On a crisp November night, three years past, the full moon cast its luminescent glow over the old city of Charleston, creating a stark contrast against the darkened heavens when he first noticed the solitary figure of the boy at the Battery. Perched atop an overfilled backpack, the boy drew on his cigarette with an almost affectionate intensity, savoring the smoke within before releasing it into the chill of the night air. He wanted this boy and sneezed, a sudden reaction that gripped the attention of the young boy much to his delight. He waved, hoping to bridge the gap between them, but another sneeze shattered the moment, turning it into a fleeting memory. The boy's attention drifted back to the boy's own solitude, leaving him to nurse his behavior by a symphony of waves and a deluded chance meeting. Nearby the aggressive blinking of brake lights from the cars contrasted sharply with the tranquility of the sea, yet no one seemed to notice the boy save him. It was a good sign, indeed, for it meant he could revel in his own world a while longer. A cigarette tucked inside his overcoat was more than a mere indulgence; it was a symbol of defiance, a companion in his silent rebellion against the chaos of the world around him. As he placed it between his lips, it was not just smoke that he anticipated exhaling, but the weight of his thoughts, swirling away with the sea breeze. He smiled and descended the steps. Another opportunity before him. A second chance he haughtily affirmed. “Got a light?” he asked the boy, motioning with two fingers at his mouth.
“Sure,” the boy said, digging a dollar lighter from his pocket. He lit a flame to his cigarette and, backing up, stumbled over his backpack and fell against the wall. “Are you all right?" he said. "I’m fine,” the boy said, the palm of one hand in the air. "I'm relieved it was your backpack you tripped over and not the seawall," he wanted to laugh aloud when he thought about it, the boy almost falling. He released a cloud of smoke and, scrutinizing the boy, realized he was not necessarily skinny but full-bodied like a strong field hand from one of those rural Pee Dee counties, Florence, Marion or Dillon, northwest of Charleston. He carried himself well in baggy clothes, he prayed were surely just that--baggy—but undeniably dirt cheap. “What are you looking for?” he whispered. The boy stared at him, appearing to take a deep breath. “I’m looking for you," he said. "My car is parked up the street,” he smiled with the cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Would you like to go there to warm up?” “What kind of car?” “Silver Jag.” “Grey?” “Grey, silver,” he said, dropping his cigarette to the curb and stepping it out. "Why yes, grey,” he continued with a sheepish grin, pulling his fingers through his black hair that was starting to turn grey. “How old?” “Brand new two years ago." He took the boy's hand and, much to his surprise, the boy did not object when he held his hand longer than anticipated. Together they left the Battery. Inside his car parked behind a playground at S. Adgers Wharf the boy offered a stale can of malt liquor beer pulled from his backpack. They shared it along with one cigarette as the moon rose higher in the black sky changing into a dazzling white. Finally, he leaned over and kissed the boy on the mouth. He felt himself sinking, slipping into the soft leather seat, losing control, and wanting it. This kiss, the helpless way it made him feel, captivated him so, leaving him no hint of the dark machinations yet to come, no hint of the relentless downhill spiral that would eventually lead to murder.
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AuthorCHARLES PEARSON ArchivesCategories |