"Okay man, you gotta concentrate, try to stay with me. This is serious." The bearded black man in his mid-thirties wiped his hand across his nose and sniffled. "Ya with me, man?"

"Yeah Ishmael, don't worry about me, I'm on my toes." The older, fat wino with pale skin smiled.

"Okay. Look at this bottle, this fine bottle of Ricardo's banana rum. Why, now tell me, why the fuck is it in my hand?" Ishmael's deep but glassy eyes stared intently at his drinking partner as they sat on old milk crates around a fire fueled by week-old newspapers.

"Man, you're fucking insane! You fucking ripped it off from Joe, man, you pulled it right out of his pocket. Remember? We turned him over so he wouldn't boot on himself and drown. You figured we'd be doing him a favor ripping off his booze. Remember?" The wino took a deep breath of the salty air that hung like a thick cloak over the coastal city.

"Shit man, I know all that! You're only scratching the surface, though, think harder! Don't you get where I'm going here; I told you to fucking concentrate! You've only scratched the surface, here! Now why, pray tell why, does this fucking bottle even exist?" He pulled his dreads out of his mud smeared face with fingers that poked out of torn, red gloves.


"Shut the fuck up, man, take a swig or I'll do it for you." The older wino looked disgusted.

"Shit, can't let that happen." With a grin Ishmael uprighted the bottle and took a shot followed by a loud sigh.

"Now tell me again why your parents named you something as funny as Ishmael. That's the stupidest name I ever heard."

Ishmael's eyes clouded over. "The assholes thought torment was a good thing."

"What? Man, you never make any sense. Nevermind, let me hit that shit. Ahh, this shit's good, just like daddy used to serve it up. So Ishmael, what's your story, man, why you a drunk?"

"Shit man, I dunno, it's easier this way. I did the college thing, fuckers in suits said I had promise and all that, but it was bullshit. I didn't get what I was looking for. I don't want to think about those questions anymore, it's so fucking painful to realize more and more that there might not be any answers, that's it's all a fucking absurd joke. The booze helps, works with the futility of it all. Shit, is there any reason not to be trashed all the time?"


"You were in college? Heh heh, wish I coulda seen that. Man, why you living like this, you could work and have money and shit! You a goddamn fool or something?"

"Fuck,. what would I get outta that? Man, don't you feel the questions staring at you from fucking everywhere? It's like we were just fucking thrown here without any reason. We don't know why we're here or why we're here like this! We don't have any certainty in nothin'! There's gotta be some goddamn explanation somewhere deep down there that I can grasp onto and be fucking certain about, and I'm gonna find it! Otherwise it's all just a fucking joke, and that would really piss me off! It's too dark in here, man, I need to use my eyes, how can I look for anything in this fucking cave? I'm outta here."

"Where the fuck you going, and what the fuck are you talking about? I like the darkness, you ain't exactly a pretty sight! If you're thinking about making a liquor run, I'll go with."

"No man, I just gotta go. I wanna use my eyes, I need to see." Ishmael put the rum in his pocket and walked off.

Ishmael hugged his tattered, beige coat around his shoulders. The red brick walls of tenement buildings rose above him, and black metal fire escapes climbed up the walls like vines that searched for the sunlight but died before reaching the top. He hated the way he couldn't see further than ten feet in this alley he spent most his time in. No one bothered him here, though, the cops were happy to let winos reign as alley kings.


With a grunt of determination Ishmael lifted his heavy boots and trudged forward, ready for the light to hit his eyes. His old leather boots splashed in the puddles as he turned the corner of the building and looked up into the night sky. The moon was almost full, but its light was blocked by the buildings.


"That's what I'm talking about, that alley's killing me. I need to get me some of that light so I can see," Ishmael thought to himself. He felt fortified, and with stumbling strides he walked down the dimly lit road past the tenement buildings. A dark car zoomed out of the night and whipped past him, splashing cold, dirty water all over his black sweatpants.

"Fuck you. Goddamn motherfuckers with cars. Eat shit." Ishmael grumbled and kicked at the large puddle.

He was cold and wet and his eyes flashed back and forth looking for something to dig, something to take his mind off quivering legs and icy wind. The long road offered little. Ishmael walked on and felt his brisk pace bring warm blood to his legs.


The moon hadn't moved far when Ishmael caught sight of lifeguard towers looming over the horizon. He couldn't yet see the sandy beaches or churning ocean, but he knew they were there, waiting for him.


"Need a nip 'a courage." Ishmael drained the last dregs of rum and threw the bottle on the beach as he reached the coastline. His boots made crunching noises on the sand. He clumsily sat down, his arms supporting him as his legs splayed out in the direction of the ocean. The full light of the moon reflected off the surface of the ocean. It looked like a sea of sparkling diamonds, and Ishmael gasped.

It was high tide. Foamy walls of water hit the coast and slowly died, stopping just before reaching Ishmael's boots. The ocean was brilliantly lit, but Ishmael knew that no matter how much light there was, he wouldn't be able to see below the surface. He had high hopes, though, and just being near the tremendous, murky depths brought warmth to his bones. He dipped his hands into the sea and scooped some water up. The moonlight reflected off the water and into Ishmael's eyes.

"I've got the stuff in my hands, man. It's here! Shit, I don't even want to know why it's here. I just like getting my hands wet. But man, it's not the same, it's not the same as . . . that! I know it's down there, hiding and laughing at us. Asshole won't come out, all the moonlight in the world can't shine down there," Ishmael thought to himself. He threw the liquid back into the surging sheets of water, and reached his arms out as far as they could stretch towards the ocean.


"Hey mister, do you want it?"

Ishmael started and whirled around, black dreads flying, until his frantic eyes rested on a little boy standing next to him on the beach. He hadn't even noticed the boy approach. He had thin, blond hair and a wool sweater that hugged his round belly. His right arm stretched out to the ocean.

"Eh? What, you wanna give me the ocean? It's not yours to give, kid -- then again, maybe it is. Shit, kids will surprise ya . . ." Ishmael's eyes widened frantically. "Do you mean that you know, kid, what's down there? Shit, do you have the answers, is that what you're saying? Sure kid, tell me, fuck boy, tell me!"

Suddenly the boy brought his fist down on Ishmael's head. He was too young to hurt Ishmael, but he lost his balance and fell down into the sand. The boy's giggles grew fainter as he ran away.

"Ya fucking brat! Shit, he must have had worse parents than I did," he muttered. "Fuck, why am I wasting my time here? I ain't gonna figure anything out, and I'm starting to sober. I gotta score a few drinks."

Ishmael spat in the water and stumbled off, concentrating on moving his legs as a tremendous weariness crept through his bones. He stirred up determination from somewhere inside him and strode back towards his alley, desperate for the certain walls and familiar sewage. He squinted as street lights seemed to point directly into his eyes, and then turned the corner into the alley.

With a sigh he unclenched his arms from around his chest as his eyes lost sight of the road. The red bricks cut off the light of the moon, and shadows climbed up the fire escapes. The old wino was passed out next to the dying embers of the fire as charred newspaper blew across his boots.


"Passed out on his side. Goodass wino," Ishmael chuckled. He knelt down next to him and pulled a half-full flask of whiskey out of his clenched hand.


"Looky here, I wonder how he scored this."

Ishmael twisted off the cap and started chugging. The walls blurred, he sat down, and the black slowly took over.


He opened his eyes to a dim light that pulled him into reality. A thick dryness seemed to coat his mouth with glue as he tried to pull himself up and sit. Ishmael shook convulsively as he slowly sensed the dull pain throughout his body and the churning sickness in his stomach. He needed water, so he wiped his hands across his face and stumbled into the basement of the tenement building, hoping no one would notice him. He found the utility sink, and noticed that someone had pissed in it. With a grunt Ishmael stuck his mouth under the faucet and turned it on. After a few minutes of desperate gulping, he washed a patch of brown crust off his forehead. He sat on the floor covered in dirt, and sighed in pain as his trembling quelled. Then he felt the shape of a bottle in his pocket.

"Hells no, that shit's what got me in this goddamn condition. I've gotta sober up and go over to the library, try to clear my mind. I'm aching awful bad, though. I need a nip, it'll make me feel better. Consider it medicine for a sick man," Ishmael thought to himself. Ishmael reached into his pocket and took a hit off the glass flask of whiskey he found there. He shuddered in relief, and his violent trembling slowed down.


"Fuck man, that did me well. I've got to stop chugging this shit, my mornings have been getting worse and worse. I better get motivated." Ishmael counted to five, and then with a grunt of pain stood up.

The world wavered and shimmered, "Not again, man, not again, I'm fighting this." He tensed his body up and clenched his eyes shut as tightly as he could. When he opened them, everything had stopped moving.


"Hells yeah, I'm doing good. Let's celebrate." He took another pull of his whiskey, and stared mournfully at the shot or two that sloshed around in the almost empty bottle. Ishmael yanked his sweatpants up to his belly and stumbled out into the street.


Dry air attacked his red, bloodshot eyes as a bitterly cold wind made his eyebrows ache and threw leaves across his shoes. He considered giving up and going back into the alley. With a grunt of angry determination, he wrapped his arms around his body and strode down the road. The last leaves had left the trees and bare branches poked holes in the grey sky. The tenement buildings leaned into the strong gusts of air that shook and pulled at Ishmael as he tried to fight his way down asphalt roads and patches of dying grass. Ishmael stared into the eyes of bundled-up pedestrians walking fast and crisp as the heels of their shoes made loud clicks on the asphalt. They looked away.


The library loomed into sight when he crossed the road and turned a corner. It was a three story building, perfectly square with a long flight of stairs leading to the door. A strong, yellow light shone from the windows. He walked in with a sigh as the wind died and a glowing warmth enveloped him. His legs ached from the exertion and cold, so he rubbed them vigorously before walking into the large, central room of the library. Tall, long shelves packed with books surrounded a square of rectangular desks. A few people sat around listlessly flipping pages, but the place was mostly empty. A librarian sat behind the information desk, eyes intent on a computer screen. The artificial light reflected in her glasses.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for answers, do you know where I can find out what's going on?" His voice trembled and increased in volume with each word.

She looked up at him with scorn. "Sir, I've told you we have books here, not answers, and if you don't stop coming in here every day asking me senseless questions I'm going to call the police. And please shower or something, you reek of alcohol!"

With an angry mumble he stumbled off. Wandering aimlessly through the walls of books, he stared at the titles and covers. Many of them he had read, and he stopped now and then to pull a book off the shelf and flip its pages violently.


"No answers here. Fuck, this guy's more lost than I am. Damn, what's the point of all these books if they don't got no answers!"

He pulled a thick, black leather bound book of a dusty shelf.

"This book had answers, but man, were they bullshit."

Finally he gave up. With a sad shake of his head and a smile at the librarian who had been nervously watching him, he stumbled out the door into the cold.

"Let other people figure shit out, I certainly can't."

Ishmael pulled out his flask and drained it. The bottle slipped out of his fingers and shattered on the sidewalk. The square building got smaller and smaller as he walked away.