The Drifter

Cold, metallic droplets leapt from the railing of the fire escape directly above. The white splotches swimming across his vision began to fade. A familiar voice pierced through his scattered thoughts.

Call him soft. A soft, wannabe thug.

The Drifter groaned and propped himself up on an elbow. A grocery coupon and crumpled Polaroid sat half-submerged in a murky puddle next to him. “You’re soft,” he said, dabbing the fresh gash across his eyebrow with a fingertip. “Just a soft, wannabe thug.”

The man stopped and turned back around. “You must be the stupidest man out here,” he said. A streak of red and blue flashed by at the end of the alley. He waited until the wail of the siren receded into the night and continued. “Now I have to do this.” A soda can crunched under his foot as he approached The Drifter, stopping at his side. The thick sole of his boot paused in the air for a split second. A sharp heel dug into his stomach, forcing his knees and head to jerk forward simultaneously.

Unsure how much time had passed, the Drifter found himself curled in a ball. The alley sat empty. After the urge to vomit subsided, he rolled to his side, continued to wheeze on all fours, and eventually propped himself up on a knee.

The voice spoke out.

Go to the drugstore across the street.

After a few deep breaths and a gargled grunt, he found himself on two feet again. The coupon and Polaroid collected water on the ground behind him as he staggered into the street. Tires whispered across the slick pavement. One of the red neon letters blinked rapidly above the drugstore entrance. He managed to cross the road, dodging angry drivers.

Inside, the drugstore smelled of mildew and cleaning spray. A security guard gripped the handle of his baton, secured to a thick belt, and leaned against the checkout counter. The cashier behind the counter smiled and swayed, rolling the frizzy end of a ponytail between her fingers.

Grab those bandages behind you.

But I don't have any money, The Drifter thought.

Tuck them inside your jacket.

The Drifter eyed the security guard, still deep in conversation, and grabbed a box of bandages. He ducked and dropped the box into the lining of his jacket. Still hunched over, he walked to the end of the aisle and slipped outside into the street. He made his way to the corner of the block without looking back.

Sit and wait.

The Drifter dropped down onto the curb. The sound of sewer water shot up through the bars of the grate under his feet.

Wait for what, he thought.

A man occupied the fogged phone booth next to him, tugging at his white beard with a gloved hand as he spoke.

A thick wool coat reached his ankles.

Wait for him to step out and introduce yourself.

“No! I’m not doing that again!” He jumped to his feet and hobbled away from the phone booth.

Go back. Now.

No, he thought. Please. I won’t be able to live with myself this time.

Go back.

“I won’t,” he said aloud. He stopped in front of an empty sandwich shop.

Okay.

The Drifter felt a light tingle in his pinky. “Please don’t,” he whispered under his breath. The tingle spread down the outside of his hand and looped around his wrist. “No, no, no, no.” He shook his hand, but the sensation spread across his palm and covered each knuckle. The tingle burned and his hand began to throb. He stopped shaking and stared down at his radiating hand. The flesh of his hand began fading away, allowing him to see through his palm and onto the glistening sidewalk below.

“Mister? Are you okay?”

The Drifter shoved his hand into his pocket and turned around. The bearded man from the phone booth stood before him, his tired eyes catching a glint of light from the shop window. The burning sensation crept up his forearm.

Ask him if you’re still bleeding.

The Drifter grunted and shook his head back and forth in a frenzy. “Am I bleeding?” he finally asked the man, refusing to look him in the eye. The pain in his hand vanished.

He inspected The Drifter’s glistening red eyebrow and scratched his beard. “Yes, it appears you are. Do you need to go to the hospital?” he asked. “Have you been sleeping out here today?”

“No. No hospitals.”

Give him the bandages.

The Drifter opened his jacket and produced the crumpled box of bandages.

Ask him to cover the cut above your eye.

“Can you help with this?” he asked, pointing at his face.

“Let’s go over there so I can see better," he said, taking the box. They stopped underneath the hazy glow of the street lamp. The man took a bandage out and peeled the paper from the back, exposing the adhesive side.

“Close your eye, Mr…”

Gableson.

“Gableson.”

The man nodded. “Please close your eye, Mr. Gableson. I don’t want to poke it out,” he said with a laugh.

The Drifter obeyed, feeling a heartbeat by his temples. The man placed the bandage over his eyebrow and lightly patted it against the hair and skin, causing him to wince. “You’ll need a second one on your forehead,” he said. The Drifter nodded and kept his eyes closed.

“There you go,” the man said, securing the second bandage. The Drifter took the box and returned it to his pocket.

“Thank you for that.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Gableson.”

Now do it.

The Drifter shook his head and whimpered. “I can’t. Please, not this time. I’ll do anything else.”

“I beg your pardon?” the man asked, scrunching his eyebrows.

Now.

“What’s… your… name?” he asked, extending a trembling right hand.

The man smiled. “I’m Dr. Rhodes,” he said, extending his own hand. “Not a medical doctor, though.”

As their hands locked, a wave of sharp, jabbing pain flowed from The Drifter’s chest, shot down his right arm and escaped through his fingertips. The man’s grip tightened as his body shuddered.

“I’m sorry,” The Drifter murmured, looking away.

The man’s eyes glazed over in a pearly white as he convulsed, mouth agape. The Drifter let go once the pain receded from his hand. The man’s chin dropped into his chest and he slumped to the ground in a heap. The man’s open wallet landed next to him.

Flee.

“I’m j-just really s-s-sorry,” he stuttered, standing over the man’s body. Traffic continued along the street. He looked down into his open palm, where a folded bill lay.

Done for the night.

The Drifter heaved himself down the sidewalk, tears in his eyes, and stopped in front of a dented blue door. He knocked on it. The chain behind the door rattled and half of a woman's face appeared.

“How much?” she asked.

The Drifter held up his hand and pinched his thumb and forefinger together. The woman shut the door and chained it again. She returned a minute later, shoving an upturned palm through the crack of the door. He placed the bill, still folded, into her palm. She yanked her hand back and produced a small black bag a few seconds later.

“Thanks,” he whispered, taking the bag. The door slammed shut.

He continued down the street, muttering to himself, and stopped behind a diner. He wedged his body between two dumpsters. Through gritted teeth, he pushed one of the dumpsters along the pavement, wheels squeaking, until there was enough room to curl up comfortably. The smell of damp garbage filled his nose as he lifted the lid, pawing through plastic bags and discarded food. He pulled out a long piece of cardboard and placed it across the space between both dumpsters, creating a roof. Satisfied, he ducked underneath the cardboard and sat down, leaning his back against the building.

He removed the black bag from his pocket and undid the tie. After inhaling a pinch of the bag’s contents, his chest exploded with warmth. A smile crept across his face as his head fell slowly back, resting on the wall behind him. His arms fell limp to his sides and his pupils tripled in size.

The Drifter sat still, body vibrating, the voice of angels competing with the sound of fresh raindrops, pattering against his makeshift roof. He closed his eyes.