The City

         The dark sky was barely distinguishable from the soot-stained buildings. Small lights cried out from the windows, as beacons in a stormy sea. Hordes of people bustled through the streets, choking on the stagnant, dust-filled air. Most barely noticed Gavin’s presence. Some tripped over him in their hurry to nowhere in particular. It was tolerable though. He had scammed a half pack of cigarettes from a confused college student earlier in the day. The stale taste of death, drawn on ragged breaths, comforted him. It provided a timeline for his misery.

Rubber struck flesh and a sound of breaking china filled the air as one of the passers-by stumbled around him, knocking his coffee can of coins over.

         “Watch where yer goin’ asswipe!” He said, collecting his would-be-booze before the falling feet scattered it to oblivion. “Fucking douche bags.”

         Gavin righted himself, with considerable help from a brick wall and began to zigzag through the legion of faces. Fathers shielded their children and tourists lowered their cameras as he passed. He sneered at them. Might as well give them their money’s worth, he thought.

Staggering across 7th Avenue he found himself at the door of Frank’s liquor store. The potted plants outside had died into ashtrays and Gavin sifted through the butts before entering. There wasn’t much more light inside than there was outside and the window-shaker moaned noisily in the corner.

“Can’t be in here if ya ain’t gonna buy anything Gavin,” Frank said over his glasses.

Gavin walked over and presumptuously banged his Maxwell House can on the counter. “I got money Frank. Don’t you worry ‘bout that.”

Frank arced his white eyebrows. “Well then, what’ll it be?”

Gavin gestured to a bottle of Lairds and Frank placed it on the counter. Gavin dumped the contents of the can on the counter and began to sort through the change. After Frank had cleared his throat several times the bottle of vodka was placed in its paper bag and Gavin left without ceremony. When he reemerged from the shop, something in the air had changed. Instead of dust, it tasted of mud. His greasy locks clung to his face and he heard a rumble from up above.

He unscrewed his bottle and after lifting it to his lips, he winced gratefully. Then it began. The tap dance of the gods sounded all around him. He felt the cool drops begin to assault him and he reveled in it. The tourists and the businessmen ran for cover and the sidewalk was his; the city was his.