The Gaslight District, part 3

As the day continued on, he retired to his bedroom, watching the sun’s descent on his ceiling. The bright white light of afternoon quickly turned orange, and then the dark amber hue of evening filled his window. He walked across the room and looked down on the street below. The last lingering signs of life remained: Several kids – remnants of the evening’s hide-and-seek game – hid behind cars and underneath bushes, desperate to escape the clutch of that night’s seeker; the old women – seated outside on their front stoops in lawn chairs – had given up on their afternoon sunshine, and instead headed inside to actually face their husbands for the night.

He lived across the street from a bar, and as the many groups of people entered on this Friday night, he made – as he often did – a little bet with himself as to which one of them would be the last to stumble out onto the sidewalk in a drunken stupor, waking him up from his deep sleep and signaling the arrival of the misty morning fog. As he drifted off to sleep, his thoughts quickly veered from the exploits across the street back to matters of more importance. The beach. The sand. The night. That long-lost memory, all those years ago. It was so clear and vivid in his mind, it could have happened yesterday: The crashing of waves against the shore; the distant sound of a cargo ship in the darkness; the faint scent of saltwater on his clothes the next morning. Fuck this. He hurriedly summoned up all of his energy and attempted to focus on something else. Something much less emotionally...brutal.

As he frantically searched his mind for a comforting image with which to numb his brain into submission, his thoughts wandered back to the little girl and the chestnut tree, and he quickly fell asleep. He was awoken by a loud crash, and he sleepily shuffled over to the window to locate the cause of the disturbance. He spotted Seymour, the 60-year-old town drunk, stumbling around outside. He had wandered outside – or, more likely, was kicked out – and tripped over a large metal trashcan, sending it tumbling into he street, and he along with it. As the owner of the bar retrieved him from the pavement and tried to silence the babbling, intoxicated old man, Seymour picked himself up, brushed himself off, and strolled into the early morning light. He stopped in front of the corner chestnut tree, picked a few of them up off the ground, and put them in his pocket. As several kids groggily walked to the bus stop, he handed a chestnut to a little girl, and kept on walking.