X. And, Marking the Spot

He had dirt in his hair and in his teeth and when he cried for her there was a trickle of mud on his cheek for the dirt in his eyes.

He was always dirty. Always.

Ever since he found the map.

Ever since then, he'd been digging.

The only problem was that the X on the map kept moving around. And sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes that fucker wasn't even there at all.

So that was difficult. Being a treasure hunter had it's drawbacks.

But, he had faith and perseverance and balls. Obsession is what she called it when she left. And when she came back, she asked him to take his things and leave.

Since then he has been following the map and the ever changing location of the X. When he wasn't digging, he was sleeping in the pockets of giants and he hung his clothes on the sharp, upward sloping edge of the crescent moon and book marked his shovel and maddox between his dreams and his doubt. 

And his tears were mud and his eyes sparkled with flakes of mica and fools gold.

So he would dig. He would take one, two, three.....four-hundred and twenty-six paces east by southeast, and dig. Sometimes he would hitchhike and the presence of a strange man counting off footsteps while riding shotgun would always be too much for the driver. So, he would walk again.

And he would dig.

When he got to where the X lived on that particular day, he would dig. He wore no gloves and his hands were hard as axe handles, big as pair of catchers mitts. He would excavate topsoil and clay and rock. Sometimes there was asphalt or concrete. Sometimes other things. Once, the map took him to a cemetery. That was a hard day. Fuckin A.

Those were hard times. Hard as fuck.

It was always hard. All the goddamn time.

He didn't like to think about it though. He only cared for the digging. Some say it was the Hope that kept him going. Some say he was crazy as a shit-house rat. Others didn't say anything as they took up there own shovels. Followed their own map. And when he saw them - the ones with their own map and shovels - his heart would feel like activated thermite and ribbons of mud would run down his cheeks again.

Because he knows. He knows what they don't. He knows.....and he digs anyway.

He knows.

The X. The one that keeps moving all around his map. The one that sings him to sleep with it's lullaby of promise.

The X?

May never have been there in the first place. And that map may very well be an old, coffee stained Denny's menu-mat.

Still.

He digs.

He really has fuck all other options.

Comments

[Adam P. Knave]

Nice one, man! "And his tears were mud and his eyes sparkled with flakes of mica and fools gold." really solid stuff. Sweeps along wonderfully.

[Jett]

And when he saw them - the ones with their own map and shovels - his heart would feel like activated thermite and ribbons of mud would run down his cheeks again.

Ohhhhh, YES.

[TwoBusy]

What Jett said? Ditto.

[Kevin (Always Home and Uncool)]

Charlie: One of my favs.

[Mr Lady]

Oh my god, Charlie. That was perfection.

Or, to coin someone else's phrase...Dude. Goddamn.

[Susan (Trout Towers)]

You know, a zen teacher once told me this story except your version is more mud-caked and I don't think he mentioned the shit house rat.

I like your version.

[Cheryl]

. . . between his dreams and his doubts. Absolutely beautiful.

[ms picket to you]

the story leaks like mercury

we are lucky to let it seep in

[Homemaker Man]

Good shit.