Clouded Rainbow (18 page)

“Um, can I, uh, help you?” she asked without making eye contact.

“I was looking for a server. I think his name is John,” Roger asked.

 “Um, what?”

“A server. Is John working tonight?”

Nearby, the stout manager from the previous night walked around the corner. He had been in the kitchen putting out a stove fire, but when the cooks had it under control, he decided to focus his attention on offering thanks to the departing patrons. As he rounded the corner to the entryway, he saw Roger hovering over the innocent hostess. The manager widened his eyes and picked up his steps, as he wondered how another bum had breached the front line of defense.

“Hey, is everything okay here, April?” the manger interjected.

“Oh, I was looking for John,” Roger replied as he turned toward the baritone voice.

The manager cut through the tension and inserted himself between beauty and the wandering beast. The manager took the opposite approach with Roger and instead of failing to maintain eye contact, he stared back with a look of rage.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he snarled.

“I don’t understand,” Roger innocently replied.

As the pressure intensified, a burst of noise erupted from the door behind Roger. Everyone instinctively turned toward the commotion, including most of the patrons. It was Miles pouring through the door like a spoiled carton of milk spilling on the freshly polished kitchen floor.

“Hey, Roger, did you find him? Is this him?” Miles yelled.

“Get out of here you two!” the manager commanded.

Roger couldn’t believe Miles’ disruption. He knew he should have tied down the weasel.

“I don’t understand the problem. I was here last night,” Roger continued.

However, it was too late. The manager had enough of the commotion. Several couples gasped from the disorder. A middle-aged woman having a drink with her husband rolled her eyes and scorned the bums, as she classified them.

Two muscular servers sprang to action as the manager signaled to them. This was the second night in a row that bums had entered his establishment, which made his temper flare. He was not going to let these two disrupt his customers.

“You’re trespassing on private property. I’m going to call the police if you don’t leave here immediately,” the manager snarled.

Miles tried to resist the encroaching server as the manager jumped toward the phone. Finally, one of the servers grabbed Miles and dragged him toward the door.

“Hey, get your meat hooks off me!” Miles shouted.

A female server dropped her tray of drinks as the chaos surprised her. Glasses shattered. Another woman screeched.

Roger positioned his neck to see if he could make out John through the confusion, but he soon found the other server’s hands grasping his shoulder. Roger conceded as the man ejected him out the door.

Outside the restaurant, Miles and Roger spewed from the glass doors and hit the concrete like rag dolls. The two servers towered over them and wiped their hands clean.

“And stay out! We don’t cater to bums,” the server manhandling Miles exclaimed.

“Get out of here!” Roger’s bully belted to motivate the two away from their establishment.

A prudish old woman walking nearby looked down at the action and shrieked. She clutched her husband’s arm as The Hideaway’s finest worked on Roger and Miles.

The valet drivers gathered around the two and formed a circle with the only open part toward the south end of the sidewalk.

Roger rolled around on the hard pavement. He felt his bones yell. Since Miles was closer to the ground and frequently used the earth as his own bed, he had suffered a lesser impact. Therefore, his bones had accepted the fall with more ease, and while it certainly hadn’t been like one performing a dive onto a comfortable bed, it had been graceful compared to Roger’s tumble.

Miles picked up Roger and hustled down the sidewalk as the gang of men roared at them.

“I can’t believe those clowns. The nerve!” Miles said.

“Let’s get out of here before the cops come,” Roger replied.

“Yeah, me and the fuzz don’t mix.”

Roger knew how the police seemed to have the wrong idea of his intentions, but the cards he played all ended in a bust.

Miles seemed to have a spark in his step that Roger lacked. He led the way on the sidewalk as the two headed toward the cross street. Miles turned the corner ahead of Roger and, for a brief moment, the lost businessman felt a sudden feeling of emptiness. Then, however, an image stopped him cold. He realized he was not alone as the pristine glass store reflected his true self. The man in the mirror startled Roger. While the tousled hair and grubby clothes looked the same as his previous meeting with the man, blood, scuffs, and bruises now painted his face and neck. The reflecting wanderer seemed to be spiraling downhill. While their meetings focused Roger’s attention and gave him a look into his new universe, he feared his next encounter with the reflection.

“Where’re you at?” Miles asked from around the corner.

He peered around and saw Roger entranced in the window of the closed business. He looked up at the unlit sign and saw “Frankie’s Dry Cleaning.” Miles wondered why Roger was interested in getting his clothes dry cleaned, but figured his shirt and pants did need a good scrubbing.

Maybe they could let out the cuffs in his pants to add a few more inches,
he thought.

Miles’ voice brought Roger out of his fixation. Then in a flash, the visitor in the glass vanished into the emptiness of the night. Roger continued down the sidewalk behind his leader, but his brief moment of reflection left him feeling overwhelmed with his journey. He was so close to finding a clue to his mystery, but as he trekked farther from The Hideaway, he felt far away from the woman he loved. Roger looked ahead and saw a mess of identical streets with no clear direction in sight.

18

The night grew even darker as thick clouds overwhelmed the moonless sky. The humidity level had increased. Water vapor whirled with the gusts of wind whipping through the city skyscrapers. Roger sat on the sidewalk curb with his legs extended as cars sporadically sped by. He felt clobbered, beyond the breaking point of a tree branch used as a crutch. He put all of his eggs in one basket marked The Hideaway, but all of those eggs had been thrown onto the street and smashed to unsalvageable pieces.

Miles sat next to Roger with a look of defeat covering his dirty face. He was with Roger one hundred percent on his journey, bonded with him by the unwritten code of the street. It was the same relationship as bikers who would give a friendly wave to a passing motorcycle or veterans who would watch each other’s back even on the first meeting. Miles liked Roger not only because he was a fellow drifter, but also because he had a concrete goal in mind. It was a goal that Miles didn’t fully understand, but he admired the way Roger focused his attention on the next obstacle in his path.

Roger had no more energy to continue. A void filled his mind. It was a feeling of sheer nothingness, and he sensed the end was near. He stared with an expressionless face, mouth gaping an inch, at a pothole in the street. He watched the tires of each car as they drove over the hole with their force chipping more and more of the tarred road away and widening the infection. Roger wondered how the insignificant hole would fair against the girth of a fully loaded tractor-trailer. For a bizarre reason he felt connected to the hole, understanding its pain of constant abuse. Roger wished the hole were bigger so he could lie inside and receive the fate that he had cheated on the bridge.

“I don’t believe that guy at the restaurant,” Miles said in his chipper tone.

Miles picked up a stone and threw it into the hole in a perfect shot. The rock jarred Roger’s fixation on the pothole.

“I mean, we didn’t even see your waiter friend,” Miles replied as he threw another stone.

This time it missed the hole and skipped across the street. “I’m hungry. Wanna get some fast food?”

Miles’ nasally voice struck a chord in Roger’s eardrum. He looked at the man sitting next to him, always tooting his horn. Then it hit him. Roger realized it was this pest who caused his unjust ejection from his mission. While he thought this man would point him to the answer, Roger recognized that he was actually the root of his problem.

“Don’t even get me started with food,” Roger snapped.

“I worked at one of those fast food shops. It was a fried chicken joint. Man, I hated it there. They made me work as a cook. Like I can cook. Ha! I wanted to burn that place down. That’s why I decided fast food wasn’t for me. Yeah, I’m more of a white-collar man, if I do say so myself. Always enjoyed putting on a suit,” Miles jabbered.

“Where’s your suit now? We could’ve used some classiness back there,” Roger said as he glanced at Miles’ soiled clothes and greasy hair.

From his angle, he could see dirt crusted to Miles’ ears from weeks without bathing. Roger looked down at his own clothes. “Look at me. I have no idea what the hell is going on. I’m tired, sick, I have nothing left!”

“Hey, don’t fret my good man. Just be patient. You just need to move around. Get the blood flowing,” Miles explained as he stood up.

Energy filled him as he pushed at Roger’s back. “Come on now,” Miles added, pressing harder.

Roger couldn’t handle it anymore. Miles stayed beyond his welcome; in fact, he was never welcomed!

“No! Get away from me. Who the hell do you think you are? Huh? You have no job. You have no home. You’re a bum, a hobo, a derelict! I have a life, a job…a wife,” Roger exclaimed.

With his words, Roger lunged at Miles and threw his fist toward the pest’s gut. Miles winced as the intended blow to his abdomen connected with his shoulder, knocking him back. Roger wobbled from the momentum. Miles grabbed Roger’s shirt, tearing half of the buttons off the front and exposing his bruised chest. Roger’s muscles rejected his abusive commands as he fell back toward the concrete. He grabbed at Miles to save his fall as his dangling fingers snatched a handful of Miles’ oily hair. Roger’s body bashed the concrete first, followed by Miles. The businessman let out a bellow as the breath blew from his lungs. Miles turned Roger around and kneeled on his back. In the flurry, the picture in Roger’s back pocket flew out and landed on the ground.

Miles focused his attention on the image. He rolled off Roger’s back and grabbed the photograph. Roger began violently coughing as his lungs wheezed for air. The winning victor, Miles, studied the couple staring back at him. He then looked in front of him at the frazzled man panting on the ground—his cut face, his torn clothes, and his bruised appendages. Miles glanced at the man in the picture. He wore a stylish polo shirt and shorts, his hair was parted on the side, and his skin radiated. Miles squinted as he wondered whether the man in the photograph was, in fact, the man now sitting in front of him. There was a slight yet definite resemblance to both men, particularly in the long face and distinct jaw. The man in the photograph had two dimples. Miles looked at the man sitting on the ground and realized he had never seen him grin. Roger combed his hair with his hands as he regained control. It was an instinctive reaction, ingrained in him from always looking his best. Miles widened his eyes as he saw the faint part in Roger’s hair.

“That is the same man,” Miles mouthed.

He wondered how this handsome and seemingly indestructible man went from riches to rags. Then, he asked himself the same question. Miles shifted his eyes to the bright and bubbly woman nuzzled close to Roger’s side. She had a soft look that massaged even the most fatigued eyes. A grin formed on Miles’ face as the woman entranced him.