A Space Between

Final transmission

Downtown. On a bench. Sipping the hair of a dog. Shaggy mutt with the breath of day-old mozzarella. Anorak masks the stale odor of Saturday night. Wine cooler sweat. Blanmanche brained. Think tank of spaghetti rhythmically undulating to a Polka melody. In and out. In and out. A fugue state wishing for certainty.

He had mentally checked out. Dispatched to a grim corner of North East London. Sunk waist-deep in filth and left to rot on a broken bench dedicated to Samuel Watkins - War Veteran and Grandfather of Twelve.

He twirled his besocked feet that were bitterly exposed in the harsh winter air and wondered aloud about his left shoe.

“Left shoe. I left a shoe. Shoe left lefted. Lefted a Left shoe.”

He smiled, disentangled his words, and stood forthright like an ancient Abraham Lincoln remodeled for the modern age.

“I am a beacon for the Left behind Left Footed Class,” began his speech to a disrobed homeless youth who lay prone at his feet. The youth bit his exposed toe tearing the joint clean from its socket and spat the member off to the side.

“Your light is brighter now,” declared the disrobed youth, “for I shat on the sorrows of your misbegotten adventures.”

He frothed with anger at the bloodshed. An implausible bitterness overcame him. His momentarily bright beacon was dimmed. The recklessness of youth had disarmed his rebellion. He tapped his anorak up and down searching for something, anything, to contain his temper. His fingers paused on a light. His brain continued its manic polka dance. His Left toe pulsed blood in time with his brain. An arm twitched. He became a medieval Christian sickened by an abrupt encounter with God.

“Saturday night. Saturday night. Saturday night,” chanted He.

“Yes! And for all our deeds a secular version shall survive!” replied the youth as he prepared another toe for the tasting.

“I am not to be here. I am not quite right. Recall. Recall my Saturday night,” begged the man, arms outstretched. One misappropriated toe three sheeted to the wind.

He had seen this tree before in his childhood. Willow in finery. Barked like a Dalmatian. Black and white spores littered on branches. His clothes hung on a lower limb, head-high, gently rollicking in the breeze. A sudden gust sent his chamois shirt, a deluxe edition from Bond’s of London, over the fence.

As his second toe became consumed, he sunk to his knees. Dirty anorak hiding his fear. Dirty anorak hiding his shame. Dirty anorak concealing his loss.

“Why are you doing this? What occurred on Saturday night?”

“A receptionist. High Priestess of Delhi. Sworn enemy to the cadaver of the God Elect. The Messiah. The painfully just and oh-so-certain savior of the world. It is she who has done this to you.”

Polka polka went his brain. Disestablishing links of yesterday. Retuning his mind and sobering his thoughts. Polka polka the beat discontinued. A shard of truth penetrated and sharpened his powers of reason. Clarity no longer unhinged.

“Oh. It was me…,” he remembered moments before he lost the remainder of his foot.

“We’ve lost another one.” The nurse ripped off the rubbery glove and tossed it aside like a toe ripped from its sockets. “Time of death…Saturday, 2.37 am.”