The last life came from the sea, the next one an arid place possibly a desert of high degrees and dried. No one would balk at the thought of the next one being dry as the first was so wet, but on they went sending the delicate lives down to earth: unassuming, untroubled, sacred. At least until they arrived, were born, and then spent time intermixing with the ruffians of Thurston Street. The place they were directly ascended to, ramshackle, listless, lost coins and struggles with soulless issues would be the words beginning and ending their lives, if the words were uptight or simple and weren’t poorly fragmented like the town. A town always thinking, “Now What?” was a fragmented town, of fragmented people. The town was isolated of culture, owned departed thickets of trees, unhappy with the descending sun, closing cross blinds on the sight of its return the next day. No one swept or knitted on rocking chairs called a friendly hello to a passing mane of hair, colored their lips forget the fingernails. That was okay though. This was that town. This was that kind of town.

Monday – Deep tan colors with royal blues outlining the ticking clock, the merchants wait for the thumping feet to vacate so they can relax and swill the chlorine tasting gin behind the counter. A rap on the knuckles, a tickled ankle, smiles behind fingers hiding crooked teeth, what did it matter to all, who rode in to partake of a small iron plate of ice cream cut into slices delighting all but the dead. When he started the place the clock was broken and so was the ice boxes. Now he counted the cash in the back and yelled, “time boys” to the children lining the counter, running them along, running them out, after they’d paid their sixpence and taken in as much gazing as any dying man. He was a dying man, Arthur Raven. Dying to get out of the ice cream business, dying to have a beer at the tavern, dying to sing his Irish songs, cut his beard or tattoo himself silly after the beer had landed in his belly and gone up to his brain striking the right spot so sweetly some nights he actually tried to fly.

Tuesday – Billy Anderson didn’t jump, skip along side his dog, rap the stick against the fence or wince at the unraveled bicycle chain fallen from his bike. He sat on the door threshold, devoid of a stoop, front steps or porch with no baseball cap on or slingshot poking out of his pant’s pocket. He wrinkled up one eye and counted the many crumbled potholes until there was no more and then he counted the Adam’s apples in the trees, the ribs in the dried dirt road. On the space yonder where a lake used to be he stared, “now what?” Billy whispered. “Boy close that door,” he heard. “Yes, Grandma,” Billy answered. A milk white goat broke loose; Billy stood to follow its curdled trail.

Wednesday – Faber went looking for his goat. Here and there, he’d look but not today, he only stared straight nothing else to see side to side, only country side, blind side and quiet under the listless trees. He walked slowly with his hands up under his armpits where it was wet and muggy. He began trotting along trying to think as a goat would, then he became aware of Billy trotting along behind him. Billy found the trail Faber left and began the hunt on the metal colored street. He trotted behind Faber, on his heels and did not try to gain on him. Faber knew he was there and that his hands were under his armpits too. Billy chorded and snorted a sneeze that offset their shadows, Faber let the dirt collect in his nose.

They turned off toward the lake where the bottom exposed a mosaic, dried up, old lake. He searched momentarily for the goat. Looking blankly at the blank landscape, Faber breathed in the hard air, hard. Billy breathed in the hard air, hardly noticing the texture. Billy’s orange hair roasted in the sun and his striped shirt faded. Faber was confused, really, confounded. Billy wrinkled his nose and the corner of his eye staring at Faber wondering. Faber began to wander some. Billy did too. He wandered and wondered. Faber scratched an itch and wanted to run more but there was a hitch. Not the stitch that hampered his side, but fact was, he was tired. He thought about the days when he was younger, stronger and longer. Faber was older now, he looked at Billy.
“What are you doing here?”
Billy wrinkled up his nose and corner of his eye, looking up at Faber confused.
“I think the goat went that way.”
He didn’t really know, he was just venturing about the direction of the adventure.

Thursday Morning – For some unknown, it could not be known by anyone, not even Billy, Billy arrived early to school. The School Ma’am was not there yet. He figured he’d enter the classroom early to put his lunch bag down. Around the round schoolyard and teachers, he walked safe and sound. They looked at Billy not believing their unbelievable eyes, was that Billy Anderson? Billy crooked a short-ended smile, his cowlick in back bobbed. Bobby, Troy and Lee were early too, Billy took no note of those boys, they were bullies. Billy, impossible to enter the proper entrance, entered today trough the exit, probably because the door was unlocked. He quietly entered, but stopped when he heard a ruckus coming from inside. He opened the door with his widest smile. There was noise about and everything was on the floor. The books array in disarray, the aligned seats and desk misaligned, some scattered papers were scattered and there in the middle of the middle school’s second grade classroom, now turned squarely on its side, was Faber’s goat. He was larger than Billy remembered as he took up a lot of space in the front of the classroom eating math worksheets his tail erasing the chalked words on the chalkboard. Billy ran his hand over his eyes giving the world a chance to erase what he saw, by chance, he looked – it was still there. The goat eating papers off the School Ma’am’s desk obviously had been eating many papers over night. Several of the other children gathered to yell at Billy for his breaking and entering behaviors, they stood astonished, forgetting to admonish Billy. Then the School Ma’am came in, she stood behind Billy, “What the—,” she said.

Faber’s goat looked over at the scene of rounded eyes. Their surprise surprised him their panic panicked him. He began to run toward the wide open door, toward the wide open outdoors. The School Ma’am moved quickly and out the goat trotted away from the children to the black top, passed the rounded squares. Billy had enough time to drop his books, and turn tail after Faber’s goat.

For a while, Billy kept up with the gruff goat. They trotted along the dustless streets of blond dirt and Billy comfortably tucked his hands up under his armpits and trotted, sailing behind the goat. The sun was warm, the air hard, Billy and the goat tramped over the wooden bridges behind the goat’s hooves beating on the wood sounding like eight feet in unison instead of six. The hobo that lives below the bridge shouted, “Where are you going Billy?” But away they continued in a way that could drive them right out of town and into the dark night beyond the town.

Suddenly the goat took a sharp turn, Billy turned, then they rounded, and the goat entered the dried lake and stopped short at the site. Billy didn’t look at the sight of it, knowing it well, the goat stepped along the edge of the would be lake knowing in his mind it did be at one time. Billy crooked along too. Then the goat sped up and stopped, and then Billy and the goat were one. Together as no one could ever see, as clearly as Billy and the goat could see, they saw it. Together they saw Faber laying face down in the dried scraps of fossil mud, his hands tucked up under his armpits.

Part I of II. Stay Tuned.