The wanderer

 His eyes were hollow from so many years on this earth. His skin was weathered and thin, which happens when you go without food, but he always has enough coins to buy a fifth of cheap booze. He was a wanderer, they say, with holes in the bottom of his shoes and tattered clothing. He rarely took off except for those times he landed in jail, charged with something stupid like drinking in a public park. The guards had a good laugh at his expense, taking bets on who would be the lucky one to take his clothes to be burned. They found some clothes in the donation box that mostly fit him, except for the boots, which were a bit too large. He'd been there before and had asked for some newspaper, which he stuffed into the toe area, and all was well. They gave him a sandwich from the vending machine, a stale egg salad sandwich that he gratefully accepted. If only he had a snort to calm his nerves, but that wasn't happening.

The following day, he went before the judge. He stood staring ahead as the judge read the charges against him and asked how he pleaded. I don't know," he answered softly. You don't know, the judge asked in a tone that was anything but nice. Well, your honor, I drink a lot, don't know why, really. I suppose because it helps me forget the things that have haunted me for some time now. And that would be what the judge asked.

I went off to war a long time ago. He began. I wasn't prepared for the things I saw and had to do. Each round that exploded around me took a little piece of me, and the fear welled up inside of me, and I ran off the battlefield and never stopped until the military police found me hiding in a burned-out truck. They threw me out of the army, giving me a ticket home and seven dollars, which I used to buy a fifth. The judge was silent for a moment, then softly spoke, saying he found it wrong the way they treated me. I was just a kid fighting a man's war with no compassion at all. He found me not guilty and released me back into the world I seemed to have found peace in. The guards confronted him at the door, handed him a bag filled with clothes and a pair of boots that fit him, and an envelope with one hundred dollars in twenties that they knew he would drink up in no time.

He's still out there somewhere chasing something he will never catch, as the memories will always be with him and the longing for an egg salad sandwich forever on his mind.

Mike  2026