The Postcard By Nicholas Guarracino Alfonso took another swig from his canteen, and grimaced at the taste of the “coffee”. It certainly kept him up, but for the wrong reasons. It was bitter and it caused a bad feeling in his stomach. At least that made it a good analogy for his time in America so far. When he had first heard stories of that marvelous land on the other end of the sea, it sounded like paradise on Earth. The streets were paved with gold, the spirits flowed like water, and the women. Oh, what he had been told of the women. What he found were streets paved with the homeless and the downtrodden, the spirits capped off by would-be puritans, and the women… America had not kept her promises. But worst of all was the cold. He could not speak of the whole of the country, but where he landed, it was bone chilling cold. And to top it off, it was only late fall. He was only there for a few days before he hopped a train away from that cold hell-hole that he landed in. Imagine what it must be like for those that live there, and see the cold every year. He wasn’t going to put up with that cold. No, he was heading for greener pastures and warmer seas. He took the postcard out from his bindle to remind himself of his destination. Palm trees and the warm ocean looked back at him. That was his goal. The train stopped and his travelling companions rushed off to avoid the bulls. He put the postcard back into his bindle and joined them in the run. * Again, Alfonso grimaced at the taste of American “food”. He could not list all the ingredients, but he could tell that the stew had potatoes, water, and everything else. Still, he was hungry. “Well boy howdy, friend. You mind moving over a bit? Log’s big enough for two.” The owner of that friendly voice was a man who looked no older than seventeen. He was tall, African, and had an accent that suggested he was Southern. The stranger found that his friendly speak worked in getting Alfonso to move, and thus he sat down on the log. “Name’s Henry. And what do you call yourself, friend?” “Alfonso.” The response was short, and only audible enough to get past the postcard that was glued to his eyes. “Well Al, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Now, pardon me for the intrusion, but might I ask if y’all are heading south?” Alfonso paused to think about the question and responded with the same amount of tact as before. “Yes.” He put the postcard back into his bindle for the sake of politeness. “e voi, Henry?” Alfonso realized his slip back into his mother tongue, but Henry seemed to understand the question. Henry let out a long laugh. “No, no, no my friend. Aint nothing good waiting for me in the South. I’m running from the South! Nobody of my complexion got much a chance these days. You, maybe. But me? No, I’m heading north.” “Then we will not…” He thought for a second. English was not his forte. “make camp together again.” “Well then Al, we make good camp tonight!” The two sat on that log and shared the stew. Henry even brought out a little flask from under his coat. Alfonso must have been a lightweight, or the drink strong, because he was passed out soon after. Alfonso woke up in the same camp sight he had fallen asleep in. It was just far enough from the train yard to avoid the bulls, and thus was relatively peaceful. There was something different about it though. Henry had left, and had taken with him some of that friendly air. After some searching, Alfonso discovered that Henry had taken a lot more than that. “Bastardo!” Alfonso yelled at Henry, but Henry had already left on an earlier train with Alfonso’s bindle. “Mannaggia o’diavolo!” Alfonso recomposed himself, before sitting down. He was steaming with anger. Was this American hospitality? What’s more, the postcard was in the bindle. How would Alfonso know when he got to where he was going without it? How could he find his palm trees and the ocean? Eventually he had to move on, and so he hopped on the next southbound train. He could not bring his bindle, but he brought his rage. * Eventually that train stopped in a train yard. It was further south, and thus it was slightly warmer. Still, there was a chill in the air, and so Alfonso found a campfire for the night. He was about to sit on a rock that was next to the fire, when he noticed something. He saw a familiar piece of cloth placed on the ground beside the campfire. The knit was very much like a cloth his Nonnina had made for him. It had to be the same one. And moreover, it was tied to a familiar stick. And to solidify Alfonso’s assumptions, its “owner” met eyes with Alfonso and realized that he had been caught. “Well looky here!” said Henry, putting on his friendly act again. “Why don’t we talk this over and…” Henry grabbed the bindle and ran before the sentence could be finished. Alfonso gave chase. The chase took the two into the train yard, and Henry tripped on a rail. As he fell into the gravel, Alfonso jumped on top of him. “Moulignon, dammi la mia sacca!” Realizing that Henry could not speak Italian, he simply punched him in the gut, and picked up his bindle. He then started to walk back when he felt an arm around his neck. “I don’t take kindly to a damn wop giving me no sass! Drop the damn bag, or you’ll drop with it guinea!” Alfonso needed to think fast, but the world around him did the thinking for him. A train whistle had been blown. Alfonso backed himself and Henry into the tracks. “Now boy, lets not make this harder than it has to be!” Henry tried to sound threatening, but a tang of fear was in his voice. Hearing the train getting closer, Henry let his grip go and started to back off. Before he could get too far, Alfonso grabbed Henry and threw him down onto the tracks, knocking the wind out of the thief. Alfonso almost walked away to let Henry die, but he knew that he was no killer. When he thought that Henry had been scared straight, he pulled Henry off the tracks. Alfonso looked Henry straight in the eye. “Moulignon, if I see you again, you die!” Henry had the good sense to run away from Alfonso, who likewise had the good sense not to follow. So he took his bindle, returned to his camp, and sat down by the fire. The other travelers were smart enough not to talk to Alfonso, lest they anger him and end up like Henry almost did. Instead, the mulligan mixer poured him an extra bit of the stew. Alfonso took the postcard out of the bindle, and looked at his destination. Palm trees and the ocean. Hopefully, not much further until he could see them with his own eyes.
THE POSTCARD (NICK)
The PostcardBy Nicholas Guarracino
Alfonso took another swig from his canteen, and grimaced at the taste of the “coffee”. It certainly kept him up, but for the wrong reasons. It was bitter and it caused a bad feeling in his stomach. At least that made it a good analogy for his time in America so far.
When he had first heard stories of that marvelous land on the other end of the sea, it sounded like paradise on Earth. The streets were paved with gold, the spirits flowed like water, and the women. Oh, what he had been told of the women.
What he found were streets paved with the homeless and the downtrodden, the spirits capped off by would-be puritans, and the women…
America had not kept her promises. But worst of all was the cold. He could not speak of the whole of the country, but where he landed, it was bone chilling cold. And to top it off, it was only late fall. He was only there for a few days before he hopped a train away from that cold hell-hole that he landed in. Imagine what it must be like for those that live there, and see the cold every year.
He wasn’t going to put up with that cold. No, he was heading for greener pastures and warmer seas. He took the postcard out from his bindle to remind himself of his destination. Palm trees and the warm ocean looked back at him. That was his goal.
The train stopped and his travelling companions rushed off to avoid the bulls. He put the postcard back into his bindle and joined them in the run.
*
Again, Alfonso grimaced at the taste of American “food”. He could not list all the ingredients, but he could tell that the stew had potatoes, water, and everything else. Still, he was hungry.
“Well boy howdy, friend. You mind moving over a bit? Log’s big enough for two.”
The owner of that friendly voice was a man who looked no older than seventeen. He was tall, African, and had an accent that suggested he was Southern. The stranger found that his friendly speak worked in getting Alfonso to move, and thus he sat down on the log.
“Name’s Henry. And what do you call yourself, friend?”
“Alfonso.” The response was short, and only audible enough to get past the postcard that was glued to his eyes.
“Well Al, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Now, pardon me for the intrusion, but might I ask if y’all are heading south?”
Alfonso paused to think about the question and responded with the same amount of tact as before. “Yes.” He put the postcard back into his bindle for the sake of politeness. “e voi, Henry?” Alfonso realized his slip back into his mother tongue, but Henry seemed to understand the question.
Henry let out a long laugh. “No, no, no my friend. Aint nothing good waiting for me in the South. I’m running from the South! Nobody of my complexion got much a chance these days. You, maybe. But me? No, I’m heading north.”
“Then we will not…” He thought for a second. English was not his forte. “make camp together again.”
“Well then Al, we make good camp tonight!”
The two sat on that log and shared the stew. Henry even brought out a little flask from under his coat. Alfonso must have been a lightweight, or the drink strong, because he was passed out soon after.
Alfonso woke up in the same camp sight he had fallen asleep in. It was just far enough from the train yard to avoid the bulls, and thus was relatively peaceful. There was something different about it though. Henry had left, and had taken with him some of that friendly air. After some searching, Alfonso discovered that Henry had taken a lot more than that.
“Bastardo!” Alfonso yelled at Henry, but Henry had already left on an earlier train with Alfonso’s bindle. “Mannaggia o’diavolo!” Alfonso recomposed himself, before sitting down. He was steaming with anger. Was this American hospitality? What’s more, the postcard was in the bindle. How would Alfonso know when he got to where he was going without it? How could he find his palm trees and the ocean?
Eventually he had to move on, and so he hopped on the next southbound train. He could not bring his bindle, but he brought his rage.
*
Eventually that train stopped in a train yard. It was further south, and thus it was slightly warmer. Still, there was a chill in the air, and so Alfonso found a campfire for the night. He was about to sit on a rock that was next to the fire, when he noticed something.
He saw a familiar piece of cloth placed on the ground beside the campfire. The knit was very much like a cloth his Nonnina had made for him. It had to be the same one. And moreover, it was tied to a familiar stick. And to solidify Alfonso’s assumptions, its “owner” met eyes with Alfonso and realized that he had been caught.
“Well looky here!” said Henry, putting on his friendly act again. “Why don’t we talk this over and…” Henry grabbed the bindle and ran before the sentence could be finished. Alfonso gave chase. The chase took the two into the train yard, and Henry tripped on a rail. As he fell into the gravel, Alfonso jumped on top of him.
“Moulignon, dammi la mia sacca!” Realizing that Henry could not speak Italian, he simply punched him in the gut, and picked up his bindle. He then started to walk back when he felt an arm around his neck. “I don’t take kindly to a damn wop giving me no sass! Drop the damn bag, or you’ll drop with it guinea!”
Alfonso needed to think fast, but the world around him did the thinking for him. A train whistle had been blown. Alfonso backed himself and Henry into the tracks.
“Now boy, lets not make this harder than it has to be!” Henry tried to sound threatening, but a tang of fear was in his voice. Hearing the train getting closer, Henry let his grip go and started to back off. Before he could get too far, Alfonso grabbed Henry and threw him down onto the tracks, knocking the wind out of the thief. Alfonso almost walked away to let Henry die, but he knew that he was no killer. When he thought that Henry had been scared straight, he pulled Henry off the tracks.
Alfonso looked Henry straight in the eye. “Moulignon, if I see you again, you die!”
Henry had the good sense to run away from Alfonso, who likewise had the good sense not to follow. So he took his bindle, returned to his camp, and sat down by the fire. The other travelers were smart enough not to talk to Alfonso, lest they anger him and end up like Henry almost did. Instead, the mulligan mixer poured him an extra bit of the stew.
Alfonso took the postcard out of the bindle, and looked at his destination. Palm trees and the ocean. Hopefully, not much further until he could see them with his own eyes.