"I've got something you can eat with that." Ben opened his rucksack and offered him some bread. "I mean, you look like you could use something solid." The man took a deep breath. "Couldn't keep it down." He coughed fiercely and swallowed more wine. The drink seemed to steady him a little. He reached in a pocket of his Levi jacket and found a cigarette. His shaky hand let go of it as he tried to place it between his lips. Ben picked it up. "I'll light it." Ben found matches in his shirt pocket and struck the flame. He pulled the harsh smoke from the unfiltered Camel into his mouth and, seeing it was lit, gave it to the man. He was not shaking nearly so much now and he inhaled deeply on the cigarette. "Thanks," he said. "Do you have someplace to stay?" "Oh sure," the man answered. "Here in Pacific Grove." He coughed hard, for a half minute or so. "Landlady won't let me drink there. A while ago I threw a bottle through the window." The Tokay was bringing him out of his shakes and his face began to color. He was more comfortable now; he could talk more easily. He told Ben he was a painter a house painter. "Hadn't done much lately, though." He paused, shaking his head. "Been kinda sick." The man asked Ben where he was from. "Doubt you've heard of it. Ogden. Uh, it's in Utah." "Hell, yes, Ogden. Railroad town. Been there a lot." His eyes softened a little; Ben could see he was thinking of something. "Rodeo town, too." "Yeh." Ben wondered, "You worked for the railroad or what?" "Did once. Lasted about a month. Fixed track in the desert really shitty work. Mostly, though, I'd just ride the cars. Empty boxcars. Ogden was a good place to stop." Ben thought of Hobo Jungle, down by the river. When he was a little kid they'd drive past in a car and his father would point it out. They'd finally burned it down; the city landfill was covering the site over. The man guzzled a little more wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Ben began to learn a lot about the drifter as they talked. His name was Roy and he had been on the road or in a boxcar ever since he was 17. "Got caught once. Usually, railroads look the other way, don't care if you ride the boxcars if you didn't steal. This one detective a real bastard caught me. The train was goin' slow because of the grade; we were going over a summit in the Sierras. That bastard shoved me out the door. It was colder'n hell and my bedroll was still in the car." Roy smiled and checked Ben's attention with a quick glance. "Hiked about 15 miles, finally found a farmhouse. An old guy and his wife lived there, invited me in, gave me a job practically adopted me. Job, nice bed, everything. And when I left, them people gave me a hundred bucks to leave on. A hundred bucks!" "Why'd you leave?" He paused. "Dunno. Just did guess I couldn't handle it. Lost the money in three days playin' poker.' Roy talked on. Ben listened as the afternoon passed by and he watched the sea and its birds and boats and rows of mossy piles that once supported busy docks. The wind blew the noisy wetness to Ben's face. Roy was getting pretty drunk by now, and he was starting to talk about the things that obviously pained him. Ben was surprised to find that he understood the drifter. "Roy, why did you start?" "Huh?" "I mean leave home. Why did you go?" He looked a little alarmed. "Jesus. I dunno. I liked home." His eyes reddened. "I just had to go. It was really easier that way. I dunno." Ben nodded. "Yeh," he said softly. The sky was darkening slightly; fog was coming in off the ocean in wisps. Ben felt slightly chilled. "I just knew I had to get away." Roy was talking mostly to himself. "Like with my old lady." "Your old lady ?" "Yeh. Got a wife and kid. Think she's still my wife. God, the kid must be ten by now. I called up the old lady about five years ago found out where she was she told me, 'You show your goddamn head 'round here I'll blow it off with a shotgun! We get along fine 'thout you'." He turned to Ben, tears welling in his eyes. "Can't go back. Ever. I was happy, but God knows I had to leave. Had to." The fog came in a thick bank and carried a hint of rain. Ben felt oppressed, weighted, and he suddenly felt he had to run away from that place. He tied up his rucksack and slid it over his shoulders. "S'long, Roy." Roy muttered a farewell, and Ben turned and walked down the old railroad tracks in the direction of the cannery ruins. Ben's mind, so clear and untroubled this morning, was now embattled. Ben cursed himself for letting a drunk's ramblings make him think of home and doubt the plans that had seemed so perfect when he'd left. But I had a reason for leaving, Ben thought. There is something better. I had to leave. The fog-shrouded cannery, looming closer at the end of the track, seemed dark and ominous. The tracks were ugly and bleak and unyielding; hard, cold steel. Ben turned his back on the roaring ocean and his thoughts. He left the tracks and climbed a long hill to the highway. If I'm lucky, Ben thought, I can catch a ride and make San Francisco by tonight. Illustration by SCOTT GEARY Laughter came after man Man came after thought And both were walled in the tomb. DAVE BARBER That day is best composed Which is punctuated by several exclamation points Sandwiched between morning's question mark And evening's period. EVELYN DUSSOL Some walk softly. Some speak gently. Some stand tall. I walk alone. I speak alone. I stand alone. I am dead. -JAMES BERRETT HAIKU Grey puffs of fur cling To barren twigs in chilled air Awaiting spring's breath. RACHEL CRARY