Leftovers

"There's a river in India." The old man speaks the sentence like it's a complete thought. He huffs, he grunts, and he struggles with his bundle, but the audience can't hear him. He pauses, patting his pockets. His hand crumples against the pack of Marlboros; he usually buys them in the box, but beggars and choosers.

Before he can strike a light, he reconsiders. Work first, joy later.

"Fuck. Right. So listen," he stoops, lifts with his legs, and shoulders his burden. It's wrapped in an old queen comforter, and it's soaked through in places in an unpleasant shade of rusty red, still wet to the touch.

Even though he's mindful to keep the wet spots off his clothes, he'll burn what he's wearing anyway, to be safe.

"That river? They set corpses on floats and light 'em on fire. I mean, damn. People drink from the fuckin thing, right? Eventually, the bodies partially burn, but then other pieces, they sink down into the mud. Maybe they float downstream. I understand there are birds who roost along the banks, and they follow the rafts until the fires go out, then it's like a goddamn buzzard buffet. Christ, you gotta love the world, man. It takes all kinds."

He has been walking quite a while, and his feet finally squelch. He's found the muddy grass that tells him the tide is up and the saltwater creek is just a few steps away. He knows where he is, and he has been able to smell the ocean for hours, but the sound of his footsteps are reassurance that he has arrived at the right place.

"You'd have made my life a lot easier if I could put your dumb ass on a raft and light you on fire." At high tide, the water here hovers around fifteen feet deep. At low, it dips down to about seven. The current is slow, but steady and strong.

Fishermen rarely end up on this bend, because it's too far from an easy ramp and tides leave little room for error or mistiming. There's a highway bridge a couple of miles downstream, and if someone gets stuck on this side at high tide, they can't squeeze under to get back to the takeout. All in all, this stretch just aint worth the occasional whiting or croaker.

Anybody who has the bright idea to park the half mile or so away and hike in across marsh is usually discouraged by gators, snakes, or the stories and tales that surround both.

The truth is, there's not much here that goes bump in the night except the man carrying what used to be another.

Moonlight is an alabaster ball reflecting on opaque ebony. Ripples scatter the devil's sunshine across bathwater-warm water as the blanket is pulled away and the body sinks facedown.

The corpse is a ragged, chewed thing. By the time the tide carries it to sea, and it bobs on the waves, it will be thoroughly visited by any number of aquatic scavengers. If anyone notices the naked man, only a DNA test will show who he used to be.

When the old man makes it back to his car, he strips as naked as the corpse. Every piece of clothing, along with the blanket, is placed in a large black garbage bag. He wipes his feet clean with paper towels, rinsing them with bottled water. He vaguely remembers a passage from the Bible, and he chuckles as he finally lights a cigarette after slipping into a pair of sweats and a cheap tee shirt. Flip flops complete his ensemble, and his mind goes from the book of John to Tarantino. His outfit reminds him of Jules and Vincent.

Flipping through the radio, his car is filled with music of the oldies. "Son of a Preacher Man" is playing, and he laughs out loud, because the Pulp Fiction picture is now complete in his mind.

He skips the diner, though.

He's already eaten, and the leftovers are being carried out to sea.