Silver / clay

⊱ 11 ⊰

Caleb, dragging his tattered coat behind him, skin glazed from the dazzling sun overhead, collapsed into a thin shard of shadow. Slumped to the ground, he sniffed up a mouthful of mucus and slicked a moody fringe away from his dark eyes. Intermittent but constant thumps rained down, as cars pounded a small join in the bridge above.

And he smiled. Knowing his place in the world. Knowing the outcome of his devotion. Knowing he was giving all there was to give. The beaming smile kept him sheltered from the throbbing cascade, the caked dirt, the hunger pangs.

He reached into a stiff shopping bag and laid out a pair of black pants and an almost-white shirt. They were the only possessions near him that remained mostly clean. He ritualistically re-folded the pants, perfectly lining up the crease, before returning it to the bag and repeating the process with the shirt. He treated them like relics because, as the practical manifestation of his devotion, they were central to his world view.

A line began to form outside the small building across the street.

The core purpose of his life required keeping his job, which meant maintaining enough muscle to perform it, so he quickly packed the shirt away and stepped sprightly to the back of the line, joining the similarly dishevelled men looking for an easy meal. Caleb smiled at their blank faces, recognising most of them as regulars. He knew which to avoid: those living in dangerous parallel worlds created from their own minds, and, far worse, those whose sole purpose was to seek out those worlds, yearning to leave this one behind.

But it was another whose erratic movements drew Caleb's attention. As dilapidated clothes received their holy sacrament, this gaunt figure, an inch above every other head, made his presence known with gruff certitude. "Come on, hurry up, I got better things to do with my time."

A smattering of his audience chuckled loosely, those who listened, those who cared, those who agreed, those who feared confrontation.

"What's the hold-up?" said the man, shifting out of the line, threatening to approach the trestles.

Caleb turned to get a better look. The man wore whiskers like a porcupine, his long sinuous tendons reaching out from terse sleeves and abridged shorts. They hadn't met formally, but Caleb was used to hearing the self-entitlement of a man who never met a situation he couldn't complain about.

"What're you smilin' at?" said the man.

Caleb didn't respond. He was unable to remove his expression, even if he wanted.

"What's so funny?" said the man, taking a few stilted movements closer. "For real."

"I'm just happy," said Caleb, feeling he had to say something.

"Oh yeah?" said the man. "And what right do you got to be happy?"

Caleb shrugged. "I have a purpose," he said. "My life is raised by her grace."

"Ah, Catholic," said the man. "No wonder you're nutso."

Caleb didn't feel the need to correct him. Besides, there were some striking parallels, based on vaguely remembered Sunday school lessons, between the Virgin Mary and Amala.

"So you can shut it, now," said the man, nodding to Caleb's mouth. He tried demanding it a second time when the instructions weren't carried out.

It reminded Caleb of the way she never forced his subservience, instead simply allowing him the privilege of serving her. Self-satisfied fulfilment bubbled up through his veins, radiating his lean face.

"So disrespectful," continued the man, spitting at a strip of dirt near the footpath. "Look around. Any of them gonna smile, you think?"

Most of the others kept to themselves, turning away to avoid the conflict as a pre-emptive measure -- it didn't pay to be involved in the problems of others, not when you had so many of your own.

"No," said Caleb. "But that's up to them. Only we can choose our future."

The man snatched at his coat and, taunting him, took a step back.

It didn't change Caleb's disposition, and he merely blinked a response, subconsciously holding the crinkled shopping bag to his heart. "It's OK," he said. "I understand."

"You understand?" said the man, baring his fangs. "You understand?!" He discarded the coat and slapped Caleb. Again. Again. Searching for a crack in the armour, an irritation worthy of ripping that smile away. When it didn't come, his eyes flickered to a new target.

He made for the bag.

Caleb's fingers held the handles tight, and the situation quickly developed into a tug-of-war. His smile finally faded. The coat meant nothing, and neither did the work clothes on their own, but what they represented held more importance than his countenance or physical well-being.

Suddenly the plastic ripped, its contents bursting out into the warm air, momentarily forming an upside down letter t. The pants floated to the ground, collapsing in a tussled mound, pursued swiftly by the almost-white shirt, its veneer becoming far less almost after making contact with the dirt.

Caleb scurried to collect the mass, his face, no longer wrapped in the spirit of Amala, deteriorated into shock, then concern, his previous joy spreading instead to the gruff man who laughed boisterously, carrying with him the milder chuckles of his entourage.

It felt like a test of his faith, and he wasn't sure if he'd passed or failed.