Vagrant's Winter

This was a very short piece that I wrote a few years ago that I still really like.  I don't remember what the original theme of the challenge was, but I know that this really skirted it. 

To me, this piece is desolate, cold, and sad.  It's about a moment that changes the friendship of two men, possibly forever.

“I walk in the presence of the Father.  My steps are steady and I do not falter.  My hands are clean, for they are washed in the blood of the Lord.  My eyes are unblinking, looking towards the light of Heaven.  My heart is uplifted, for I know the joys of salvation.  My soul is…”  Harris’s voice trailed off as he turned his head towards the man lying on the ground, laughing.  “What’s so damned funny?”

Truthfully, there wasn’t much to laugh about in their lives.  When the souring economy forced the meat packing plant they worked for to shut down, both men had decided to set off, their heads filled with romantic thoughts of the open road.  They would work their way across the country, living a life of adventure and freedom.

The reality was nothing like that.  Jobs were few and far between.  They had found little sympathy from people; most treated them with suspicion, as if they thought being homeless was something that you could catch.  Now they were stuck on the side of a lonely road deep in the heart of the Mojave Desert with only a can of baked beans to last them until they could hitch a ride somewhere else.

 Aren’t deserts supposed to be hot, Roger wondered as he stood up and moved closer to the fire.  He squatted next to Harris, who was still kneeling with his hands clasped in front of his chest. 

During his childhood, Harris’s father had been one of the fire-and-brimstone types; a Baptist minister who didn’t believe it was preaching unless he was red-faced and screaming.  When he grew older, Harris used experiences in his upbringing to develop a deeply personal, and private, relationship with his Lord and Savior.  He had used that relationship to see him through hard times before, and would do so again in any time of need.  He did not like the idea that his best friend, the man he had been through so much with, might be mocking his faith.

“Well,” he snapped, eyes narrowing.  “What the hell is so damned funny?”  He snapped to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides.  “Where’s the hilarity in freezing our asses off?”  He emphasized every syllable in the word hilarity, drawing it out in his anger.  “It sure as hell isn’t funny to be starving, so that only leaves one thing to make you laugh.”

“Man, it’s not like that, and you know it,” Roger stammered as he straightened up.  I feel like a yo-yo, he thought.  Up and down, up and down.  He bit the corner of his lip, trying to suppress a grin at that thought.  Dumb-ass!  Don’t do that, he willed himself. 

Harris’s eyes narrowed, as Roger continued.

“Oh, come on man!  We’re in the middle of a freaking desert.  We’re hungry, we smell like shit, and its thirty degrees out here.  You’re getting pissy because you think I’m making fun of your stupid Sky-Fath…”

Harris didn’t stop to think.  He lashed out in anger, knocking Roger backwards onto the ground.  Stunned, Roger lay there, silent as he rubbed his now throbbing jaw.  There would be a bruise there, and it would probably be there for a long time.  His mind flashed to his options:  he could jump up and retaliate, or he could let it end here.  With a sigh of resignation and a soft groan of pain, he moved into a sitting position and turned to face the flames. 

Harris didn’t say another word.  He moved to the other side of the small campfire and made himself comfortable.  He knew in his soul that this would be a night that would stretch into infinity.  Sadly, he stared at his friend through the flames, waiting for the end of the vagrants’ winter.