Michael Thomas - Man Gone Down

I open the urn and pour the ashes in. They almost fill up the vessel — charcoal flakes and tiny white pieces of bone, the inverse of the shell-and-gravel beach. I ball up the napkins and partially sink them in the ash so they don’t blow away. I take Thomas out of my pocket, unwrap him, and lay him in the center on the tissue. It’s hard to tell here in the dark, but he seems to have shrunken and gone dry — most of his orange is gone.

I drop the book of matches in, take off my coat and boots, and wade into. The pebbles and shells end quickly after the waterline and give way to silt, large stones, and broken things. I move slowly, trying to feel my way across the uneven muck-bottom — expecting any second to rip my foot open on a busted pipe or bottle. I stop when the water reaches my thighs and bend into it. Now it feels cold, viscous; it clings to my skin. I push the raft with one hand and half paddle, half scuttle across the bottom with the other until I reach the deeper water and can swim — sidestroke. The water and wind sound different here, more apiece — hypnagogic — now combined with the faint splash of my strokes. I upset the water, but the wave and wake I create will be erased. But what of the river — its memory? On the one hand each rip is irreversible; on the other, it never was. And so each stroke is just that, infinite and never, infinite and never, until I go beyond the cove, past the eddies, to the center of the river.

I stop and tread water. No big boats above. No great fish below. I steady myself, then bob high out of the water, take the matches with my free hand and hold them above my head. I try to light one — nothing. Then another — it flames but is blown out immediately. I lower the book, shelter it between my head and one of the paper walls, and try again. The match lights, but I don’t move quickly enough and the others catch, too. The sudden flame burns my fingers, but I hold on, move it slowly to the pyre and light the wall, then one of the napkins, and drop the burning book in. I sink my burnt hand into the river; the oily water cools it. I tread water for a moment, and the current begins to pull the raft away. I catch it in two strokes and hold it still. And I almost ask something for forgiveness, but I bite down on that urge, drift a moment with the current, pull the raft back to me, feel the heat of the small rapid blaze, and call, “Godspeed.”

I send them away and they move with the water, quicker than I thought. The pyre burns quickly, too. And along with the increasing distance and the wind twisting the flame, it loses its form. Then it’s out — just as it makes the bridge — a dark form with an orange glow and an imagined wisp of smoke. Then just the raft— “darkness upon darkness.” It passes from sight, under the bridge, into memory, through imagination, and back into sight — there — making the straits beyond the bridge and out the mouth of the river.

I look up at the bridge, then above to its cables, stretched and slack across the river — parallel strings, each with its own clusters of light and the darkness between them. These lights are still — fiery birds on wires. I reach out — a giant hand in the night: Snap. They rise, scatter, and then resettle. Snap.

I swim back to the cove but stay out in the water, turn onto my back and float, spinning slowly, just out of the pull of the current. The cables seem to sway, the lights flutter, rise, and settle and remember nothing. I see it in the air and I feel it in the water: The vision moves in time with the dark waves. The artificial lights are reflected in them, reflected and disfigured, until the heaving surface of the water is what the night sky should be — moving and wild, wavering reflections of buildings on both sides, dark and bright, like thin, shimmering clouds.

I right myself and look under the bridge for the raft. I know there would be, outside of this place, this moment, no way to track its progress across the gloom or for anything to hear my call, “Godspeed.” But this isn’t a place of men and empire, this is my kingdom, where I belong, awake inside a dream.

There aren’t any promises made on the dark side of the river, but if you catch the current right, it all goes out to sea. Four a.m.: All is well.

I wring out my shirt, put my boots and coat back on, shoulder my bag, and climb back to the path. I’m shivering. The wind seems to have picked up, blowing as hard now as the gusts were. I clench my teeth to keep them from chattering. Something moves near the bench.

“This your beer?” asks a coarse, disembodied voice. I don’t answer. I turn to walk away along the path but keep my head turned to where the voice came from. Two figures step out of the darkness toward me. Cops.

“Excuse me. I asked you a question. Sir.”

“What?”

He steps forward. He’s short and square. White. He already has his nightstick out and taps a bottle with it. “Is this your beer?”

“No.”

The other cop steps forward now, a dark brown man, not as short as his partner, but equally thick. He fiddles with his radio antennae, looks past me to the river, and asks softly, “You drunk?”

“No.”

“High?”

“No.”

“Need anything?”

“No.”

“Sure now?”

“I’m sure.”

His partner fidgets, taps his stick against his leg, and backs up into the darkness.

“You got someplace to go tonight?”

I point beyond the warehouse and nod.

“Maybe you should get there. This park is closed after dark.”

I nod again and start away. The white cop calls after me, “Good night, sir.”

I go back to the bodega and knock on the partition. The man snaps awake, turns on the chair in a full circle, and shakes his head until he realizes who and where he is and what it is he’s doing. He sees me and smiles weakly. He gets up and goes back to the cooler for more beer. I bang on the glass and he spins around, looking scared. I hold up my hands to calm him. I point at the beer and shake my head. He nods emphatically and puts it back. He points at the cigarette rack, and I shake again. He stops smiling and looks a bit lost. I tap the glass, lightly, and point at the coffeemaker. The pot is empty. He lifts it from the burner and shakes his head. He puts it down and clasps his hands together, still shaking his head. I put my hands together, too, and then wave while trying to give him the largest smile my face will allow. He nods again, then remembers something, shoots a finger into the air, then points it at the door, waving with his other hand.

I go to the door. He unlocks it, waves me in quickly, sticks his head out, looks up and down the street, then satisfied with what he’s seen, pulls his head back in and locks the door.

“My friend, wait.”

I shiver visibly, and he frowns and shakes his head. He’s a head shorter than me, small boned. He looks up over my shoulder, reaches out, almost pats it, but stops his hand and points to the ceiling instead.

He keeps the finger up, turns away, and heads for the back. He stops in the doorway and turns back, walking to me with a small silver coffee pot. He points happily at the stack of cups near the electric one. I take one, and he fills it with dark coffee. He puts a lid on it and bends the tab back in one motion, then hands it to me. He points for me to get another. He fills this one, too, and takes it from me. He goes to the cooler, takes out a half pint of cream, and gives his cup a long pour. He pushes it at me.

“No, thank you.”

He looks disappointed but shrugs it off. He goes to the coffee station, picks up the sugar, and offers it to me. Again I refuse, but with a short wave. He smiles this time, sets his cup down carefully, and then pour-spoons a good four teaspoons in. He inspects his coffee closely and then turns back to me. I go for my pocket, but he waves off payment with a finger.