When We Were Hungry

When We Were Hungry

A Story by Anthony Gregory Gallo

We had a plan to steal old man Henry's new shipment. As I reflect on it now, I'm not even too certain why it was we wanted the shipment. We didn't know if were gonna sell it or burn it,  but we were gonna get it. I remember we were certain of that. Man, the other guys were dancing, crazed with that sort of confidence. I remember feeling completely solidified in time. We were linked in a separate idea and the town kept their heads towards the cement-faces under their feet, and just walk, past it all, to whatever destination it was that tugged at the soles of their feet, day in and day out. Shadowed by the every-day heat, people moved their cog-spinning legs. Some would go here and some would go there, all places of moderate importance, but all the while having closed mouth conversations with nothing at all.
     I recall the town seeming perpetually sunny those days. I recall a relentless heat that, only now, brings back the sting of salt and my cracked bloody lips. Only now though, do I recall that rippling Oregon town. The shops were closing, the families claimed they were drinking bad water,  and the men stayed out until their wives fell asleep, and It was all dry. The grass was dry, the lumber was dry, and people were dry. At the center, something had sank below the surface and the town stumbled away from the scene. They all stumbled while sporting smiles that gleamed a crooked gleam, as if they all brushed their teeth with sandpaper. This was all foreign to a kid like me. But in the end, I was feeling dry. I was feeling as dry as any of it and it came to me like a fever.  
    I had left home months before the steal.  I was now residing in a dried-out abandoned military station. I don't think it was a station of any importance. I figure the military had simply used it for a place to stay. I guess I was too. The policeman knew we were staying in the old place. Andrew, Teddy, Miles used to tell my stories about being hassled by the Policeman, than they’d tell the stories where they hassled him back. But by the time I had made myself welcome, I didn’t see much of anything that resembled those stories. I figure leaving us be saved the man a few hours of paper work.
    The old building laid on the earth with bulk. Just a stone rectangle sleeping in it's own weight. It's navy blue paint was as think and dead as the cement itself. The paint was peeling backwards. Looking deliberate and almost graceful as it made slight curls all across the building. Sometimes when I was real lonely, I'd imagine one of those ballet dancers I'd watch in the T.V. inside the local restaurants. Each and everyone, a well crafted figure, curves fluid as I could imagine, bending backwards in grace. I'd run my fingers back and forth across them. And if I got too lonely, I'd put my cigarettes out on them. But, the place held up well. It was no casanova mansion I suppose, but I made-due.

The whole plan started here:
    
     I had found an old wooden ladder, that looked like it had a month left of its life to live. Just like an DeadMan waiting to hack out his last imperceptible breath.   I dragged it through town, gathering the suspicious questions like a collector as I passed every store front on the main street. Soggy splinters of wood were left helpless behind me. They all fell decisively with the shrug of every step. In every store front, the faces were carved straight from granite. Hidden expressions and crumbling stone. All of them were loose jawed but covered them with tight lips and I just kept walking.         When I got to the station, I felt like my damn back was gonna give out. But, I was young then and decided to think about a woman's legs I had seen earlier to distract from my weakening muscles. The woman was wearing a red dress with some dots splattered here and there. But, I mostly just remember the legs. Legs that were defined by the indentation that ran down the sides of the slender limbs. The indentation would run down to her ankles which weren't fragile, but would required a certain delicacy none-the-less.
    This lack of wakefulness, as I studied my carnal memories, must've made time impatient, because it seemed like in the next instant I was at the metal gate that bordered my modest home. Now that I recall, having the latter was a near luxury. Commonly, we'd have to climb the nine foot fence with our nothing but our scabbed hands and a little paranoia. Because the thing about living in an abandoned military station is: you can't fight the feeling that your being hunted. I swear sometimes we felt like soldiers ourselves, frightened by our senses and trigger happy. Anyways, I leaned the wooden latter against the fence with grace as to not break it before I'd have the chance to make real use of it. Each step was a prayer not to make permanent damage.  strings of wood were probably fluttering down while I climbed. As I reached the top I jumped, thoughtlessly, down to the other side. I landed, and followed with a uncouth roll which unleashed the spread of a light dirt wave that surrounded me as I laid there debilitated. The bones in my leg vibrated and I felt the muscles shrink cowardly. I let out a chuckle to myself, brushed my hair back, and sat up and slapped the dirt from my clothes. I then climbed up the the fence and pulled the ladder down to the home-side of it all. I threw the dying old thing back on my shoulders and started walking, all the while daydreaming about the legs with red hair.
    I damn near took Teddy's head off as I busted through the front entrance. He just gave out a loud grunt and ducked out towards my left. I didn't pay much attention to him and never really did. But, the whole family was there. Teddy sat down next to Andrew and Andrew sat next to Miles. Like I said, the whole family.

"Where the Hell did 'ya get the damn ladder from? And why's it in here?" Andrew exclaimed.
"Yeah. Damn near killed me with the thing!" Teddy said with a squeal.
I spat on the floor towards Teddy's chair, but made it appear to be thoughtless.

"You hungry?" I asked
The eyebrows all raised.
"Hell, course I'm hungry." Andrew replied. "Saying it never gotten me a meal."
"Yeah, that's probably true, but this ladder might."
"Is that so?" he said as he leaned forward with his usual folded smirk.

    "That's right." I said and I filled them all in. Miles, Andrew, and even that damned Teddy. We'd take the death-bed ladder over to Parkman's barber shop. Position the ladder to ensure we can climb up the building, "At least to the second story window, from there we could make it on our own" I told them. Atop the roof, the barber had a damn colossal sized chimney with a snug hole behind it where we could stash the steal until the suspicion faded. "Why would we do a think like that?" Teddy asked. I told him we couldn't sell the steal if we had revenge-hungry criminals looking to even the score. He quieted down, but I'm not so sure he understood. But I continued.  "So, we hop the break between the buildings and just walk straight through the roof's storage entrance. We take two boxes, no more, no less." I finished
     Old man Henry was the kind of guy who lived where he worked and  Andrew wanted to know how I expected to break through the door without waking the old man.

"You don't need to worry about that."
"What, you got the key?" He said with the sand paper grin
"Yeah, something like that."

My eyes strained as I hastened my glance towards my ladder. I shook my head.
Andrew knew how to spit lava.

"Hey!" he barked. "Look at me, bud. You got the key or not. I'm not volunteering for a damn juvy sentence."

    Then he asked me where I got the ladder but my sight never left the ladder and a sound never left my mouth. I heard the guy, hell, I knew what he said. But I was feeling dry, too dry for formalities.  I must of not noticed him get up, because I couldn't comprehend why in an instant I felt the back of my neck wrung by my collar and the soles of my feet didn't feel as much pressure any more. A pain clicked down my spine and my eyes burned from the cigarette clenched between his teeth. Miles lifted his heavy body out of his chair. His eyes fixated on Andrew. Miles was heavy and dark. He had bulk just like the old station. He also opened his mouth about as seldom as the station. I never knew much about Miles, about his past anyways. Andrew and Teddy both had plenty of stories to keep you updated indefinitely. They had it all. The drunks for dads, the diner maid mothers who didn't seem to mind getting knocked around. In Andrew's stories, his mom was convinced she was a male cross dresser who was. I could only imagine the complexities of that woman's self-reflections. But Miles never had a back story. I'm not even certain how he came to know Andrew and Teddy. My imagination wasn't able to make a hand from the deal. So there was no story to Miles. But he was never hesitant when looking you in the eyes. His stare was concise, instinctive and without a conflicting thought. It was a look I can only miss because it was so absolutely scarce in the ever-since of my life.
     MIles rise to stance was physical gesture. It told Andrew that he'd be fighting against a current if he went any further. But Andrew was a man who'd fight the current and tell you a story about his disillusioned mother. So he cracked and pointed it like a yearning compass needle at Miles. Miles didn't move, he only tilted his eyes down at Buck's hand holding the knife. Any glimmer left in the knife was obscured by the stains of ill care and neglect. The needle showed a shift in direction and turned towards me. I knew Andrew wouldn't stick me. I knew how Andrew boiled. His finger would always be on the trigger. He just never had anyone to target. But, a knife's a knife. And I had one pressed to my skin, and it was drooling by the mouth.

"You gonna answer me or not?" His teeth looked like an old tree shedding its bark. All of ours did in those days.
"I got the ladder from Old Henry."
He had a laugh at that.
"Yeah, I knew it. You got the key." He said as he moved back towards his throne fashioned from out of date pornography.
    
    Teddy gave a chuckle and continued to read the damn funny section. Andrew was drowning in his illusive expressions of accomplishment. He stood back up and took Teddy to the ground like two infant dogs teething upon each other. They continued to roll this way and that way as I just I looked back at Miles. Still standing, clenching what I knew was a knife of his own inside the  left hand pocket of his jeans, making sure to look me fearlessly in the eyes. I think it was the last time he ever did. After the steal, I don't remember even miles looking at me with out a silent whimper. I really don't remember if it was the last time or not, but I wish I did. Man, if there was anything I'd wish for, I would wish for that.


                    ................................................

    Sometimes home isn't where you need to be. And when the feeling arises, leaving is your only real home. I guess you could say that's what threw me towards this old station in the first place. So, I got out of there. I hopped the gate and made may way through town. I even kept my face to the curb. I moved down stream until I reached my destination, I knocked but I didn't need to wait for a response. I could always walked in, and the place would always dark. The place was always a mess. But it was the kind of mess that was easily identified as a deliberate mess. Some wrenches scattered here, some exhaust pipes over there, and so forth. The place was like a junk yard if you could find that all the junk was as functional as you or I. And though the place was always dark, there was always one light, flowing with fluidity until it could only fade and sleep with the rest of the darkly obscured filth.
    He was at his desk and his lamp was on in front of him. You could here metal clap against metal and the light lurked around the waves of his long whitening hair. He was an old man, but you could see the muscles in his back when he leaned over his work. He continued to clap metal against metal and I walked up and asked what he was working on. He greeted me well.

"Hey there boy."  As he turned to me, the light revealed his disheveled appearance.
"You haven't shaved today Henry." I said as I flipped the switch to bring more light in the room.
"Been drinking. There's no shaving when there's good drinking." He chuckled at this.

    Old Henry wasn't much like the people in this town. I mean, he wasn't much for talking about his past, but I knew he probably came to the town with open fire, pressured by the excitement of mid-twenties masculinity. I knew we wasn't much like the people in this town, because I knew they came in with a whimper.
    Henry only told me one story from his past. But it was a story that I always felt he intended to illustrate the answers to the weight-ridden questions I let fall at his door step each time I arrived.
    Around the age of 23, Henry had served his country, In the Military, for around 2 years. Him and his squad spent most of their time swooning women from various countries of eloquence. Then after years of swinging from port to port there was talk of him and his shipmates being stationed in what he said to be "the most filth decorated country of the world". I never learned where it was he spoke of, but he did tell me he never signed up to be a cop. He never continued his explanation, but the drawn-back, hollowness in his voice kept me satisfied, and I never reached for further explanation.
    But anyways, was always one to have a plan. He always had a plan when the shipments went wrong, I guess that's why it was he did what he did. The damned guy was doomed for it I suppose. Even still, I wake in the morning, while the sound of sleep resonates through my town, I sit out on my porch and wonder if Henry would have had it any other way.
    Late one night, he downed half a bottle of some Irish whiskey, walked down the station hallway to the bunk of his good friend, whose name was Lot. This was always the part of the story that Henry busted his gut laughing at. He said the two had been together since boot camp until the romantic scene in his bunk. Henry got under the damn covers and confessed his love to Lot. He even recited some quote from Goethe. Told him it was God's will that they be together, and that their lack of separation was a testament to it. Of course Lot wasn't reflecting the same enthusiasm. The damn guy dove out of his bed, stood up and broke Henry's damn nose.  The military discharged him, and he took off across the country looking for more women of eloquence. I guess he found eloquence in his work. I was never too sure. Henry did tell me that, after his discharge, he wrote Lot. The letter explained his sincere motivation and an equally sincere apology. But Lot never wrote back. Then Henry would take a drink.

But this was Henry now. Old and drunk. He still had the spirit I saw in the story, but it was stripped and hungry. Hungry like Andrew, Hungry like me.

"Your lucky the police don't come knockin' on your door instead of me and haul your drunken a*s to jail." I said as I sat next to him.
"Haven't caught me yet." He said, smiling down at himself. His teeth were still white and I enjoyed looking at them.

His hands were shaking, and his palms face towards the bottle.  

"No, they haven't. I don't suppose they ever will." I picked up a dense book that stood stoically by his left arm.
" What's this?"
"The Count of Monte Cristo."
"Is that right?" I said as I inspected it's immensity.
"It's a story about revenge bathed luxuriously in romanticism." He seemed to sing. When he said things like that. I figured that's why I stuck around. In a past life I think he was great singer.
"You know anything about revenge?" He turned to me, with eyebrows raised in perfect curves.
"Not much."
"How's that?"
"I guess, I've never wanted revenge. But I've taken it."
He smiled real big at that.
"You need help with the shipment today?"
"No." his jaws were flexed.
"You need the muscle, I know it."
"What I don't need is some kid getting fire under my pot."
" I just don't trust the men you work with. They're drunks."
"I'm drunk."

    All I could do was drip out a sigh and leave. So I left.


                    ...........................................

    The ladder was easier to carry with two people underneath it, and there was no one in the store fronts. I always felt as if I could hear some one crying whenever the town succumbed to night. At first it came from an alley, then I could hear it beneath the side walk. Following me all along under the cement faces.  But in this dark, in this night, she fell quiet. Was she watching? Playing her part in a silent acknowledgment. She was there and I could feel her warmth every time my foot hit the sidewalk.
     I remember the first time I heard her, I ran from alley to alley in search of the haunting weeps. It slid past the cold moist windows of every bar and it sank under every bridge, where the drunks slept through it with ease. Then only time I felt like I had found her, was at this moment, in this night. Absent of cries, absent of finality. Just a hunger and a silence that assured that she was passing through the night just as I was. And she accompanied me until we reached Parkman's. After that the ground faded and blew a cold air.
     "One person at a time" I said as we began to climb up Parkman's. It just barely reached the second story window. From there it was nothing but the boil in your chest. Andrew went first and I climbed up last. As soon as I had reached the roof, I remember stopping, just letting my muscles melt and drip like wax as I gazed at our small town. The only light in these peoples lives now came from their living rooms. Their small compartments for daily life. I thought about the red head with the legs and wondered if she had a husband. I wondered if she was rubbing her bare feet against the legs of another man, to warm them, to fight off the cold. With ever stroke, you could see the indentations which trickled down her calf, more defined as she strained her muscles. I thought maybe I'd marry her. Maybe I'd fight off the cold. We could sun bathe in our damn living room. We'd be a damn happy couple.
    It's funny, it's funny how there is an underlaying blue spilled across all the darkness of it all. It feels like a well-remembered dream. As if you woke up completely submerged in a thick salt-less water. A blue that, like the light outside a bedroom door, a bedroom diseased with dark, steals through the cracks and lets spill in a melting warmth. The kind of warmth that, as length dictates, slowly fades, but remains bright at the cracks. The town was like a lullaby. A sad lullaby that could only present sorrow in recollection, but between beginning and end, only made the light at the cracks even more bright.
    Miles just stood and waited for me to move. I couldn't look him in the face, I just continued to stare out at the lit-up living rooms plastered across the small hills. Hills that weren't even hills, but the remains from earlier shrugs of the earth before the town gave a weeping infant breath. I felt like kissing this roof, just to show that I loved something. But I didn't, I ran. I ran and jumped the break between the two buildings and the lights in the living rooms fought to stay awake.
    Andrew told me to open the door and I did. I put the key in with a light hand and turned it with my breath held in with frantic constraint. I opened the door just enough before I knew it would start to creak. And then I led them down the stairs. I was mostly worried about Teddy. I was surprised he didn't let his big feet slap the stairs and wake Old Henry from his alcohol dreams. I knew exactly where he kept the shipment, and as we reached the bottom of the stairs I pointed in the direction and continued to lead. Whenever I kept Old Henry company, I'd always see move this steel desk, the damn thing was probably the only thing that wasn't weighted down by junk. He'd move this desk because he'd either need to get rid of a bottle, or grab a new one. Mostly, by the time I would arrive, Henry had enough to trust some nosey kid with his stash location, and I'd always watch as he grabbed another bottle. If I wasn't there, I doubt he'd be able to lift himself out of the hole.
     If we ever felt like soldiers, now was surely the time. With all four of us, we were able to lift and move the desk without much of a sound. The desk was scattered with Old Man Henry's mark of organization. "What a slob" Teddy said. Under the desk was has a group of floor boards that had be attached to create a door that couldn't be detected unless you had seen the things open with your own damn eyes. As I opened the door, Andrew was eager to submerge himself under the wood flooring. But I put my hand on his chest to stop him. I told him about the bottles. Old Henry stored all his empty bottles down there, as well as his full ones. Dust, like a blanket, covered the feeble green and brown bottles as they slept in fever dreams.  I went down alone. The depth of the storage hole was taller than I was. So I had to use light feet to lower myself on to one of the shipment boxes. From there I cleared some of the hay flooring. Then signaled Miles to drop down. We lifted two boxes to Andrew and Teddy. The entire hole smelt from the hundreds of shipments which had been stored in the musky hay pit. It smelt like a scare would look. And you couldn't help but feel intimidated.
    We emerged from the hold. Before we could shuffle the desk back to it's proper placement,  I knew Old Man Henry was awake. I knew this because I heard him pump his shot gun. He didn't say a thing. The reason he didn't say a thing was because he was looking at me. He knew, even in the dark, that i was looking right back at him. And that nothing could be said. Miles was the only one who could look Henry in the face. But I doubt Old Henry let his eyes leave mine for a second. My hands shook, I believed that fluids were bursting between my bones, and I felt weak.  I felt my ears ring and for a instant I could see Old Man Henry's face revealed in a flash of light. But when the dark regained its dominance, I didn't see much of anything.
    Only after could you hear the gunshot. As if the echos which resonated from the walls were all that was audible. You could tell if you'd been shot yourself or not, the sound alone inflicted a tremendous pressure and heat upon the temple of your head. But I don't think Henry felt that. I think Henry felt something differently entirely.
    Andrew pointed the gun at Teddy, then swung it towards Miles and eventual towards me. I suggested we leave and he made sure we all heard him well. He seemed to keep an interest in Teddy. At least the direction of his pistol seemed to suggest it. Miles didn't move. He never moved. So, Andrew retaliated and walked towards Miles with full knowledge of the difference between a knife and a gun. The cylinder of the barrel was pressed vengefully against the forehead of the only man who would ever give Andrew could ever give. Not the gender confusion of his mother, not the deliberate alcoholism of his father, no none of these. Andrew would kill anyone because Miles would always keep still. And then I remembered that I hadn't seen Henry hit the ground
    Andrew smiled as he pressed the pistol to Miles head. He smiled, but his smile was clenched and his lips were askew.

"And get the damn boxes" he said. And then turned the gun to Teddy. Signaling the command.

    Teddy was muttering panics, and after he and Miles grabbed the boxes, I could hear all three of their feet slapped the floor. and the stairs creaked like a howl as they elevated to safety.
     I walked over to Henry. It sounded like he was laughing, but he wasn't laughing. He was choking. His chest laid agape, and you couldn't make out the shape of any of it. It all just laid out deranged and pathetic and my lugs began to boil. The blood that crawled up his throat fell frantically down his smooth face. I could tell had shaved only minutes before. And his after shave smelt of menthol.
     I wanted to kiss him, to show that I loved him. But, I was afraid someone would see me with the blood. So I didn't. My teeth felt rough and my lips began to bleed. I bit my lip to make sure I bled some more and the salt sank in through the cracks and my hands shriveled into something petrified and nearly useless. Henry's chocking stopped. I tried to look down at him, but my neck shook in weakness and fear. All I had to do was let my head drop, but it didn't happen. So I stood up. I walked over to is work desk, which stood directly behind him, and turned on his lamp. The light revealed a new book. A new copy of the large book I had seen early that day, but it wasn't his. It was neatly bound with a colored illustration on the cover. The old copy looked about as dead as Old Henry himself next to this one. I picked the copy up.  It felt like the only way to say goodbye. As if the first line would have the words he would have said to me now. It would have his good bye somewhere inside. But it didn't have his good bye, above the first word, it had my name.
     I closed the book, and without looking back, I walked up the stairs. The stairs didn't howl for me, and the city didn't cry for me. This time, there was no noise, and I knew I'd never stop being hungry.

© 2012 Anthony Gregory Gallo


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Added on October 11, 2012
Last Updated on October 11, 2012

Author

Anthony Gregory Gallo
Anthony Gregory Gallo

Bellingham, WA



About
My name is Anthony Gallo. I'm an ambitious yawner and a highly successful so-and-so. more..

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