He left the avenue and walked down 69th Street, stopping in front of the firehouse and joining the onlookers watching the firemen clean the trucks and test the equipment. Hoses were stretched up and down the street, men were shining and polishing brass, a spotlight was turned on and spun in an arc, the huge ladder raised and directed against the side of the building, men climbing up…

The boy watched, without excitement, and started to take the ball from his pocket… then shoved it back and walked away, not turning as he heard the grinding of gears and the whish of water, continuing down the street, looking at the familiar houses and stores, feeling more and more the uneasy urgency in his body and strange weighted feeling in his chest.

He looked around and nothing was different and that puzzled him. Something within him demanded that the street, the buildings, the people be different, yet they were all the same but now he lacked identity with them. The footprints he had left on these streets all the thousands of times he had walked them were gone, they no longer felt like his streets, yet he continued to wander through them seemingly seeking something without the slightest idea what it might be, not knowing for sure if he was looking for something or really trying to get away. He felt the need for companionship yet was driven to aloneness, unable to ask why, nor sure that there was a question to ask, wandering through the suffocating point in time where the old is left behind before the new is even known to exist; that point where even memories cannot be evoked, only vaguely felt without comfort.

He stopped and watched a cat rummaging through a garbage can, its scars and matted fur symbols of its valiant fight against all who would try to kill it, and of its devotion to its kittens (feeling that the cat did not want simply to satisfy its hunger, but was looking for food to feed its young hidden from harm in a dark cellar) and he wanted to pick it up and pet it, take it home, wash it, feed it, listen to it purr as it lapped milk… take it to bed with him and feel its soft fur as it snuggled close to him…

he could even put a little bell around its neck and watch it chase a ball or rubber mouse and listen to the tinkle…

and no one would hurt Lucky. He wouldnt be chased by kids throwing rocks. They wouldnt spin him by the tail and toss him high in the air. Lucky wouldnt have to claw his way free from rough hands and run panicky down the street dodging between legs and parked cars… being crushed by the wheels of a truck. He had to help her! He walked toward the cat but it instinctively jerked its head up, looked for a second, then sprang from the can and ran. He didnt try to chase it but watched it run down the street, sad that the cat had not understood.

The cat disappeared and the boy stood staring for a moment, then slowly continued down the street, watching his shadow dim the cracks in the pavement, the bottle caps, scraps of paper, popsicle sticks and old pieces of chewing gum that had been ground into the cement. He turned the corner and walked along Colonial Road to Bliss Park. He met another kid at the entrance who walked beside him. See Rusty taday?

The boy shook his head.

Ya think hes here?

Dont know, Joey.

I got a couple a broken light bulbs in here—rattling a paper bag and grinning—I hope hes aroun.

The boy nodded and they continued walking down the path, across the grass and stopped under a large berry tree and ate some berries, the boy feeling the warm, sweet juice trickle down his throat and enjoying the flavor which somehow made him feel even sadder. The other boy grabbed handfuls and chomped them happily, aint they great? Man, I could eat a million ofem.

They continued walking across the grass, the boy enjoying the feel of it under his feet; looking at the sky and trees; hearing the voices of kids, their mothers; of skaters on the paths; the sudden yells of ball players; the sound of his steps on the grass; the rustle of branches and leaves; the sight and the sound of the birds…

His loneliness didnt decrease, but he felt more content within his feeling of isolation, as if such a feeling belonged here with the grass and trees.

Hey, look, there he is. Joey was pointing to a group of a few men and a couple of boys sitting on the side of the hill. When they reached the group they sat with the other kids who were laughing and yelling at Rusty to feed the squirrels. Rusty waved his hand at them and took a drink of wine from a bottle, still in the brown paper bag, then passed it to the guy next to him. There were three of them and they continued to pass the bottle.

Joey shook his bag in front of the other kids then said to Rusty, I brought ya somethin ta eat. They all laughed and he shook the bag again before giving it to Rusty. Rusty opened it and looked at the pieces of broken light bulbs, took another drink, passed the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Jesus Christ, could ya spare it? He ripped open the bag and laid it on the ground. Ya know, when I was with the circus they used ta serve it on a tray. He burst out laughing and the kids laughed and the boy could feel his face starting to smile but something within him fought against it. Rusty stopped laughing and picked up a large piece of glass and put it in his mouth and started chewing. The kids stared, their eyes getting wider and wider. He swallowed and licked his lips, Musta been a GE. Can always tell a GE. They got a Michigan taste. He burst into another laugh, stopping when the bottle was passed back to him. He ate all the glass in the bag, the kids watching him, amazed no matter how many times they had seen him do the same thing. The boy watched too, transfixed, aware of what he was watching yet that little something that turned the viewing into amazement was missing and he didnt even wonder what happened to all that glass in Rustys stomach.

When Rusty had finished the glass he folded the bag and gently wiped his lips with it and said, My compliments to the chef. The kids giggled and laughed.

One of the kids handed him a few peanuts, Feed the squirrels, Rusty. Rusty took the peanuts and giggled, then crawled a few feet away and held out a peanut to a squirrel who had just descended a tree. The squirrel looked for a moment, then took a few steps toward Rusty who threw the nut to him. The squirrel picked it up, examined it carefully, then scooted off and buried it. Rusty crawled after him and when the squirrel left Rusty dug up the nut and held it up in the air—the kids screeching and laughing—then put it in his mouth and crawled back to the group, everyone laughing loudly, the boy smiling, the other kids yelling and slapping each other. Rusty sat up, the nut in his mouth, his arms extended, hands dangling, and cheeped, then turned and crawled away looking for another squirrel. The boy watched feeling his face fighting to giggle, to laugh, his hands wanted to clap and slap one of the other kids on the back, but the oppressive weight on his chest made it all impossible, and the unfamiliar feeling within let him know that there is no joy, no reason to laugh and so he felt even more cut off from his friends and his familiar world.

He left the group and walked slowly up the hill, hearing the screaching of bluejays mingling with the voices and laughter, to the open summer house on top, standing for a moment in its shade watching a squirrel running spirally up a tree, then walking to the stone wall around the seaside perimeter of the hill. He sat on the wall and looked at the harbor… watching the tugs towing barges of mud, coal, railroad cars, white smoke coming from the tall stacks and small black rings pumping from the short stubby ones… the ferries entering and leaving their slips… the cars moving along the parkway… the people walking along Shore Road… the kids running, their kites slowly staggering up as they yanked the string…