Exodus
by Timothy Phillips

Exodus

By

Timothy C. Phillips

     She walks down the tracks like a dark dream. There are no shadows in the noonday sun. The light is bright as a flashbulb. The heat hits you in the face, makes you turn your head. Dressed in her exquisite black, though, she glides by daily. She is unaffected by the swelter. Her skin is white as her clothes are black. Long, straight, white-blonde hair billows behind her, finding a breeze, somehow, in the stagnant, burning stillness.

I sit in my dim little house and watch her go by. I think of unicorns and creatures from children’s dreams, silly things that I never think of, otherwise. Her daily transit has hypnotized me, somehow. I clutch the bottle firmly every day as I watch. She glides by, heat waves billowing around her, on her surreal journey from one unknown to the other. She is visible to me for only a few minutes as she passes by; then she is gone, down the tracks. Her mystery fills my empty days.

On weekends, she does not come at all. On these days, I drink until I pass into bottomless blackness, and have somber, incoherent dreams. Lately, something strange has come upon me. I have dreamed of Moses, his heart heavy as he looks out over the Promised Land that he is never to know. I awake, wondering at the image. I wonder from where, deep within, that I have dredged it up. Before, I dreamed of my days in the army, and the dirty little invasion in which I lost my left kneecap, and my remaining good years.

            In my former career, I had been a sergeant in the Rangers. A platoon of us got bushwhacked on patrol while pursuing humanitarian objectives in Somalia, you might recall. Most of my men died. I got shot up. I had to spend a lot of time in Army hospitals, where they fixed me. Except the fix didn’t take. I got retired, on a medical basis. I found myself divorced, with no kids, and no family; in other words, alone.

            The sun is brutal to me now; there was a time when I could shrug off much worse. Sometimes I find it hard to believe that I have walked ashore from landing craft in tropical climes, been in hellish firefights on the continent of Africa. Not to mention that before that, I  withstood harsh and enormous drill instructors, giant black men from Alabama, who ran me and my comrades to the point of collapse in the noonday sun at boot camp, long ago. These things I once endured; but no more. I am not a wreck, but I am no longer the man who did those things.

            Now I simply await my dark angel’s passage every day, watching through the curtains for the first glimpse of her, a black mirage in the distance, and then I see her long black skirt, fluttering around her. It trails behind her in the heat, the heat that cannot touch her.  Some dimly echoing, macho part of my brain tells me that this is beneath me. There were times when I, a big, brawny soldier, charming and fearless, would approach and charm women in bars and bus stations, or wherever I happened to be. They were attracted to the powerful and brave figure I represented. This too, no more; I have changed. Perhaps I have let myself change. I think now, and before I did not think.

That is a mighty change, indeed.

            I stay inside; I read. I drink; I would sleep, but sleep seldom comes. The check comes faithfully, usually before it is needed. It is all that links me to the past. That and the pain in the knee. I can still walk without limping, on the warm days. Days like today. For that I am thankful. I receive medication, for days when the pain is too much. Mostly, I wait for her. She never disappoints.

            There is ample time during these long waits to reflect on my failed mission, how my group had gone into the village to distribute medicine and suppress rebel activity, and had ran into a hail of gunfire. We were a motorized patrol. Most of the vehicles had to be abandoned. I was trying like hell to get my squad out in one piece. By the time the choppers got there, it was all over but the crying. We were all dead or wounded in some way.

            Yesterday while waiting, I dozed by the window, and the dream of Moses returned. As usual, he was standing on a hill overlooking the fertile green valley below him, behind him only the limitless desert, and far distant Egypt. His God’s edict weighed heavier on his heart than any ever pronounced by Pharaoh. Having found the Promised Land, he could never set foot there. He had broken faith; such was his punishment. I felt his pain, and his regret. I awoke disoriented; I stood up with a start, afraid that I had missed her.

I walked out on my small porch, and looked toward the tracks. My heart almost stopped. She was standing there, watching me. Even at the distance, I could see that she smiled, and gave a wave with a tiny movement of her hand. She had seen me dozing, I suppose. I wondered what had made her look in my direction. Before I could regain my composure, she had begun her casual, ethereal journey to parts unknown. I went back in, and sat down, dumbfounded.

I tried to get drunk last night, but found that I have lost the taste for it. I slept soundly throughout the night, and dreamed again of Moses. One last time, I feel.

In the dream, he had thrown down the old staff that he had carried so long, kicked off the worn out sandals, and walked down into the Promised Land, letting the hot sand scorch his feet until the cool green grass relieved them. In his mind, there was only peace; and when I awoke this morning, I felt it, too.

I have changed once, and now, I will change again. Not to what I was; the soldier is gone, dead on the field with his comrades. That part of me the Somali bullet did slay. But today, though sunny, it seems a little cooler, and Africa seems like a mythical place, full of Zebras and Elephants and other wonders, like it did in my childhood. And also, it seems very far away. But the most important difference; today I wait, standing on the tracks.

And it is almost time; she never disappoints.

Birmingham, AL

1998, 2008, 2009