Need, by Brandon James Cook.

This piece is called Need. It was submitted as my final project for Creative Nonfiction class in my third year at University.

This piece was very much inspired by Baker's 'City Lights'. It's about what it means to need. About being needed. About needing others. About how, in a city of millions, we cling to one another in intimate ways that we oftentimes cannot properly fathom.

I'm excited to present this. I hope you like it.

***

A kiss. Their lips lock together. Warm and tender. She pulls them apart, feels stuck lip tug, and it falls away.

“So that’s the kicker.”

He raises a brow, and catches himself as he pulls away from her, his brown coat contrasted against the blue of her jacket. He stands aside her, and cannot for the life of him remember when she became so beautiful. “Huh?” - His arms around her waist. He squeezes.

“The kiss. That’s how we pull each other in.”

“What do you mean?”

“People wait for the kiss at the end of a date. They absolutely wait for it.”

A chuckle. He rubs her back with his sleeved arms – a caress. “You’re weird, Leah.”

Leah smiles. “But they do.” She wipes water from her forehead with her free arm – the other is down in his coat pocket, keeping warm. “It’s our way of saying, ‘You did good’.”

They part for a moment, connected by her hand in his pocket, and look out from under their gazebo. The city lights sparkle all around from beyond the boundaries of the park. Besieged by water in an electric mist. Somewhere nearby, a train clatters along.

He turns to her, and half-grins a crease into his cheek. He cannot fathom her, but he does not care to in the first place. He does not wish to understand her, because she fascinates. And that, for Bryan, is enough. So long as she is there.

“You did good, kid.”

Leah closes her eyes, exhales misty breath. She does not look at him after he has spoken, but steps forward into the rain.

“You want a lift?”

A beat, then she replies.

“No thanks. I’ll take the train. See you next time.”

She starts to walk away. Stops. A slight turn.

“And Bryan?”

“Yeah?”

Not a smile with her lips, but her eyes. “You did pretty good yourself.”

Under his tree, the rain does not concern Billy, nor is he bothered by Leah’s presence, inadvertently walking right by his bushy homestead. A wall of gentle spittle falls against him, and all he can do is fiddle with the laces on his shoes. Were they not frazzled and askew, he may have had an easier time with them. Alas, aside the frays and holes in his shoes, he is a soggy mess.

            Billy is only halfway homeless. At least, that is what he considers himself. He does not see himself as a bum, but a drifter. And so he drifts. From house to house, couch to couch, friend to welcoming friend. But occasionally, said friends grow tired of his constant presence at their doorsteps. They grow weary of his neediness, his hair dreaded not by hand, but by filth, and the dirt he tracks through their homes. So they abandon him. At least, that is how they make him feel.

            Alas, there he finds himself, biding time beneath the planted trees and the shrubberies, in the park at the centre of the city. In the rain.

            Billy gets up from the ground, brushes the dirt from his pants, giving up on his laces, and sets off into the night. The soil squelches beneath his shoes – shoes that have seen so many wet eves in the city – and when he reaches the street, he makes an effort to scrape them clean on the concrete.

            Hungry. He is hungry. The city lights awaken his senses. He pulls his wallet out of his pocket, one of the only things he has yet to lose, and rifles through. Nothing. Not a cent.

            He sighs. Pulls the hat from his head. Raises nose to the sky, and laps at the drizzle as it falls onto his face.

            Near to him, crowds of children wander past, giggling and squabbling amongst themselves, as their elders gather them up in a formation, beckoning them here and there along the sidewalk. He glances down at one of them as they pass him by. The child looks up at him, and stops. He is all freckled nose and wide brown eyes, the look on his face one of innocent concern.

            “Are you having a shower?” The boy asks.

            Billy tilts his head to look at the child. He thinks about saying something scary – something cruel. But before he can utter a word, an adult sweeps in to pull the child away, putting him back into formation. Billy waves goodbye. The boy waves back as he is rustled away, then disappears down the sidewalk.

            Billy is alone again.

            It is a bad night.

“What did I tell you about talking to strangers, Damien? What did I tell you?”

            The plump woman points her finger at Damien’s face, in that way that adults often do. Tsk tsk, the finger scolds. Do better!

            Damien looks up at his mother. The expression on her face reads concern, frustration. And she is not coming down to his level. She is supposed to come down to his level.

            “He was very dirty, that one,” Damien replies, “Is he going to be okay?”

            His mother sighs. She grabs his hand, and squeezes tight as they walk together, filed behind the other children. “He’ll be fine, Damien.”

            In front, the children have stopped. They are standing at a crossing. Another woman calls back.

            “Marissa!” She beckons. Marissa pipes up, releases Damien’s hand and moves forward in front of the crowd of youths.

            “Alright, kids! We’re going to cross the street. Now, I want you to hold each other’s hands.”

            “Her hand is all wet!” One of the kids cries out. Yuck! They feign disgust.

            Each of the children link arms, all the way down the line. Two by two, they link. The other adults – two more, and Marissa – link hands too, to show them how it is done. It is cold, so some of the kids put their arms around each other.

            Damien watches the other kids link hands and arms, sees their fingers and limbs intertwine in a coupling. He turns to his left, and reaches out his hand to grasp another’s.

But there is nobody there.

His face drops. He hears their giggling.

Marissa looks over the children, two by two as they walk past her, across the street. Then she sees him – Damien, alone, standing at the start of the crossing. The others have already marched forward. She rushes back to him, and seizes his hand in hers.

Damien’s eyes flicker up to hers. His eyes are sad and confused.

“I didn’t have anyone.”

“You have me.” Marissa smiles, and when she smiles the warmth of her body courses through her, into his. She squeezes his tiny hand tight. “You have me.”

They walk forward across the street.

Yammering in her ears. The sound of a pompous fool gibbering on and on.

            “But you know, she’s not a biological woman. What the hell was he supposed to say!? Oh, don’t worry, sir, I’m not freaked out. Now go ahead and stick me!”

            What a fucking joke. Leah wonders how she can listen to this shit all day. There’s nothing worse, she decides. Nothing worse than having to review a talkback radio podcast.

            That was her job. To review. She was a journalist of all kinds. Wrote about plays, she covered films, she reviewed albums – and sometimes, although very rarely, she would be asked to listen to some shitty half-an-hour segment of a transphobic moron trying to be funny on the radio. She couldn’t believe people aired that crap – or that some considered it comedy.

            Leah hears a sound in the background – a chime. The train approaches.

            “Dickhead.” Leah pulls the headphones out of her ears. She decides then and there that she would destroy this asshole. That was one good thing about her job – it was sometimes satisfying. As soon as she got home, she would brand him a transphobic asshat with no clue, who should stick to doing blow at clubs over nighttime broadcasts. He wouldn’t be sucking half as hard up his nose as he does in his shows.

            That was good, her internal monologue went off. You should write that down.

            Before she had the chance to pull out her notepad, she was surprised, as down from the undercover platform came a stream of youths. They bustle past her in two lines, all holding hands and clamoring amongst themselves, inadvertently surrounding Leah, accompanied by frazzled adults – possibly parents, definitely guardians. Leah fears that if she moves, she might accidentally squash one of them.

            “Kids, kids, calm down!” One of their adults cries out. The woman is met with a heckling. Kids of that age – five, six, seven, eight – cannot be controlled. Leah chuckles to herself.

            The train pulls into the platform with a screech. Doors fly open. The children all rush onto the awaiting carriage, running for the four-seaters, fighting each other for the window seats. Leah moves onto the train and sits down in a solo two-seat by the window, a comfortable distance away from the gaggle of youths.

            She sighs. It seems to be a night of those.

            Pulling out her notepad, she sets to work writing down all of the quips and one-liners she had come up with during her excruciating listen to the podcast on her music player. The words don’t roll off her tongue quite as well later as they do in the moment, but that’s okay. She can play with her words. Make something happen.

            Playing with her words seemed to be something she did a lot. You did pretty good yourself. God, she cringes and it blazes across her face. What a half-hearted cliché.

            Was it half-hearted? She could not decide. Date three, and he was looking a little tired. Still cute, yes, but all of his jokes had lost their novelty. That’s what he had brought to the table – wit and banter. And sex appeal, but Leah knew better than to go on three dates based on pure aesthetics. That’s the kicker. Looks or charm?

            But more importantly – can he deal with her?

            Leah is so lost in her own head that she doesn’t realize she is being spoken to. She tilts her head up in a mild fright – but it is one of the adults, herding the kids.

            “Hi, I’m sorry, but,” She stammers slightly, “You’re Leah Gemini, right? From The Platform?” A smile on her face like if her husband bought her diamonds.

            Leah smiles. Fright falters to calm. “Yeah, that’s me.”

            The woman perks up. “Oh! I’m such a huge fan. You’re hilarious, you really are. Do you, umm…” She turns and beckons the other adults over – who were half-controlling the kids, half-staring at Leah with that same shy awe. “Do you mind if we get a photo?”

            “Sure.”

            Leah stands up, and all of the women bustle over. They gather around her. One doesn’t quite make it in time for the row of middle-aged ladies, and is made to take the photo. A semi-sad expression, she clicks. A flash goes off in their faces.

            “Do you want one too?” Leah asks the woman – who smiles.

            “Oh, I’m fine.” She replies, “You’re wonderful, though.”

            Leah returns her smile. “Thank you.”

            She turns back around to resume her seat – and is surprised to see a small boy perched there instead. The boy looks up, mimicking Leah’s confused expression.

            He twitches his nose. “You’re the lady from the TV.”

            All brown eyes and freckles. Leah was just the same.

            “I am,” She replies.

            “Damien…” The woman from earlier – the one who didn’t get a photo – murmurs to him. A forceful gal, by the looks of her, but on her best behavior with Leah Gemini around.

            As Leah responds, she sees the doors open from beside them. The smell hit first, then the rest shoulders through the open door. The man had a bag over his shoulder, and judging from his clothes, nowhere to put it. He slumps himself quietly into a nearby chair. Leah becomes wary. Is this going to be one of those nights?

            “It’s okay,” Leah looks over at the woman. Their eyes meet, and there is a mutual understanding. A discomfort. “He can sit with me.” She joins Damien in the two-seater.

            Some of the children in their four-seaters had been giggling in Leah’s general direction. They point and whisper.

            “They don’t like me very much,” Damien whispers to Leah. “They think I’m weird.”

            “Is that so?” Leah replies. Rain falls against the glass of the train door as it shuts, sending a slight chill in their direction with the movement. She leans down to him, huddling closer. “Do you want to know a secret?”

            “Yes?” Damien’s eyes grow wider then. Pools of burnt sienna.

            “The best people usually are.”

            The train leaves the station.

“… And there was a dinosaur, up on two feet! I thought they only walked on four, but maybe that’s only puppies.”

            “Lots of animals walk on two feet. Some of them can even hop.”

            “Really?”

            “Oh yes! I’m sure of it.”

            Billy overhears the conversation. He is exhausted.

            The boy had been to an exhibition in the city. There were dinosaurs and other animals, too. Maybe the Museum, but Billy couldn’t tell. Billy remembers the Museum as being a fantasyland of history and living art. Of things he had never seen, but were right in front of his eyes, ready to implant into his imagination, and take his mind for a journey. Back in an easier time of simpler things, when Billy did not need the wash of rainfall to cleanse his skin. For he had had a mother do it for him.

            The train pulls to a halt in the station on the city loop. The woman in the seat near him, talking to the child, gets up with a start. She waves goodbye to the post-Museum boy, and takes off out the open train door. The childs’ mother – judging from the way she shot up with a start to reclaim her youth – ushers the child away into the four-seater she shared with her fellow adults. All the while staring Billy down. A fierce lioness protecting her cub.

            Protecting her cub from what? Did Billy look like a homeless person? Well, she was a little clueless, then, wasn’t she? Billy wasn’t homeless. Billy was halfway homeless. A nomad. A drifter. Won’t people just get it right?

            Real homeless people are the angry ones you see on the street. The kind without hopes – not necessarily without jobs, as Billy knew far too many people without jobs who still had homes – and the kind with serious issues. The kind who shout things at strangers in the street. Those are the real homeless. Billy was just doing Billy – caught in the middle between one place and another. Living la vida loca. Like the song.

            He decides that the next stop is his. Gets up, collects his things. Throws the bag that he carries over his shoulder. He sees that the woman is still watching him out of the corner of his eye, ever monitoring despite the raucous clamor of her nearby friends and their accompanying children. He wonders if he could make her squeal for a moment - really shit on this woman’s night, the one trying to make him feel worse than he already does. He is interrupted, as he feels a tap on his back.

Billy flips around – and sees the same child from earlier. The one from the two-seater, and the one from the street – Are you having a shower?

            “It’s you.” The boy says. “You okay?”

            Billy looks down at the kid. He doesn’t quite know what to say in reply. But he looks up at the woman once more. Is that his… mother? He thinks. Ah, I get it. She’s looking out for her kids. I’m that guy. I see how it is.

            “I’m fine,” Billy replies. “Did you have a nice day at the Museum?”

            “Yes,” The boy answers excitedly, “There were dinosaurs and lions and cave men!”

            “Really? Did your friends like it too?” Billy gestures towards the other children in their seats, chattering away excitedly.”

            The boy turns, and then glances back. His expression fades to grey.

            “They’re not my friends. We just go out together.”

            “Why not?”

            “I’m weird.”

            Damien raises his hand – and points a finger at his head. Weird.

Billy makes a noise. More of a chuckle than a grunt. He raises his own hand – and points at his own head, too. “So am I.”

            “Really?” The boys’ eyes light up for a split second, as though Billy were one of the cave men.

            “Sure. Weird as they come.”

            Suddenly, the mother appears and claims her child.

            “Sorry about that!” She laughs, before pulling her child away – though her cold, calculating face expressed a sincere lack of amusement.

            “Bye.” The boy says, being pulled back to his seat.

            “Bye-bye.” Billy replies, waving gently with his gloved hand.

            “I’m Damien.” The boy murmurs, making sure that Billy can read his lips.

            Billy returns the exaggerated whispering mouth-movements.

            “Billy.”

            Damien smiles, and is put in his seat. He doesn’t remove his gaze from Billy. Not even when Billy is pushing open the door of the train as it reaches his destination. Not even when Billy takes off into the night.

“Was he good?”

“Yes, he was perfect.”

Leah traverses up the stairs. An elderly woman trails behind her.

“Margaret, if it’s ever a problem, you know… you just say the word.”

“It’s no problem at all, Miss Gemini. He’s a blessing, he truly is.”

The hallway is dark, but a faint glow stems from a door ajar slightly up ahead. Leah wanders over to it, and pulls the door slightly open.

Inside, illuminated by the faint glow of a night-light, one shaped like the jutting pyres of a bustling city, lays a young boy. Brown head of hair, freckled face. Snoring contentedly. Asleep. His nose twitches slightly. Leah smiles.

“Ryan is very lucky,” Margaret whispers from behind Leah, “He’s got a wonderful mother.”

Leah is silent. The loving expression on her face seems to falter.

“Yes, well, I wish I was around more.”

Margaret sighs; rubs Leah’s arm affectionately. “I’m sure he understands.”

There is a brief pause. Leah looks once more into Ryan’s bedroom – at her boy, sleeping contentedly, his face lit by the gentle glow of the cityscape nightlight. Then closes the door slowly, until it clicks shut in front of her.

There is a silence. A nearby clock ticks away. Tick tock, into oblivion.

“I’m just wondering, Margaret…” Leah starts, “… How long can I keep this up for?”

A hand falls to rest upon her shoulder. Leah turns to face her.

“That’s the kicker, isn’t it?” Margaret says. Her old eyes gaze lovingly into Leah’s. Her aged cheeks dimple and lines crease as her face contorts into a smile. “He needs you.”

You are needed.

Trudging along, the man comes to a stop. His shoes are covered in dirt from the ground he trod upon. The city bustle has dulled ever so slightly. Billy can hear the sounds of cars passing. Sees lights in the distance. But he focuses his eyes to what is in front of him. Blocks out the city sounds.

            “Well…” Billy whispers. “I’m here.”

            There’s a faint murmur on the wind – trees planted years ago as they bristle together, creating a chorus of noise, like a waterfall crashing into the flow of a river. The sigh of a breeze blows through Billy’s hair.

            “Did you miss me?”

            Billy stands before a patch of soil. He throws down his rucksack onto the ground. Rips it open. The faint glow of nearby buildings helps illuminate its contents. He pulls something out – a wreath of flowers, battered from his days’ toils. He holds them in his hand, waits a moment – and then throws them forward. They land in a ring upon the patch.

            In front of the plot of soil, is a stone. A stone with engravings. A name. A date of birth.

            A date of death.

            “I miss you, Mama.” Billy whispers once more. “I don’t know where you are, but…”

            The kicked up wind comes to a slow halt. His voice starts to break as he whispers to the quiet. The air is still. Silence.

            “I think I need you real bad right now.”

            I need you.

            Their train rustles along.

            It slowly grinds to a halt, into the station. Six or seven bodies get up, and make their way to the door. The cityscape glitters in the vastness out the train windows, nestled bright against the blackness of the night.

            “Alright, everyone. Say bye to Marissa and Damien,” One of the women instructs her children.

            A boy grunts. “Do I have to?”

            Snappy and sharp. “Yes, you do. Go on, then.”

            The child from earlier twists his face into a scowl, but as he turns to face Damien, still sitting in his seat, the scowl becomes a smile.

            “Bye-bye, Damien,” The boy waves his gloved hands. The other children follow suit, one by one, bidding Damien a softened adieu.

            “Bye, everyone,” Marissa replies gently, waving her hand – and Damien’s too - and the group pull open the doors and depart off onto the platform, in their little formation, away into the night.           

            The train lets off a whirr, a clanging and ratchet of sound, and proceeds back on its rickety journey. The landscape outside of the window gradually begins to change, from an urbane jungle to suburban Sahara. Damien and Marissa are alone, then.

            “I like the city a lot.” Damien says suddenly.

            “What do you like about it?”

            “The people everywhere. Lots of different and interesting people.”

            “Oh, really? Me too.”

            A silence passes between them, punctuated only by the clanging and banging of the train against the tracks. The air is damp with the residue of a day and night of rainfall, of bodies in and out from the mist to the carriage. Ever fading away, the city stands still in the distance.

            “Mum…” Damien whispers, so quietly it was almost inaudible. He peers off out the window in his little window seat, watching raindrops fall against the glass.

            Marissa looks down at him, seated by his side. “What is it, Damien?”

            “They don’t like me very much, do they?”

            Marissa is momentarily shocked. “What makes you say that, Damien?”

            Damien sighs. “They aren’t very nice to me. They think I’m weird.”

            “Oh.”

            Marissa begins to panic. This is not a conversation she appreciated. It is something difficult for her to face – her child. Reality. The black void where she kept her fear.

            “I’m sure that’s not the case…”

            “No. It is. I know that it is.”

            Marissa sighs. A loud, hearty sigh. As though she were trying to filter the panic she felt from her heart to her lungs, and then out into the world. As though if she breathed hard enough, she could cleanse her soul.

            “I’m sorry, Mum. I know I’m a lot to take care of.”

            It was a bullet to the windscreen of her entire existence. Yet, strangely, she could do nothing but look down at him. And she saw, too, that he had turned away from the glass window, with its fascinating raindrops cascading down it, and was looking up at her. She smiles.

            “You’re just fine, Damien.”

            In the sterile cold of the rickety train, and the droplets leaving marks on the windows, they share a moment. Warmth and a special tenderness. A mother looks down at her son, and holds him closer, as he turns back his head to gaze longingly into the night.

            “I know that I need you a lot…”

            “I need you quite a lot, too.”

            The train carries on. The city lights the way back.

            He needs you.