Being Henry David

Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead

1

The last thing I remember is now.

Now, coming at me with heart-pounding fists. My eyes shoot open, and there is too much. Of everything. Blurred figures, moving. White lights. Muffled waves of sound. Voices. Music. Chaos.

“You gonna eat that?”

A noise at my ear. I turn. Smear of a face, too close. Its mouth moves, can’t make sense of the words. Close my eyes, rub hard. Sore and gritty. I open them. Blink and blink. Senses snap into focus.

Everything in this place is washed of color. Tile on the floor is gray and white. Pumped-in classical music, way too loud. Crazy violins. Nothing makes sense.

“You gonna eat that?”

A fat man stares into my face. Long tangled hair, streaked gray, bushy beard. Eyes all watery and bloodshot. I sit on the floor leaning against a wall, the man sits next to me, gray football jersey and dirty blue sweatpants. Stinking of unwashed body and stale tobacco, with crusty bits of food in his beard.

A loudspeaker crackle jolts me and a bored woman’s voice says, “Final call, nonstop service, track twelve, all aboard.” Over the shaggy man’s head, a huge sign hangs from the ceiling, black with white letters and numbers that flip and change next to names: Trenton; Washington DC; Niagara Falls; Boston.

Cities. They are cities. I understand that much at least. People are here to go to the cities on the sign. I don’t have a backpack or suitcase, but I figure I’m a traveler too. Why else would I be here?

All I understand is that I was sleeping, and now I am awake. So why don’t I remember anything that came before the sleeping?

The man speaks again, and I blink hard. Am I going to eat what? I look around, notice my own muddy gray sneakers on big feet. Faded blue jeans, ripped at the knee, black T-shirt, and a gray hooded sweatshirt. I don’t remember putting on these clothes or walking in mud.

I reach up to scratch my head and feel a sharp, stinging pain. When I pull my hand away, there’s blood on my fingertips. I touch again, more gently this time. Just under my hairline, there’s a huge lump with a crusty scab that I just scratched off. Luckily it’s not bleeding much, so I wipe the blood on my jeans like it doesn’t matter. But my eyes prickle and burn. All I want is to get out of this place and go home.

Searching my brain for what home means, I find a white blank space. Where, what, is home?

I fumble in my pockets for an ID. There’s a crumpled ten dollar bill in a front pocket, nothing else. I think I’m old enough to have a driver’s license and for a second, I see myself behind the wheel of a car. But then that shred of memory shuts down on me, hard, like a slammed door echoing down a long hallway.

“Hey! You gonna eat that?” The guy sounds angry now, furry black eyebrows crunched together.

I search around me again on the tile floor. If I find anything to eat, I’ll gladly give it to this annoying dude, make him go away so I can think. But the only thing I find is a green paperback book, under my right leg. I lift up the book, in case he thinks I’m hiding food under it. Nothing.

I shrug, book still in my hand. “No food.” My voice is a low, unfamiliar croak.

His bloodshot eyes never blink and never leave the book. Testing him, I lift it a few inches, shift it to the left, the right, set it back on the floor next to me. His zombie gaze drifts left, right, and down, following the book.

What the hell? I squint down to scan the title, but the next thing I know, a huge paw with grimy fingernails snatches the book away. With surprising speed for a guy his size, the man hauls himself to his feet and lumbers away from me, book pressed against his beard, into a sea of people who apparently got off a train all at once.

“Hey!” I shout after him. For one confused moment, I’m too stunned to move. Then I scramble to my feet and put these long legs to work, chasing after what is my only possession in this world as far as I know.

The big guy is a pro at dodging through people and briefcases and duffel bags and wheeled suitcases. Me, not so much. I run smack into a tall guy in a black raincoat and he drops a leather notebook on the floor.

“Dammit, kid,” he shouts at me. Papers fly all over. He looks like he wants to punch me. I help him pick up the papers, apologizing constantly, pushing them into his hands while he murmurs, “yeah, whatever, just get away from me.” I swing around to search for the guy who stole my book and he’s gone.

I push through the crowd—sorry, excuse me, sorry—and finally spot him by the men’s room. He’s on the floor, leaning against the gray wall with his thick, stubby legs stretched out in front of him, hunkered down over the book—my book—turning pages and concentrating, like he’s looking for something. Then he grabs the corner of one of the pages from the middle of the book and rips it out.

Before I can react, he takes the torn-out page, crumples it into a ball, stuffs the whole thing into his mouth, and starts chewing. With a black smudged pinky extended, he tears out another one. I stare in disbelief as he swallows that page, and chomps down on another.

“Give me the book.” My voice is a pretty impressive growl, but all he does is glare, sheltering the book with his wide body as he rips out another random page and stuffs it into his mouth.

Somebody else might have given up, just walked away and bought himself another damn book. But somebody else didn’t just appear out of nowhere in a train station with no ID or luggage. No memory, not even a name. Just a book. A book that might carry a clue, like maybe the name of its owner (me) scrawled inside the front cover. Or a receipt from a hometown grocery store stuffed between its pages. Or a ticket home. I have to know, have to get that book back.

So I reach right under the big dude’s reeking armpit, and grab the book. He holds it tight with his pudgy fingers and makes a puffing noise, fighting me off. He’s strong and stubborn, I’ll give him that. We wrestle, both of us grunting and pulling. His tobacco breath is a toxic cloud and his armpits smell like onion soup gone bad, but I refuse to give up. Then, out of nowhere, he lets out this strange bellow, like a walrus at the zoo. I can actually feel the sound vibrations travel through my hands, up both arms, and into my chest. He roars again and pulls at the book.

“Let go!” I shout and yank back.

“Okay, you two, break it up, hear? Step away, now.”

An iron hand clamps around my upper arm, and I whirl around to see a couple of uniformed cops peering down at us. One of them, a redheaded guy with a baby face, has my arm. At the sight of the blue uniform, I have an instinctive urge to pull my arm away and bolt. But I force myself to freeze, as if avoiding any sudden movements will keep me safe.

“What’s going on here?” asks the other cop, a darkskinned guy, taller and thinner than his partner. His face looks young, but he has a thick gray mustache, so I figure he’s at least in his forties.

When I glance at his badge and the navy blue POLICE CAP on his head, a strange terror grips my gut. I swallow hard and lick my dry lips before I can speak. “My book,” I say, and I stand up, glad to pull away from Red the cop and the stench of the big man. “He stole my book, and he’s…” I gesture helplessly, and the three of us look down at him. “He’s eating it.”

The big man, still chewing on paper and drooling into his beard, glances at each of us and grins.

“Frankie, did you take this boy’s book?” The gray mustached cop asks patiently, like he’s talking to a little kid.

Frankie shakes his massive head and swallows. “Mine.”

Red puts his hands on his hips. “Sorry, kid,” he says to me. “Frankie here has some sort of mental issue that makes him eat weird stuff. I’ve seen him eat cigarette butts and string before.”

“He ate an entire bar of soap once,” Mustache Cop adds, nodding. “I watched him.”

We all stare at Frankie again like he’s a science experiment, and he gives us this huge smile.

“Anyway, kid, though I tend to believe you, it’s your word against Frankie’s. He says it’s his, you say it yours.” The police radio on his shoulder crackles, and he ignores it.

Anger boils up inside my chest. They can’t let this guy keep my book. They can’t.

“But tell you what,” says Red. “I have an idea. Frankie, hand over the book.”

Frankie stuffs one more page into his mouth, then shrugs and gives him the book. That easy. The cop hides it behind his back.

“Okay. The first one of you to give me the correct title and author of this book is the rightful owner and shall be reunited with his property.” He looks each of us in the eye to prolong the suspense, and then says: “Go.”

My palms start sweating. I’d only gotten one quick peek at the title before Frankie swiped the book. If I’d been reading the book before I fell asleep, I remember nothing about it now. I’m embarrassed to feel tears of frustration sting the backs of my eyeballs. But then I see the green cover in my head, the picture of a lake. This is weird, but it’s like I know this place. I can smell the water and hear the birds. And then I see the title in my head, as if the words were stamped on the inside of my eyelids.

“It’s Walden,” I say, all in a rush.

Red nods. “And the author? For extra credit?” He chuckles. The guy is getting a real charge out of himself.

“Aw, give the kid the break,” Mustache Cop says.

“No, it’s okay,” I say because I see it again, that picture in my head. “Henry David Thoreau, right?”

“Yes, indeed. Henry David Thoreau,” Mustache Cop says, nodding his head adamantly. Then he clears his throat and takes a dramatic stance. “‘I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.’” Grinning, he nods at us, all proud of himself. “See there? See? That’s from the book. I memorized that stuff way back in high school.” He taps his forehead. “Like a steel trap.”

“Whatever,” I mumble, but neither of them seems to hear. This guy can remember a high school English assignment word-for-word and I don’t even know my own name. I consider telling the cops that I’m lost and can’t remember who I am. Maybe they can help me. But there’s that thing in my chest like a brick wall that says this would be a terrible idea. Some fuzzy instinct tells me it’s not safe to go to the police. Fuzzy instinct isn’t much to go on, but it’s all I have. I decide to trust it.

Red stares at his partner for a second. “Suck out the marrow? Is that what you said? Now that’s just disgusting.”

Mustache Cop just shakes his head and smiles. He has a nice smile, straight white teeth. “Seize the day, young man. Carpe diem. That’s what Thoreau was talking about.”

“Uh. Excuse me? Officers?” I say politely. They turn blank eyes at me, as though they’ve forgotten I’m still here. “Can I have my book?”

“What? Oh yeah, sure.” Red hands me the book.

“Walden by Henry David Thoreau,” Mustache Cop says again, poking a finger at the name on the cover. “Now that guy knew what he was talking about. If we all lived like him, the world would be a better place.”

“Not if it means eating marrow and whatnot.” His partner shakes his head and his chubby red cheeks wiggle. “That’s just sick.”

The two transit cops walk off arguing, and I relax, relieved to see them go.

I examine the cover of the book, try to wipe off Frankie’sgrimy fingerprints and a few smudges of dark chewing tobacco drool with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. Then I hold it shut with both hands, tight, like I’m protecting all those pages and words and punctuation; all mine.

I glare at Frankie, but he’s not even looking in my direction. Instead, he’s staring at the people who hustle by where he sits on the floor, bloodshot eyes scanning them for something edible, studying what they hold in their hands or have tucked under their arms.

His gaze locks onto a woman holding a pair of leather gloves, and then a little girl clutching a purple stuffed elephant.

“You gonna eat that?”

They rush past, looking alarmed.

I search for a chair so I can sit and flip through the book, but the only ones available are in a special area for people with train tickets. So I find a quiet corner and sit on the floor again, desperate to know the clues that Walden by Henry David Thoreau might hold. Whoever he is. And whoever I am.