Shreds

The following short story first appeared in Interesting Tales of Other People's Woe, a collection of fiction by Damon Stewart (2014).

Herrick was walking down a busy street in Tongbai. He strode with purpose, lost to the city’s sights and sounds. He didn’t care. It wasn’t famous for anything that Herrick was aware of, indeed he’d never heard of the place until he had stomped off the train and saw the sign on the platform.

He was alone, intentionally so. He was cold, which was more of an accident because in his haste to depart the train he had forgotten his coat, and winter in central China required a coat. Preferably a hat and gloves as well, both of which were also now chugging down the line without him.

He’d been traveling the past couple of days with Reynolds and Lisa, the latter for whom he had harbored an attraction the entire semester. Ever since they had planned the trip together—as friends, nothing more—he had been hoping that they’d hook up, but it was spoiled by Reynolds tagging along at the last minute.

Reynolds’ presence wasn’t a complete obstacle per se, just a hindrance. Or so he first thought when Reynolds walked into his room and asked to come along. Herrick, who had been packing the last of his things and preparing his good-byes, thought he was joking. But Lisa, who was also in the room, was nodding her head in agreement before Reynolds finished the question. Herrick knew, with a sinking feeling, that he’d look petulant or manipulating by objecting. Technically, Reynolds didn’t even ask him, as he was looking at Lisa the whole time anyway.

They had left Beijing the next day, choosing to travel by rail on a zigzag route south to Hong Kong for the return flight home. First to Xian, where they toured the dusty tomb of a stone army and listened to Reynolds, a history major, explain their significance. Supposedly to both of them but again only looking at Lisa.

They had finished by noon and next stop was Nanjing. But since their train didn’t leave Xian until late afternoon, they spent the intervening hours in a ramshackle bar half a mile from the station, drinking cheap Yungang beer and listening to Reynolds tell stories about the summer he and some friends had formed a band and toured Texas. Herrick was alternatively bored and annoyed, the latter at Reynolds’ obvious exaggerations—there was no way they opened for Everclear—but Lisa seemed to be enraptured. Herrick, observing the signs, became quietly frantic, wishing to interrupt Reynolds’ rhythm or orchestrate his departure, alive or dead. But there was nothing he could do but listen and wait for the clock to break the spell and direct them to the train.

Once aboard, it only took two hours for Reynolds to quite simply, and literally, charm the pants off of Lisa. After stumbling into their compartment—although for all his seeming stagger, Reynolds quite nimbly got the seat next to Lisa, forcing Herrick to the opposite side—Reynolds began again with more stories and jokes, making her laugh and ask for more. He got her to talk about herself, personal things. Herrick thought the questions were bold, offensive even, quite personal in nature. But she talked at length about a prior boyfriend, a friend’s drug problem, and her parents’ divorce. All the while sharing her gaze more and more with Reynolds, seeming to forget Herrick’s presence, even though he offered noises of sympathy and encouragement.

Reynolds had soon sidled thigh to thigh with Lisa, and, with Herrick watching, he did it, made the ‘ol stretch-and-put-arm-over-her-head move, so contrived and stupid Herrick almost smiled in expectation of Reynolds’ imminent rejection and embarrassment.

Nothing of the sort. Lisa responded by snuggling a little closer, and closing her eyes with a dramatic sigh. Reynolds looked at Herrick, the message clear—please go to the bathroom, for a walk, throw yourself out the window if necessary—but just leave. Herrick affected ignorance, smiled and nodded at Reynolds, hoping to interrupt the thickening of the bond between the two long enough to think of something; yell fire or arrange Reynolds’ kidnapping. Buy some more time so he could get her to notice him again, just let her focus on him for a few minutes, bring her back to where they were before Reynolds tagged along.

I didn’t even slow the bastard down, Herrick reflected as he trudged over the cracked pavement of the street, stepping over random chunks of stone, trash, and the occasional weary soul too tired, apparently, to find a suitable resting place. Reynolds had just turned to Lisa and whispered something in her ear. She giggled—giggled for Christ’s sake—then said, “Jon, would you mind … sort of … maybe taking a walk? I’m sorry,” and she shook her head, her serious, brown eyes sorry indeed, until Reynolds slipped his hand underneath her shirt and started rubbing her back, causing her to turn to him and give him a halfhearted slap. “Wait,” she said sharply, but then gave him such a radiant smile, touching his cheek and whispering again, “wait,” her tone promising so much more than permission to rub her back, that Herrick lost all fight and left without a word.

Walked straight to the bar car and drank three beers over the ensuing forty minutes, until the train stopped at Tongbai Station. Looking through the windows opposite him, Herrick could see the smog nestled firmly over the gray one and two story concrete buildings, mud and broken gravel decorating a dilapidated road, faceless people in varying states of sartorial poverty shambling about under the darkening sky.

He abruptly stood, chugged the remains of the Yuangang, and marched straight off the train into the gloom of the crude concrete platform. Not a second thought, just a steady, dull anger and frustration to propel him forward. To what, exactly, wasn’t even the point.

He walked through the city for an hour, not seeing anything around him as he moved randomly through the streets, his breath just visible in angry white gusts, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head. He didn’t need his luggage, but he wished he brought his coat.

She had been so nice to him all semester. He knew that didn’t mean shit, but she really seemed to like him, and when she agreed to take the trip with him, he thought that maybe she saw signs of a relationship. He wasn’t expecting to sleep with her, just hoping for the chance to get closer, get that connection, then see if they could take it another level when they got back to Ithaca.

He should have seen it. She was like Diane, wanted him close, closer than the rest, but not that close, saving the final space for someone else. He’d get over it. He’d done it before, but how much was he supposed to take?

He could handle a lot, more than most, or at least he had the experience to back up the claim. His father died suddenly when he was thirteen; a cardiac arrest, in bed with the neighbor’s wife, who was also the mother of his best friend. He took it, though, didn’t immediately run off the teenage rails, just staggered a bit under the weight of the grief and kept going. His mother, family, friends, the school therapist, all remarking on how well he absorbed the blow. “So well-adjusted, such a nice young man,” they said. They were right, he knew it. It was what he had to do.

Later, the summer before his senior year, he handled the car crash and DWI well, too. A guilty plea and a public apology in the school auditorium to the girl whose back got broken (long rehab, some lifelong discomfort, but not quite crippled). He gave the family what was left of his father’s inheritance. The girl didn’t sue, it was agreed to be a youthful, tragic mistake, but he paid what he could anyway, because there was nothing else he could do.

He took the beating the girl’s brother and father administered one Saturday night, admitted he deserved it and didn’t call the police, insisting to his mother that he had simply fallen down some stairs. Lots of them, and twice. She knew better, and he took her frustration and sorrow over her battered son like he’d taken everything else.

And after his thirty days in county jail, he took it when he learned that his college of choice—and apparently all others—would no longer accept him. So he got a pizza delivery job, dropping off dinners to the embarrassed families of former classmates, and when necessary, acknowledged the reason why he was there without any hesitation.

But two years later, he finally did get to school—Ithaca College, making everyone proud—and he started over again. He met Diane, his life started changing, turning into what he wanted it to be. But nothing dramatic happened, comparatively speaking, she just met someone else, some guy from back home, some guy who happened to be, at the time of their final discussion, the father of her baby.

He almost broke then, almost let the rage out, but he reined it in. Expressed his sorrow for his loss, his wishes for her and her baby’s luck, and offering help if she ever needed it, not even completely insincere. He’d handled so much else, he could handle that too.

But she didn’t need his help. She left, and he had to move. California was his first choice, but his mother, begging, convinced him to stay in school, let the school move with him if he was that restless, and so he chose a semester abroad. Beijing, China, as far as he could go.

But she didn’t need his help. She left, and he had to move. California was his first choice, but his mother, begging, convinced him to stay in school, let the school move with him if he was that restless, and so he chose a semester abroad. Beijing, China, as far as he could go.

And he was now walking through Tongbai by himself.

There was no real crisis, he knew, taking a deep breath and calming down for the first time. He didn’t have a coat or his luggage, but angry and impulsive as he was, he had walked off the train with his wallet, which contained $400 yuan, $800 in Traveler’s checks, and his mother’s somewhat limited Visa card for emergencies. This, he decided, qualified.

He saw a small shop across the street to his right, with people walking out holding steaming cups, and he stopped. Crossed the street and went in, coming out a moment later with a cup of hot green tea. He started forward again, more slowly, planning the rest of the way to Nanjing. He, Lisa and Reynolds had planned to stay at the Jinling Hotel for a few days; all he had to do was catch the next train and meet them there. They would take care of his things. He’d have a drink with the two of them, say what had to be said, and part ways as gracefully as possible, get back home and start again.

Suddenly he noticed a commotion ahead. There was a boy, early teens, standing on the sidewalk, his back to a crumbling brick wall. The boy was crying—if that was the word, Herrick thought. He was … weeping, raging actually, his tears flowing down his red, contorted face as he stood on the street and shredded a small fistful of yuan notes.

The kid was wearing cheap sandals, soles made of recycled tires, ill-fitting and not nearly enough for the cold. Ripped and stained pants, his dirty long underwear visible through the torn clothing. Ragged shirt, nylon vest, coat, all equally in disrepair, worn in a way suggesting a permanent condition.

Herrick was stunned—he had a taste of hard times, it was tough for a while after his father had died, but even that hardship was almost embarrassingly luxurious compared to most here. Certainly compared to this kid. But he felt it, whatever it was. It was deep and irrevocable, and Herrick just knew, by the way the boy stood there, oblivious to all with his abandoned keen, that there was nothing in the world that could help him. Whatever made him stand there, ripping up money—and Herrick was sure that kid was someone who knew intimately, painfully, the value of those shredded notes—it was beyond recall or redemption. It was Bad, and it was Done.

He couldn’t help him, which didn’t stop him from trying, handing the boy 100 yuan. The kid didn’t even stop to acknowledge it, just grabbed it, tore it up and stomped on it, not even looking at Herrick, just staring out into the street at his own private horror. Herrick felt it again, closer, the vibe: it was the one that he felt when he overheard his mother telling his aunt how his father died.

Some things you can’t change. Herrick shrugged and walked on into the darkness, heading back to the station, ready to buy a ticket and get along down the line. It was what you had to do; push past these manifestations of sorrow and keep moving. In a way, he took all this too, took it for the kid. Herrick hoped the kid might notice and learn.

Ⓒ 2014 Damon Stewart