The Good Book, Chapter 3

Here's the new chapter, since its been so long I've included chapters one and two:

Chapter 1

Its supposed to snow tonight into tomorrow, the weatherman predicted up to twelve inches. I don’t get to play in snow enough to enjoy it anymore. I have to wake up an extra thirty minutes early to shovel, get hot and sweaty, then go to work. I walk to work and most people aren’t conscientious enough to have their walks shoveled. I don’t like snow.
My thoughts flow and I can’t figure out what to write about. Its frustrating, mainly because I’d like to be a writer. A writer of books and things, not so much news articles and other things. Maybe I should look at what sells and be a blockbuster writer like James Patterson. I’m sure its not as easy as his books make it seem.
Plot, thought, twist, dialogue, punctuation. I should think plot though, or is it character(s)? Font, wit, wisdom, mystery, romance. Coffee, definitely coffee. Then maybe a cigarette?
Coffee’s warm, it’ll keep me up. The shades are up and the light’s on, its dark outside so the windows are like mirrors. I can see the blankness on my face and faintly snow flakes falling outside. Snow’s sticking. My eyes lose track of the flakes, extra examination proves the snow is still falling.
Its late, maybe early. I don’t think the day starts until the sun rises, so its late for me. I should get sleep, I have to work in the morning. Work might be closed for the snow. I don’t know. I’m a professional sandwich maker. We’re like mailmen. We work rain, snow, sleet, and shine; we work in a climate controlled building.
I’m up late and not getting anything done. I’m wasting sleep time and I like sleep. I like dreaming more. Dreams are fun, they’re most often filled with sex and violence. I don’t think that idea needs further explanation. Its still fucking snowing.
My music library is really lopsided. Its frontloaded, over half my songs are by artists with names beginning with A or B. Its not planned. I’m not trying to conquer music one letter at a time. I have discographies from the following artists: Aesop Rock, Afroman, The Beach Boys, The Beatles, Billy Joel, Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, Bright Eyes and Busdriver. Its starting to annoy me. Maybe I have an unnatural attraction to the letter B (and less so A).
The sky’s brightening up. I’ll have a cigarette. I smoke Winstons, they like to advertise that they’re made without additives. I say they’ll give me additive-free cancer. I don’t like the smell of cigarettes so I smoke on my front porch and walk out to the street to flick the butt. There’s a little kid running down the sidewalk. Since the snow is up to his knees he isn’t really running, but he’s giving it a go. Not anymore. He fell. He’s a house and a half away and not getting up. I should’ve gone over sooner.
I get over to him; his cheeks are bright red, his nose is running, tears are in his eyes, his hands shoot up toward me. He wants to be picked up. I hoist him and plop him on my shoulders and begin to walk following his trail in the snow.
“What are you doing out here buddy? I’m going to take you home, back to mommy and daddy, ok?” Shit, what if the kid‘s from a broken family? “You know where you live?” Nothing. So he’s a mute or really cold and miserable and weirded out by this guy who came along and picked him up and is taking him in the opposite direction of where he was clearly trying to go.
Its light enough to see visibility is down to a block or two. Snow’s up to eight or ten inches and not stopping. I’m ill-equipped for this mission. My slippers are filling with snow with every step. The snow is willing to compromise with my body heat and turn to slush in my slippers. I’m pretty sure my toes are purple. I really don’t like snow. The kid’s path is filling in, “I could use some help finding your house, bud.” Maybe he’s physically capable of speech but just doesn’t know how.
There’s a battle in my head. I can go back to my place get out of the cold and call the police or child services and risk seeming to be on the pedophilia side of creepy or I can keep trying to follow a faint trail and risk losing my toes and therefore my ability to walk and therefore my ability to lead a happy fulfilling life. I’m stacking the deck for option #1.

Chapter 2

I took off my slippers when I got back and the little guy’s coat and shoes. He was asleep before I got back with the afghans (for him) and a pair of thick wool socks (for me).
So here’s a story idea. A guy finds a little kid alone in a snowstorm. What next? He’s sleeping on the couch across the room from my table/desk. Afghans are piled high, his face is serene. I need more material. I’m worn out.
I get up and go into my bathroom/kitchen. Why the architect designed the bathroom and kitchen to share a room I’ll never fucking know. Its given me bad habits, when I go anywhere you wouldn’t believe the strange looks I get bringing food into bathrooms.
The phone book is in a low cupboard near the toilet. I look up the number for child services in the phonebook and give them a ring. It rings through, there’s a message about being closed for inclement weather, beeeep. “Hey, I found this little boy running outside of my house this morning, well, I saw him fall when he was running. He was all by himself in the deep snow. I couldn’t figure out where he’d come from. I didn’t see anyone else around and I took him in. So, get back to me, he’s sleeping here now, um, this is Jim Carlyle, that’s c-a-r-l-y-l-e, at 4-8-4, 2-2-6, 5-3, 7-4...thanks.”
There wasn’t anything in his pockets, but he’s too young to be carrying a wallet. I should call the police or something. Are they the ones to call? Did I put the phonebook back? I don’t think this deserves a 9-1-1. Maybe his parents will come looking. I don’t want to get them in trouble. They deserve it though for letting their little boy out in a blizzard, but maybe it was an accident. He could’ve walked out of an unlocked front door. They must be worried sick or happy that they got rid of the little shit. He’s been agreeable though for me. What if the parents aren’t found?

***Chapter 3***

I feel asleep. Five hours, I was asleep. Its still snowing out, there’s three or four feet. There isn’t a little boy in my house. I’m looking and there isn’t a little boy. I sure as shit don’t need your condemnation.
I have a good memory but I never trust it, I’m sure there was a boy though. He isn’t here, not anywhere where he could fit. I need to call the police. There should be tracks in the snow. There’s nothing. No clues. All the old shoe prints are most of the way filled in. From the back doorway I see a solid sheet of snow across the yard-- no tracks. Shit, shit, shit. What happened? The windows are locked from the inside and there is a pile of afghans on the couch and his coat and shoes are gone.
9-1-1, *ring*, “Hello, 9-1-1 emergency assistance, how may I direct your call?”
“I found a little boy in the blizzard and took him in and he’s gone and his coat and shoes are still here and I’ve looked all over my house, I can’t find him, and there aren’t any tracks in the snow …m-my doors were locked … I don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll transfer you to the police department, please hold while I redirect your call.”
I retold my story, somewhat more level-headed. They said they’d dispatch a car. I pour a cup of coffee and sit next to it. It seems less likely that a police car will make it here than a little boy being able to leave on foot.
I can’t do anything. There aren’t any leads. I could go out in the storm, but I don’t know where to look. I’m still tired. I don’t want coffee. He has to be in the house.
Several hours later I reiterate my point to the police. They tell me that they’ll be in touch. I take a shower and go to bed.