Green Green Goblins

This is the first short story that I have written in quite some time. I hope to continue to write. I was inspired by a quote I found from On the Road, which you can read in the epigraph. It is a rough draft. Once I have written something, I generally like to leave it alone for a little while before editing. I tend to see clearer. There may be a few typos, but they will eventually get corrected. Criticism always welcome.

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Green Green Goblins

 

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” (Jack Kerouac, On the Road)

 

*  *  *

 

I awoke at the crowing of a truck’s airhorn.

 

The cars whistled by overhead, making a thu-thunk sound as they passed over the lines of dried tar on the bridge. I uncurled myself from the fetal position. Even Florida gets a little cold in January. I’d made the cross country journey from Oregon just in time to escape the wet and cold winter in Portland. It was already cold in September when I passed through Texas, where they play nothing but horrible cowboy music. I finally made it to Florida in October and had a few months to bask in the warm Indian summer sun.

 

I stretched out on the underpass embankment, trying to loose the frigid stiffness from my bones. The sun was just coming up. Must have been about half past seven. I was tired, but I didn’t yawn. I scooted down the embankment until there was enough room for me to stand. I reached up and grasped my hands over my head—my body shivered, but I didn’t yawn.

 

I reached into my pockets to see what state I was in for the day: two nickels and two pennies. Twelve cents. Twelve fucking cents. I was starving, but breakfast was obviously going to have to wait. At least I had eaten lunch yesterday. I could make it until dinner today if I had to.

 

Halfway down the embankment I remembered the book. My one possession. The only thing that I needed in the world besides the warm Florida climate and a meal every once in a while. I had tucked the book in the crevice between the bridge embankment and the underside of the road the night before. I pulled the book out from my secret hiding spot and dusted it off, or rather dusted off the Ziploc bag that contained the book. The book was in remarkably good shape considering that it was over sixty years old, and I had read it in more than a hundred times: from Seattle, to Portland, and on my cross-country journey to sunny Miami Beach. It was the only thing I still had from Seattle, from my old life. It was the only thing that I wanted to remember.

 

I made my way down to the intersection. The cardboard sign I had made yesterday was still there: “Homeless Hungry Trying to Get Home” the sign read. I had no intention of leaving Miami. The weather is warm enough that I could live outdoors year-round. I was looking forward to the spring, when I could go and sleep on the sandy beach at night.

 

Having removed the book from the plastic bag and put the bag in my pocket, I assumed my position, the sign in my left hand, and in my right, the book, making sure not to crack the spine. The book was still relatively well-bound, and I wanted to keep it that way. I read, only glancing up to see if anyone would give me money or food during the red lights. Most people tried as hard as they could not to make eye contact. The car people don’t want to take a look at how bad they think life can be. I don’t shower very often and I don’t even know that I would remember how to shave.

 

It must have been around ten in the morning when I heard a woman’s voice.

 

“Hey, buddy.” I looked around and couldn’t find who was calling to me for a moment. I then spotted a few fingers waving out of the tinted windows of a Mercedes. “Sir,” the voice called again. I started over to the car. The fingers retracted inside the luxury shell and a sandwich in a plastic bag soon appeared in place of the fingers. I was now next to the door.

 

“I thought you looked hungry, and I thought you might like a sandwich.”

 

I snatched the sandwich from the window. I could see the woman’s peroxide blonde hair and Dior sunglasses, but little else inside the Mercedes. I could smell the leather seats. This car was new.

 

“Fuck you and your goddamn sandwich,” I told her. I heaved the sandwich away from the car, making sure that it would land on my embankment. “Now where’s the money, lady?” I held out my palm and waited for the money that I knew wasn’t coming.

 

“Sorry, buddy, but I won’t be the one to support your habits.”

 

“What habits, lady? Listen, I’m trying to get a bus ticket back home to Richmond.”

 

“I know you’ll just spend it on booze and drugs.”

 

“No way, lady. I’m just trying to get back home to my nephew in Richmond.”

 

The car behind the woman began honking. The light had turned green. “I’m sorry, I just can’t support your lifestyle.” She stepped on the accelerator and made a left under the underpass. I smiled and looked up at my embankment to the sandwich in the plastic bag.

 

I waited for a few minutes and put my sign on the ground and set a rock on it, so it wouldn’t blow away. I took the Ziploc freezer bag out of my jacket pocket and put my book back in it, making sure that the bag was sealed. I walked back to my embankment and grabbed the sandwich on my way up to the top of the underpass.

 

The sandwich was whole wheat and turkey. My favorite. I sat and ate the sandwich: savoring it. When I was done, I could feel the blood rush out of my head to help the digestion of my fair-weather brunch. Drowsiness began to set in, but I didn’t yawn. I stuck my hands in my pockets and curled up in the shadow of the underpass for a mid-morning nap.

 

*  *  *

 

I awoke in sweats. The sun was beating down and it had grown too warm for my jacket.

 

I went through my waking routine (without yawning) and removed my jacket and tied it around my waist. I made my way down my embankment to my begging spot, not forgetting to bring my book. My sign was waiting for me where I left it. I lifted the rock from the sign and removed my book from the plastic bag, replacing the sign with the bag under the rock.

 

Assuming my normal position, book narrowly opened in one hand, sign in the other, I read and waited. It must have been between the post-school crowd—mothers returning home with their children—and rush hour.

 

I stood and read there for what must have been about an hour, having received two “get-a-jobs” and a “get-a-life-asshole.” Rush hour was now in full swing and the sun was quickly descending when I heard a man’s voice: “Excuse me, sir.”

 

Generally, the excuse-me-sir-ers of the world wanted directions. I looked up and to my surprise saw a few crisp bills hanging out the cracked window of a silver Toyota Camry. I was a little disappointed. I would have much preferred another turkey sandwich. Money meant that I would have to walk the two blocks to the McDonalds down the street. Oh well, at least it would be a warm meal before going to sleep.

 

As I approached the car, the cash slipped back inside the car and the window rolled down all the way to reveal a brown-haired man in wireframe glasses. He was wearing a white short-sleeved collared shirt with an argyle sweater vest. Goddamn excuse-me-sir bastard wanted directions after all.

 

“Excuse me, sir, but how much would you take for that book you are reading?” the man asked.

 

“Not for sale, pal.”

 

“No, seriously, I will give you a hundred bucks for it.”

 

“Get lost, pal. Not for sale. Seriously.”

 

The man began thumbing through the cash in his wallet. “Wait. Let’s see here.” Cars behind the man started honking, indicating the change of the traffic light. “Hold your horses,” the man yelled to the car behind him. “I have three hundred thirty seven dollars. You can have all of it for that book. Get yourself a room for a few nights. Get cleaned up and…”

 

“Listen, asswipe,” I interrupted, “what don’t you fucking understand about not for sale? That sweater vest cutting off the circulation to your brain?”

 

“Hey, man. I’m trying to do you a favor.” The flurry of honks grew louder and more urgent.

 

“Favor? Fuck your favor.”

 

“Listen. I don’t know if you know what you have there. I run a rare books shop on Lincoln Road. I just want…”

 

“Fuck off.” I began walking the wrong way down the access road, so that he couldn’t follow. I heard him yell after me before finally hearing the squealing of tires. I peaked over my shoulder to see the Camry speeding through an all-but-expired yellow light, forcing the next car to and wait through another light.

 

Fucking inconsiderate asshole. The book was the only thing. Didn’t he understand that? If I had wanted money, I would have sold the thing long ago. The book was my cross-country companion. The only thing in the world that I had to take care of or worry about.

 

I went to sleep hungry that night. I slept with one eye open and with the book, secure in its Ziploc bag, tucked into the front of my pants, underneath my shirt and jacket.

 

*  *  *

 

I had slept like shit. I kept having a recurring dream where I opened up my book, but all the pages were grotesque versions of one hundred dollar bills. A morose Ben Franklin was animated on the page. He kept saying, “Green green goblins,” over and over.

 

I tried to shake off the feelings that the dream and the bad night of sleep had left me with while I made my way down to my intersection. I leaned down to pick up my sign, which I had dropped on the ground without putting the rock on it. It was damn lucky the wind hadn’t blown overnight.

 

From the edge of my vision, I noticed someone getting out of their car in the motel parking lot on the corner. I turned my glance to the car. Fuck. It was the silver Camry. The excuse-me-sir jackass was on his way over to my concrete island with its traffic light palm tree. My paradise.

 

I considered running, but I was hungry and weak. I didn’t want to leave my post. I would just decline the man again and then try and get something to eat.

 

“Hello there again, sir,” the man called as he crossed during the red light at a slight jog. He arrived on my island. “I’m sorry about yesterday. That money I was offering you is an insult for what you’ve got there. My name is Raymond.” He held out his hand to shake.

 

Ignoring the hand I responded, “You can call me, Sal.”

 

He paused for a moment, not knowing what to do with his extended hand. He opted to put it in his pocket. “Pleasure to meet you, Sal. You have quite a treasure there. You do still have the book, right.”

 

I knocked on my abdomen so the man could hear the hardcover still concealed in the front of my pants.

 

“Good. Great. Can I see it?”

 

“Hell no.”

 

His eyes searched for the words. “Ehhh. I would probably say the same thing if it were my book. In fact, I have often said such things when people ask to see my rare books. Anyhow, I went by the bank this morning. I can make you a much more lucrative offer. I can offer you…”

 

“Not interested,” I interrupted. I tried not to make eye contact with the man, Raymond. I held up my sign and tried to look only at the cars.

 

“Listen. I want to offer you three thousand dollars. It’s a first edition. One I have been searching for a long time. Especially one in as good condition as that one,” he said pointing to my abdomen. “I won’t even be selling it or anything. It’s for my private collection. It’s not something that I would even consider trying to turn a profit on. I have a passion for books. That’s why I opened up my book shop in the first place.”

 

“Not for sale,” I said even-toned. I couldn’t help but make momentary eye contact with Raymond. Surrender wasn’t yet present in his face.

 

“Well, listen. I can give you five thousand, plus the three hundred thirty seven that I had on me last night. It’s all the money I have on me. More than the list price, even. Please, I have never seen a first edition in that good of a condition.”

 

“Seriously. Not…for…sale, Raymond.” My voice was beginning to lose its even keel.

Raymond guffawed. “Well, why the hell not? I mean, why on earth do you need it? You could get started with a few months lease on an apartment. Get cleaned up. Even get a job.”

 

“I don’t want a fucking apartment or a job,” I was looking straight into Raymond’s eyes now, burning my swelling anger into his skull.

 

“Why the hell do you need the book? Why won’t you sell it to me? I don’t care what you do with the money. Spend it all on booze and drugs, for all I care.”

 

“I don’t do that shit, asshole.”

 

“Then why the hell won’t you sell me the book?”

 

I took a deep breath. It was none of this guy’s damn business why I wanted my book, but I could see in Raymond’s face that he wouldn’t relent until he had an answer, so I would give him the only answer I had—the truth. “Because it’s the only thing that I have from my old life, and quite frankly, it’s the only thing I wanted.”

 

The man glance shifted from my face to my abdomen, then back up to my face again. He was perplexed. “But…”

 

“Listen. Not for sale.” I chucked my cardboard sign at Raymond and started to walk away.

 

I could hear him calling “Sal! Sal!” as I walked the wrong way in the gutter of the access road. I didn’t turn around.

 

*  *  *

 

At dusk I was walking barefoot on the beach—my feet tired and my stomach grumbling. The sand was cool and felt damp against my feet.

 

“Green green goblins,” I muttered under my breath over and over. I was holding my book in my left hand as I walked. I had removed it from the Ziploc and discarded the

 

I kept walking. I stared down and kept repeating the phrase from my nightmare. “Green green goblins.”

 

I noticed the edge of a blue piece of paper or cardboard protruding from the sand. I stopped and reached down into the sand and removed the object from the sand. It was a matchbook. I blew the sand off of it and read the back. “Happy’s” it read. There was an address and phone number in Miami underneath. I opened up the matchbook and there was one match left. I closed the matchbook.

 

I sat down on the cool sand, facing the ocean, the sun setting behind my back. I flipped through my book until I was in the middle and set the book down on the sand. The book sat there staring back at me.

 

“Green green goblins,” I muttered.

 

I opened the matchbook and struck the match. I stared at the match turning from an incandescent blue to orange. I held the match to the corner of one of the open pages of the book. It caught fire and I discarded the match. I watch the fire spread over the words, shriveling and erasing them. The fire spread to the other open half of the book.

 

“Green green goblins,” I whispered one last time.

 

I sat until the crackling of the fire died out. Before me was nothing more than a pile of ashes and a few pieces of shriveled cardboard from the hardcover. I sat exhausted and listened to the soothing sounds of the ocean, not muttering, not whispering. I yawned.