1
Randy Ditty
Troubled pipes rattled and knocked, liquids dripping from their joints. Power hummed, warbling its way through hidden wires to a lightbulb which hung by a string from the ceiling. The door slammed shut, and the lightbulb swayed pendulously, casting light haphazardly across Randy’s room and giving him a headache. He frowned. There was no mystery here: every wall, every fixture and everything exposed the base’s careless construction.
Standing in his own doorway, he felt sick. This base was not his home. It would never be home, and it could never be home. Somewhere deep within, Randy understood that. He yearned for a different life, one he had never known—a life where the lawn was green and neighborhood children would come to gather and play. Where trees would grow both low and high. Where the soil was un-blasted, un-pitted, and not stone. He wished for a wife or people that loved him. A dog would even do. Someone to greet. Someone to care. Someone to play with when money was not there. A sinking feeling overcame him, so he sat. He felt sick.
He gathered his bits and sulked to the bathroom. With a nod and a flick, the lights thrummed to life, popped, then withered. He shaved in the dark, and his thoughts travelled to yesterday whereupon an angel had deigned to visit.
It presented Randy with a choice: abandon his body and forsake this world to exist in another and find purpose there; or not. The angel did not care.
The shaving cream smelled like Randy’s dreams of home and the cracker tins his wife would fill with potpourri. His mouth still smacked of her peppermint lip balm, and his soapy hands smelled just like her rosy black hair. He remembered a time when he was so young that strangers smiled just to see him laugh.
Amid a rainy week, it had been a rainy day, and alleyways everywhere were crowded with the mournful whines of bastard pups. On his way to the dumpster to deposit last week’s trash is where he saw him, one salt and pepper pup among seven sorry others. It was love at first sight, but food was scarce and war sat at every dinner table. His father would never let him. Little had he known that his neighbor, the mom, was passing by and chanced to see him crying.
When, determined to steal some milk, he arrived at the drugstore, that lady was already there. They and the shopkeeper were alone together, and Randy crept to avoid their eyes. Things seemed to go well as he lifted a bottle of milk, but the refrigerator door betrayed him. The shopkeeper yelled “Thief!” as Randy fled. Had the mother-next-door not said “Stop,” the shopkeeper would have jumped the counter.
“Apologies Mr. Doyle; he’s my neighbor’s son. We were just walking together for errands! Won’t you please excuse his behavior?”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Randy stood gaping at the lady’s lie as she placed several coins in Mr. Doyle’s hand, at least one of which was silver—more than enough for a single bottle of milk.
Face twitching with discomfort, Mr. Doyle nodded. “Mm… “ he grumbled, seeming to agree. He opened the register.
The strange lady smiled widely as the shopkeeper eyed Randy with distrust and scrutiny.
He deposited the money, a threat settling upon his tongue, and spoke. “Thank you, Misses,” he said and turned to face the drug cabinet. “Mr. Mason… Mr. Mason… “ he grumbled, wagging a finger at each bottle as he read its label. “Mr. Mason… Mr. Mason… Ah!” his eyes widened as he exclaimed. “Yes here it is, pure cow’s insulin freshly distilled from locally sourced pancreas. For young master Mason’s mellitus! Tab… “ he lingered on the word ‘tab’ as he searched through his ledger and yawned. “ Tab already paid by Uncle Sam. You, mam, are good to go!” he said, boxing the medication with ice. “Properly refrigerated, this five mils solution should keep for six months. Please return in five months’ time for another bottle!” He glared at Randy again as he handed her the box, “But if something should happen just come back- I’m sure we can work something out.” He began to place the milk bottle into a small paper bag, but Mrs. Mason stopped him.
“The milk is for the lad! As… payment for his company.”
To Randy’s surprise, Mrs. Mason shared her umbrella with him as they left the drugstore. She even walked with him to the puppies where she pulled a metal tin from her purse, emptied it of several mint-like pills, and served it to the pups with milk.
Suppressed yearning scratched at Randy’s consciousness, breaking him from his reverie. He remembered a deep longing for her to have been his mother. All the years since, he wished to again fill his senses with her flowery smells, warmth and grace. Mrs. Mason was ever the companion of his dreams.
He looked down at the sink where cloudy water, like his feelings, circled the drain. He smiled wide for the mirror and was greeted mirthlessly by his own bloodied expression. He had done a number on himself: he might need to see a dentist. If nothing else, he would get some painkillers out of it. Maybe he would tell them a joke, “I tried tobacco and lost.” He tried to laugh, but a bubble caught in his throat, so he choked instead. Firm black sludge dislodged from somewhere in his airway and stuck itself grimly to the sink’s northern wall. “Yikes,” he mouthed. “Maybe I should see the doctor, too?” To spite himself, he laughed through his nose.
He knew what that sludge was. Every soldier did, even the new ones. It was his material soul- his anima materiales- his Pittsium. He wiped a tear from his image in the mirror and turned up the water faucet. As he adjusted it for temperature, the water buffeted the lump of Pittsium, eventually washing it down the drain along with the cloudy mixture from earlier. He grabbed the shaving knife and cleaned the rest of his toiletries before wiping down the sink.
Finished with his morning routine, he turned off the faucet and stared blankly at the mirror. With his stubbled scalp, smooth skin, and dead eyes his reflection looked like any other soldier’s. The wistful smells from earlier had faded. Outside, the shadow of day stretched out long upon the endless summer snow. As he left to face it, he mumbled a minor cantrip[1], “love, rain for the alleyway,” and his sickness disappeared.
----------------------------------------
[1] A spell of little to no difficulty. Often taught to students during compulsory education, cantrips tend to see frequent use both in professional and private settings.