No Atonement

               Baldrick Frederickson, son of Frederick, father of Roderick, forty four years of age, gray of hair, light of build, stumbled through a dark alley just after 2 AM. Drunk on gin and brandy, he saw the street ahead of him, blurry, but bright. It wasn’t far, now. Another minute and he’d be there. He’d hail a cab and be on his way home to his son and his fiancée Delores. Sunday night had rolled over into Monday, a Monday like every other. But this was MLK day. Monday Luther King, Jr.

               Orbo, close friend and compatriot of Baldrick, spent the whole night at the bar talking about Martin Luther King, Jr., quoting him heavily, showing off both his encyclopedic knowledge of history, and his peerless devotion to social awareness. It was no overstatement to say all patrons appreciated his contributions to the atmosphere of the bar on that particular night. When the clock struck Monday, Orbo left a five dollar tip, took the final sip of his beverage, and bowed out to head home. Without a comrade to light up his mood, the graying forty four year old son of Frederick drank faster and more heavily, pleased that the clock factory in which he worked would be closed for the holiday. Had it not been closed, things would be the same. His consumption of drinks would not lessen, his intoxication would not be avoided. All would  be as it was.

               A darkness rested over the alley. A darkness that, to Baldrick’s fogged mind, seemed symbolic of the days in which Martin Luther King fought for civil rights, and battled with the powers that be for equality and a multitude of things that people of non-sociopathic persuasions could all agree were right. A darkness that was heavy, and that also told of the shadowy preludes to King Jr’s steam-engine human revolution, and foreshadowed its abrupt end at the hands of a ghost. A darkness that was, in actuality, merely a consequence of it being 2 AM, and the sun being below the horizon, no lights illuminating the alley, and the nearest street being a good thirty difficult steps away. Light is known to play tricks on a drunkard’s mind, but the lack of light is known to play worse tricks.

               A clank and a crash and the sound of tumbling trashcans grabbed his attention with slow waves, subdued by insobriety, but intensified by that all-pervading darkness. Baldrick turned to face the source of the noise, and his eyes rested on a young lad no more than twelve, no less than ten. He wore the clothes of the middle class, had shoes that Baldrick knew were expensive, having bought them for his own son not two weeks earlier, and wore the face of rage. A lad so young shouldn’t be out in the city this late, Baldrick quietly reflected. But quiet reflection is no substitute for action, and soon Baldrick found himself the unfortunate target of the young boy’s wrath.

               “The fuck you looking at?” shouted the boy. No weapons were in his hands, but his eyes were torches. Torches were dangerous enough, Baldrick knew. Torches ignited the crumpled papers and kindling of revolution, the spirits of its participants, but also the pages of books, the curtains of culture, and the homes of plenty. Baldrick was well aware of the power torches held, and the responsibility to which the brandishers were chained.

               “Goin’ home,” Baldrick said. When he heard his voice he realized his perilous levels of intoxication, and hoped for the best. “Goin’ to get a taxi.”

               “Where’s your wallet?” The youth was straight to the point, a quality Baldrick liked, but not  in the circumstances.

               “Where’re your parents?”

               The boy didn’t seem to hear Baldrick, or didn’t seem to care, and rushed at the man, with his mouth open in a pre-pubescent roar. “Aaaah!” he screamed, though his scream was far more piercing and terrifying than words can convey. It lasted all of ten seconds, even as he collided with Baldrick and threw his fists into the man’s sides.

               “Away from me, devil!” Baldrick yelled, shoving the boy to the ground.

               The thud with which the boy landed was loud, and Baldrick smiled, but didn’t laugh. That could have been his own son, he thought, had he not raised him with good judgment and sound parenting. In his heart, he quietly pitied the boy’s parents. But quiet pitying is no substitute for action, Baldrick learned, as the boy cried.

               “Oh dear. What have I done?”

               Baldrick knelt beside the boy and apologized with slurred tongue and drooling mouth, intent to get the boy on his side. “Don’t cry, now. Here, take this.” He handed the boy a crumpled up five dollar bill, the only piece of money left in his pockets after leaving the bar.

               The boy took the cash, stuffed it into his pocket, and became quiet, and dried his eyes. He sat up, face to face with Baldrick. At this moment Baldrick noticed the boy’s face looked like a familiar mug shot of James Earl Ray, the assassin of Martin Luther King, Jr. Imagine that, he thought to himself. And imagine it he did, as he pictured a whole dramatic chain of events spawning from this chance encounter in the alley with the young boy, leading up to a tragic ending for future revolutionaries.

               As he was helped to his feet, the young boy pulled his arms from Baldrick’s grasp and threw another punch at him. It missed, and Baldrick threw his hand in the boy’s face to push him away, yet again. But his hand was intercepted by the boy’s open mouth. With all the strength of a jaw (about two-hundred pounds of force, for this particular child), the boy bit Baldrick’s fingers, and grinded his teeth back and forth on the hand until blood and bone received fresh air.

              Rendered mute perhaps by drunkenness, or by sheer surprise and shock, Baldrick didn’t scream,  but pushed at the boy until he could pull his hand free from the mouth. The boy lurched backward  but stayed standing, his lips and chin covered in blood, and he showed his teeth, like a raging dog, also red with the blood of Baldrick. His neck and his collar were bloodstained. The torches he had as eyes flared, their flames reaching into the night like beacons of victory, and he ran from the alley, toward the street.

               Baldrick’s blood, thinned by gin and brandy, poured profusely from his wounds, by now covering his forearm and his sleeve. He felt the alcohol was a blessing and a curse, at once preventing him from noticing the extremity of the pain, but not permitting his blood to coagulate as he thought it should. Home would have to wait. A visit to the hospital was in order.

               He stumbled out of the alley, onto the sidewalks by the street. He spotted the young boy running, still fast and angry, a couple blocks down the street.

               As he waited for a taxi, Baldrick stared at his hand. He thought of the boy and the poor fortune he likely underwent to end up in that alley, and the even poorer fortune that awaited him. For in his blood, Baldrick kept a dark secret. An infection that affected his entire body, his entire being. AIDS; full blown. HIV was in him for years now, though he never told anyone. He kept it in check. Frederick, late father of Baldrick, had left a hefty sum of money at his departure from his world. With that money Baldrick had given his son all he would need, and treated himself to top-notch treatment of the virus. But when Delores, fiancé of Baldrick, convinced him to live the life he deserved, with vacations, hobbies, and experiences, the money for his treatment faded. Soon, HIV had become AIDS. Baldrick’s strength was fading, and soon he would die. He looked at the boy, still running in the distance, swerving from sidewalk to sidewalk, he again pictured a tragic series of events unfolding from the chance encounter in the alley, but this time for the boy.

               Baldrick died weeks later with his son and fiancée at his side. Heartbroken and grief-stricken, it is unlikely they would have taken comfort at the knowledge that Baldrick’s blood, a burden to himself, would in a year’s time, end the life of the young boy he met that fateful night in the alley. The young boy who, from all outward appearances, seemed fine and well-intending, but, in the dark alley of his heart, had far worse things in store for the world.