JEFF SULLINS - LYNN'S ESCAPE

​Jeff Sullins works in the software industry by day and attempts to keep up with two young children the rest of the time. A former musician, game designer, and programmer, he's begun to explore the strange new world of fiction writing.

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Lynn’s Escape by Jeff Sullins (fantasy story)

Lynn huddled inside a doorway belonging to one of the shops lining 16th Street. It had been a cold fall night and a chill lingered as the sun rose. The filthy remnant of an old comforter, one of his few possessions, lay draped over his head and shoulders. The blanket was tattered and stained, but it warmed him enough to keep from freezing.

He knew he'd have to get up and move from the door before long now that people began to appear along the street. His type weren't welcome around the businesses here--wouldn't want to scare off customers looking for bagels on their way to desk jobs.

Yet still he sat. Sometimes when he'd been in a spot awhile he simply lacked the motivation to do anything--even something so small as getting up and shambling off. It wasn't as though he had somewhere to be, after all. Then he noticed two women coming down the sidewalk in his direction.

They leaned towards each other, whispering. They stared at him, and while they whispered Lynn knew they'd judged him--convicted him with their thoughts. His face was smeared with grime, a mark of his life on the streets. His dark hair was lanky and greasy, and a scruffy beard covered his face and neck. The women must have been wondering how they could avoid him--this smelly heap--as they walked by. Perhaps they feared he would ask for a handout. 

He had long since grown used to humiliating stares, but he was tired. Tired of the injustice of being seen as trash. Tired of being cursed at and told, "get a job." Tired of people with no understanding of what being homeless was like. And tired of people like these two women clutching warm cups of coffee, avoiding his eyes as they drew close and passed him by.

A whim took him.  He lurched to his feet yelling, "Gahhh!" He roared a nonsensical string of syllables, whatever came to his lips.  

The women jumped in surprise. One of them spilled her coffee, he noted with petty glee. Clutching the comforter around his head and shoulders, he hurried behind them down the sidewalk. 

The women walked faster and faster. He continued close behind. Finally, they dropped their coffee cups and broke into a run, letting out squeals of fear. 

Lynn stopped, not pursuing. He'd had no plans to hurt them, of course. But for a moment part of him wanted to scream, "I am here! I am not a piece of litter you can ignore!" He'd acted on that with little thought.

The pair crossed an intersection and turned, then were soon gone from his sight. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He felt no satisfaction from what he'd done, nor any remorse. It was simply the start of another pointless day of survival. He had nothing but boredom ahead of him. Still, he should probably get going somewhere.

As he turned away from the intersection, he noticed a figure standing across the street. It appeared to be a man dressed in a long black peacoat, with a somewhat military look. He had a scarf wrapped tightly around the lower portion of his face. Something about him held Lynn's attention. He was still and intent, like a bird of prey waiting for a mouse to run past its gaze.

Was the man watching him?  

#

Feeling hungry, Lynn went exploring in the alley behind a corner coffee shop nearby.  Shop employees would sometimes toss stale muffins and cookies into a dumpster there, and he could score a quick meal if he arrived early.  

This time someone else had gotten there first.

Jorge was elbows deep in the dumpster, rooting around and muttering to himself.  Lynn encountered him from time to time, but calling him a friend would be an overstatement. They were more like cellmates, or sailors stranded on the same desert island. 

Jorge was shorter than Lynn, bordering on pudgy. He, like Lynn, knew quite a bit about surviving on the street. "Hey Lynn," he said. "Ain't found much yet worth havin', but you can help look if ya want."

Lynn gave a grunt for a reply.  He stood and watched Jorge for a minute or two, then moved up beside him to peer inside the dumpster.

Jorge looked over his shoulder at him.  "Didn't see you at the shelter last night. Got pretty cold."

Lynn shrugged. He disliked the shelter. It wasn't the bed bugs or the lice that bothered him, really.  It wasn't the cramped and overcrowded conditions, either, or the staff. In fact, the staff seemed to genuinely care about people like himself. If Lynn could believe good people existed in the world, they'd probably be a lot like the people working at the shelter.

What he disliked was the expectation that he conform to rules. Keeping a schedule, being told what he could or could not do--these were things that drove him away. In some ways it felt like being in jail. Of course, once it got cold enough in winter, he'd have no choice but to go there. But for now, he could still stand to rough it. 

Jorge turned back to the dumpster. "You in some kinda mood? Just not gonna talk, eh? Ok.  Here, wanna split this?" He pulled a large cranberry muffin from the dumpster. It looked stiff and dry, but mostly edible.

Lynn nodded and accepted half of the muffin, then slumped to the ground, resting his shoulders against the alley wall. He bit off a hunk, then chewed in silence for a moment.  

He fished a butter packet out of his pocket. He'd filched a handful of them from a sandwich shop earlier in the week before the manager chased him off. He tossed it up to Jorge, and asked, "Ever see a man wearing a black jacket standing around out here?  Watching, maybe like a cop?"

Jorge snatched the butter packet. His expression changed, becoming nervous. "Yeah. No. I dunno. I seen a lot that'd make a guy crazy, y'know? Maybe I saw that, or maybe you did. Don't change nuthin'. Leave me alone!" Jorge shuffled off, offended.

Lynn eyed him as he left. Sometimes Jorge was like that. Not all there upstairs. Plenty of guys were that way out here. 

The way Lynn saw it, some folks on the street were just passing through. They'd be here a few months, maybe a year, and then find their way out. But guys like Jorge and Lynn, they never found a way out. At least, not this side of the grave.  Many were addicts, or crazy, or both. Lynn was not an addict. The jury was still out on crazy.

He thought more about the man in the black jacket while he finished his muffin. If the man had been a cop, then something would have happened by now. Since it hadn't, there was probably nothing to worry about. Still, he couldn't stop thinking about him. Maybe it was just the novelty of having a mystery to consider that left him preoccupied.

#

Two days later, Lynn went wandering further from the city center. He made his way to an area of small, grassy, roadside hills where he sometimes napped under scrawny evergreens.  He could pass the time there watching people without being harassed. He would sit and stare at the traffic as it went by, or observe fresh-faced youths coming and going on the nearby community college campus. Watching let him feel... not happy, but perhaps less bored. Nothing made him feel happy.

He found a spot where he could settle back, propped on one elbow. The grass was thick with dandelions even this late in the year. He pulled some up from the ground nearest him and chewed the yellow flowers while he watched passing cars and students. The taste was bitter and earthy, but he hardly noticed.

He spent more and more time reflecting as he'd gotten older, though he no longer knew his age for certain. He remembered being kicked out of his mother's home at age 16 after a fight with her boyfriend. He'd had no family or friends to turn to, and had been on the street ever since. Surviving. 

Survival became easier over the years. Once expectations fell low enough, and goals and hope were gone, it became a simple matter of settling into a miserable routine.  Boredom was as much a companion to him now as hunger. It stalked him like a relentless shadow.

He'd tried a few times to climb out of this life when he was younger. Each time he eventually fell back onto the streets. He'd lose what jobs he could find, or get in a fight with the wrong person, or make some other mistake. When his hope died, it took a measure of his pain with it. There was a numb comfort in having nothing left to lose.

Not for the first time, he looked down at the traffic with a different thought. There was another way out--an escape from his misery that no job loss could snatch back from him. He could pick out a large truck, or maybe a van or a bus, and throw himself in front of it as it sped along. It would work best at night, of course, so the driver would have less chance to react. He could do it. He let his eyes wander, selecting a likely spot along the sidewalk where he could launch the attempt...

He closed his eyes. That was not the way out for him. Not yet. He didn't know why. Maybe it was fear? Whatever the cause, Lynn had always decided to stick with his life, such as it was.

Opening his eyes again, he sighed and turned his body, leaning on his other elbow. This brought a change to his field of view and showed him a different busy street. And there, on the other side of it, was the man in the black peacoat.

He still wore the scarf, and once again stood straight and still, facing him. 

_This time I'm sure! He's watching me!_ Lynn sat up, finding his arms cramped and stiff. He groaned, turning the sound into a growl, and got to his feet. He was going over there to talk to the man and find out what he wanted.

Traffic was steady as he walked down the small hill.  When he reached the sidewalk bordering the road, a city bus came to a stop in front of him. It blocked his view while it sat motionless, waiting for a traffic light. Minutes passed while the smell of diesel exhaust suffused the air around him. 

At last the flow of traffic resumed and the bus moved on. The man across the street was gone. Lynn spun around, cursing, but saw no sign of him. 

It began to rain.

He spent more and more time reflecting as he'd gotten older, though he no longer knew his age for certain. He remembered being kicked out of his mother's home at age 16 after a fight with her boyfriend. He'd had no family or friends to turn to, and had been on the street ever since. Surviving. 

Survival became easier over the years. Once expectations fell low enough, and goals and hope were gone, it became a simple matter of settling into a miserable routine.  Boredom was as much a companion to him now as hunger. It stalked him like a relentless shadow.

He'd tried a few times to climb out of this life when he was younger. Each time he eventually fell back onto the streets. He'd lose what jobs he could find, or get in a fight with the wrong person, or make some other mistake. When his hope died, it took a measure of his pain with it. There was a numb comfort in having nothing left to lose.

Not for the first time, he looked down at the traffic with a different thought. There was another way out--an escape from his misery that no job loss could snatch back from him. He could pick out a large truck, or maybe a van or a bus, and throw himself in front of it as it sped along. It would work best at night, of course, so the driver would have less chance to react. He could do it. He let his eyes wander, selecting a likely spot along the sidewalk where he could launch the attempt...

He closed his eyes. That was not the way out for him. Not yet. He didn't know why. Maybe it was fear? Whatever the cause, Lynn had always decided to stick with his life, such as it was.

Opening his eyes again, he sighed and turned his body, leaning on his other elbow. This brought a change to his field of view and showed him a different busy street. And there, on the other side of it, was the man in the black peacoat.

He still wore the scarf, and once again stood straight and still, facing him. 

_This time I'm sure! He's watching me!_ Lynn sat up, finding his arms cramped and stiff. He groaned, turning the sound into a growl, and got to his feet. He was going over there to talk to the man and find out what he wanted.

Traffic was steady as he walked down the small hill.  When he reached the sidewalk bordering the road, a city bus came to a stop in front of him. It blocked his view while it sat motionless, waiting for a traffic light. Minutes passed while the smell of diesel exhaust suffused the air around him. 

At last the flow of traffic resumed and the bus moved on. The man across the street was gone. Lynn spun around, cursing, but saw no sign of him. 

It began to rain.

#

The rain was not heavy, but it would eventually soak him enough that he could become dangerously cold. His blanket would provide little protection once sodden, and he had no rain gear.

He was still avoiding the shelter and didn't feel like returning to the alleys of 16th Street, so he headed down Speer Boulevard as the sun set. He descended an embankment, coming up beneath a bridge. The span of concrete carried the roadway over a drainage canal and bike path. During the day it was busy with cyclists, but it was deserted now.

A chill had already settled into his thin frame, and he huddled against the concrete. It was neither warm nor cozy, but was out of the wetness for the moment. It looked like he was in store for a long night, so he situated his blanket around himself. There was probably another hour of dim evening light left before darkness fell.

A young man in a soaked tee-shirt stumbled into view beneath the bridge. He looked in his late teens, and had a thin build. He was drenched. He made his way under the bridge with unexpected slowness and a lost look on his face. The teenager huddled against the concrete as Lynn had, clutching his legs with shivering arms.

The rain was coming down harder now, energized by a gusty wind. Lightning flashes cast periodic shadows under the bridge.

Lynn watched him for a moment. One of his rules for survival had always been, "take care of yourself first, because nobody else will." But as he looked at the shivering young man hunched a few yards from him, he recalled his own youth. He couldn't help remembering what it had been like all those years ago, when he had first found himself with nowhere to go and nobody to turn to. This young man was like a ghost from his own past.

He scrubbed his face with his palms, knowing he would soon regret what he was about to do.

Rising to a crouch, he hobbled over to the young man. "Hey. Hey, you ok?" He looked the boy in the eyes, and saw dilated pupils. _He's on something_, Lynn realized.

"Cold," was his reply, in a near whisper.

With a sigh, Lynn draped his blanket over the young man, settling it over his head and shoulders. Lynn had gone cold before, and he had the experience to do what he needed to survive. This kid did not, and though he knew it was crazy, Lynn had to help.

The kid made a gagging sound and became more alert. "Dude, this thing smells like someone puked on a dead dog." He made no move to push the blanket off, though.

Lynn pushed himself back up against the concrete, hugging his knees to preserve warmth. In a low voice, he said, "This is no place for you, kid."

"Gimme a break, man. I'll clear outta' here after the rain stops, ok?" He dropped his head down, covering his face with his arms.

"No, I don't mean under this bridge. I mean out here. The street. It's no place for you. This ain't no life. You gotta get out." He looked at him, imagining a reflection of himself from long ago. He raised his voice. "You gotta go to someone who'll take you in. And if there's nobody, you gotta get to the shelter. They'll help you. Help you get out. You gotta do it, you gotta get help!" He had shouted the last, surprising himself. 

A third voice spoke, sounding strangely familiar though somewhat muffled. "Do you deserve help?"

Lynn whipped his head around at the sound.  There, standing just under the bridge, stood the man in the black coat. His hair and scarf moved only slightly, as though unperturbed by the wind. The scarf still covered much of his face.

The man spoke again, "Does he deserve help? Or do you, Lynn?"

"Who the hell are you and how do you know my name?" A lightning flash briefly illuminated the man, revealing a puzzling detail. His clothes were dry. Lynn stared, dumbfounded. He blinked and shook his head, shaken. How could it be?

"Do you deserve it?" The man's voice came from behind his scarf, but was clear nonetheless.

Enraged, Lynn pounded his fist against the ground. "Yes! Yes, damn you!"

"Why?"

A quick series of lightning strikes, near enough that the thunder was shockingly loud, scoured rational thought from Lynn's mind for a moment. When it was over, the man was gone. Lynn stood, banging his head on concrete above him, then ran to the edge of the bridge and looked out. Rain pelted him in the face as he searched the night for any sign of the man. Finally, shivering, he gave up and withdrew. He hunched back against the concrete, wet and cold. 

#

Hours later, in what must have been the middle of the night, Lynn started awake from an uncomfortable sleep. His own shivering had woken him. He felt a sickly chill and an ache in his legs. Fever?

The rain had spent its fury and the air was still. He looked over at the young man sharing the bridge with him and saw that he was sleeping. He looked relatively comfortable now. 

Lynn shivered, freezing. He thought about taking back the blanket, but decided against it. Instead he climbed to his feet with a groan, stretching out a cramp in his calf. He looked out into the dark, lit by streetlights and an occasional passing vehicle. He walked out from under the bridge and hiked up the embankment to the road. 

He couldn't go to the shelter--they wouldn't be letting people in at this hour. Instead he made his way towards the campus light-rail station. If security saw him they'd run him off, but it was worth a try.

When he arrived at the station the clock read just after one in the morning. Another train would be through in 15 minutes. There were a couple of benches, slick with old rain. Lynn curled up to wait, wondering if he'd be seen.

When the train pulled up he looked up and down the cars, selecting one that was empty. He boarded the train, sitting as far from any door as possible. The car was heated and dry. He spent the rest of the night traveling from station to station, switching lines a couple of times to avoid trouble.

#

He was exhausted and weak with fever when the sun finally rose. He'd left the trains behind as they began to fill with the day's commuters. He walked, in a daze, to the shelter. When he arrived, he pushed his way through the front door into the receiving area. 

"Lynn! Sweet Mother of Mercy you look like a corpse!" Sarah, one of the shelter's regular staff, rushed over to him. "Let me get you to the clinic." She was a heavyset woman with brown hair and compassionate eyes. As long as Lynn could remember, Sarah had always been here.

"No, I don't want the clinic. Can I just have a blanket?" He held up his hands to fend her off and nearly fell as he lost his balance. "I've lost my blanket is all."

Sarah eyed him doubtfully. Finally she reached a decision and left him, heading into a back room. She returned a minute later with two coarse blankets. "Take these," she said. "I know there's no use in asking, but... when are you going to come in out of the cold, Lynn?" She looked up at him, her face a mix of emotions. 

Lynn didn't know how to answer, so he just shook his head, then turned and left the reception area. 

#

Three days passed before he saw the young man from the bridge again. Lynn was walking down Blake Street late in the afternoon, past an area that had a row of decorative shrubs and planted trees. He would sometimes stop and get a drink there from the sprinkler heads that watered the landscaping. He was still feverish, and had developed a hacking cough deep in his chest.

The young man was with several others who couldn't have been more than teens, seated beneath an ornamental tree. They were laughing and passing around a joint. The smell was fairly strong. It was legal to possess marijuana in the city now, but not to smoke it openly. Still, the new laws brought young people seeking a high from all around.

Lynn was about to walk on by, but decided instead to approach them. He did not normally seek out conversation with people, having long ago come to believe that it was best avoided. He felt foolish. Why would he seek to connect with someone now? He hadn't cared to try in many years. Yet, surprised and feeling almost as though he were watching himself from a distance, he opened his mouth. "Hey," he said. "Remember me? From the bridge? Did you get some help, kid?"  

The young man got up and walked toward him slowly. Without warning, he lunged and shoved him. Lynn was unprepared and fell to the ground, landing awkwardly on his tailbone.

"Stay away from me!" The young man spat on him, cursing and landing several vicious kicks to his abdomen. Lynn was too weak to get up, and certainly unable to do anything to stop the assault. He curled into a fetal position and waited for it to end, coughing and moaning.

Eventually the blows ceased and Lynn uncurled, raising his head to look around. The youths were gone. He crawled into a sitting position, struggling with several sharp pains in his midsection. 

After a few minutes' rest, he crawled to the nearest tree and used it to help lever himself to a standing position. It hurt, but he managed it. No sense hanging around.

He resumed a shuffling walk down Blake Street, stopping regularly to lean over and cough.

#

He had intended to hang around the baseball stadium that night looking for castoff food or handouts after the game. After the beating, however, he no longer felt up to it. 

Instead he walked as long as he could before collapsing, well after sunset, into an alley filled with dumpsters. He crawled between two, midway down the alley, then wrapped his new blankets about himself. He was wracked with coughs frequently now, made worse by lancing pain in his chest. After one lengthy series of hacking coughs he noticed a salty, metallic taste in his mouth. He looked down at himself, short of breath. There was blood on his blanket.

He was miserable, hurt, and sick. Maybe very sick. He thought about going to the shelter. Even if he had the strength to travel tonight, though, it was too late. Maybe tomorrow. 

He suspected, though, that tomorrow he would change his mind and decide not to go. Assuming he made it through the night at all. It had been a long time since he felt this bad. And he wasn't young anymore.

He lay down on his side, his face pressed against the grimy pavement of the alley. His breath came in painful wheezes, and he vainly sought sleep as frequent coughs shook him. 

He rolled onto his back, looking up at the sky. He watched as clouds passed in front of the stars.

"Please, don't let it rain," he whispered. He didn't know who he was asking, but he asked anyway.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours. His breathing grew calmer, but more shallow as well. He felt himself weakening, but the pain seemed farther away, too, so he didn't mind.

A face, wrapped in a scarf, appeared over him. The man in the black peacoat was there, kneeling over him. In a soft voice he asked, "Do you deserve help, Lynn?" Lynn could see his mouth moving behind the scarf.

Lynn thought for the span of a few breaths, then speaking barely more than a whisper, answered, "Yes."

The man inched closer, so that Lynn imagined he could feel his breath on him if not for the scarf covering his mouth. He spoke again, slow and soft, "But your own choices have led you here. Isn't this what you deserve? Tell me. Why do you deserve help?" The man leaned even closer. "Why?"

Lynn's frustration boiled inside him. He had endured more than should be asked of anyone. And here was this stranger, following him, kicking him while he was down? It was too much. With all the strength he had left, he heaved himself forward and tore the scarf from the man. Though it felt like jagged glass ripping his lungs, he screamed a reply, "Because I'm a human being!"

He stared at the man kneeling over him, his face now uncovered. His own face stared back at him. It was clean-shaven and free of street grime, but he knew it. This was what he would look like, had he lived a different life. 

The man looked down at him, nodding and smiling. "That's right." He held out his hand toward him.

Lynn looked at the outstretched hand, then with staring eyes studied the face. His face. He saw there the potential of roads not taken. A life that could have been. Choices that were never made. In those eyes were feelings he had never known, people he had never met. 

Lynn took his hand.