The Ferryman

Martin woke up shivering and nearly frozen. The old threadbare blanket he’d draped over himself barely managed to cover his feet, let alone actually keep him warm. January is colder than a witch's twisted tit. Anyone says otherwise can kiss my frozen ass, he thought grimly.

Sounds of screaming babies, along with loud quarrels, from the surrounding apartment reverberated throughout his tiny room. Trying to shut the sound out, he covered his ears with both his hands. As soon as I get my hands on some money, the electric company will be the first people I call! The bastards had shut off the heating and light, two months prior.

It didn't help matters that Old Granddad was collecting his due for a night of blissful oblivion. Moving even his arms had caused his vision to blur and hammers to slam heavily inside his skull, but continuing to lay there would have likely led to frostbite. No torture could have been more effective, at getting him out of bed, than the chattering of his teeth clicking away like tiny jackhammers.

Reluctantly, and with great determination, he forced himself to roll over and drop his feet on the floor. He regretted the decision instantly. The room tilt-a-whirled and he tripped over his nightstand, sending it, and the, now empty, bottle of Old Granddad crashing to the ground. He cursed under his breath and hobbled to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time to throw up. 

A handful of aspirin later, Martin put on his cleanest unwashed clothes. The apartment was a dump and the cold, stagnant air made it feel like a tomb. He sat on the bed to put on his shoes and looked around the room in disgust. 

I gotta get out of here. Without even bothering to clean up the mess he made earlier, he grabbed his coat and left. He didn't have any particular destination in mind, but he’d walk to a gas station just to enjoy the benefits of a furnace.

Over the Rhine was that part of the city where dogs wouldn't even lower themselves to shit. Despite attempts at gentrification, it was still a worn-down, haven for long lost dreams, broken lives, and violence. However, for all the neighborhood’s faults, it was home and its ugly resilience suited him. 

The morning sun teased the people below, shining clear and bright, but providing no warmth. Only the depth of the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings matched its sparkling intensity. The contrast gave everything a veneer of hollow sterility.

Martin walked along Vine Street with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, frantically trying to find warmth. He tried to focus on anything that wasn't his throbbing head, even going so far as to avoid stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk. It was a silly game, but he was desperate to escape his self-inflicted misery. 

The awkward stepping and stretching caught up with him quickly, and he found himself breathing heavily as a result. Stopping to catch his breath, he felt each beat of his heart as a pulse in his head. The sight of crumbling, abandoned buildings only darkened his thoughts further. They reminded him of an inmate sitting on death row for years, awaiting execution. 

After a few moments of contemplation, Martin resumed walking. At the end of the block, he found a new distraction. In the shadow of a building, a figure slouched against a wall; knees up, head down, arms hanging lifeless at the sides. Martin scoffed. Can’t go anywhere without tripping over a drunk bum. At least I had the decency to get shitfaced out of sight.

As he got closer, he recognized the bum he had just mentally mocked. 

Max had occupied that particular section of Vine Street for years. Martin couldn’t remember if Max had ever been anything other than a beggar and a sad smile tightened on Martin’s face as he recalled the occasional talks they’d shared. He had always given the hobo a buck or two when he could spare it. However, those times had been few and far between as he wasn’t too far off from joining Max on the corner himself.