Thoreau and Pierrot
Thoreau walks along the edge of the rails and ties drinking from several types of drinks he finds during his walk mixed together in a one gallon windshield fluid jug washed in the river and dried in the sun some days ago when he started the practice. There is nothing wrong with it. The sun is out and it is windy going through the steep grades carved through the hills for the intermittent, regular trains to run in. During the day’s walk he found the remaining contents of several cola type off brand soda cans, none of which had any ashes; the spit infused bottom of a malt liquor bottle’s dirty amber; and the bottom third of a tequila bottle filled with no amount of urine, he’s sure because he checked twice sniffing actively with his flaring, cratered nose. The body does need any solid nourishment for weeks on end notwithstanding detritus and gum.
The tracks lay from here across the entire nation, conceivably. Thoreau begins wandering these tracks when he ambles, trips, and fells weeks ago down a bare ravine. He reaches out for a scrap of something to grab onto and failing that to cradle in his arms his briny mop head giving up the ribs and soft flanks. When he opens his eyes he sees a tepid stream and the windshield fluid jug floating upon it. Thoreau is in pain as he reaches up his body to stand up again.
The stream runs parallel to the tracks for only a few days and then it swells proud and passes underneath the bridge the tracks are on. He never thinks of oncoming traffic, and he is across the river. Except for some shoes and tires, he doesn’t encounter anything that resembles life. Thoreau never wonders where the unevaporated liquid in the containers comes from.
It rarely seems right to sleep. Thoreau walks generally in a way resembling a heron or a coatrack granted as if by magic the ability to walk on its own. He is tall and gawky, but he moves without distinction.
Thoreau drinks from his jug and it subsides briefly, the constant visceral throb in his head. He hears a keening wail and then he sees a bundle swaddled and lying on the tracks. He walks to the bundle and bending at the waist brings his face near it. It is a baby and he thinks its name is Pierrot.
Thoreau walks ahead toward the embankment and rests his jug in the shade of a crevice. He returns to Pierrot and picks up the baby. He holds it against his chest, and begins to walk down the center of the tracks. His head is filled with heated rocks radiating and expanding under the sun and his sodden hair. The train cannot stop for at least a quarter of a mile.
