The Distance He Traveled

by Eric Lawson

The market in the central square of San Pueños had already began to empty, the din of commerce slowly dwindling. The near-shapeless figures of old women, wrapped in black, were becoming fewer in number. Soon the silence that permeates the square after all good husbands are home would be broken only by the sound of the operators of the meat stalls and fruit stands closing up shop, the click-slam of shutters joining.

Vincente slowly surveyed his surroundings, undulating terra cotta bordering the man-made horizon, whipping winds forming cyclones of refuse in the corners of the square, the striped overhangs, long faded by the southern sun. Each day he'd watch the cut sunflowers being sold across the square wilt, inching further towards the ground through the day, appearing to yearn to return from whence they came, to once again touch their mother.

A passing dark mass broke the visual spell the view had cast upon Vincente, who jerked his head to the left to see what had broken his near-trance. He quickly dismissed the uninterested buyer, Sra. Marquez, who was now squeezing and sniffing the produce next door, and turned back to soaking up everything around him, attempting to perceive it all at once, to become the landscape, to fuse with San Pueños.

A biting pain caused Vincente to lick his chapped lips, to quench the canyons that had taken up residence beneath his nostrils. He could taste the earth as his cleaned the dust from the corners of his mouth, dust brought in by the cool winds from the distant sea, breezes that cooled both skin and hostilities. The hearts of the whole town would seem to melt in tandem, smiles passing to one's neighbor.

Memories of the countless villages of his childhood came rushing back, down-trodden hamlets where the sole use of the square was pick-up games of soccer played with worn, grimy orbs by children with no shoes. Fondness for this past almost made Vincente forget about the poverty. For many, retrospect leaves the bad by the wayside, they can forget poverty and the drudgery of everyday living, with the assistance of time, but he could not be released from the chains of memory that bound him.

A distant voice rumbled, snapping reality into the frame, 'Is something the matter?' It took Vincente a moment to realize who the voice belonged to, not a figure from the past, but rather is neighbor in commerce.

'No, nothing... just trips, falls, mouthfuls of earth.' Out of the corner of his eye, past hunks of flesh hanging in his own stall, a slowly shaking head.

Vincente was used to this motion of the head, this waggling back and forth, for the townsfolk had been shaking since they first laid eyes on him. He could feel it whenever he walked by, leaving a wake of swaying heads. Even after all these years, even after he went into business, he could not shake the stigma of the urchin he had been.

He yearned to flee when he sensed their distaste, but he could not. The routine was too much to leave behind. What would he do without these daily sights, smells, sound, feelings, and tastes he had become accustomed to?

He felt as if his senses would shut down outside this town, his town. Past the farms, would sights become smells, tastes become sounds? He had never ventured to find out, since he had wandered into town, filthy, ragged, and alone.

Long ago, Vincente had decided that life was just an expression of wants; a customer in a shop wants a gallon of milk and a bag of flour, the store's owner of course wants money, and that girl behind the counter, she just wants people to stop coming in for five minutes so she can sneak a cigarette. In every single societal transaction, there was only one thing Vincente was looking for - acceptance. This was something that he felt doomed to never receive, unrequited understanding plagued him night and day. In fact, he knew that as long as he remained in San Pueños acceptance would still only be an idea in his head.

'I need to clear my eyes of this god-forsaken grime. Carlos, can you watch the shop for a moment?' Hearing no response, he began to shuffle his way to the exit, pushed open the swinging gate and paused, his hesitation evident.

Bowels churning, heart thumping, he stepped out into the dust, he would no longer be an unwanted man in an unwanted land. He could feel the grit against his soles, minuscule channels being cut into the rubber, injuries that would not heal. Vincente marveled at the new pattern of stars that faced him, peeking out of the darkness that had enveloped the town.

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