Hand-to-Mouth

Night descended upon the city, submerging the sidewalks and streetlights in viscous blackness, bleeding out of the arterial alleyways and curling capillaries of mist evaporating from the storm sewers, and coalescing along the asphalt. Fear and despair were palpable as the sordid undercurrent pushed at the restraints of reality, exiting through the botched seams in the velour. Urine, feces, and decay inundated the stagnant air, seeped from the subway terminal. Advancing like a malignant disease, the dark miasma crept along the sidewalk, nearly swallowing the bedraggled figure prone against the brick wall. A dismal neon sign twitched spasmodically, wrestling against the contagious darkness – the palm tree and hula dancers shuddered overhead like shells of discarded starlets, quivering as needles of greed and gluttony pierced their skin. The figure shook violently as coughs racked his fragile body; he huddled deeper into the threadbare plaid blanket. Black polyester cut-off gloves chafed together, hungry for warmth, calloused knuckles clasped in a death grip around an empty coffee cup. Torn fishnet cocoons encased emaciated legs, emphasizing their unnatural pallor. A sheen of grime encrusted a knee length faded black cotton skirt. Screeching tires and airborne spray echoed in the distance, white noise separating the brownstones’ dreams from the cluttered streets’ nightmares. Above, an eerie sizzling split the night. The figure wearily lifted his head, appraising the smog-congested sky and the faltering neon light. Like a downy snowflake, a moth carcass drifted down from the sky, its fragile golden wings burned and fractured, spitting scintillating dust into the frigid air. Its damaged body alighted at the figure’s feet, releasing a cloud of luminescent spores. Feathered antennae twitched resignedly, a phantom limb accepting abandonment, jointed legs curled in a death embrace. The figure reached out a hand, tentatively caressing the fallen creature’s feathered abdomen; its broken body felt empty, an ornate coffin rejecting a simple spirit… his fist closed gently around the melancholy remnant.

A rusty hinge shrieked as it swung open, shattering the figure’s reverie as the nearby door revealed a gaping passage. Peeking cautiously through the doorway, a man’s sallow face hovered at the side, sneering contemptuously through the mist. A ray of moonlight sliced through the shadows, highlighting the bartender’s repugnant features: his bloodshot eyes darted about maliciously, insatiable hunger acidic in his gaze; his crooked, aquiline nose sandwiched between his expansive forehead and sagging jowls lying subservient on his Adam’s apple.

“Hurry up, you god damn faggot, my girlfriend’s going to be back soon!” the man whispered through clenched teeth, his voice saturated with anger and condescension and lust. He ran his fat fingers through his greasy black hair. “Move your lazy ass!”

The figure rose with a dignity discordant to his appearance, shaking away the grubby plaid blanket and revealing a shock of brilliant white hair, piercing through the monochromatic shades of the dormant city. With the poise of a monarch, he marched toward the man, only slightly unsteady in his lace-up, clunky boots. Hesitating at the doorway, he awarded the man a mocking curtsy, and strode through on skeletal legs.

Gyrating with fury, the bartender’s florid complexion heightened, a pathetic cross between a blush and a death wish, and followed the retreating figure.

The door whispered shut, a discarded silk undergarment murmuring of infidelity, a silent weeping in the dark. The neon light, snuffed.

As the sun brandished its golden mane, dispelling the residual hangover, the beleaguered filtered through the soup kitchen doors – limping, clinging to filthy sleeping bags and blankets, herding sniffling children, and wiping the congealed sleep from their eyes. The scraggly line snaked down the street, past nightly-operating ‘Casa’ and equally dissolute ‘Adonis Bar.’ Sleeping bags were still splayed out on the sidewalk in an attempt to claim the first influx of meager vegetables and fresh fruit, some housing those who would not wake up.

Eggnog pushed his taped bottle-cap glasses farther up his cinnamon toned nose, tapping his foot against the pavement impatiently and adjusting the grubby, two-sizes-too-large Santa suit draping over his bony body. He flipped his shaggy ebony hair back, swinging the dirt-encrusted pom-pom of his Santa hat out of his peripheral vision.

“I told you that getting here 2 hours earlier really wouldn’t make a difference. There’s just too many damn people any time of the day”, he muttered with another contemptuous flick of his hair.

Lacey exhaled levelly, trying to assuage the temper rising like bile in the back of her throat. This attitude was so out of character coming from Eggnog – usually he was the most easy-going and least maintenance of the bunch. This unprecedented emergence of evil twin Eggnog was probably due to the loss of his most prized possession: his primordial laptop, with a memory equivalent to an amnesiac goldfish. They pawned it for crayons (for signs of course), new clothes and blankets, white hair dye for Fig, menthol-eucalyptus cough drops for Menthol, stomach ache medicine for her, and two sleeping bags. The normally docile computer hacker was out of his element, not being accustomed to spending more than 12 hours of his day off the computer.

“You’re just so stuck in your rut, Eggnog, that you’re completely ignorant of other people’s ideas. If you didn’t come up with it, it’s automatically a failure. You think you’re better than all of us, and I’m tired of your immature complaints. Just because your brother was such an ass doesn’t mean you have to follow in his footsteps.” Lacey clapped a hand over her mouth, automatically regretting what she said.

Eggnog’s dark eyes were smoldering, the anger boiling behind his chocolate irises.

“Don’t you dare drag my brother into this….”, he croaked, his voice seething with barely suppressed wrath and dripping with the blood of reopened wounds, his fists clenched, fingernails digging into his palms. He stepped forward menacingly, clenching and unclenching his fists, “How dare you…”he began, but was interrupted by a plaintive tug on his oversized red coat….

Menthol gazed up at him, beseeching him with her tear-prickled blue eyes, dissolving his anger with the silent pleading.

“Oh, Menthol, I’m so sorry…. I didn’t mean to scare you, don’t worry, Lacey and I won’t fight…”, he rambled apologetically, pausing every now and then to shoot Lacey inconspicuous glares packed with as much venom as he could muster. He knelt and spread his scrawny arms wide, enfolding the small, emaciated girl into his embrace, tucking her lanky blond pigtails behind her ears tenderly. They rocked there for several long seconds, Eggnog rocking back and forth on his heels, clinging to the whimpering Menthol. Besides the scraping of Eggnog’s shoes against the pavement, Menthol’s incessant sucking noises became a melancholy metronome, drowning out the drone of the city. Menthol disengaged herself from Eggnog’s arms, wiping her wide blue eyes demurely with the back of her mud-caked hand and pushing the ever-present menthol eucalyptus cough drop around her mouth with her tongue. Eggnog stood wearily, dusting off his tear sodden left shoulder…

GULP!

The loud demise of Menthol’s cough drop echoed in the abysmal alleyway. Unabashedly, Menthol proffered her tiny pink palm to Lacey, smiling innocently…

Both Eggnog and Lacey collapsed on the filthy sidewalk, laughing hysterically, their vociferous guffaws shaking their skeletal bodies, tears streaming down their dirt-caked faces. Recovering, Lacy rifled through the pockets in her black denim jeans, grinning maniacally, and presented Menthol with yet another cough drop. The barely suppressed laugh escaped her lips, and there she was again, on the sidewalk, laughing so hard that her undernourished stomach hurt. For second she was not Lacey, the exhausted mediator and maternal figure of her surrogate family, but Lacey, the normal, high-school attending teenager, with a dedicated family and loving friends. Between laughs, she decided she liked the first Lacey better anyway…

The soup kitchen director gestured impatiently. They had been holding up the line for some time.

“Come on”, hissed Eggnog, his mirth forgotten, as he dragged her to her feet and into the shelter.

Between voracious bites into her greasy burger, Lacey spat out her worst fears, “Eggnog, are you sure Fig is okay?”

Eggnog guzzled his coffee, wiping the diluted liquid from his chin, his eyes contemplative. “Sure he is. Don’t you worry. In his line of work, he can be gone for nights.”

Her cheeks turning a salmon pink, Lacey tentatively lifted her eyes, searching Eggnog’s deep ones, afraid that she would see the barely disguised disgust and abhorrence that he often felt toward Fig. Instead, she saw the rigid set of his jaw and apprehensive yearning in his eyes. Her reflections were cut short by a caustic yet familiar exclamation….

“Hey freak show, did ya miss me! Remember, I’m your star exhibit…”

But Fig never had a chance to finish. Lacey leapt up, and through her arms around his neck, burying her face in his black shirt, breathing in his familiar scent of incense and stale alcohol. Mortified at her uncharacteristic display of affection, she disengaged herself, blushing furiously, only to be pulled back into the embrace by Fig.

“Ahhheemmm.”

Eggnog’s response was far less enthusiastic, yet his relief was not disguised.

“So”, he began with his signature lopsided grin, examining Fig from head to toe, “you didn’t cross dress for the occasion? That’s a pleasant surprise.”

Fig’s stunning face fell slightly, his smile crumbling, his self-loathing tangible. The temperature of the room dropped perceptibly as his emerald eyes filled with sorrow, and he turned away. In profile against the soup kitchen’s sole window, his multiple piercings were fulgent in the waning sunlight, his crown of white hair gleaming, and his angular features contemplative, contributing to his seraph-like appearance; on second glance, his black apparel, spiked choke collar, chains, and heavily tattooed arms lent him the look of a teenage succubus.

He turned slowly. His features gathered in a semblance of a smile, though the chagrin was still raw behind his pupils.

“Anywho,” he began good-naturedly, purposely avoiding Eggnog’s penetrating gaze, “I earned $8 last night from that sleezebag at Adonis. Not the best pay, but not the worst either. Certainly better than that cheapskate whore I served last week while her fiancé was away,” he scoffed, tossing the bills on the cafeteria table. “Tonight I’m going again. It’s either him or that pedophile who works at the office and pays a measly $5.50 for a night. Either that or I could pay a little visit to that druggee Barbie next to Weed Central on the corner of Nicotine Boulevard. If Ken’s not home, of course.”

“You mean Yolanda in the whorehouse,” jeered Eggnog, “Your Harvard graduate girlfriend with a steady job…”

“Just leave him alone, will you!”, Lacey retorted, stepping between the two, her response far more vehement than she intended.

Eggnog smiled maliciously and turned away, muttering under his breath, his voice laced with poison, “Faggot.”

Staring vacantly into the corner, Menthol continued to masticate her cough drop.

“Clearly, I’m not appreciated here. Neither are my contributions,” replied Fig, his voice rising, he disentangled Lacey’s fingers from his own, his feet moving to their own accord.

“Please don’t go!” wailed Lacey, clinging to him anew, tears cascading down her cheeks, the floor a commuter’s turnstile lurching and heaving before her water-obscured eyes.

Fig gently removed her hands, ruffling her black pixie cut tenderly, his eyes apologetic and hollow – and limped out the door.

As Lacey’s pitiful cries subsided into raucous hiccups, she whispered, “Please be careful.” Her petite Asian frame collapsed on the linoleum tiling, her heart shattering on impact, bitter shrapnel lacerating the malnourished muscle, spreading hairline cracks of betrayal and harsh realization through the façade of togetherness.

The famished sun devoured the remaining shadows as the garbage collectors began their work the following morning, trudging through the film of newly fallen snow, a trampled wedding veil abandoned along the pavement. Half-dangling out of the dumpster was a tall, white-haired and especially feminine boy, dressed in torn fishnets and a skirt with a black trench coat billowing about his broken figure like a pair of outstretched wings. His eyes were open, covered in a hazy film, and his blue lips parted, a delicate blossom of crimson bubbling through, spattered and frozen on his blanched skin. As they extracted his body from the trash bags, a cloud of white dust rose from his body and a broken moth tumbled out of his pocket. He lay prone on the sidewalk, stiff as a ventriloquist’s dummy awaiting reanimation, his lanky limbs clutched protectively over his breast, unblinking eyes fastened on his murderer’s face, stretching monolith after silvery monolith along the gradually brightening horizon.

The snow fell, sirens wailed, and a second pair of wings went up in flames.

Title inspired by George Michael’s song, “Hand-to-Mouth.”