He woke early in the city without exception. His groggy head seemed last to rise. He stepped across his rented room smoking a cigarette and scratched his belly. His place was comfortable; it was his. There was only one picture in the place, and it was face-down from the night before. He eyed the frame laying beside his bed before he donned his coat and slid on his shoes, hopping awkwardly on one foot for a second. He turned the little lock in the door knob and stepped down the hallway. 

The streets smelled a little less like shit in the early morning. The city herself was only rising. Shopkeepers organized produce in the fresh light, and the sewers expunged their wares in offerings of steam, plumes wafting upwards on the billowing corners. He entered a coffee shop with barely enough room to stand and nodded to the barista who began preparing a cup in his name. 

“Here you go, buddy.”

He nodded with half-lidded eyes and laid his money on the counter. There was a generous tip in the pile.

“See ya next time.”

He raised his cup without a word and stepped back into the street. He puffed on the end of a cigarette and tried to go back to sleep where he stood. He hated mornings, but it seemed he had no choice. The occasional sleeping-pill binge was getting old too. Everything felt old. He felt old. His feet shuffled in their slip-ons to his usual place, the sidewalk beneath the theater where he worked. He watched the sunrise cast its magic over the sign and he felt like vomiting.

All his dreams had been realized, in one way or another, so he felt like leaving. Behind him, people stepped past on the walk. He pulled the cigarette from his lips and drank from his paper cup. 

“Well,” he thought, “too late to be a farmer.” 

He took another drag. The smoke flowed in a torrent from his nose as a painful smile splayed his face, his eyes stuck upwards, marveling at his shitty little chapel in the heart of the city, the center of his world, the place of his purpose and his passion and his soul of souls.

And he knew he’d die alone. And he thought the coffee was delicious.

“Excuse me,” a voice said behind him.

He turned to see a friend.

“What are you fucking crazy? Standing here in the middle of the sidewalk, you like reading your name?”

He grinned.

 “Come on,” the friend said, “Let’s get some breakfast.”

“Alright,” he replied, “but you’re paying.”

“I’m paying? I know you got money. You obviously don’t spend any on clothes.”

A scratching at the door woke them. 

“You go,” she said.

“Why me?”

“Men are supposed to be protectors or whatever.”

“I relinquish my responsibilities.”

“Go.”

He rose with a groan, well-aware that he was no shining knight in armor. His feet made their way in heavy steps down to the front door.

She heard him stomp back up and sighed.

“Was it the dog?” she asked.

“No,” he said, collapsing into the pillows, “it’s those fucking aliens again.”

“Jesus.”

“They like the plants.”

“Tomorrow I’m buying them their own.”

“Won’t work.”

“Why?”

“Tried it.”

“And?”

“The plants died on their ship and they got super sad and showed up crying, or their version of crying—which was this terrible wailing that almost got them canned by the neighbors. Better off just letting them have their fun.”

“Why do they need to scratch at the door?”

“Ask permission,” he said, falling asleep in his pillow.

“What?”

“It’s their custom.”

“It’s annoying.”

“A lot of customs are.”

“I’m gonna go tell them off.”

His head rose from his pillow, “No you’re not!”

“I am!” she said, pulling back the covers and getting up. A second later he heard his wife scream.

“You let them in the house?”

He groaned again as he got up from his sleeping spot, and stepped down the stairs to find his wife glaring at a living room inhabited by four little green people. Two were petting succulents, one was petting the dog—a massive Burmese Mountain type of fellow—and the third was pouring a cup of tea.

“You let them in the house?”

“It was chilly out.”

The little green people looked up at the couple standing on the stairs. They blinked their large eyes at them a moment before he spoke again.

“Hard to yell at them isn’t it?”

“Let’s just go to bed.”

She pushed past him and stepped up the stairs. He leaned down across the bannister and whispered, “Good night guys.”

The little green people each offered a wave then went about their business, and the dog wagged his tail.

How long has it been? A year? Two? The days blend. But the reveal here, the crashing and the brine and the smell of death offer respite from the blur of time and you’re happy everyone has something to look at, out and apart from themselves. Here, it’s not crazy to sit the day away and watch the celestial bodies turn above. Here, it’s not crazy to walk without aim. Here, it’s not crazy for dogs to run free. Once, on the night that you saw ahead, you dove into the sea. You felt the waves churning sand about you, saw the moonlight glitter over the surface, and you were not cold. The water lapped at your neck and you stared out to where the sea reached on. It made you smile before you gave pause. Your arms pulled you farther into the sea, drawing you in steady strokes, before you laid your head back in the water and looked up at the twinkling lights. 

The night would pass, but that pause would stay with you. It would stay your anger and stifle your hate. It would force your wonder and bolster your love for little things. And whenever your hands clenched it was the foolish old part of yourself and the forgetfulness of your brain, then night would come and the pause would return. You’d hate yourself for a time until the wonder pushed your attention beyond yourself, and then there were trees and moonlight and the eyes of other creatures once more. And you were always very sad, but perhaps the happiest person you’d ever met.

They had been burned out, beaten, shot, raped, and lynched. Some complained. Some stood against openly, and they were killed in the street. He had no words to say about it, as he was one of them. “Life is hard,” he thought, “and I have an appointment at twelve.” That meant he needed lunch beforehand, and not just any lunch, as this was not just any meeting.

He buttoned his jacket as he stepped out into the street. Street merchants praised their wares as the smoke from cooking fires wafted about the streets. He took a deep breath. It smelled of home. Children yelled in the street, screeching as they played, and a different breed of shopkeepers hid in their hovels and waited for the gangsters to come a knocking. The gangsters and the politicians dressed the same, and the only way to tell them apart was the look in their eyes. A gangster would beat you to death in the street. He’d cut you or shoot you, and go on eating his breakfast. A politician would kill your entire family and burn out your home. He was careful around politicians. 

He stopped at a quiet little restaurant in the heart of town. A girl led him to a table without words and a plate was brought two minutes later. He nodded in thanks and began to eat. He was two bites in when an old woman lumbered out from the kitchen and sat at his table. She had not been cooking. Her clothes were traditional and, as everyone knew and all could see, they were of the highest quality. She didn’t say hello. 

“Finish the first one quick. Save your strength for the uptown boxer.”

He wiped his mouth.

“I only have one today.”

“I got you another.”

“I didn’t want another.”

“It’s good,” she said, patting his hand, “make a statement.”

“You think maybe you should’ve told me before?”

“Relax,” she said, “I’ll give you another dumpling.”

He finished his meal and then sipped his tea. 

He buttoned his jacket as he stepped out of the restaurant. He walked through two blocks of voices and smells before he ducked down a staircase, his legs dancing down the steps. He stepped into an arena, where old men sat looking down on him. Boys watched from the sidelines, careful not to make a sound.

He bowed.

An old man at the head of the procession began to speak. The old man was halfway through his third, drifting sentence when he spoke up.

“I have two today so I was hoping we could get on with it.”

The old man and all his compatriots scowled down on him with hatred. The old man waved his hand. A warrior stepped onto the stage across from him. 

“Thank you,” he said, smiled, and bowed once more.

The fight was a flurry of blows. He fought well, his feet no longer dancing, but stepping with purpose, with power. The force of his blows began in the world, traveled up through his toes, up his heels, his legs, to his hips, all the way through, and ended on the tip of his elbow, where the hard knot of bone struck his opponent with a practiced flourish and ended the fight.

He took a deep breath and found his calm. The fight had come and gone without judgment. Everything happened as it should’ve. He thanked the men present and bowed, never looking away from their glares. As he donned his jacket, and made to button it, the old man at the head of the procession declared, “Good luck.”

Because everyone hated the uptown boxer. The uptown boxer was as white as he was cruel. Six of his countrymen had already died at the boxer’s hands.

“Cheers,” he said, and turned to go.

He stepped up to the sidewalk and looked both ways before sliding his hands in his jacket pockets. The street was bustling. This was home now. He saw his people fighting through their day. He saw men and women thriving and a sense of pride he’d neglected to revere burned bright in his heart.