THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER; part two

The sun charged over the hill like Genghis Khan's army, overwhelming everything in it's path. Blues and purples transformed into gold and ochre...a flock of birds exploded from the trees, fleeing, (or celebrating?) the sudden appearance of the burning orb. Even the shadows seemed to be caught by surprise as they tumbled from the treeline and stretched their fingers down the hill. The stranger had been up for over an hour and sat in the red and gold caravan, drinking dark roasted coffee and watching the world's improvised response to the rising of the sun. He was glad to see it, feel it's warm rays and let it's golden light wash through the caravan.

The previous night had been drippy wet and cold. Mist snaked it's way through the trees and collected on the eucalyptus leaves over the caravan. It gathered into large drops and fell loudly onto the roof. The stranger stayed dry inside his tiny gypsy wagon, and reasonably warm, wrapped in his bedding. At 4 AM he sat up and turned on the light over the galley. He lit the burner of the stove and put on water for coffee. The interior of the caravan warmed up almost instantly. He scooped coffee into the filter and set it on top of the cup, then settled back against the pillows and waited for the water to boil. At this early hour when the world was still wrapped in it's indigo cloak, the caravan dweller felt a deep peace, the nightsounds softly accompanying the mystic quality that permeated everything. Although he had chosen a spot for the night that was only a short ride from the cacophany of the city, here all was quiet. The dark, pre-morning hours held the landscape in an eerie mist-world. He stepped out of the caravan into a soft, diaphanous half-light. He wiped down the bike and silently rode toward Venice Beach.

Once he reached the beach he guided his bicycle-caravan along the beach walk, the thick mist still softening edges, blurring the harshness of the reality faced by the people who lived on the streets. As he pedaled through the quiet, still-sleeping town, images appeared like smokey projections and then disappeared again, receding into the blue-grey shadows. Motionless forms wrapped in blankets lay scattered along the beachwalk, down the side streets, and along the sand. An elaborate improvised home made of appliance boxes and a broken umbrella occupied an alleyway...next to it, a large tent-like structure put haphazardly together from old blankets.

Carts piled high with the belongings of the street people, that were pulled from the trash that had been discarded by the better off. Bicycle dwellers, some with overloaded trailers, some weighed down with the castoffs of others lashed to their bikes...shopping carts with mountains of the broken flotsam and jetsom that represents a poor man's wealth. Venice Beach is a study of unintended consequences...a Jackson pollack painting of Mardi Gras...one part One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and one part Post-apocalyptic wasteland. A beach town with an attached outdoor insane asylum. Up ahead a lone figure sits hunched over in the cold mist. His clothes are filthy and in tatters and although it's cold and wet, he wears no shoes on his feet. His face is mostly hidden by the ratty hoodie that covers his head. As he sits there, dirty, wet, cold and unimaginably alone, he rocks back and forth, mumbling softly to some imaginary entity. The gypsy caravan rolls to a stop in front of the figure on the bench. The mysterious stranger can tell this person is lost in a maze of madness and delusion...he wonders when the tragic creature last had anything to eat. He has to be hungry. "I have food in the caravan," thinks the stranger..."more than I need." He dismounts from the bicycle and approaches the lonely figure, thinking to offer him some bread and cheese, and maybe a beer. "How ya doin, man?" The figure turns his eyes to meet the stranger's and rage flashes from them like a taser. He grits his rotting teeth and hisses like a cat that's been cornered by a Pit Bull. The stranger takes a step back toward his bike...this hopeless creature doesn't want his help...doesn't want anyone's help. He just wants to be left alone in his madness. The Hell that this tragic soul occupies is his home. It's Hell, but it's his alone. It's all that he has left. People sometimes say that God never gives you more than you can handle, but it isn't true. It's just one of those things that people say because it sounds nice. This person has been broken. He will die this way...out here in the cold, alone in his madness.

He rides on further down the beachwalk. The fog seems to be getting thicker...making it hard to see, driving mist into his eyes, filling them until they overflow, leaving wet tracks running down his face. He passes more sidewalk sleepers...nightwalkers, carrying their few possessions in old packs and plastic bags. They've walked all night, too wet and cold to sleep, or unable to find a safe place where they won't be rousted or robbed of what little they have...so they walk until daybreak when they can sleep on the beach.
Finally the stranger comes to a remote stretch of beach and parks the caravan. By now the last traces of night have been consumed by the dawn, and he watches as the sun charges over the hills like Genghis Khan's army, overwhelming everything in it's path. A flock of birds explodes from out of the trees, and the stranger wonders if they are fleeing from the sudden appearance of the burning orb or if they are celebrating the dawning of a new day.

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