Spines of early spring evening sunlight 
penetrated the trees of the park, splattering 
golden droplets over the brown and gray clothing 
of office workers who scurried homeward with 
briefcases swinging under trench coats folded 
over tired arms. Visions of a warm suburban 
kitchen or yearnings for a snug city 
apartment blinded them to the broken 
souls who manned the rows of nearby benches.
The homeward bound evening travelers, most of them 
whose faces were blank with disinterest, 
skipped along, easily ignoring the usual clusters of 
street sellers that cordoned a nearby subway entrance.


Among those fixtures stood Wendy. In her 
late twenties, white, stout and pretty, and with 
blue eyes and long dark hair, she hawked pretzels 
every workday at her post on either one side of 
the subway opening or the other. Maybe no one 
noticed her because  Monday through Friday she 
dressed the same in yellow slacks and shirt, with 
green apron, cap and windbreaker, the regularity 
of which made her blend in with the background 
like a long time neighbor. People only noticed 
when she wasn't there. Especially Brian, who, 
clad in a greasy blue jumpsuit and combat boots, 
sold grilled sausage sandwiches and bottles of 
fruit juice. He thought Wendy was sweeter than 
any of those designer cookies he believed stole 
his business.

This particular evening Brian and Wendy 
were the last of the food vendors in that part of 
the park. It was getting cool, and they shared 
the warmth of Brian's grille, hoping they'd sell 
the last of their perishables to the final 
tricklings of overtime workers who trudged toward 
the subway entrance or ducked into the park to 
take a shortcut home.

Across the courtyard from Brian and Wendy, 
Huff reclined on a bench facing a fountain that 
gurgled nervously against the fading tumult of 
the late rush hour. Teenage facial fuzz and long, 
unkempt blonde locks outlined Huff's pallid face. 
His ragged clothing, torn black jeans, a stained 
Boston Celtics sweatshirt, a severely punctured, 
blue ski parka, and scuffed work boots, all fell 
loose and limp against his gaunt frame. Even in 
the cool of the imminent evening, Huff stank of 
dumpster, causing a bustling passerby to clamp a 
hand to her wrinkled nose. To Huff, the teetering 
urbanite was a whirring shadow, not real, not 
living.


Huff was a nickname. One he'd gotten after 
he'd been discovered unconscious at school in a 
stall in the smoky boys room, a can of paint 
stripper spilled at his side. After a trip to 
the hospital for emergency care, and his stay in 
another hospital, the kids in the neighborhood 
called him Huff. And, despite the negative 
connotation, he liked it better than Arthur, his 
real name.

Arthur had loved his family, and he'd liked 
school, where he was a better than average  
student. He was not a drug addict. He'd inhaled 
the noxious fumes out of curiosity. The thing 
was, he was changed, and now he was Huff, most of 
the time. Sometimes he was Arthur, and when so, 
he was extremely lonely and he mourned loudly on 
his bench in the park. No one could help him 
because the people around him were afraid of him; 
when he was Huff he often talked to himself 
loudly, swung his arms around, and wouldn't let 
anyone near him. He was eighteen now, still had 
some cash left, and an ID, so the cops usually 
left him alone, for, whenever they approached 
Huff, he was able to come out of his insanity 
long engough, to become Arthur, to convince them 
he wouldnšt start any trouble or hurt himself.

With his face as passive as that of a funeral 
director, Huff lounged tightly, his eyes 
transfixed on a stream of water that flowed from 
the mouth of a deeply tarnished brass angel, the 
highest fixture on the fountain. The concluding 
slivers of evening sunlight danced on the water 
that arched upward from the mouth of the angel. 
From that glistening treasured water, sparks 
rippled and shot into the sky, transforming into 
jewels that melted into crystalline flowers whose 
petals broke off and fluttered even higher, 
blending with the darkening clouds. The gush of 
the water shifted as the angel cagily smiled and 
then winked at Huff, who was greatly honored. A 
luminous thread of drool swung from the boy's 
lower lip and attached itself to his dingy 
sweatshirt.

The light was evaporating and Huff knew it. 
He hated night more than he'd come to despise the 
forgotten family who hadn't understood the import 
of the sun's rays. That was why he had left home. 
He'd rather starve on the street than have 
someone tell him he couldn't just sit on the 
patio and gawk at the lawn sprinkler. He'd 
chosen to be alone, and to live on the streets 
far away in a big city, rather than have someone 
say he needed to spend more time in a hospital. 
He'd take death before ingesting any more of 
those pills that banished the sparks and flowers 
and made music sound like aluminum lawn furniture 
being fed through a wood chipper. He'd taken the 
medication until his family and the doctor had 
relented, and then he'd escaped, to hide in the 
city, to recapture the grandeur.

But now, as it did every evening, the glow 
was retreating and Huff would be alone. The angel 
wouldn't smile until the next afternoon's sun lit 
its dark green face, although before then the 
water would once again sparkle like liquid 
diamond. Night was so utterly painful for Huff 
that he cared to neither eat nor sleep. Not that 
anyone would listen to him if he went to the 
shelter for a plate of slop and a nap. He hadn't 
slept at night in what seemed like forever.

With the arrival of twilight the city 
people, except for some other park dwellers, had 
mostly gone to their homes. Brian and Wendy were 
getting their things together, and there were a 
few cops around, and some well dressed stragglers 
creeping into the subway entrance, but that was 
it. Huff, and sometimes Arthur, when he appeared, 
would wait through the night. Alone.

"It's terrible when it gets dark, isn't 
it?"

At first, fearing the voice might have come 
from his mind, Huff didn't turn to address the 
pristine young man seated next to him. Instead, 
he looked down, lazily swung his head to his 
left, and then, through knotted ringlets, he 
peered past his shoulder. Someone had actually 
spoken to him. The visitor, of bronze skin, hair 
like tar, and turquoise eyes, was clad in a dark 
gray wool suit, red silk tie and blue shirt, and 
a rich dark over coat.

"Whatta ya mean?" Huff asked guardedly.

The young man, whose dark coat flowed like 
an outer skin, responded in a lush, inviting 
voice. "I know you know what I mean. When the sun 
sets the water doesn't glisten, doesn't give off 
the jewels and flowers. That's what I mean."

Huff darted glances around, looking 
everywhere, except at the young man. Baffled, his 
mouth struck ajar, Huff finally settled his 
confused gaze upon the polished pavement at his 
feet. A miniature cyclone­, a crushed paper cup, 
remnants of a cigarette pack, and bits of 
unidentifiable rot, twirled by. He yanked his 
tattered coat shut and turned his back to his 
visitor and continued to meditate on the city 
floor.

"I'm not down there. I'm right here," the 
increasingly demanding creature insisted. 
Creature. That's right. For Huff appreciated that 
if this person knew what occurred there in the 
park each day, that he, or it, wasn't really 
human. Couldn't be.

"What, er, who are you?" Huff inquired.

"You mean you don't know?" countered the 
stranger.

"No. I don't know. An' I don't like this 
game, neither."

The mysterious meddler began, "I used to be 
you. Rather, just like you. Lost. Worshipping the 
light." He hesitated, and then he murmured, "I'm 
sorry. My name is Pierce."

Huff turned to Pierce, who smiled so 
brilliantly that, for a swift twinkling, Huff 
thought that the light had returned. He gulped 
intently and then charged inquisitively, "So you 
betrayed the light, and the angel?"

"No. No. The light deceived me and its 
deliverer abandoned me," Pierce explained, and 
finished with, "and I had to find a new source of 
passion and comfort."

"Are you some kind of religious freak, or 
somethin'?" Huff asked accusatively.Pierce 
rotated his head deliberately.

"I'm no religious freak," Pierce declared. 
"I am here to help you find another path, 
though." Pierce stiffened: his eyes were fixed; 
his perfectly narrow nose aimed downward to his 
thinly pursed mouth; his body, beneath the folds 
in his clothing, was fastened, as still as an 
elderly stove at midnight.

"Uh-hun," Huff allowed Pierce.

 Inside Huff's head, the deep, seldom heard 
voice of the angel bellowed, "DON'T LISTEN TO 
HIM. HE'S A STORYTELLER COME TO TAKE YOU AWAY 
FROM ME."

 Huff's eyes flared, and he flinched, like 
he'd been slapped. He swallowed, laboriously, and 
then he croaked, "Did you say something?"

Pierce rolled his lower lip up and over its 
counterpart. His mouth opened. "I said nothing," 
he said, and then he returned to his serene 
pose.

Huff darted his eyes around. He saw the 
night lights, the false lights that traced 
hideous stripes on his vision. Rotting skulls and 
similar horrid death masks rode expanding 
banners, sweeping by, screaming mutely, laughing 
at his fear and emptiness.

Pierce began to probe. "Do you remember 
that day, when you were so curious about the 
fumes, when you had to know what it was like 
inside the deadly mist? You breathed in the 
poisonous vapors, even though you had no 
understanding of the possible long term 
consequences."

 Huff squinted at Pierce.

"ALL LIES. YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN HERE. DO 
NOT LEAVE ME."

Huff shuddered. He tried to ignore the 
rancorous guidance from within. He knew he hadn't 
seen Pierce's lips mouth the angry decree.

"How do you know about that day?" Huff 
demanded through eyes squeezed into slits, 
begging shelter from the painful visions shearing 
off the street lights and car head lamps.

"It doesn't matter how, I just do. And I 
know that what you wanted was to explore the 
unknown, and to feel powerful and courageous," 
and nodding, Pierce added, "Arthur." Pierce's 
bright blue eyes stabbed into Huff's feelings as 
he continued, "You are alone and confused, as 
well as sick and deteriorating, and the only 
consolation you have is watching the sunbeams 
dance off the angel's stream."

Huff crossed his legs around his 
interlocked fingers, but, regardless of his 
efforts, he started to shake like an old paint 
mixer on overdrive. "What can I do?" he pleaded. 
Then, rocking forward and trying to fight off the 
tremors, he bawled, "The angel will scream for me 
in my head if I leave."

Pierce insisted, "The angel is a lie, a 
scornful illusion brought upon you by your desire 
for knowledge, but mostly by the poison in the 
can of paint stripper."

Huff stopped quivering and he locked eyes 
with Pierce.

The menacing baritone pummeled Huff from 
within. "LIES! LIES! LIES!"

Pierce licked his upper lip, and, as softly 
as a matured dandelion sending its fluffy 
children into a breeze, he whispered, "Those are 
the lies, the ones that tell you not to listen to 
me, not to love your family, not to go home and 
save yourself before you end up like one of the 
visions you see under the spell of the night 
lights. They are the coming truth!"

"But my family?" Arthur cried, "What of 
them?"

Pierce looked aside, turned back, and 
stated, "They continue to love you, even though 
you ran away. Whatever they did to drive you off, 
or to make you feel helpless, well, they are 
willing to face that with you."

Arthur took a keen, sweeping glance at the 
street and the park around him, and then he 
looked directly back to Pierce, who tilted his 
head forward and curled his lower lip upward 
before dropping his mouth open to speak. "Most 
important, Arthur, you will regain the light. ­Your 
light. It will take time. You will have to 
suffer through the pain of getting your 
perceptions and thoughts normalized, and you will 
have to grieve the loss of the euphoria you get 
from the beauty of the jewels and the flowers. 
But, in the end, you will feel your own power 
again, and no longer will you serve an 
hallucination. Your angel." Pierce looked up to 
the dark, featureless silhouette that had been 
watching over the conversation, its water 
seething all the while.

Arthur spoke somberly. "I have images of my 
life from before, like a story someone told me. 
Not like it happened to me, though. Maybe that's 
because I wanna leave here but the angel keeps 
callin' me back, howling until I do."

"Look," Pierce began, "what you did to 
scramble your senses and your mind was foolhardy, 
but, because you sought to explore the unknown, 
you were brave that day, no matter what anyone 
says about it. You can summon that same courage, 
now, to save your life. You're pretty far gone, 
mentally and physically, so you must grasp this 
opportunity."

"I got a quarter I've been savin' for 
something," piped Arthur as he tilted his head at 
a pay phone a half-block away.

Pierce shook his head. "I don't want you to 
get hurt ambling around in the condition you're 
in, not after taking all this time to find you, 
and getting you to listen to me."

Huff watched raptly as Pierce reached into 
his inside coat pocket and retrieved a cellular 
phone. "You can use this. Just a 
minute." Pierce extracted the phone's antenna and 
then he pressed a button on the face of the black 
device. It beeped sharply. He held it to his ear, 
pulled it away, and then examined the bank of 
small, brightly colored buttons on the 
instrument's face. After he fingered the red 
re-dial switch an array of boops squirted out of 
the gadget. Pierce again held the mechanism to 
his head. Within a few instants, he spoke.

"Remember our conditions, Mrs.Sandisfield," 
Pierce said firmly. He slid sideways on the bench 
and set the phone next to Arthur, who lifted it 
gingerly and held it to his ear. He glowed.

"Mom!" Huff exclaimed exuberantly into the 
mouthpiece, "It's me, Arthur."

Across the courtyard, Wendy, the pretzel 
girl, suddenly, but guardedly awed by Huff 
sounding so happy, looked up from cleaning her 
stand. She tensed her eyebrows, wrinkling her 
forehead. Her eyes went glassy as she found it 
impossible to withdraw her moist gaze from the 
obviously overjoyed, but nonetheless ragged and 
pitiful Huff.

"What is it?" asked Brian softly in his 
raspy voice as he stepped near Wendy and wiped 
his hands on the front of his blue jumpsuit. He 
sharply removed a small set of headphones from 
his ears. Wendy straightened and plucked a paper 
napkin from her condiment box. Her unzipped 
windbreaker flapped in the breeze as, with the 
small, soft white piece of paper, she dabbed at 
her overflowing eyes. Brian, patiently waiting 
for an answer, puffed on an unfiltered cigarette. 
A shaft of smoke rushed past his craggy teeth and 
blended into the wind. Wendy frowned stiffly and 
bowed her head toward Huff.

"It's fountain boy. He's callin' his mom," 
she answered Brian bleakly. After a sniffle, she 
added, "Again."

"Oh," Brian uttered softly.

And then, Brian, and Wendy, who continued 
to sob quietly, both looked on as Huff, shivering 
and alone, chattered cheerfully into a flattened 
milk container he held pressed to the side of his 
head.   THE END