Little Eden

He walks slowly, hands shoved deep into his pockets, head hung low, shoulders slumped over, gazing, unseeing at the worn-out wooden planks of the tired boardwalk. There’s a fire burning in his throat, stinging, laboring his breathing. He sniffles; tries in vain to keep the tears reservoired behind his glassy stare. The first comes as a relief, comforting and warm as it brushes by his cheek. But now a chill as the muggy sea-air leaves behind only a line of salt sticking to his face.
He occasionally looks up, takes in the view around, and immediately drops his head back down. Off in some other world, he observes more a scene from a movie than he does real life. A whistle, a bang. He glances up in time to see the green, blue, and gold streaks tumble through the air. Grey smoke. They keep coming, some magnificent explosions, others just fizzling twisting ribbons of color falling through the night sky; once jet-black, now lit with a brilliance irradiating the whole world in dazzling colors. The world bathed in some foreign golden, or red, or blue, or green sun.
They huddle together at the edge of a dilapidated cement building, its light blue paint chipping and peeling off its walls, giggling, pointing, huge ecstatic smiles plastered on their faces. Some, too long gone to even move, but intrigued by the colorful display nonetheless simply sit there, fascinated, jaw dropped open, eyes wide, staring at the fireworks, not knowing what they are, but not realizing they’re anything new; not having enough consciousness left to even wonder what they could be. They’re just kind of there, and they’re absolutely amazing. Others gaze blankly, immersed, hypnotized, having absolutely no clue what’s going on, but knowing it’s something special. Maybe the world is ending, maybe the Russians are attacking. It doesn’t matter. They’re floating, numb, in pure ecstasy. The blunt is passed around again, and each one vacantly takes another drag, becoming more immersed in the colors each time that glowing piece of paper touches their lips.
Between a break in the strip of old buildings, weary steps flanked on both sides by an old grey ramp and cold brown metal railings lead into a narrow ally, the concrete long-since deteriorated, weeds thriving in their own high-rise cities between the cracks. Beyond lies the town, gangs of bad characters now invading the streets, bursts of fireworks reflecting off their switch-blades. Faint music off in the distance, people screaming, game-machines dinging, spitting out those little red tickets. Geeks hunch over the pin-ball machines, madly punching the buttons on the side, having stood there for hours on end, engrossed with watching that tiny ball bouncing back and forth, back and forth; giving their all to keep it from slipping below their barriers. Whether they’re even aware of the Fourth of July celebrations is debatable. Maybe that’s why they’re here tonight. Or maybe it’s all they can do to keep themselves from slipping below their own barriers.
There are men are drunk out of their minds, dancing on the board-walk, dancing on the beach, each hour, each drink. They’re stumbling around, chasing the girls from New York, the girls screaming their silly playful song, dodging the men’s advances. Sauntering sexily down the wooden walk, she passes a bit too close by the drunks; a bit too wasted to notice. Silky smooth hair drapes her neck, a spot too broad; her red outfit hugging her body, a spot too straight; high-heel shoes clumsily prancing down the boardwalk, a spot too snug on her feet leaking out, a spot too big. Her skin so white; but, of course, not her skin…his.
Now Brett sulks down the endless wooden path. He steps into a doorway, tries to take my mind off of her, off of this dying town. The smoky dust overwhelms him, but he forces himself to stand in front of one of those pin-ball machines that the wizards seem so intrigued with. Nothing. And those loose broads roaming the cool, damp darkness underneath the boardwalk; they give no pleasure either. So he steps onto that spinning platform, gazes absently at the abstract-painted horses, roosters, tigers, lions; they all should bring him back to his youth. Those golden columns holding up the carnival-tent roof, the world slowly spinning around him. There he sits for hours, atop the golden tiger, watching humanity whirl about him as if he were at the center of the Universe. And he knows: it’s time to quit this town. It’s got nothing to offer, just this run-down boardwalk, an unkempt beach, a few sharks swimming in that dark town beyond. Much like Adam and Eve thousands, maybe millions of years ago, he’s being cast out of his little Eden.