Kurt and Delina

The sidewalks glazed with the slick film of a rain that must have occurred in the night, the sky a thick gauze into which even the shortest buildings disappeared, the streets deserted of all life but us. Breath, a fog of crystal hanging momentarily before a grizzled face, dissipating. And we too. Open signs in antique letters above closed windows, frosted at the edges, vague promises of communion for those less unfortunate. Within, bored shopkeepers, curious or suspicious watched us lone walkers as we passed. Each we ventured to approach, gave out sad smiles and sorry-nos in exchange for our request for work. Sweep the porch, I will, for a dollar, she’s mighty fine with the pressure cleaner, she is, yes sir, not now, I see, already hired, yes, spare some change for a bite to eat? And so the morning passed, down in a two horse town. Five days out of Amarillo by thumb, four nights curled beneath dirty blankets beneath creaky overpasses. We huddled together for warmth and awoke to find our water frozen and our caps frosted. An elderly black couple wearing Sunday clothes on Tuesday, bow their heads and walk on by. My voice, my speech, like my breath, dissipates unnoticed. Hunger is a homeless mutt barking in a cave and chewing his paws raw.

A tall young man wrapped tightly in a scarf, something aimless in his gate. He pauses to look around him, turns and walks again. Drawn forward it seems, in search of some ephemeral goal. As he passes I decide to try him out.

”Excuse me.”

The young man halted and turned towards us, meeting my eyes. I continued.

“Me and my wife here, we’re looking to get something to eat.”

“We been hitching from Amarillo.”

I expected him, like most, to turn and leave, to pretend that we had said nothing, that we were spectres, that we would disappear if we were merely ignored, but he did not. Instead he seemed to take some interest in our affairs and listened eagerly to our tale. We elaborately told of our mural job in San Marcos, the man who ripped us off, the gig set up in Corpus waiting for us when we got there, the time spent in jail for hitching in Amarillo, the ins and outs of life on the road. He emptied his change purse into my open hand, and wished us luck. I felt that he meant it.

“Merry Christmas.”

I half-wished I had told more of the truth, less of the same well-worn lie that got us by, but something in his smile seemed to suggest that he didn’t care whether the facts were accurate, that he heard something else altogether in our words. Perhaps I am merely rationalizing. In the end, a man’s gotta get by.