Brazil

Walking down the street, the cold air burnt right through my small hoodie. Never was one to buy a coat, hadn’t owned one half a decade now. My mom bought the last one I had. Think it got worn three times. Left it in Florida. Left a lot of things in Florida.

I couldn’t help wonder if this might be the place that I finally just lay down and quit. It’s been a long journey. A good portion of it was damn fun. A small fraction certainly wasn’t. Now, I’m cold. What’s left of my teeth hurt like crazy when the wind blows like this. Imagining a sunny beach doesn’t help much anymore. The mind can help you, but even it knows when the cards have been dealt the wrong way.

Down the street is a beacon of light. An oasis of it. All the stores here went out of business years ago, I reckon. It’s why the bums come here. It’s not a self-applied title, it just sort of comes with the territory. At one time, hoboism seemed like a good alternative. Living on the free. Just going wherever the mind decided it wanted to go that day. It started off relatively well, too. Hopping a freight train in Richmond. A gal actually said she’d go to.

That train went to Jacksonville, Florida of all places. There, it was cold. An early freeze they called it. Sleeping in the orange groves didn’t sound so appealing anymore. Soon, she got on a Greyhound. Using the only money we had brought with us to get the heck back to Virginia. I don’t blame her. What the hell were we thinking. Hit the road. Be hobos. Make love under the stars.

Soon, I sold my harmonica. Got three dollars for it. Used that money to get bacon and eggs. Left the 66 cents left as a tip. Couldn’t really feel bad about it. It was all I had.

The light was orange in color. It made it seem warmer. So, I ventured on up to the window of the shop. It was clean. Freshly painted. With a sign that simply said “Always open.”

Wonder how long that’ll last in this neighborhood, I scoffed.

I looked at myself in the reflection of the glass. I had a white beard now. I was 44 going on 74. My teeth, what were left of them were yellow and cracked. The last time I had a shower was at least a month ago. Couldn’t smell myself, though. That urge passed a long time ago.

Staring at the lights, it finally dawned on me what this place was -- a travel agency.

“Pretty fitting, I guess,” I thought. “A dead street. A dead business.” No one used travel agencies any more. Hell, they stopped when I was still a productive member of society. When there was society. Then the internet came. First, it was a great place to find trinkets and collectibles. Then a place to watch television shows and movies. Finally, it just became life.

That’s when I hopped a train with her. We didn’t want to work for the internet anymore. We wanted to see reality.

She lasted just that first two weeks. The cold finally got to her.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said. That was 19 years ago.

The door knob is silver. And old. It’s the only thing that isn’t shiny and new. Well, the door knob and me. I reach for it, but at the last second I recoil. “What could possibly be inside there? What could be in there that I would need to see?”

I stare at the other window. A picture of a lady looking out into the see. Too fucking much. It’s the Barton Fink painting. But only if it was set in 1977. Ugly-ass “groovy” font. Then, the door opens. A lady leaves.

“Pardon me,” she says, walking past.

I take a whiff of her perfume. It’s subtle. I like that. And I usually despise perfume.

“Ma’am?” I say meekly.

She turns to me. Looks me over and says “yes?”

“What kind of perfume is that? It’s wonderful.” I can’t believe I’m saying this. The door behind me is still open. The song “Brazil” is playing. I start to wonder if I’m imagining all of this.

“You know, I don’t know,” she sort of giggles. “I just picked it up at Wal-Greens. Go figure. But thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I stammer as she hops into her car -- a 1987 Pontiac Sunfire. She starts the engine and is gone.

The song is still echoing in the background. The door, still ajar.

“Well, I guess I’d better go in,” I say out loud.

On the mat just inside the door is one slogan: “Focus on what you can do, not on what you could’ve done.”