We were running up the road early in the morning, with the fields on each side still fresh and deserted, the patched asphalt cool and damp, where our running shoes lightly, rhythmically set down. We started up the hill, always the hardest part. I was looking down at the ground so I wouldn’t be discouraged by the long slope ahead.
Jim, ahead of me as always, stopped suddenly within the upward limits of my vision. His hand came out flat behind him – a protective gesture I recognized. I knew at once something was wrong with where he was looking. As I approached, I couldn’t tell what it was at first; my mind counted off the possibilities in rapid fire. Finally, I allowed myself to focus on the bundle of cloth in the grass and see it as a person. A person in a ditch along the side of a country road. Murdered and dumped there. Hit by a car. A person escaped from a prison. A brace lay beside one of the legs. One side of the face was swollen and scarred. A young face. The stench of urine hit my nose and I backed up.
Jim called, yelled at him “Hey…HEY.”
The body shifted, looked up with its distorted face. “Huh?”
“ARE YOU OKAY? I thought you were hit by a car.”
“No. No. Just sleeping.”
We returned home, the peace of the morning shattered.
The state police. Back then, you dialed 0. “Officer Holmes? This is Jim White. I was just out jogging on Plass Road in Pleasant Valley and there was this man…”
“Yeah, we know. You’re the fifth call already. He’s just sleeping it off. A rock concert last night. He looks like someone beat him up, though. Thank you. Goodbye.”
We went back out to run again. The body was gone – only the pressed grass remained, like the outline of murder victims on the sidewalks of big cities. We ran on, expecting to see him, and finally we did, walking in the same direction we were running. He was limping, carrying the leg brace.
“Hey, where does this road go?” he asked us as we passed him, the sunlight hitting his scarred face. When we told him, he paused for a moment and then veered off into the woods.
The day tilted back to normalcy after that, except that we were reminded how narrow the limits are to the existence we know. Our bodies that we try to save – our souls that we don’t understand. That road is our patched path, on either side, the woods hang over – green with life and vibrant, but dark and impenetrable. A border like the stars, full of promise, yet dark and unknowable beyond.
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