DUSTY FOOTPRINTS
Dusty footprints trailed through the open gate.
The rough and shaggy grass like uncombed hair, desolate and dead swayed in the humid noon air.
The red front door, well almost red, it looked as if it hadn’t been painted in a good 2 years, hung ajar.
Through the front door sat an old man, in his eighties, drinking what seemed to be an ancient bottle of Kentucky Bourbon. Hunched over eyes glued to the old television set drinking and smoking.
Drinking and smoking,
Drinking and smoking,
Drinking and smoking,
The old man, face riddled with scars and wrinkles deep as a rift cutting through space and time, choked on the grime hanging in the air and looked up around the room. It was filled with old magazines and tin cans that seemed to have been filled with sardines and baked beans. The room surrounding him was decrepit and the dust made seeing in the room arduous. After peering through his heavy lids he managed to depict the image of a person standing at the foot of his open door. The outline of a boy perhaps? Still, someone he was not acquainted with. The time-worn man mumbled drunkenly out to the newcomer.
‘C-come out from the dark boy, let me see your face…’
The boy trudged through the littered hallway, like it were a marshy swamp, towards the wasted grizzled man. He came to a sudden stop outside of the confused parlour, hands in his pockets, and stood without a sound. Although only young the boy looked stout and strong. He stared the old man straight in the eyes and spoke.
‘Excuse me mister, I need to tell you somethin real important.’ The boy stuttered with stress.
‘What is it son? Come on spit it out.’ Urged the old man.
‘Ms Acker down yonder told me they were comin sir, she said you need to git goin before they catch up.’
The old-timer sat up in his collapsed armchair and sighed. He started murmuring to himself out of earshot of the boy. He looked away from the boy towards a busted and broken cabinet.
‘See that cabinet over there boy, go an get the brown shoebox in the back for me. God only knows I’m too old for this kind of business, not after last time.’ Rattled the old man.
The youngster shuffled over to the cabinet through the old tins and broken whisky bottles. He reached into the cabinet and inside all the matured suits at the bottom was a brick brown faded shoebox with the card flaking on the sides. The junior went to open the lid.
‘Watch yourself Kiddo, if you want to keep that innocent little head o yours clean you better keep your beak outa that there box.’ Barked the veteran.
‘Excuse me askin sir but what exactly is inside this here box sir?’ inquired the boy.
‘I said before, keep your snout out kid.’ he retaliated.
The boy waded back to the grey armchair and passed the shoebox cautiously to the old man, acting as if inside the box were a bomb ready to detonate. The old man put the box down to one side and took one more draw on his smoke.
Drinking and smoking,
Drinking and smoking,
Drinking and smoking,
‘Go on kid, it’s gettin late and I’m pretty sure your folks wouldn’t want you out in the dark by yourself. Go on, split.’
As the boy scurried out of the flaking maroon exit he spun around to take on more look into the pensioners dull grey eyes and in the last seconds of being in the house he saw a spark of strength erupt from the old man’s eyes. He took one last breath and high-tailed into the mild Louisianan twilight leaving behind a complete and utter mystery. One that he would probably never hear about again.
Probably.
Recent Comments