The smoke spiralled and twisted upward as it slowly diffused into the infinity of the bone chilling wind. Conner looked up into the blackness of the sky, but there was no sign of his exhale. Is that the way life is? What once was warm turns to cold and nobody notices or cares? He was thinking again. Sometimes he would get an idea in his head and needed to think until he had a definite answer; some mental picture that satisfied a parched desire for certainty. He could feel the cold almost like fire in his boots as he wiggled his toes against each other, trying to free the snow from between them. He needed new shoes. He had just gotten these construction boots a year ago. Generic brand, next time he would get the brand name. Shoes shouldn't be getting holes this quickly. As Conner passed the opaque windows of various shops, he stared at his reflection. His head was covered with a dirty, wool skier's hat with cloth dreads hanging off of it, dangling around his neck. He had gotten it at an outdoors store down on Broadway. It was the only thing he could afford, but he thought it gave him an easy-going look. His brown jacket was turning grayish from wear and his dark blue slacks were tattered as they rested on his boots. He was a bum. As if to affirm this to himself he pulled out his beaten leather wallet, nothing. Even homeless people carry some dollar bills. But Conner was homeless now. Having run away from home, he now roamed the streets of New York City, getting along by stealing and finding warm openings in back doors of buildings. He sifted through his wallet: a music card, a couple of family photos, and his driver's license. Was that his only link to his previous life? He looked at his driver's license. Conner Arnold, he looked so hopeful. That was four years ago, he was sixteen and he thought a car was the key to his future. The crunch of snow under his feet created a rhythm Conner had always loved. Just like the silence and sense of freedom he felt as the flakes drifted innocently down. That was why he was here, those feelings. He hadn't been accepted to the college he wanted to go to, and had to settle for the local state university branch in Maryland. He was bright, but only showed it when he felt compelled, which admittedly wasn't often. One day in his dorm he was staring out the frost covered window and realized how beautiful the world was, and he was missing it. As if nothing else mattered, he threw a few things in a duffel bag and took the next train to New York. The money was running low after a week and he realized this wasn't the way to do it. He called his mom from a pay phone to ask to come home, but his aunt answered.
"Conner, is that you?" The
words were still engraved into his memory. "Yeah, can I talk to Mom?"
There was a low voice in the background, but his world was spinning. His mom was his only real
family. His father had died when he was young and he had no siblings. His heart was racing
and he began to lose his balance.
"Oh oh, oh, you don't know?"
"What?"
"Uh, your mom died in a car crash two days ago."
Conner's balance left him as his feet struggled in vain to stay upright. A sharp pain shot through his hip as his head simultaneously crashed into a nearby trash can. He lay motionless on the ice except for his deep breathing. His mind raced through the situation as he realized he had been day dreaming. Now he buried his head in his gloves and closed his eyes. He felt the emotions of his life flood over him. He remembered even more vividly his mother's death, the joy of Christmas morning, the green apple sea of the orchard behind his house, a warm sensation on his forehead. He sat upright and looked at his gloves. His dirty fingertips were a dark crimson. The snow where his head had come to rest was a brilliant red that seemed to grow as the blood diffused through the snow. He thought back to the breath; life always seemed to be expanding out of control.
The futile sound of brakes attempting to stop rubber tires entered his ears. He flashed to his feet just in time to see a dark blue sports car twist 180 degrees around and slide helplessly into the building in front of him. The harsh sound of compacted metal sent an echo into the still of the night. Without realizing it, Conner broke into full stride, kicking up snow as he ran.
It was as if Conner didn't realize what was happening around him, he was just reacting. He skidded to a stop, his arms bracing himself against the roof as he peered into the dark interior. A flash caught his eye, and he instantly recognized a gold necklace partially hanging outside the driver's shirt. A feeling of sudden guilt swept through his abdomen. Had he no morals? After almost a year on the street his instinct to survive took over. All he could think of was how much money he could get for the jewelry at the pawn shop. He was suddenly aware of the crumbling difference between wrong and right. The red blood dripping off the man's nose caught his attention and brought him back to the cold, dark sidewalk. He pulled frantically at the door, but it was jammed shut. He ran around the front of the car and tried the passenger door, but it was in worse shape. His fist crashed through the window spraying chunks of glass onto the motionless body. Conner's hand slid down the lower edge of the window cleaning off the jagged edges of glass that still remained. He threw his gloves to the ground and eased in through the window.
His fingers felt the cold leathery neck of a middle aged man dressed in a suit and overcoat. He felt the pulse, but it was faint. Conner took his jacket off and laid it over the man's chest. He sat back in the leather seat starring at the man, trying to remember something from E.R. or Rescue 911. He reached in the man's pocket and pulled out a wallet. He leafed through the wad of 100 dollar bills. He was startled by the piercing sound of sirens and looked up as a brilliant light shot into his pupil. He quickly shoved the man's wallet into his pocket and looked over at the driver. As if some unconscious hope alerted him to the ambulance, the man's eyes struggled upward against the force of gravity. Whether captivated by Conner's face or too weary to rotate his eyes, he stared at Conner and Conner looked deep into his bluish-green eyes. He saw fear, trust, and goodness in the man's eyes that gave him a feeling of importance.
"Who are you?" the man
whispered.
"I don't know," said the voice
from outside. "Did they say they were sending another police car or just the one we
got here? Sir are you OK?"
The EMT reached his head in the window.
"Yeah. It's .....my friend. He's the
one hurt bad, but the other door is stuck," said Conner.
"We'll take care of it. Charlie,
bring the blow torch and the stretcher! Do you need help getting out?"
"No, I'm fine"
Conner's feet hit the ground as his upper body limboed its way out. He watched with the growing number of spectators as the paramedics cut open the twisted metal and laid the man on the stretcher, still covered by Conner's beaten jacket.
"Hey." Conner turned to see a paramedic's hand on his shoulder. "We're going. You want to come with your friend to the hospital, and I can take a look at the cut on your head." Conner felt the crusty blood on his forehead. He didn't know what to do so he followed the man to the ambulance. He glanced back over his shoulder to see the mangled car facing out perpendicular to the street. The snow was falling harder now and he could feel a numbness in his fingers. As he stepped up into the ambulance he looked back and saw part of a glove sticking out from the snow. Foot prints surrounded the car's front wheel where the glove could barely be seen. Already the snow was beginning to fill in the footprints.
The man's chest slowly rose and fell as Conner lay back in the uncomfortable hospital chair. The awkward smell that reminded him of a laundry mat bothered him. In the background he could only make out the muffled word "doctor" over the intercom. His eyes shifted uneasily to the bag next to the bed. It contained all of the man's belongings. Conner saw them put the suit, the necklaces, and the Rolex watch into the bag. He turned his body again, resting his right leg on his left knee. They had not been able to identify the man. Conner felt the lump in his pocket to make sure the wallet was still there. He felt thirsty. He had told them that the man was giving him a ride home from a bar, but he didn't know his name. Conner kicked his boot against the leg of the chair and some dirty slush fell onto the white floor. He glanced around and took the wallet out. He flipped through the credit cards and found the man's driver's licence. He didn't look at the name, but saw the man's neutral face. He flipped it over and walked slowly to the bed.
He watched the man breathing again. It reminded him of something from his childhood, but he couldn't remember what. He saw the I.V. bag hanging from the hook and watched the fluid seep down the tube. Conner turned around, but couldn't see anyone in the hall through the Venetian blinds. He laid the man's license on the night stand and picked up the bag of possessions. As he walked out the room he saw the man's chart on the wall. He glanced quickly enough to see the words "John Doe" on the file. The electronic eye opened the door as he walked out of the hospital, closing quickly as if to minimize heat loss. A frigid wind caused Conner to turn his head away. The snow had stopped falling, but the moon reflected off the ice on the buildings. He didn't feel quite comfortable, like when he was a kid and forgot to put on his watch in the morning. He set the bag down and felt his back pocket. His old wallet was gone. He must have lost it back at the accident.