Getting My Land Legs

photo by flickrzak.

I’ve been out to sea for too long, working a small fishing boat, surrounded by nothing but water and a crew of derelicts, scoundrels, swine. The Captain was not so nice of a guy, either, as he set out to rob us of our half of the profits after the catch was hauled out of the sea. His plan? To toss half the crew overboard. I complied by taking the ankles, he the shoulders, and my bargain was that I could live.

As I stepped off the boat and back on dry land, I was struck with stage fright. The spotlights of street lamps blinded me, along with the attentive stares of passers-by along the sidewalks, looking at me as though they knew I had drowned my shipmates, and that each of them had been one of their loved ones. Which they probably were.

I stumbled through shrubbery and down shady lanes of elm trees. Women were everywhere, of all shapes, sizes, and colors; I was a kid in a candy store but no money with which to buy a gumball. I could beg, bribe . . . or steal. The sea washed me of my ability to commit crimes, but did not cleanse me of my proclivity for sin.

Come now, no need to stumble down damp alleys lined with stinking dumpsters, when pretty summer lanes stretch from here to the cornfields. I’d rather use this stick in my hand to drag across white picket fences than to poke dead rats. Look at those freshly trimmed hedges, ivy covered brick homes, and white mailboxes with the red flag lifted up. A little brown dog lies unleashed in the lawn, heavy lidded eyes, panting in the sun.

Something has to happen, right? I can’t just wander around town all day without a care in the world. There’s something I must care about, someplace I belong, or somebody I’m running from. Who am I going to see? Where’s my wife, my kids, my dog? Which neighbor double crossed me, and where is my mother buried? Each time it takes a little longer to regain my land legs.