IN THE SHADOW OF THE NEW MOON

A bread truck narrowly missed Jumper as it made a sharp turn. He didn't hear it coming. Could frostbite make you deaf? He rubbed his numb ears with his hands, a black plastic bag swung from his arm. The vehicle barreled down the empty street, its exhaust leaving a trail of cold breath.

Industrial zone. How had he managed that? Just warehouses, no place to get in. Could just bust in. Cold as hell tonight. Nobody could blame him. He wandered another block or two. The barren streets and squat, dark buildings deepened his worry. Why'd he leave the underpass? At least there were others there and possibilities. But kitchens and shelters were closed or full everywhere, it seemed. His body shuddered with cold.

Between two dark warehouses, he walked slowly searching for an alcove of shelter. The faint city stars shed no light in the alleyway. The streetlamp cast a faded glow that gilded the pavement but the steel doors were flush to the walls and solid as black ice. Jumper slid down, squatting with his back against concrete. He pulled his knitted cap down further and huddled against his knees.

"What you doing, hanging around here?" A uniformed figure stepped out of the dark edges. A flashlight blinded Jumper.

"Nothing." His fingers closed around his bag.

"Well, you can't do 'nothing' here -- get going," the man growled.

Jumper, relieved that it wasn't a cop, said, "Too cold."

"I said get."

"So shoot me," Jumper told him. That's what it would take to get rid of the cold. He'd always known that.

The watchman laughed. "All right, I will." When Jumper didn't move, he said "On second thought, I don't want to waste the bullet."

Jumper put his head on his knees. Not even worth killing.

"You sick, man?" The voice was persistent. "Hey, should I call the meat wagon? You dead yet?"

"Not sick, not dead." Jumper raised his head at a tilt. "Just cold."

The watchman walked closer, the flashlight bobbing, splashing light around and over him. Jumper closed his eyes, shielding them with his forearm.

"Hey, well, you can't hang here, man. You gonna freeze, for sure. C'mon, get moving. Don't want no dead bum on my shift.' He prodded Jumper in the ribs with his foot.

Jumper sat still. He remembered anger. But it, too, was cold. He reached into his bag and touched the icy metal. But his fingers were too cold to wrap around the butt. Jumper's breath chilled and floated. He looked up. The burly watchman had on so many clothes his head sweated and steam swept up off it. He watched his breath and the other man's steam commingle and fade away. Or was he dreaming?

"What's that in the bag? You got a gun on you?"

Jumper nodded. "No shells."

"What's the point?" The watchman snorted, taking a step backwards. "You kidding me?" The man squatted in front of Jumper. "What good would it do you?"

"Reminds me, " Jumper mumbled. Someday he'd find shells, he thought.

"Reminds you? Did you use it in a crime?" The watchman's eyes glinted pricks of light.

Jumper shook his head. He hunched his shoulders. Better to freeze than beg out here in the shadow of the new moon.

"Stand up, Man, what's your name?"

"Jumper." He remained braced against the wall.

"You a long-term bail jumper?"

The face of the watchman was sliced in sharp angles from the glare of the flashlight and tinged in yellow from the distant streetlamp. Mercury vapor lights, Jumper thought. He remembered the brouhaha about putting them in, years ago now. "What?" Jumper said. What had the watchman said to him?

"What did you use the gun for?" The security guard said, tipping back on his heels. His shadowy body blocked the dark sky.

Jumper's head rolled back. "Not me, my kid brother."

"Kid gone bad, huh?" The guard's voice softened. "I gotta brother too."

Jumper felt glass shards in his eyes. The damned cold. He wiped at them with the back of his arm. The kid. The kid standing over his wife with the gun. Her torn clothes, the blood. Cold blooded. The cold. So cold and so long ago, frozen into memory and aching with the coldness of it.

"Hey Buddy, hey, do you hear me?" The guard's gloves cupped Jumper's pitching shoulders. "I said, you come in my office-- have some hot soup, huh? You can sleep awhile on my bunk. The boss don't like it when I sleep on the job." The watchman laughed at his own joke.

He unlocked a huge door, motioning Jumper in. The warmth from a space heater welcomed them into a narrow office. The watchman carefully took the bag away from Jumper and set it on the desk, then helped him onto the bunk.

Jumper's weary mind began to dissolve on its own, leaving his body behind to shift for itself. Jumper unfastened his last aware thought and in the comfort of a little more heat, let it go.

####


RD Larson has always written. Mama Stories, her collection of short stories about the Pacific Northwest was republished online last year by Global Publishing Bureau Limited, UK.

Her newest novel, an adult suspense thriller, Evil Angel, was published at Global Publishing Bureau in October.

She has had more than 70 articles, stories and essays published online and in print. Currently, she has a historical fiction story set in August 1940 in England "The Red Pail" at Copperfield Review. Larson's reader-supported Web site features links to various free stories.

She currently has a story, "April Fool's Day," in a free e-book,Donard Book of Laughs and two poems in Unlocking Worlds: A Collection of Poetry, the proceeds of which go to help aspiring young writers.

You may also read an interview by Jerri Booker,"RD Larson, Writer Extraordinaire," and look out for another interview coming up on MiscramblingsMag.com.

RD can be reached via email at:LLarson419@aol.com .

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