Fresh Air
Fresh Air
by David Michael
Jameson pushed his way through the muck, finally reaching the end of it and stumbling clear, the heavy sack tied to his waist smacking into his leg–and almost knocking his leg out from under him. He just managed to recover his balance and avoid getting dunked–again–in effluent.
A lot of the shit still stuck to him from the last dunking, and from having waded through it the last few hours. But that’s what happened, he thought, when you took a bit of a stroll through the sewers.
At least he couldn’t smell it anymore.
In fact, the slight wind that stirred the air here on the concrete shores of shit beach seemed almost overpowering with just a hint of outdoor freshness.
The grime-covered light on his hard hat popped and the feeble light it had been giving disappeared.
He considered saying, “Shit!” But it just felt redundant. Even “Fuck me”–a dangerous invitation down here no matter how close the exit might be–or just a heartfelt “Fuck“–seemed a waste of breath. So he kept his mouth shut. No reason to taste any more excreta than necessary.
Besides, at least the light had lasted this long. Should count his lucky stars for that. And he would too, as soon as he could see them again.
He was almost out. The ladder up couldn’t be far away now.
He stretched his arms in front of him, hands and fingers spread, and stepped slowly forward. A few shuffling steps and he felt the cold and slimy bricks of the sewer wall.
A right turn, keeping his left hand on the wall, and he moved on, other hand in front of him, leading the way.
The darkness moved around him, sometimes pushed by the slight breeze. Sometimes by the river of muck that flowed next to him. Years ago, when he first chose–if you could call it choosing–to explore the sewers, that viscous flowing of the darkness had disturbed him. Now, he just accepted it. Like the smell.
And the taste.
Actually, he was still working on the taste part. A task he looked forward to ending soon. And never resuming, could he help it.
Both of his hands managed to miss the ladder. Fortunately, his hard hat found it before his head did. Still, he hit hard enough to snap his neck back.
Now he did say, “Fuck!”
Climbing up proved more difficult than he had expected. His hands and boots slipped on the rungs, and the weight of his sack of treasures dragged on him making his abused muscles complain. Probably getting to old for this kind of excitement.
The manhole cover resisted him next, but eventually gave way under a steady stream of vulgarity, profanity and desperate, refusing-to-be-stopped-now pushing.
The smell of rotting meat and vegetables, the pungent scent of sour wine and the sour piss that comes from sour wine never smelled so good. The wave of odors rolled over Jameson and dove down into the dark to do battle with the emanations of the sewer. Jameson considered warning the brave scents that they were doomed from the start, but decided he didn’t have the heart. Let them have their dreams.
He heaved the sack up to alley level, glad to have the burden off himself for a few minutes. Then he pulled himself out of the manhole.
Picking up the sack, he stumbled down the alley, toward the lights of the street. He remembered the manhole cover, thought about going back to put it in place again, decided not to. Then went back and did it anyway. Winos and junkies and dealers and restaurant waitstaff he didn’t mind tripping and falling to their deaths. But he worried about cats and dogs. And, a bit, children.
Jameson took in deep breaths, savoring the air like a starving man savors his first bites of food. Almost sexual pleasure moved through him, invigorating him. He might be dripping liquid ass, and carrying a heavy load, but he felt as light as a feather.
Jameson thought he had never smelled anything so wonderful as car exhaust and the stench of refinery fumes. The other pedestrians, though, didn’t seem to like him so much, and they gave him a wide berth, and plenty of hard stares, and exclamations of horror, and even a few noisy, splashing pools of vomit. He didn’t mind. Even the vomit smelled good to him after several days of Ode de Asshole.
He almost whistled. Almost. He stopped himself before he licked his lips to wet them.
Then, still distracted, he almost stepped over the kid lying on the sidewalk.
Something about the kid caught his attention, and he stopped. He looked down at the kid, who didn’t move. He wasn’t even sure if the kid was breathing.
He poked the kid with the toe of his boot. “Hey, kid,” he said. “You breathing in this wonderful night air?”
The kid whimpered at the touch–proving that yes, he was breathing–then scampered a bit to get out of Jameson’s way.
“Glad to hear it,” Jameson said.
He continued on his way. He almost made it back to his building. Then he went back to make sure the kid was OK.
Maybe the kid wouldn’t even be there anymore. He hoped.
But the kid was still there. And he wasn’t OK.
The kid whimpered, then started full on crying when Jameson flipped him over. Dark, crusty red showed on the kid’s shirt, and bruises were all over his face and the visible skin of his arms. Something about the kid’s face, about the brown eyes, and about how the eyes looked amid the yellow and black splotches of the bruises, reminded Jameson of someone.
But not someone he wanted to be reminded of.
Enough with this. Time to get back to his own life.
He turned around and walked away again.
The kid still lay on his back when Jameson stood over him again, looking down and wishing there was someone else who would do this. He looked around, hoping for volunteers.
“Shit shit shit,” Jameson said. “SHIT!”
The kid weighed almost nothing. Jameson heaved the boy over one shoulder, then picked up his bag of treasure again.
This was to be his last trip into the sewers. His retirement haul.
He wasn’t going to be able to retire if he had to take care of a kid. Even if he didn’t have to take care of the kid longterm. Because the hospital would probably send the kid into the care of the state. But they would be happy to send the bill to Jameson. The sucker who brought the hurt kid in.
Ah, what the hell, Jameson thought as he walked. What was so great about retiring? It’s not like the country clubs were gonna let in someone like him. He hated golf. And he didn’t want to move south or to the country. He liked this city. It was his home.
He took another deep breath and let it out. “Almost there, kid,” he said. The kid responded only with a sob.
He loved this city. But the only way to really enjoy the smells of the city was to head down into the sewers once in a while.
Copyright © 2006 by David Michael.
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