This Box That I Call Home

Landon Cambridge walked slowly across Fifty-Second Street in New York City. To his right was a hotdog stand labeled with a sign that read “Famous Sausages.” His stomach fiercely growled at him, summoning him to the stand where jumbo links slowly rotated with steady precision. The links grew beads of sweat, almost as profusely as the sweat beading on Landon’s head from the scorching August sun. He reached in his wallet and found the head of a dollar staring back at him. Unfortunately, it was the only head staring back at him. He stared solemnly at the words “In God We Trust.” His mother always told him to trust God when life wasn’t handing him the biggest lemons. It made more sense to him to think that way when he was younger and untouched by the cruelties of life. He silenced his hunger with the half of a bagel in his pocket, which was given to him yesterday morning by an empathetic man dressed in the finest clothing. He looked like he belonged in one of those buildings that stretched so far it could touch the sky. Landon envied this man, for he was the kind of man who made something of himself, despite his circumstance. He reminded him of one of those Hollywood Africans who used to be such a big deal in the fifties. After picking the lint from his bagel, he began walking- counting each step, imagining each step would be trimmed in gold and marked in history like the footprints of movie stars. China Town was coming up on his left where he spotted the Chinese Theater. He read the distorted symbols on the cheaply made flashing billboard. Underneath the symbols were English translations. “Gold Wood Palace; A Night in China Town; The Ghost of Beijing.”  He considered sneaking into the Ghost of Beijing, even though his eye sight was too poor to translate an entire movie without any strain. It had been ages since he’d seen any movie, let alone a movie about ghosts. After Landon’s parents died, Preacher Donny always told him to repel ghosts because antagonizing the idea could threaten his Christianity. He told him to remember the crown of thorns whenever he felt weak in his faith. He wondered why all those years of repelling ghosts and imagining the crown of thorns led him to the streets of New York, a lonely beggar. His mind wandered to his first night without a home. He was seventeen years old, left only with a sleeping bag and peanut butter crackers. Camping by the swamp near where his parents used to live was a bad idea, considering he woke up in the morning surrounded by snakes. That’s when he decided the streets were a better option. He then thought back to his last family trip to England where his now deceased grandmother had resided. He had never been happier than he was when he admired the details of a Stonehenge which stood about a mile from her home. The scent of the passing wind still lingered as if he was just there yesterday. He now sat admiring the details of the box which was to be called home. Everything was so much simpler back then.

Broken Wing