Crosswinds, Socrates Lewis Stories Book One
Table of Contents
Author’s Note v
Chapter 1 – That Damn Wind 1
Chapter 2 – Balance Can Be Elusive 11
Chapter 3 – Unless You’re Already a Madman 17
Chapter 4 – Fighting Fruitlessly 22
Chapter 5 – Not Just for Cats 24
Chapter 6 – Nothing About Hookers 26
Chapter 7 – She Wants More Adventures 32
Chapter 8 – Their Maddening Ways 36
Chapter 9 – Her Name Is Miley 40
Chapter 10 – Looking for Trouble 43
Chapter 11 – That Old Serpent 46
Chapter 12 – I’m Trapped 54
Chapter 13 – His Expressionless Face 60
Chapter 14 – A Lunatic Streetwalker 67
Chapter 15 – Stop the Goddamn Cab 75
Chapter 16 – I’m Your Father? 79
Chapter 17 – Boom, It’s Right There 89
Chapter 18 – A Clever Crosswind 92
Chapter 19 – I’m Finally Free 97
Chapter 20 – Every Voice Screamed 102
Chapter 21 – You Tell the World 108
Chapter 22 – Write a Special Story 112
Chapter 23 – On Your Head, Mara 114
Chapter 24 – Just Mailing a Letter 117
Chapter 25 – Either Heaven or Hell 120
Chapter 26 – Wendy, You’re a Genius 124
Chapter 27 – We Can Only Believe 127
Author’s Note
“I’m not publishing this,” she said as she handed me the unsealed envelope. “For a variety of reasons, I’d prefer that you do it.”
Mara (not her real name) and I held our first meeting on a frozen, snow-crusted bench in Central Park in early December. An unexpectedly falling temperature and merciless snowfall prompted us to sit close, as if we already knew each other well.
Before I could ask, “Why me?” she explained that she’d been following my novels and felt that if I were to present the material in a more story-like format, she’d likely be spared any questions or commentary regarding any of the ideas in the manuscript.
I remember staring at her after that comment, then opening what she’d handed me while telling her that I’d gladly consider writing the thing up as fiction, then—I really had no certainty that any part of the story was factual anyway.
My method is to scrutinize first the beginning, then the end. It’s the way my stories are concocted too: beginning, end, fill it all in. I saw the title, “Crosswinds,” then flipped through the manuscript, noting that it was the original and mechanically typed, complete with a few smudges.
At the very end, handwritten, was the name Socrates Lewis and a date about two months prior.
I know now that the small stain in the lower left corner near his name is from a whiskey spill, which brand I couldn’t tell you.
Mara had been watching me scan through it, saw that I’d gotten to the author’s name, then said, “That’s not his real first name. He fancies himself to be some kind of philosopher.”
I only nodded as I began reading from the beginning. She let me peruse the entirety of it without interruption, but her stare on the left side of my face felt like it delivered some needed warmth as heavy snowflakes fell all around us.
After I’d finished reading, I turned to Mara, who obviously had been scrutinizing my reaction to it, and explained my own philosophy on writing. And that is that painters paint with colors of their choosing. In a similar way, writers paint with ideas. I told her that I couldn’t imagine anyone berating a painter for using any particular color, and readers, I assured her, are of the same mindset: a book can and should be painted with any ideas that tell a story worth reading.
She didn’t seem entirely convinced, but I did accept this magazine editor’s request and wrote up the Socrates piece in a fiction format, leaving his title in place. Mara read my draft and suggested that we meet again. It had been another two months or so, and I wondered if she’d somehow found more of Socrates’s notes.
Knowing each other better this time, and subjecting ourselves to worse weather than at that first meet, we again sat close. I expected her to hand me more of Socrates’s writings or perhaps some of her own notes, but she only wanted to talk.
Apparently, I’d captured the essence of his tale with sufficient depth and exactitude. My embellishments, she said, were scarce enough and probably imbued it with more sense of normalcy than what actually had transpired.
She was also amused by my characterization of her and assured me that she’s not at all so difficult. Thankfully, my apology was accepted.
She said that she’d considered hiring an investigator to look into the existence of Miley and if she was real, whether anything in her life matched Socrates’s narrative of her. But her conclusion was that not having any proof that any of his writing was factual might be the most prudent course.
With a smile, in defiance of the cold wind, Mara said that she’d met with Socrates just a few days earlier. Her smile was because she told me of him wearing a shoestring around his neck with something very special still knotted to it. He’d told her that he planned to soon try to place it where he’d always thought it truly belonged.
Of course, I couldn’t even organize my questions quickly enough, and she continued, her smile gone and a frown developing, probably from the cold, as she gazed at me from so near.
She said that she’d shown Socrates’s work to only one other person, she wouldn’t disclose whom. That individual lingered with some fascination on the final words written by Socrates, a statement about belief. This person then concluded that Socrates was the right person to chase down a curious story recently presented to her in a casual way and without further details.
Socrates, Mara said, agreed to look into it and if there’s a worthwhile story there, he’d record it all in another manuscript. Again, with his typewriter, I’d guess.
And the plan is for me to take his next manuscript and polish it up for publication as a sequel of sorts.
I don’t yet know the title.
I’ll leave that to the writer, self-proclaimed philosopher, and whiskey devotee, Socrates Lewis.
~ Edward Allen Karr
Chapter 1 – That Damn Wind
“Jesus, I really have to quit talking to myself.”
Socrates Lewis studied the tired eyes gazing back at him, the pair of them taking turns on one side of the shoestring, then the other. The pupils seemed to have become snared in webs of fine, jagged red lines.
Eyes still locked, he guided his left hand up, aimed it well, and pinched the string right between his reflected eyes, stopping its accidental play as a pendulum above his dresser, where it hung from three neat layers of tape clinging to the mirror’s top frame.
Focused too intently to blink, he held it still.
Then backed his hand away.
“Dammit.”
He’d returned his left arm to his side, matching his right, and he saw undeniable proof that he was leaning to his left.
A quick glance to the string’s bottom end confirmed that it was hanging plumb.
The ring at its end, though, revolved casually, changing directions after it had twisted the string as far as it could, oblivious to its contribution in revealing his malady in such a simple, unarguable way.
He’d just begun to let his lungs leak out what they’d held inside so as to not corrupt his exam, when the alarm clock on his nightstand began a steady, troublesome buzzing.
“Jesus.”
A few quick steps to his right got him close enough to wrestle it around with his right hand, its protests unrelenting until he’d found the button.
He shut off the offensive device with an impatient click.
Leaving his hand on it, like pinning down a small beast to enforce some measure of quiet from it, he turned his eyes to the worn hardcover book lying next to it.
A study of the wit and wisdom of one Socrates.
The philosopher.
The real one.
The source for Socrates Lewis’s adopted first name.
He set free the clock beast to rest four fingertips on the book, then drummed them all in sequence several times.
His fingers got quiet when he looked up at the small open window right above the nightstand’s dim lamp, which struggled to light the surface below it and left the rest of the room to its gloom.
The dingy gray walls close all around him.
A ceiling dark and hanging low above him.
His view through the wet screen couldn’t reach far—only across an alley to the weathered gray bricks of a multi-story structure much like what housed Socrates’s home. Most windows there were dark, but some gave signs that life stirred, maybe not welcoming the drizzly Monday morning but complying all the same.
He felt the wind.
It carried the ripe scents of whatever the rain had splashed around on the alley pavement two stories below.
On the way back to his mirror, he fought to arrange his face to show indifference, an acceptance, even, of what he might see.
But his face grimaced back at him, both eyes staring out from the left side of his indicator string.
He turned his head toward the open window, and he looked into the oncoming light traces of wind, no longer able to disguise his disgust by imposing calm on his face.
“That damn wind.”
He stepped back over to the window and slammed it shut.
Again, he checked the degree of his affliction.
He found that his right eye had crept closer to the string.
“That’s good. That helps.”
Looking down toward the right, between piles of jumbled clothes, an aged fedora, a paper plate with remains of lunch from two days past, and streaks of birdseed that had evaded sweeps to gather it up, a half-full bottle of whiskey looked back.
Waiting patiently.
With its close compatriot, a smudged and stained clear glass tumbler.
A hand found each of them.
One poured from the bottle, while the other held the glass still.
Before taking a leisurely swig and swallow, he held the glass near his right cheek and stared at the man looking back at him.
He again checked his degree of plumb.
It was still off.
But not as much as before.
He allowed himself a quick sip, then held the glass partway to his right, never losing sight of his leaning companion.
Who leaned slightly less.
A grin lodged itself in a face that had needed a shave three days earlier. The grin grew as he extended his hand, and the glass, all the way to the right.
The grin became an actual smile, and he offered some satisfied nodding to the upright image, which he saw was bisected neatly by a calm string weighted down by a ring with a single sparkling jewel and tracing a direct path down between the eyes.
He chuckled softly and said, “Huh. I do know this: whiskey can balance things out.”
With his eyes focused on the approaching glass, seeing that it had more to offer than serving as a makeshift counterbalance, he brought it near and downed the last of it.
While reluctantly turning his eyes back to his other eyes, he found a spot on his dresser for the empty glass, grinding and scattering seeds.
Both eyes, still sending out thin red filaments to mar the white regions, mocked him from the left side of his handy string.
He winced at the sight.
“Tragically, using whiskey that way lacks permanence.”
He fumbled around until he’d snagged the neck of the bottle.
Then, he gave himself an accepting grin.
“Always will.”
He groped and rummaged around on the dresser top before allowing his eyes to assist, and he grabbed at the closest pile with his free hand. But he only gripped the top item briefly as he studied the unfolded sweatshirt, then he let it go and raised his hand high enough to lose contact.
Then, he patted every pile he could reach and pulled his hand away.
“That’ll just have to be okay. Just . . . like that.”
A moment later, he snatched up the nearest crumpled dress shirt, half-buried in a mound off to the right.
A quick snap of it with one hand shook loose some seed. He then let go of the bottle to get started dressing himself.
He kept his well-worn shoes in contact with the tile floor of his kitchen as he ambled toward the refrigerator. An abrupt stop midway, then two steps backwards allowed him to flip on the overhead light. Two of the four bare bulbs responded, casting a shroud of light over the small table with two chairs near it in the middle of the room.
Before continuing to scrounge for a snack before breakfast, he stared down at the typewriter busy collecting dust. A blank sheet had been installed, he couldn’t remember exactly how long before, and he winced at it as it seemed to goad him, compelling him to acknowledge its yearning for words. Even a letter or two.
He saw that the paper had collected some dust too.
He leaned toward it, gave it a snap with a finger, and scoffed at the cloud of fine particles that he’d scattered up and around.
“Soon.”
Straightening and spinning slightly put him again within grabbing distance of the fridge handle, which he gave a modest pull.
It held its ground, so he tried again, and it protested with a weak, protracted whine as its muted interior light barely scratched the drabness of the room.
After retrieving a slice of pizza, which was mostly crust, from a paper plate in there, he took a bite and leaned backwards to shut the door.
He’d just started chewing when his cell phone, somewhere on the table, began buzzing and vibrating, demanding that he postpone the next bite.
While chomping off another chewy portion anyway, he held the phone up and saw that it was Mara interrupting his snack. He lowered the phone to his side, shook his head, then reached out to drop it back where he’d found it.
But he didn’t set it down. Instead, he tapped it with a finger from the hand holding the pizza, then held it to his ear.
“Hello, Mara. Jesus, Monday hasn’t even slammed into us yet.”
He sank teeth into crust while listening to her chirpy rant.
“I slammed into it first—we try to hit the ground running here. Deadlines are a real thing.”
Mara, an attractive late-20s woman, was dressed too well to likely care about the content of the magazine she edited. She was half-sitting against a desk in a neat, organized office, a cell phone to her ear as she studied her stylish manicure.
After wedging most of the bite off to one side, Socrates sighed and answered her.
“Hell, that’s probably right. So, tell me. What’s my deadline?”
He held up his left hand, which had been emptied of the days-old leftovers, and studied his fingernails.
“Let’s just say it’s about to crash into you. Do another piece like that last one, which was damn good but freakin’ ages ago.”
He switched phone hands and gave the other nails an inspection.
“Maybe aim for something a bit more lighthearted this time.”
“What the hell is lighthearted about life?” he said. “Nothing. Not when our minds aren’t made to understand complex nuances of an existence that—”
“Stop. You’re just not as deep as you like to believe. You’re a lonely man in a shabby apartment, probably drinking your breakfast. Put the drink down. Write something.”
He grinned at the glass he’d filled and left on the table, then picked it up.
“Hell, anyone can write ‘something.’ I don’t know, but I think my life is more about—”
“Hold it. Here’s just one of your problems: you insist on going by the name of someone who never wrote a damn thing. Do you even remember your real name anymore?”
He set the glass down quietly but didn’t let it go.
“Jesus, Mara. Yeah. Of course. And I think I’m close to a deep insight into something major. Real soon, I’ll—”
“Dump out your damn drink, Socrates, and get your ass to work. Maybe there is no deep meaning. Ever consider that?”
He paused to grin and swirled his whiskey around in a lazy wave, scraping a few stray seeds across the table.
“Are you the best choice to be running a mag on philosophy? Ever consider that?”
He leaned his head away from the phone and frowned from her snippy response.
“Write something. Something is better than nothing.”
“Jesus. You—”
“Now.”
He pulled the phone away, gave it a look, and saw that she’d ended the call. So, he set it down next to the bottle.
They were close, so he tapped his fingernails against the bottle, adding a brief staccato rhythm to the lifeless room.
“No, Mara. Whiskey is better than nothing.”
He kept tapping with his right, then finished off the glass in his left. Before putting it down, he tipped it and peered inside. He scoffed.
“Or nothingness.”
Bottle in one hand, its neck clutched with no chance of escape, and a half-full glass in the other, also held tight as he used one finger to scratch around an eye, Socrates ventured back into the shadows of his bedroom.
Facing his mirror and its string, which had a calm and stationary ring knotted to its end, almost resting on bits of birdseed, he frowned at seeing a distinct lean to his left.
Appalled but captivated by the sight, he didn’t stop studying it as he wedged into the dresser’s messes first the glass on the left, then the bottle on the right.
Freed of the glass for the moment, his left hand cooperated and displayed in front of his face the lengths of all the nails. Before reaching any conclusion, he used the sharp one on the small finger of his right hand to pry a single seed out from its hideaway beneath a nail on the left hand.
It popped out and fell silently to the floor.
“I should let at least one pigeon in here, shouldn’t I?”
He laughed and started biting at the nails on the left hand, not caring where they might land and stick as he spat them out. After a quick inspection, he dropped the arm straight to his side and checked the status.
“Huh. That helped.”
He kept his hand at his side and only glanced down at it.
“They can’t weigh much but maybe if I trimmed a little more, it would—”
He turned toward the window, which was still closed, then forgot the nails long enough to go to it and slide it back up, letting in more wind. He paused for only a moment to watch narrow rain rivers trace odd patterns along the glass.
“Rain. Lovely.”
He positioned himself again to check his balance, his symmetry, and saw that he’d lost every nail-biting gain that he’d made.
“It’s the wind,” he said, frowning at the face in the mirror. “It’s the goddamn wind. How the hell do I get fresh air and still stop the damn wind? Is there any goddamn person that knows? But my nails, those can always be—”
He jumped at the cell phone in his pocket singing out as it vibrated and bounced around. A quick glance at the caller ID led to a single tap and repositioning of it against his ear.
“Lynnie. How are you?”
“Fine, Dad. First, I have to ask: what’s for breakfast over there?”
He took a second to look down at his glass but didn’t pick it up.
“I’m about ready to hike down to the park, maybe see if that hot dog wagon guy is rolling through there yet.”
Lynnie was dressed conservatively and in her early-20s. She sat at a small, neat table in a colorful, well-lit kitchen. A stack of textbooks and notebooks was near, and vapor spiraled up from a coffee mug.
“Carnival food again. Eh. Could be worse.”
“Oh, yeah. Always. I’d be lost without that every day.”
“Hey, mom still wants to hear from you. Give her a call, alright?”
He picked up his glass and frowned at the liquid as he spun it around.
“You know it’s awkward, Hon. It’s been too long since we’ve talked.”
“Yep. Yeah, but call her anyway. I’m tired of hearing her complain about it.”
He gestured with the glass toward the mirror as he answered, but his eyes were pointed somewhere above it.
“She never got past me switching majors to philosophy way back when. That’s what started all the—”
“She caught you with a hooker, Dad. I would have nuked an engagement over behavior like that too.”
The glass froze mid-gesture.
“Jesus, Lynnie. Yeah. That—”
“Again with Jesus? You really should show more respect.”
The glass came down, almost striking the dresser and almost spilling.
“It’s just a word, and I—”
Her sharp, single laugh silenced him.
“Sure. Just a word. Tell him that when you meet him.”
“I, uh, I will. If we do meet.”
“Anyway, she’s right: you should have kept going with the accounting stuff.”
“Probably. Yeah. Math didn’t like me, though.”
“I know. You never could balance even a checkbook. Still got that ring that you couldn’t give away?”
He glared down at the ring on the string before downing the entire glass, but he set it down quietly and held the phone away to cough once.
“Yeah, it still has some value to me.”
“Well, it’s still a good ring, right?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.”
“How about that hat Mom gave you way back when? Still have that?”
“Of course. I’d never give that up, not even for a minute.”
“Good. Had to check.”
“You could see for yourself, Lynnie, if we could someday—”
“Uh, let’s just be happy with our phone chats, alright?”
He took a moment to let a breath leak out quietly.
“Sure. Yeah, I do like our calls.”
“Alright,” she said, “hunt down that nutritious breakfast. See ya.”
He gave the phone one last look, then sighed and set it down near the empty glass.
“Kids. Editors too.”
He re-established a solid hold on the bottle’s neck and shook his head while watching the liquid slosh around as he tipped it back and forth.
“Oh, and ex-fiancés. Jesus.”
He reached for his hat, a dark fedora among the chaos on his dresser.
But he changed direction to pick up a pack of gum first.
Chapter 2 – Balance Can Be Elusive
Socrates patted the side pockets of his coat several times, changing locations until he’d confirmed that each contained a bulge of birdseed. He straightened the brim of his hat and squealed in his door, letting bright hallway light bathe him and chase away from his apartment, if only briefly, some of its shadows.
While pulling the door closed after him, he studied the interplay of red, orange, and yellow patterns of the carpet lining the hallway. The door mechanism clicked, and he pushed against it, trying to turn the knob, then, satisfied that all invaders would be kept at bay, he let go of it and looked toward the stairs.
Like every other time, the squinting just happened reflexively.
Probably from the light leaving no regions outside his apartment free of it.
Definitely from the colors displayed flamboyantly not just by the hallway carpet but by the wallpaper, which favored blues and greens, and the framed paintings and prints on the walls, most of which seemed to silently dedicate their existence to displaying every color imaginable.
He took a few steps before stopping and leaning around a corner where the wall continued as a railing with a wide, flat top piece. And beyond that rail, the foyer below beckoned: a cavernous, colorful space where comfortable furnishings and decor all formed a cheerful refuge under the steady, watchful light from ornamental fixtures hung from the high ceiling in a pattern meant to appear random but giving up its orderly design to anyone that cared to study it for enough time.
Which Socrates had done the first time he’d stood there.
He looked all around but especially at the burgundy couch near the exit.
It was where he’d first seen Wendy.
It was where she was sitting with her cat this Monday morning too.
The cat was mostly just a black smudge on the burgundy fabric except for two shiny green orbs that rarely blinked.
But Wendy’s outline was crisp and obvious, her pink sweatshirt and light blue jeans clearly defining her presence and adding yet more buoyant hues to the mix.
Wendy didn’t notice him up there, peeking around the corner.
But her cat did, and she seemed content to keep that a secret between her and Socrates.
Dragging his hand along the rail, quietly, he ventured toward the stairway, his other hand in his coat pocket. He faced as much as he could toward the ceiling light fixtures as if he were enjoying sunshine at the beach.
What had begun as slow, careful steps on the short and practical pile of the stair runners, all of them boasting pale purple circles planted onto a regal purple background, became quicker steps until he’d reached the very bottom.
Traveling downward quickly was allowed.
The journey upward required more care.
He wasn’t sure exactly why, but that’s the policy he’d adopted and wasn’t about to abandon.
He’d waited until he was sure that Wendy was looking at him.
Then, he pointed at her, not yet allowing his smile to show.
She made no such effort but covered her smile with one hand.
“Hey, I know you,” he said.
He let his smile out, and she dropped her hand, displaying hers and bouncing slightly from her giggling.
He pointed at the cat next and said, “I’m not so sure I know you, though.”
Smiling at the still giggling girl, he approached the couch.
“Hello, Wendy.”
“Hi, Mr. Lewis.”
“Staying inside today?”
When she gave a very modest smirk and turned to look out through the glass doors, so did he. And they both gave only a second of their attention to the rainwater dripping off of the building’s awning, the wet roadway beyond, tiny splashes identifying all of the puddles, and the nearly flat wall of brick buildings arrayed unimaginatively across the street, all of them teaming up to eliminate any possibility of seeing the sky.
He’d turned back to her first and watched her sigh as she focused on him instead of the outside world.
“I never get to play outside. You know that.”
“Inside is good. More predictable. What’s your cat’s name again?”
As if she’d needed to be reminded that a cat was lying next to her, she looked down and began rubbing along her back.
The cat continued to gaze silently at Socrates.
“She’s Rae. Her whole name is Rae Cat.”
“Lovely name.”
She continued her gentle adoration of her pet as she looked up at Socrates again, her face quite serious.
“I know now that I called her Rae because my dad called her Stray Cat all the time. I thought he said Rae Cat. I was just little.”
Socrates imposed an understanding blankness on his face, barring any smile from appearing.
“Oh. An easy mistake to make when you’re just little.”
Wendy nodded twice and began fiddling with Rae’s ears instead.
“I’m grown up now. But I still like Rae for her name.”
Socrates allowed his smile to escape.
But not all of it.
“It’s a good name. How old are you again?”
“I’m eight. I don’t know how old Rae is.”
His smile grew, even as Wendy continued a solemn study of him.
“Of course not. Yes, you’re all grown up. Should I think about calling myself Mr. Lewis Man to be a little bit like Rae Cat?”
First, Wendy’s eyes opened wide, then a big smile joined in the fun.
“No, Mr. Lewis! That’s silly!”
With both of his hands again verifying the presence of caches of seed in his pockets, Socrates said, “Yes, it surely is. I’m going to feed the birds again. And I’ll get some breakfast for myself too.”
Her smile had served its purpose and left.
Rae Cat had never smiled.
“Breakfast for the birds too? For both of you?”
Socrates’s hands locked onto the seed piles, and he stared down at the child.
With a fresh smile, he said, “Yes. There’s some balance in that. Balance can be elusive, you know.”
She shrugged and smiled up at him, while Rae continued to gaze at him indifferently.
Still smiling, Socrates tipped his hat toward them both, turned, and began walking toward the exit and the rainy morning awaiting him.
Softly, leaning toward her cat, Wendy said, “‘Elusive?’ What’s that?”
Socrates was five steps away from the couch, about midway between Wendy and the door, when he turned at the sound of rapid footsteps on the stairway.
A woman in jeans and a green sweater was making a rapid descent.
When she turned toward the couch, never slowing, Socrates looked that way too. Wendy was smiling and waving, and Rae had even tipped her head a bit at the sight.
“Hi, Mom. Rae says hi too.”
Wendy’s mother stopped at the bottom, and she gave them both a quick wave.
“Hello to you both. I’m just stopping down real quick to check on you. I heard voices.”
He’d just started smiling at the sight of Wendy again petting a cat that seemed incapable of much other than staring, then he turned back toward the stairway at the sound of Wendy’s mother.
“Mr. Lewis, hello. Got a minute?”
He noticed that she hadn’t waited for an answer before beginning a determined walk his way.
“Sure. Of course.”
Two steps from him, she stopped and smiled, then glanced quickly back at the couch. She faced him again, and her smile evaporated.
When Socrates was sure that her eyes were again locked intently on his, he said, “How have you been?”
“Fine. I just . . .”
Her gaze continued, and she seemed to be concentrating too much to bother with blinking as she tilted her head to her left, then to her right, and she made no attempt to disguise her rapid inhaling as she sampled the air all around Socrates.
With her head upright again, the sniffing ceased, and she gave him an approving smile.
“Well, good. Minty. I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Lewis, but the smell of alcohol on a man’s breath probably isn’t the best example for a child.”
As soon as he realized that he was squinting at her, he erased it as quickly as he could.
“Oh, well, of course. Probably not for a cat either.”
She made no effort to curtail her squinting at him. Then, after she’d given him sufficient time to notice it, she turned her head back to her daughter.
“Honey, you do remember that Mr. Lewis is a writer, don’t you?”
Wendy nodded. Rae stared.
“And he’s so nice to feed the birds all the time. Isn’t that all very kind and admirable?”
Wendy nodded and said, “It’s very nice, Mom.”
Smiling at her daughter, then letting it linger for Socrates to see, she turned back toward him.
“Okay, I just had to sneak that in there. Role models are important, you know.”
“I won’t claim to know too many things, but I do know that. It’s good that you’re watching out for the girl.”
She nodded while he spoke, then grinned when he’d finished.
She tipped her head back toward the couch and said, “Rae too.”
“Yes, of course. Rae Cat.”
He tipped his hat to her and said, “Enjoy your morning.”
She began turning and said, “I will. Thanks. You too.”
Socrates watched for a moment as Wendy’s mother walked back toward the stairway, waving again to the girl and cat on the couch. When she began her ascent, he allowed himself only the briefest of glances at her first steps on the carpet runners, the ones crowded with purple circles, then he turned to face the glass.
With both hands, he arranged the brim of his hat, focusing on the sight of the outside world and not on his reflection.
Then, he pushed open the door, felt light water drops carried on the breeze, and stepped out beneath the canopy.
Chapter 3 – Unless You’re Already a Madman
The wet wind added a push to the building’s self-closing door, and Socrates stepped closer to the thin streams flowing down from clumped fringes along the edge of the fabric awning above him. If its underside had any colors, it kept them hidden in the shadows, and the sky above it wasn’t much of a different shade.
Widely-spaced cars, their engines muted by air carrying a full load of moisture, crawled past. Their black tires weren’t speedy enough to fan water up behind them, but they managed to squeeze puddles to the sides as they passed. He watched them for a moment as they closed quickly, seeming to hurry the vehicles on their way.
He looked to the right at an empty sidewalk clinging to the brick walls, shrinking and narrowing as it let itself blend into the mist.
But Socrates turned to his left, turned up the collar of his lightweight trench coat, and ventured out toward a familiar destination: a small and reliably unpopular city park several blocks distant.
He noted without opinion that the brim of his hat had begun mimicking the soggy canopy near the door. It sagged as it sponged up the rain, and what couldn’t be absorbed quickly enough dripped steadily, the heavier flow changing sides with each step.
With head and brim tipped forward, his view was limited, but he didn’t need it. He knew that he was just steps away from the awning of the neighboring building.
So, he tried to find the best locations for his steps through a field of puddles, then took shelter.
The dripping from the hat brim dwindled quickly, then stopped.
His hands were already in his pockets, and he withdrew them at the same time, palms up. His right hand cupped a fair amount of birdseed, and he was careful to avoid spilling any of it. But he had less success with his left hand, which had an undeniable surplus compared to the other and donated some right there for the birds.
“Jesus, it’s not just the wind and the fingernails. Everything is in on it—even the damn seed weighting down that side. What chance does a man have all by himself, trying his best to—”
A single loud screech from ahead along the sidewalk caused his hands to shake, spilling only a few seeds, and he tipped his head up enough to see out from under the brim. A large black bird, cutting a streak through the murky gray, was flapping madly, coming from the right, and whooshed into an alley not far ahead.
Socrates hurried to dump the seed back inside, safe again for transport to the park, and walked, sometimes running a few steps, until he could lean past the sharp corner bricks and look into the alley.
Squinting into a region gloomier even than the city street, he darted his eyes around, seeking to locate that bird.
“Huh. You’re not looking for seed. You’re—”
Something blacker than the alley was rushing right at his face.
“Whoa!”
His hands covered the pockets as he leaned away, then stepped back, and the bird sailed past him, its wings pounding. Socrates watched its flight, angled up and crossing the street, until it merged with the gloom swirling high above the buildings.
He peered around the corner again, straining to see into the early morning dusk, then he took a step to renew his trek to the park but stopped himself when he saw a tiny light.
Just a glint, revealing the presence of something shiny.
“Huh. That explains it. Crows do like shiny things.”
His eyes began adjusting to the dismal confines of the alley as he mumbled, “Jesus, I’m still talking to my—”
He saw that there was a figure back there, holding something shiny that glinted from the depths of the alley’s night.
“You again,” said the figure with a feminine voice.
Socrates looked each way along the sidewalk, then pointed at his chest as he again faced the shadow speaking to him from the dark.
He started walking toward her, his eyes adjusting enough that he could say softly to himself, “Jesus. Nice legs. Those are—”
“Who sent you? Dammit, please, just tell me already,” she said, her voice almost too weak to reverberate off of the wet brick cliffs looming on each side.
Socrates stopped, then groaned a second later at noticing that he was leaning to his left. With a sharp exhale through his nostrils, he forced himself up straight.
“What?” he said. “What did you say?”
He resumed his tentative walk toward her and as the drizzly fog thinned, he saw that she was an attractive woman, younger than him. Her skirt was short, displaying shapely legs ending in high heels. Her resale shop fake fur jacket was soggy, and her hair, long and struggling to retain a few of its waves, was splattered all around.
He’d barely made an effort to see her eyes when she turned her gaze down. His eyes followed, and he saw the scissors that she held. The scissors never moved, but she looked again in his direction.
“It wouldn’t kill you to clear this shit up. Which side are you on?”
He’d gotten close enough to see her better, and he smiled before answering.
“Lately, I lean mostly to the left. You can see that? I’m not just imagining it? Before, it was sometimes to the—”
“What?” she said, squinting at him. “No, not that. Oh, you’re talking. You’re a real person.”
She was the first to look down, then they were both observing the sharp, shiny points, parted just a bit and aimed at her abdomen.
“Um, maybe you should put the scissors down.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
“I, uh, think some bird just tried to tell you that too.”
“Yeah,” she said. “A bird told me.”
With a scoff, she dropped them to clatter into a puddle.
“Why the hell not?”
She shook her head at the sight of it until the water again settled, showing only tiny circles where raindrops fell into it.
“I guess it could tell I didn’t really mean to do it this time. It knew I was just sort of thinking it through.”
“It, who? That bird? And you didn’t mean what?”
She turned enough to face him and wiped under each eye. She blinked slowly, looking his way.
“You really want to know?”
“Sure. Yeah, I want to know. What’s bothering you?”
She took her time to look past Socrates, then behind her, deeper into the alley, then back at him.
“I’m exhausted and need to get off the streets. Come back later, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
He lifted his left hand, pushed back the coat sleeve, and glanced at his watch.
“Like lunchtime, you mean?”
Squinting at him and shaking her head, she said, “No. After dark. Aim for 2:00. I usually hit a slow stretch around last call.”
She scoffed, not quite laughing, and said, “Men and their goddamn booze.”
Socrates cleared his throat, trying to keep it quiet.
“Uh, I could come back. I don’t know for sure, though. Um, what’s your name?”
She shook her head and said, “Really, nobody sent you?”
“Huh?”
She shook her head again just once at his perplexed stare, then focused again on the scissors, only the two points visible in the murky puddle where she’d been nudging them around with her toe.
“I’m Miley. You seem nice. But you should probably just stay the hell away from me.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned and began to give herself to the mist and gloom, and Socrates just watched her walking away.
Before he’d lost sight of her completely, she turned just enough to see him.
“Unless you’re already a madman,” she said.
Again, not waiting for any comment he might have, she turned and resumed her walk. Socrates listened to her heels on the pavement and watched the sway of her hips until she was gone, carried away by clouds of raindrops and shadows.
He took one step forward, eyes still searching for her.
Then, he took a few more backwards.
He glanced around to confirm that he was the only soul left in that alley, then he turned to walk back toward the street.