My Canteen and I
The hot sand burned my throat and my eyes glazed over as I reached for my canteen that should have held water. It did not. It was as dry as my mouth, dry as the sand that surrounded us for miles. We were alone, my canteen and I, in the middle of the desert, with the winds blowing over us, blowing the sand over the desert like a mist, hiding the dusty view from us like a veil.
The mist parted, displaying an every day street, one I had walked down so many times before, my feet just walking, my brain not concentrating on anything but watching the people swarm by, noting the windows of stores that attracted me, and snorting at those which were vulgar.
In my pocket there was money, quarters and nickels and dimes that would buy a drink to quench my unquenchable thirst.
I took from my pocket the necessary change, poked them into the slot, and pushed the button. The machine grunted, a grunt that was inevitable, and I could tell it had grunted even when I had not heard it. The Coke came tumbling out of the machine, and I grabbed it, tearing off the top and thrusting the coke to my mouth. I expected the cold Coke to rush down, some of it making it to my mouth, the rest pouring out, dripping down my chin, splattering the gray pavement.
Nothing came out of it. I opened my eyes, I was just staring at the empty canteen. I was again on the desert. I was still surrounded by sand, and I held tightly onto the canteen. The stones I clutched in my hand were dark with my sweat. I dropped the empty canteen down on the sand. It did not make any noise, just the faintest thud, but this sounded like that last breath a dying animal takes.
I could see the tracks my camel had made, running off with my food and water, back to the place he called home.
My home was not this dry desert. It was cool and comforting, full of noises and smells that could not be matched by the howling screams of the desert wind and endless smell of sand, warmth, and dryness.
If I kept walking I would soon come to my house. I rose to my feet, picking up the canteen and cradling it in my arms.
In my arms I was carrying some bread that I had trotted down to the store to get. I mounted the stairs, and placed one hand on the smooth oak door. It was warm, and I can tell the home inside is warm. I knock, my knuckles scraping uncomfortably on the knocker.
My mother answers the door. I hand her the bread, and she accepts it with a little sound, a sound that could mean anything. I walk after her into the kitchen. She pours me some water. I hold the glass in my hands, not drinking, although my mouth is dry from running to the store.
She tells me to eat, and places a bowl on the table before me. I sit. I casually slip my hand into the bowl. The food is warm, she has been cooking. She questions me about the desert—I am just back. I bring my hand, full of the food, to my mouth. My tongue tastes the dry fruit. It is a little too dry for my taste. I reach for the glass of water. I cannot find it.
The bread is next to me on the table. I put my hand on it, and again bring my hand to my mouth.
I spit out sand, and more sand, and emptied my cupped hand. Next to me was the canteen. My house has vanished. We are alone in the desert. We are alone, my canteen and I, in the lonely desert, surrounded by sand and howling winds. We are alone, with no Coke Machine to quench our thirst. We are alone, my canteen and I, with no mother to hand us water. We are alone, my canteen and I, alone.