A man emerged out the dimness. His stark-white beard entered the light first. Then, a long, thick scar that covered his right eyebrow and eye was visible. He stood a foot taller than Langston’s six-foot-one frame, with a wide masculine neck and prominent jawline. He wore a trench coat that was missing the sleeves. His arms and hands were massive.
A long rectangular line was tattooed on each of his arms, with smaller designs inside various blocks. They stretched from the peak of his shoulders down to the top of his wrists. His demeanor was intense and his stature was colossal.
“Why you here? What you want, boy? I could kill you right now for trespassin.’”
“Please – don’t. I just… I just need some food and water. Clothes if you got any. Answers.” Langston spoke with his eyes just as much as his mouth. He didn’t break eye contact. His life depended on this. He moved his fingers in correlation to his words while he spoke, but kept perfectly still otherwise. He then put his hands down, so that he could lean on the counter next to him. He was famished; his feet were starting to bleed from the glass.
“I ain’t say you could put ya’ damn hands down.” The man moved his gun upward with a brisk motion.
Langston put his hands back up but higher, causing his hospital gown to rise. He didn’t know what to expect next.
The man with the scar never changed his tone of voice. He instilled fear, even with his quiet and calm demeanor. He stepped closer to Langston and examined his appearance.
“I would check you for weapons, but you’re right. It don’t look like you have anywhere to hide anything – except for one place. I have no plans on checking there.” He inhaled the sweaty mess that Langston had become, as a result from being in the desert for some time. “Mmm. You don’t smell like anyone from ‘round here.”
Langston looked at the man with a confused expression, shook his head and then gazed at the floor. His dehydration grew in severity.
“Water is like gold here, so that means we don’t bathe much. Most of the people outside them walls smell like shit. But you – you smell like a fresh basket of fruit, pretty boy,” the man with the scar continued. He pulled the hammers back on the shotgun.
The hammers engaging was enough for Langston to fall to his knees and pass out.
You Trespassin’
The man with the scar shook his head in frustration while he lifted Langston’s limp body from the station floor. He put one of his arms over his shoulder and dragged him to the back of the building, down a narrow hallway toward another room.
The walls were brown and dusty, with vintage photos displayed, mostly of Pineville and Hock City. The photos portrayed Pineville before it became overrun by poverty and degradation. Lush green grounds, massive trees, smiles and mostly – peace.
Hock City before the greed, the segregating, the gambling and the killing. Fancy cars, clothing and thriving businesses. Everyone looked wealthy or well off: there were all types of people, all types of personalities.
He slid one of the pictures on the wall to the left and an adjacent wall opened. He put Langston down on the floor, turned around and walked backwards – lugging him into the room, through the narrow opening.
He leaned his gun against the wall beside his cot, in the same place underneath a dim Betty Cage light. One that flickered with the slightest movement. He dropped Langston on a similar cot positioned against the opposite wall. He smacked Langston’s face to wake him after cleaning the wounds on his feet and giving him some time to rest.
“Wake up! Hey! Boy! Wake up! I gots something for ya’.”
Langston didn’t budge at first. The man with the scar tried again by banging on the outside of an old pot. Langston struggled to open his eyes. He blinked a few times, only to see a fuzzy display of a worn ceiling filled with watermarks and holes. He rolled onto one of his shoulders and then sat up using his elbow as a crutch. He leaned forward and rested on his legs, while rubbing his face.
“Here,” the man with the scar threw a hooded shirt and pants at Langston, “Put those on; I’m tired of seeing your bare ass. I found an old pair of shoes out back. They may not fit perfectly, but they will do. Better shake ’em, though. Might have a visitor or two inside of ’em.”
“Where am I?”
The man with the scar sat on the edge of his cot. He grabbed his gun and put it across his lap with the barrel pointed slightly in the direction of Langston. Then, he corked the top of a dark, round jug. Taking a long swallow of the contents, he belched and then held the jug outward toward Langston.
Langston’s gaze was drawn to the darkness of the barrels. He daydreamed for a moment before taking the jug and drinking a big portion of it himself. The strong, salty liquid splashed on his face and clothing due to his anxiousness.
“Argh! What is that?” Langston complained. He spat the remaining liquid from his mouth, then used his shirt sleeve to wipe his face. The liquid doused the man with the scar, covering parts of his hands and gun. An act that brought him great annoyance.
“Hmph. You’s in no position to be picky, pretty boy,” he said. He wiped his hands and gun with an old cloth. “That there’s an ale I brew myself. The finest between here and Hock.” He spoke with conviction.
“Shit – that’s horrible,” Langston said without hesitation.
The man with the scar gave Langston a hard stare. The stare was just as assertive as his whisper. It was as if his eyes could break away from his face and walk freely. They came to bully Langston’s soul.
The man with the scar caressed the handle of the shotgun.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry! It’s great, really…” Langston spoke with regret.
The man took his gaze away and scooted back on his cot, in effort to rest his back on the wall.
“So… are you going to tell me who you are? Where I am?” Langston asked as he changed into the clothes of which the man with the scar provided.
“My name isn’t important. What’s important is why you tresspassin.’”
“Didn’t realize where I was. Just came here hoping for help. I woke up not too far from here in the desert. I have no idea how I got there. Or why I was in that gown. Jesse, a kid… found me up the road. I saw this place, and figured someone could help. My name is Langston.”
He reached out for a handshake as Langston finished his explanation. The man with the scar didn’t oblige. Instead, he folded his arms, crossed his ankles and then responded.
“Hmph. That kid. Always stumbling on shit he shouldn’t. One of these days. One of these days.”
“Well, nice to meet you – um sir; since you won’t tell me what your name is. Thanks for the ale. But I need to know how I got here. Can you tell me anything that can help me? Point me to who can?”
The man with the scar turned his stare away. He rubbed his hands slowly as he pondered. The veins in his hands were like snakes – buried beneath his rough, dry skin. The arid climate was often harsh on the body; lotion was a hard item to find. His knuckles were large like miniature mountains, trapped under sand.
“Can’t be too much help. All I know is these station walls. Out there, you on your own. Follow them raggedy signs to get wherever you going. Maybe that kid can help you more.”
Langston listened to the man’s comments and thought more about his whereabouts. He twirled his thumbs and looked to the side. What did I see when I awoke?
“C’mon man, give me something. All I remember is desert everywhere: a bunch of cactuses, dirt and hills, as well as old street signs. Just desert. Nothing else. Oh, um – and light poles. Yeah, light poles.”