The Astonishing Life of August March

by Aaron Jackson

  August rubbed sleep from his eyes, willing the demolition crew to be nothing but a horrid nightmare, but when the muck from his eyes had cleared, the crew remained. My god! Could this really be happening?

  As if in answer to his unvoiced question, August heard a familiar bellow from an open window. “Hurry, boys!” screeched Mr. Barreth. “She won’t tear herself down!”

  If the hired crew was confused by Barreth’s ferocious vendetta against a building, they put up a good show of hiding it. Most were former soldiers grateful for a job, so they followed orders.

  The wrecking ball was being readied, pulled back as far as the narrowness of Forty-Third Street would allow, and still August refused to believe. Surely there would be some last-minute reprieve? August would’ve even welcomed a perfectly timed deus ex machina, a plot device he’d been known to lambaste at length. But the giant steel ball continued its unhurried backward climb, and all the boy could do was watch in openmouthed horror.

  Its rise complete, the ball hung malevolently in the air for half a minute, an ominous god of ruin surveying the landscape. August thought to offer it a prayer or sacrifice, anything to stop its course, but before he could lay an offering at the base of the crane, the ball was released, surging through the air with hateful relish. Only when it finally hit, the sound of the impact so loud it nearly deafened the boy, did it occur to August that he needed to leave the building. If he didn’t, he would be killed.

  The crash had thrown him to the ground and scrambled his orientation. When he finally regained his footing, the wrecking ball had already rounded back for another collision, and August was hurled to the floor again, skidding forward on his stomach and crashing his head into the frame of the equity cot.

  He was still on the ground when another blow hit the theater. They were already using two wrecking balls? This was happening too fast!

  “Tear it down!” came the maddened cries of Barreth through the open window.

  August forced himself to gather his senses. Should he take anything? What did he need? Another heavy thrust of the ball knocked the wind out of him as he was sent veering across the room. Desperately, he remembered the rats and mice, his first childhood friends. Where would they go?

  Where will YOU go, you fool?

  Valid point.

  Dust rained from the ceiling. He could hear the walls creaking and moaning in protest. Another jarring wallop shook the building.

  “That’s it, boys! Bring the fucker down!”

  Almost by accident, his frantic eyes settled on an old pincushion. Miss Butler’s. Reality hit him, hard as the wrecking balls smashing the Scarsenguard. His home, his life. The Backstage Bistro, the countless plays. Was it really all turning to dust?

  Before his emotions could overwhelm him, August dashed out the window to the fire escape. Here, clutching the brick walls of the Scarsenguard, he had no time to think. True, August was a confident climber, skilled as a monkey, but one false move, one errant crumb of sentimentality, would send him plummeting down to Forty-Third Street. It was time to turn off his mind and let his body take over. Hand over hand. Foot on brick. Instinct and reflex were all he allowed himself.

  He was making good progress when a particularly crushing smash from the wrecking ball nearly knocked August from the building. He clutched a protruding brick with one sweaty hand, the rest of his body dangling freely. Calling upon all the dormant strength in his stringy muscles, he heaved his weight back at the Scarsenguard, clutching at the bricks. A desperate grab with his free hand, and August was able to secure himself on the building’s wall. Momentarily safe, he was still for a second, eyes wide, breath wild, like a squirrel halfway up a tree, grateful to have escaped the jaws of the Labrador.

  He gladly would’ve stayed there all day, the rest of his life even, but he knew he had to keep moving. Swallowing his terror, he scurried up the facade before the crew could launch another strike. He hauled himself onto the roof just as one of the balls hit again and knocked him to his knees. Still there was no time for pause; the weight of the Scarsenguard was shifting beneath him. There was no telling how long the roof would hold; it might collapse at any second, plunging August back into the unstable innards of the theater, from which he might never escape. Picking himself up, August leapt the short distance to the neighboring building, then the next, then the next. As he skipped across the skyline, a wrecking ball slammed, and though he felt the impact, he wasn’t thrown to the ground. Nearly collapsing with relief, August stopped, knowing he was out of immediate danger.

  Only then did he allow himself to turn around and watch, but the sight brought him no comfort. From his new viewpoint, August could see that several chunks of the Scarsenguard were already missing, exposing the interior of his home to the elements. All day long he watched as Barreth pummeled the beautiful Scarsenguard, every crash of the wrecking balls taking away another piece of his life. Then, just before dusk, she finally fell.

  He’d never even said goodbye.

  Part Two

  The first night, it rained. Of course it rained. Still, August couldn’t leave the rooftop. After the Scarsenguard fell, he watched the downpour pelt her rubble.

  Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow!

  You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout

  Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!

  Had he just said that? Or had he simply thought it? Or had he screamed it?

  Hours passed. It was time to leave. Before he could lose his courage, August turned his back to the corpse of the Scarsenguard and walked away, stepping across the slick rooftops. He needed distance. He needed space. He needed to forget his reality, which with the swing of a wrecking ball had gone through an inalterable seismic shift.

  Who is it that can tell me who I am?

  “Don’t think of that. Don’t think of anything,” August whispered.

  But his head was so clouded, and there was so much to consider. Where would he go? How would he eat? Where would he sleep? Where was Sir Reginald? Would he ever find him?

  Who is it that can tell me who I am?

  It was no use. He couldn’t quiet his racing mind. August decided he might as well get out of the rain, and curled his soaking body up against a chimney. As he pressed into this makeshift shelter, avoiding the worst of the storm, tears came unbidden, mixing with the rainwater streaking down his face. He surrendered to his fears and sobbed, a little boy lost on a rooftop.

  This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.

  Where would he go?

  Nothing will come of nothing.

  Miss Butler was gone.

  The grief hath crazed my wits.

  Where was Sir Reginald?

  Who is it that can tell me who I am?

  Would he ever find him?

  Never, never, never, never, never.

  Who is it that can tell me who I am?

  Who is it that can tell me who I am?

  Who is it that can tell me who I am?

  * * *

  When August woke, he felt hollow yet lucid. A night of weeping had emptied him out, but with the emptiness came a certain clarity: Sir Reginald would find him. If August could just scrape by until then, he’d be fine. This shred of hope settled him, and now that the issue of his homelessness was, if not resolved, momentarily put on hold, he could attend to the next most pressing point. Food.

  He shuffled off the building, weak from his crying jag, but safely landed squarely in the heart of Times Square. Say what you will about that wretched hive of bustle; it always had plenty of food. But how to get it?

  A fruit stand on the corner of Forty-Fourth caught August’s eye, particularly the basket full of plump peaches.

  “Excuse me,” August said to the vendor, “how much for a peach?”

  “Just one? It’ll run you a dime.”

  August hardly knew why he’d asked; he didn’t have a cent to his name. Still, he went through the pantomime of patting his pockets, checking fo
r loose change.

  “Oh,” he finally sighed.

  The fruit seller was no softhearted saint, but August did look particularly waifish and pathetic. He cracked.

  “How ’bout a nickel? You got a nickel?”

  August shook his head.

  “Look, I can’t just start giving away peaches, or else every bum on the block—”

  “I understand,” August interjected, salvaging a bit of his dignity.

  “Come back when you’ve got a nickel.”

  So he’d need a job. August was savvy enough to know that he didn’t have many practical skills, but surely he could sell his labor somewhere and earn a small sum of money?

  August walked into a locksmith’s.

  “I’d like to earn a nickel,” he announced.

  “And I’d like to retire,” the locksmith countered.

  “Then perhaps we can both help the other achieve—”

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  A pharmacy and shoeshine yielded similarly unsatisfactory results. August remained unnickeled.

  Panic was mounting, which wouldn’t do. Panic might open up the torrent of emotions just barely being held at bay. The simple, straightforward task of earning a nickel was anchoring August, but if he couldn’t even do that, then what? Would he starve? What was he going to do?

  August snapped out of his dismay when he found that he’d aimlessly wandered into the midst of a small crowd. Hungry though he might be, the familiarity of a large group assembled to spectate kindled some primal comfort in August, and he couldn’t resist trying to make out what all the fuss was about.

  Snaking through legs and under arms, August was able to secure a more advantageous position within the mob. A street magician was the object of all the attention, and August, having been spoiled by masters of sleight of hand at the Backstage Bistro, watched the proceedings with a condescending air. The magician, a tiny man with oily hair, wasn’t half bad, certainly good enough for the likes of these tourists, but his tricks were quite pedestrian, and his unctuous manner, brash and uncouth, albeit strangely familiar, rubbed August the wrong way. After a few minutes, August dismissed the whole thing as far too plebian and started shouldering his way out of the audience.

  Find food.

  He’d only moved a few feet when he caught the scent of roasted nuts wafting from a nearby blazer pocket. A brief interior moral debate fluttered within his breast, but as is often the case, survival trumped scruples. With one fluid flick of his wrist, August stole the almonds and snuck out of the crowd, popping a few into his mouth as he did so, nearly fainting from pleasure.

  The magician’s show was over, but August hardly noticed as the onlookers dispersed. He had set to licking the paper bag that held the almonds, musing that the nickel hadn’t been necessary after all, when a rough hand grabbed his shoulder.

  “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  August, who’d fully expected to see the man from whom he’d stolen, was surprised to find he was being battered by none other than the street magician. He was even more surprised when he recognized him.

  “Sergeant Sycamore?” August cried.

  “Who?” replied the magician, genuinely befuddled.

  “You’re Sergeant Sycamore! I met you a few years ago at the Backstage Bistro! You were trying to have sex with a blond woman and taught me how to pick locks!”

  People were staring.

  “What is this, a tell-all?” the magician said as he manhandled August down the street to a less crowded area. August didn’t mind the rough treatment he was receiving. Here was a familiar face! Here was the Scarsenguard made flesh!

  Who is it that can tell me who I am?

  Free from the stares of his all-too-curious former audience, the magician backed August into the wall of a building. “Talk,” he said, “and you better start making sense.”

  August delved into the tale of their former acquaintance. No joy lit in the magician’s eyes at the recollection. Instead, he lifted August by his shoulders so that the boy’s toes were dangling several feet off the ground.

  “Sure, I remember you,” the magician said. “You’re the little rat bastard who introduced me to my wife!”

  August gasped. “You married that . . . nice lady?”

  The magician didn’t let August down, but some of the anger left his eyes, replaced with a deep sorrow.

  “She’s dumber than the chewing gum stuck to my shoe.” He sighed, near tears.

  “But she has jugs for days!” August offered, trying to lift his captor’s spirits by reminding him of the woman in question’s best attribute.

  “Sure, but so does a turkey, and at least those things never learned to talk. Hand to Christ, she makes a salamander look like Thomas Einstein.”

  “I think you mean Albert or Edison, depending.”

  “You’re in no position to get fresh.”

  But it seemed Sergeant Sycamore, or whatever sobriquet he was currently adopting, had lost the last of his bite along with his bark. He released his hold on August.

  “All this is beside the point,” he said, shrugging back into his usual tone of flip arrogance. “What the hell were you doing moving in on my con?”

  August, brushing brick dust off his shoulders, answered truthfully. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “And I thought my wife was dumb. That magician thing is a front. You think I live on the money those marks put in my top hat? I got guys out in the crowd picking pockets for me. Now why don’t you give me whatever it is you took, and I’ll give you some change to buy a lollipop?”

  Though his street smarts were admittedly low, August was nothing if not a quick study. Turning out all his pockets to prove he wasn’t hiding anything, he made his move. “All I took was a bag of almonds. I need . . .” And here August struggled. What did he need? He had nothing, so he needed everything. But how could he say that? “Can you help me?” he finally managed.

  The magician-sergeant scowled; generosity was clearly not his area of expertise. However, he seemed to be considering something, making cold calculations in his head. August waited him out.

  “You were pretty slick lifting those almonds. Especially for a greenhorn.” Here the older man took August by the chin and examined the boy, like he was a horse or a cut of meat. “And you’re cute. I can use cute, even if you are sort of a freak.” Here he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Truth be told, I’m getting sick of this magic shit anyways. How many times can you pull a quarter from behind a fat boy’s ear, ya know?”

  Again, August had no idea what he was talking about, but sometimes adults just liked to speak.

  Finally the man offered an oily shrug. “Why not? You got the job.”

  “What do you mean?” August replied.

  “I mean you can join the gang. Kids are good for cons.”

  “Are you asking me to be a professional felon?”

  “What do you want, an engraved plaque?”

  August didn’t know what he had expected. A dollar, perhaps? Some advice? Certainly not a job offer. Should he actually join this ruffian’s crime syndicate? Play Oliver Twist to his unsavory Fagin? Unimaginable as it might have been the day before, August didn’t have any better options at present.

  It’s just until Sir Reginald comes back, he thought. A few days perhaps. Maybe a week.

  “I’ll do it,” August stated, more confidently than he felt.

  “Congrats. I’m sure your mother would be proud. I’ll find you tomorrow. Start teaching you the ropes.”

  August fired off a stringent salute at the man he’d decided to continue calling Sycamore. “Tomorrow it is.”

  “I need to get my fucking head examined.” Sycamore sighed as he walked away.

  * * *

  August spent the next week shadowing Sycamore and learning his new trade. Mostly he just annoyed his tutor with constant questions. “Where’s Central Park?” “What are cross streets?”
“Is being an asshole a prerequisite for driving a taxicab, or is it merely preferred?”

  Sycamore usually dismissed him before noon.

  So August would spend the rest of his time exploring. New York City is, for the most part, laid out in a neat little grid. The street numbers ascend as one goes north, while the avenue numbers descend as one moves east. People with a logical frame of mind find this design to be most satisfactory, as one can quickly discern which direction one’s headed with a simple glance at a street sign. People who were raised in the higgledy-piggledy maze that is a theater, on the other hand, find such rationale absurd, disorienting, and more than a bit offensive. August was lost more often than not. When asking for directions, he quickly learned to profile his targets to make sure they were proper residents of the city and not tourists, who couldn’t tell him where the Brooklyn Bridge was if they were standing on it. People walking dogs were usually locals, as were those carrying briefcases, but someone who looked angry at the person walking in front of them was always a guaranteed New Yorker.

  When he wasn’t charting the city, August filled his days loitering in Times Square, hoping to find Percyfoot. He’d mostly been camped around the ruins of the Scarsenguard until a construction team started to clear away the rubble. The sight of his precious home being loaded into dumpsters with indifferent haste was too much to bear. August vowed never to return to West Forty-Third Street lest his heart break.

  The nights were harder to occupy. He’d given up stoops and began sleeping on park benches, but some of the more dedicated homeless (August still considered himself temporarily homeless) were quite territorial. After being screamed at by a man with a rat perched on his shoulder, August gave up benches as well. It was all for the best; a child sleeping on a bench generally attracted pity, and August still had a deep-seated fear of the police and social workers thanks to Miss Butler. Instead he started scaling walls and sleeping on fire escapes and rooftops.