunday’s encounter, the more I realized that it wasn’t him. The colour was off, and looking back, so was the size. Desperation clouded my mind, and a lack of sleep and food must have made me delirious. Nothing that fifteen-hundred volts of electricity won’t clear up.

None of my family came looking for me when I went missing. That might be because I actually ran away, but my mom didn’t even try to convince me to stay, and my dad never tried to tell me to come back. The crazy thing? If even one of them, my fist-wielding brother included, told me to stay or to come back, I would have. But here I am, nearly two years later. It’s been only six days without my best friend, and I’ve thought about him every day, and it makes me wonder how my family hasn’t done the same. Will I stop thinking about it after a year or two?

What I’m currently thinking about is going back to my old job. They’re the reason I have anything that I have. Or had. They stepped in and became the closest thing I know to family or friendship. Lillian gave me her old car, Emmett gave me a couch to sleep on, and Lou, well, he gave me the job. The three of them taught me everything I know. And I ran away from them, too. I felt like a burden that they all took on against their will, and I convinced myself of that theory until I believed they’d be better off without me. But am I better off? Maybe they’ve already replaced me, given my parking spot to someone else, and my place on the couch is being slept on by some other vagabond.

Things have to change today. I know what I have to do. For the first time in my life, I have to steal. I know it’s horrible. But in order to do some good for myself, I need to do some bad to someone else. In order to get back to Lillian, Emmett and Lou, I need gas. And to get gas, I need money. And if I have money, I may as well get food, too.

I went about my routine of freshening up and fixing my face in the public washroom and walking along the ocean, this time, looking for an opportunity to snag some cash or a credit card. In the time I’ve been living in my car, I have used my skills a few times on the streets to make a desperate coin. But the loss of my best friend, my sole companion, has me in no mood to entertain.

I had no luck at the beach, so I wandered up to the busier street. There’s a reason people gawk at me in public, so I decided to lean into it and make it work to my advantage. I noticed an ATM on the corner of the street, so I positioned myself around the side of the building, just out of sight. I could hear the beeps of someone inputting their PIN, and the sound of the machine dispensing what was clearly a hefty wad of cash. Gosh, I felt terrible as he rounded the corner, and I jumped out, frightening him half to death. He fell to the ground, dropping his cash, and I quickly picked up only what I needed, which was about sixty of the probably two hundred dollars he had withdrawn. I was already doing a bad thing. I didn’t need to be greedy, too.

***

Dear Diary,

I forgot how good it feels to drive. With the windows down, I aired out the stale stench the cabin had accumulated in the recent stagnant months. It felt freeing, the smoothest and most clear-minded drive I’d ever taken, my stomach full with an Egg McMuffin, hash browns and fresh coffee. It was a long drive, though. I forgot how far I had truly come, and I barely remembered the way back, yet it was as if the wind was guiding the car back to where it belonged.

I parked in the same spot I used to park in every day before I left. I was surprised that it was empty and still had my name on it, like they were hoping that after all this time, I might still come back. My heart was heavy in my throat. As I made my way toward the tents, I saw them. Missing posters. Not made of cardboard, not with a stolen dry-erase marker, not mushy from the rain. They were laminated, colourful, and they clearly displayed my name and face. They were everywhere. Nobody could miss them.

And then I saw my best friend. And then I saw my best friend again. And again. I saw my best friend everywhere. In every child’s hand. Because every child gets a red balloon when they exit the circus.

I found him. Maybe not exactly him, the one I took with me the day I left the circus, and protected with my life, fearing I’d pop or lose my only companion. It might sound silly, Diary, but I felt like the air inside that balloon was all the life I had left in me. The last air from someone, or some place, that I loved. That loved me. And now he’s here. And I’m here. So maybe he’s not the one I shared the memories with, told all those stories to and spent sleepless nights with. But maybe that’s because I was never actually holding onto him. I was never actually looking for him.

“Bingo?” Lou shouted. “Bingo!”

I was holding onto this.

“We knew you’d come back!” Emmett and Lillian squealed.

I was looking for this.