A Vagrant Story

by Paul Croasdell

  Week after week Alex requested the writing back. Week after week the agent said he was still reading the stories. By the second month that first freebie seemed trifle.

  Alex found himself drawn to the beaten in hollow that was the agent’s office, attracted by the rhythm of water dripping from a support beam. One drop clung to the beam with everything it had, only to let itself go and splash to tiny particles. With whatever piece of his poet’s subconscious remained he compared the struggle to his own life, which might have been just as quick in the grand scheme of things.

  He began focussing on the ground where the drops fell as if attempting to unravel a magic eye puzzle. The drops weren’t making normal sounds but dinging with a metallic chime. There was something there, something belonging to the agent strong enough to withstand the fire. Led by curious instinct he pulled the loose rubble away, dug around the debris then heaved this small box shaped object out onto stable ground. The dust and grit accumulated over time left the object looking almost brick like to blend in with the rest of this mess. Hiding like a chameleon it had avoided looters. With one wash of his hand Alex broke away this disguise. Despite a splashing of choking dust it could hide no longer. It was a safety box. More specifically the very safety box the agent kept in his office. The box he put his writing in.

  There was little thought between that realisation and his first attempt to break it open. A heavy rock dropped from a height did the trick.

  Quickly, he dove on his knees to set about searching for what he so desired. He pulled out forms and envelopes none of which he needed until setting sights on a black CD pouch. He flicked through all the CD’s inside until coming to one he recognised. It bore his name and the titles of his stories, written in the same way he wrote it all that time ago. It was his. He found it.

  He stood up holding the only thing he could have desired these past two years. On examination of the surface he found it intact, not a scratch. It had been safely stored within the pouch all this time.

  At a loss for breath he uttered, “It’s mine.”

  He clutched the CD close to heart and reminisced back to another day.

  Following months of futile meetings and little progress, communication with the agency broke to an immediate halt. Being the kind of person he used to be, Alex waited with patience, feeding himself his own excuses. He visited every day, when on one day he saw a flutter of movement through their dusty windows. Something snapped in him. He started to yell politely.

  “Hello! I saw someone in there. Look, my name is Alex. I used to come here all the time.” In apparent contradiction he banged violently on the glass.

  As if in surrender, the front door clicked open. A short man in a striped shirt and glasses peeked out cautiously. It took Alex a moment to remember the face, let alone his name. It was the silent clerk who had been here on every visit.

  “Leon,” Alex said. “I’ve been trying to get through for ages.”

  Leon clung to the door warily. “He’s not here.”

  Alex caught the door before Leon could slam it, and walked inside like a welcomed guest. The place stank of mould. “His car’s outside.”

  “Listen you,” Leon protested. “You can’t come in here! Go away. I said he’s not…” Leon shied down when the agent entered the room.

  “Alex,” the agent said. “I see you managed to get inside.” He frowned at Leon.

  “W-why haven’t you been answering my calls? Why do you never let me inside?”

  The agent turned his back to drop some items into a travelling bag. When full, he zipped the bag closed, tossing it to a pile of several others.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know how to tell you … but I can’t help you anymore. Like, y’know, no publishing house will take your work. Honestly I thought you had something here but when I think about it … none of your stories make sense. Like, you know, they’re really quite awful.”

  “You liked them before. You said they were good.”

  “Don’t be argumentative. The publishers told me the same thing. Really, they opened my eyes. To be honest they hated it, laughed at it even. They said this kid won’t get anywhere writing stuff like this. Of course I defended you to the bone but they wouldn’t have any of it.”

  “The publishers told you that?”

  “Maybe when you improve that pen hand of yours I’ll let you come back, until then, adios. You better go home and get climbing that ladder, it’ll be a long one.” He sighed. “My advice: just stay on the ground. Give up.”

  Alex could feel sharp nails in his clenched fist. Where a better man might flex muscle in anger, a bony outline extruded from his tightened skin.

  “What kind of agent are you?” He spoke through sealed teeth.

  “An ex-agent now.” He picked up a carrier bag to indicate a change in locale.

  “I want my writing back. Give it to me now.”

  “Sorry, I lost it. We’re closing now so … like, you know.”

  “Where are you moving to?”

  “Leon, help Alex find his way outside.”

  “Where are you running to?”

  “Almost sounded like a threat.”

  “You took my money. You stole my writing. I won’t let you get way with this.”

  The agent motioned for the phone. “Fine. I’m calling the police.”

  Alex froze. A frail chill washed over his temper.

  “That’s right,” the agent said. “You know the cops won’t side with a gullible little loser like you. This building’s a wreck but it’s more than you’ll ever have. And you’ve no right to be here.”

  “Cunt. I’ll get you.”

  “That’s it, say it louder so everyone can hear the sociopath writer live out the stereotype.”

  At some point Alex bought into the threats. Though he could have fought the good fight he allowed Leon to push him out to the curb. The front door slammed shut in tune with the shutters.

  Alex rushed the shutters as if trying to catch them. He merely slammed into it, banging fists and screaming.

  “Bastards! This isn’t over! Bastards!”

  ***

  “Bastards,” Alex whispered.

  Alex smirked dryly for the thought of how badly shattered his life had become, and how much this building had to do with that. Finding his writing like this didn’t so much put the pieces back together, as sweep them aside for a better moment.

  To think it lay here all this time. He could have reclaimed it if he looked, but he was too afraid to return. And yet, contrary to those fears there was no wanted poster bearing his picture, just the dull quiet of a forgotten crime scene.

  Alex shook the thoughts away. All this anticipation and he didn‘t know if these CDs still worked. In truth, he needed an excuse to prevent the ill-memories from seeping back. No matter the setting, this moment was one of joy. He’d take it all up while it lasted.

  The ill-memories didn’t stop in this moment of joy. Even as he paced and read the titles of each story out loud, the bad memories moulded into shape at the back of his mind. No matter how he tried holding it down, the debris of these ruins began lifting back to their original place, the scorch marks faded, and the doors reappeared. At the rear twinkle of his mind’s eye, he saw the building fully formed as was ten years ago.

  He saw a naïve writer enter under cover of darkness. A smashed window marked his return.

  Chapter 10

  This rash decision arose on the spur of a moment. It started with a pitiful lament in his campus room, and ignited to a lust for revenge. If he stayed home it would have surely gone away to rise again another day. But he didn’t have another day. The agent was due to leave next morning. If he didn’t act he’d never see that man again. His writing would be lost.

  Alex stumbled through the broken window into a pitch black room. He shrieked quietly after cutting his hands on glass. It might have been the feel of his own blood or the adrenaline drying, but Alex froze with fear. As if his mindset suffered a
power vacuum regret took the place of anger. He wished this change of heart could be taking place back in the safety of his dorm room. He wished he’d not acted so rash as to arrive without tools. He could bang his head against the wall for forgetting to bring a torch.

  Sparking up a zippo lighter, he used it to see. The limited amount of light restored some morale, enough to slowly pace deeper.

  It seemed the agent had been busy packing things away. The shelves had been stripped bare, and that pile of travelling bags doubled. The computers were left unplugged on tables, ready to be taken away.

  Alex hadn’t planned on trolling through bags. He had hoped to sweep through the agent’s office and take off with the CD before daybreak.

  He stopped before the closed office door to weigh options, to search the bags or the office. He decided on both. Grabbing one bag, he spilled the contents to the floor. A stream of papers poured out - loose manuscripts, none his. He repeated the process to the same effect until a sizable pile gathered. He gave up after three, turning back to the office door.

  He gripped the handle, pausing for muffled voices on the other side. Alex jerked back as though electrified. He noticed then, a dim light creeping out under the office door.

  The voices neared, growing louder. One belonged to the agent. The other sounded like the clerk.

  “You let me fall asleep again,” the agent said.

  “I didn’t have a choice. You were becoming so rough.”

  “Well I have been stuffing packages all day. My back gets soar and I can’t be as careful, like y‘know.”

  “Try taking it easy, or else you’ll break something.”

  The doorknob turned, clicking open. Light from the office consumed darkness.

  Embracing futility, Alex froze like an actor on stage awaiting direction. He closed his eyes and waited, until the conversation ended abruptly.

  The agent didn’t immediately notice the ominous figure basking half in darkness half in light. His focus went straight to the strewn papers on the floor.

  “We’ve got a rat,” he said. “Come out over there, I see you, thief!”

  Alex stepped up on queue. “You’re the thief.”

  The agent leaned closer for focus. “It’s that dumb loser kid. I forgot his name.”

  “Alex,” Leon prompted.

  “It doesn’t matter. Listen kid - like, y’know - whatever you’re trying to do, it’s not going to work. The deal is over. Get over it.”

  Alex paced nearer, clinging to the lighter like a beacon in his quaking hand. Even in brightness it heightened his esteem. Or he couldn’t think clear enough to let it go.

  “Back up,” the agent commanded.

  “I’m not going to roll over for you.”

  “Roll over? You’ve already fallen face down ass up. You came to me. You gave me the money. You gave me the only copy of your writing. It’s not my fault you were too stupid to back up your own stories.”

  “It’s not fair. I didn’t do anything to you.”

  “Life ain’t fair, kid. The net was open and you jumped right in. Next time try looking before you leap. At least everything I’ve done is legal.” He sent an indicating nod to the broken window. “Wake up and get the hell out of my building.”

  “All I want is my writing back. A print out, a copy of my stories - you must have something left.”

  “Don’t beg the troll to move. If you couldn’t back up your own work then why should I?”

  “I need it. Please I need them back.”

  “Leon, call the cops. This guy’s a bit too clingy for a burglar.”

  “You can’t!” Alex yelled. “You stole my writing, they’ll arrest you!”

  The agent flashed a smug grin. “Even if they cared, you’ve still no proof.”

  As commanded, Leon tapped on the phone dials.

  “No!” Alex cried, tossing the zippo to free his hands.

  He charged the agent, knocking him back to a desk. Alex lashed maddened blows to his face. Many missed and struck the wooden table top.

  The once frail writer found his body consumed with the insatiable strength of rage. Arms belting down with a bony tang, he realised a dormant strength erupting within. And like most unconscious actions it vanished right then. The pummelling force slowed. The agent snarled for his chance.

  Before his mind cleared enough to dodge, Alex fell back on the end of a fist. The agent regrouped and scurried back to his office.

  “Leon, put down that phone!” the agent cried from within.

  He re-emerged, brandishing a revolver with little care for direction. His quivering hand finally settled over Alex. “Don’t think I don’t like writers. I’ve always loved a good story. Tell me what you think of this one: he broke in here, I don’t know why. We don’t have anything here worth stealing. I saw that crazy look in his eye but I never thought he’d try stab me with a knife. I had to shoot him - he would have killed the two of us.”

  The only sound to follow was Leon laying down the phone. He backed against the wall as if trying to keep going through. His heavy breathing stopped. Total silence fell.

  Alex didn’t breathe since the gun appeared. He felt it again, the urge telling him to give up, to turn away – to run away. And he would have walked away right then. He would have stepped outside without his stories and may never have become homeless. He would never have had to hide in the gutter.

  Some crackling noises drew the agent’s attention. The zippo Alex tossed aside had landed amongst the pile of papers. A fire was starting, quickly spreading onto desks and walls.

  Alex didn’t care about fire. He only saw the agent look away. In his distraction, Alex rushed in, snapping the gun aside. The agent struggled to keep hold so Alex pinned it down. And that was an error of judgment.

  The gun let off a bang. The agent gasped a cough of blood. It didn’t take long. Alex could see the senses drifting from the man’s eyes. Stumbling to his knees, he fell downward into Alex.

  In some respect Alex cradled him, though he might have merely been too shocked to step aside. He’d only just noticed his finger on the trigger, let alone grasped the action. He stepped back and let the agent fall flat on his stomach.

  Alex tossed the revolver into rising flame. In his panicked stillness another emotional power vacuum took place. His anger vanished. His hands stopped shaking. A cold, dread filled fizzle in his brain replaced both. He backed away, each step shaking his thoughts like effervescent soda. He cupped his head as if to stop the bad screams bursting out. He tried to think over them, but couldn’t concentrate with Leon’s screaming.

  “He’s dead – he’s dead! Look at him, he’s dead!” He fell to his knees. “Not again … not again!“ He cupped his own head and began weeping to himself.

  Alex found his arms twitching forward as if reaching down to offer help. He found his legs moving backward toward the broken window. His mind reassured him he needed to escape before the fire spread. It forgot to include Leon in those plans. That was the last they saw of one another.

  Alex ran away, and he kept on running. He didn’t go back to college and he didn’t stop anywhere for last goodbyes. Amidst his fleeing he merely slipped and fell to a gutter. It was so quiet he decided to hide there. At some point he forgot how to leave.

  ***

  Alex put the CD in his back pocket. He couldn’t concentrate within these brooding walls. The cold wind poked him like an old accomplice reminding him of past deeds committed.

  He’d leave, and be through with this place. Let it haunt him in memory alone.

  He figured since he came here first by the front door, he’d leave here last by the back. Seemed fitting, it was after all the only exit still shaped like a door.

  He found himself in the lane annexed to the one they entered by. A single lamppost buzzed, light bouncing on and off against high stone walls. Taking a step toward the Old Folk’s home, he stopped when a muffled female cry sounded from behind. Clamping his eyes in frustration he vocally damned th
e trouble he could see coming.

  Wheeling around, he saw two men in blue hoodies holding a woman. One held her mouth shut as both stared expectantly for this stranger to pass on his way. It seemed fate bore a little more in store after all.

  The freehanded man pointed at Alex. “Keep walking, exit’s right there.”

  In immediate dismissal, Alex turned to face them in full.

  “Don’t be a hero, guy,” the same thug said. “We got more boys coming any minuet now.”

  “Were those ‘boys’ dressed same as you? Already met them, and no … they won’t be,” Alex replied.

  Both men startled at those words. The women let out a shriek, indicating the hand over her mouth loosened some.

  “He’s talking shit. Get outta here before we bust up your ugly face.”

  “Can’t. I became committed roughly around the time your friends threw a syringe in my face. I’ll have to stay until you let that woman go.”

  Spurred by his words, the woman kicked back to break her oppressor’s hold. About to run, the second man grabbed her.

  Alex acted on queue. Driving in like a cannonball Alex broke the man’s hold, pushing him to the ground.

  The woman broke out, fisting the accomplice back. Trying to escape, she toiled with the second man enough to avoid his grip. It took three blows from her handbag to keep him back long enough. The thugs stood still, in their defeat watching her disappear into the shadowed lane.

  They could have chased, but the grounded thug yielded a halt. Standing up, he stared at Alex with steely eyes.

  “You psycho freak!” the accomplice said. “Forget this prick we gotta go after her.”

  “She doesn’t matter. We can’t put her to sleep without the drugs.”

  “Just knock her out.”

  “Won’t get half as much if her face is busted, and no one’s going to catch me shoving some screaming bitch in my trunk.

  “Guess we may as well thank this hero for his help then.”

  Alex had stopped listening after the assault. Since jumping back to a safe distance, he found his body heavier, chest wheezing like a sun drenched dog. As he tried to recover for this fight, he realised he hadn’t recovered from the last - a little late now. Side by side the thugs moved in a lazily plotted formation, slowly closing the gap.