The Antidote

Waves; they were what he heard as he walked through the cool night air along the railroad tracks. He stepped from one cross beam to the next; concentrating with one eye open and one eye closed. Sometimes it was his right eye. Sometimes it was his left. He had both hands in the black pockets of his white polyester pants and his elbows were out wide at his sides for balance. The stars were brilliant overhead.

It was cold enough and Anson was drunk enough to wish he had worn a warmer tuxedo. An almost full moon made a long yellow swatch over the ocean below him and to the right. He could see the ship yards of San Pedro across the moon-swept water through an ugly rust-stained fence that leaned backwards in some spots and forward in others.

The fence had the look of guarding the cliff from all the foolish people falling off it, rather than guarding the foolish people from falling; or so it seemed to Anson.

He could see little white rocks between the beams of the tracks. He could smell sage and the oily wood of the beams as he stepped along. He could see empty beer bottles and wadded up yellow Jack-in-the-Box wrappers. And then, all at once, he could see the dark shape of a man standing on the tracks ten yards ahead, facing him.

Anson didn’t want it to be what it looked like it was, and he was hoping hard the shape was not really that of a man, but he couldn’t imagine what else on this planet Earth it could be, and the closer he came upon the shape the more sure he was that it was indeed that of a man… dressed in a long black coat… Looking his way.

When Anson stopped he did so because the shape in front of him became a true to life no bullshit big man—big and unmoving with a sweat-shine to his black face. Inside the black face were huge black eyes, and inside each of those was a tiny yellow almost full moon.

“The gate," the man said out of breath.

He was old, Anson realized.

"I mean, hey! First off, how you doin' an all? No! Seriously! How you doin', my young friend, really? You good? Hope so. Hope you good, but really, what I had to ask is da' gate. Da gate!" the man stepped back one two three staggering, off balanced steps with his hands waving in the night.

Anson thought he was gone for sure into the bushes flat on his back, but the old big guy caught himself.

"You good?" he said next, walking back like nothing had just happened. "Where ‘da damn gate?”

He walked with care up along the tracks and stopped short of Anson, reclaiming his old spot. He reeked of wine.

“This way,” Anson said. He started and stopped when the man didn't get out of his way. The man moved then, and without issue, and let Anson pass. Anson walked ahead, quickly.

“You goin to a pardy?” the man asked

“Up here's the gate, a little ways!” Anson said a little too loudly. He wasn’t prepared for this and he wasn’t in the mood for this. As a matter of fact, Anson decided this was not going to work.

“I caint find it. I was lookin’ and lookin’ and I just caint find it,” the man said. He sounded close to tears.

"I know you," Anson said. He said it soft, not even sure he had said it at all.

"Yeah, you do," the man said back.

“What the hell do you want it for?”

“The gate? Why I want the gate?"

“Yeah, the gate. I'm talking about the gate. Why do you seek it?” Anson asked, playing now. For maybe the first or second time in his life not being afraid. Not really. Not of this man, who could hardly stand up. This football player. And what could he do, really? This big famous football player?

They walked for a ways in silence.

“Why do you seek it?” the man who's name Anson couldn't remember said again, breathing hard. “Why do you seek it? Sweet, Jesus,” he said. “We got us a fancy man.”

“Oh yeah! What you got is one fancy, smancy man!” Anson said.

He did a little soft shoe action on the white rocks between the wood cross beams. He turned around in a complete circle. His shoes on the rocks actually making music of their own with the waves crashing below in great thunderous roars, like applause. The moon was a spotlight directed on Anson and him along.

He was truly not afraid of anything anymore.

“You goin’ to a pardy?” the man asked.

Anson waited for the old guy to catch up. He watched him almost fall twice. Once they were close enough they looked at each other; Anson looking up at the man and the man looking down at Anson. Their great white plumes of breath caught the light of the moon as they eyed at each other in silence.

“Not exactly,” Anson said.

And there it was. The gate. Right where they were. He almost missed it. It was blind luck. You could hardly see it. Like the fence the gate was so ugly and lawyerly, only a railroad could build it. A child could climb over it.

“Is that, or is that not the ugliest fence you have ever seen in your entire life on this planet, Earth?” Anson demanded.

“It ugly, I guess,” the man said.

Anson smiled and then laughed. It felt good to laugh.

“Well, there’s the gate,” Anson said.

“Man oh man! I could not find it!”

“You're Tommy Taylor!" Anson remembered.

"Tommy Thompson, fool!" Tommy Thompson corrected.

"You going to jump?”

“Jump? Yes, I am. I seen this place before. I seen it on television. I seen how many use it. I gonna do the most perfect swan dive anybody ever seen,” Tommy Thompson said and looked down at Anson for several long seconds. "What your name, boy?"

"My name is Ansy Anson," Anson said, still playing.

“You gonna jump too? With me?”

“It would be an honor to jump with you, Tommy. I'd give my life to do it just once." Anson said. He was still playing. He was fearless and invincible and funny.

“Youngster, you go on back home to Mama. She fix you a nice big bowl of warm soup.”

“Great!” Anson said. “Advice from Tommy Da Steam Thompson!”

They both laughed at the same time. It felt good. They accidentally butted heads together as they laughed.

“You going to--Hold on now! You for real?” Tommy asked.

“Fuck no,” Anson said. “I’m going home.”

“Where’s the car at?” Tommy asked.

“This way,” Anson said. He led the way again.

Tommy Thompson hurried to catch up and did so like his old self, like that--and he was right behind Anson step for step.

“Fucking women,” Anson said.

“Fuckin' alimony,” Tommy agreed, keeping up, step for step.

997 words-