AJ Padron

A world that smells of sand and sea and dirt: that fishy, salty soil, musty stagnant swamp water on sweet-rooted plants. Sometimes, this place feels more powerful to me than the ocean itself. More moving, more vast; older and stronger. The rattle of leaves and conifer needles is like the sound of waves, the air warm like a more tropical coast.

However, it’s merely a pathway, a method of movement between two locations, a portal between two worlds. Less than 1000 feet in length, it opens on one side to the warm white dunes of a cold ocean and on the other to a paved road of dark asphalt surrounded by leaning, windswept trees. One direction you hastily take off your shoes to feel the soft sand, the other you hastily put them back on, sand in your socks better than the jagged asphalt.

The pathway is old, the planks that you walk on rotted by sea air and the salty swamp the path cuts through. Every couple years a work party will gather and repair the old wood, I’m told, but by the time anyone walks there again the sea has already begun to reclaim them.

The path is surrounded on all sides by the salal that grows in the wetlands – older and taller than anywhere else you’ll find it. It blocks out the sunlight and keeps you from the wind that travels through the space between dunes and tree line, making the path feel safe and protected like an old grandma’s hug. The ground seeps the sweet, raw smell of dead things – decomposing leaves in salty still water – and sandy dirt catches in between barefoot toes. Framing the planks below, moss and dune grass grow wild where the swamp water has dried up, catching the little sunlight that makes it through the dark green, oval-shaped leaves of the salal roof.

Occasionally, though the salal closes in on either side like a tunnel, you’ll catch a glimpse of the surrounding swamp through gaps in the knotted branches. Half-concealed stumps rest in deceivingly shallow-looking water and even when the wind blows wild over your head, the water barely ripples. Colored a dull olive green and completely opaque, the only living things you’ll see are the occasional frog or toad resting its nostrils above the water, or a great blue heron poised to catch them. When I was younger, I thought that the darkness at the start of the path held great ancient beasts like the black bears that ate our coastal trash, but as I spent more time there over the years I realized the only ancient thing there was benevolent, breathed with the ocean air and ate sunlight rather than hotdogs and s’more remains.

Going to the dunes and ocean, the pathway gives you a sense of awe as you draw ever closer to the muted sound of waves crashing in the distance. Coming back from the ocean, tired and wet, skin pink from the harsh wind, the path back feels like a home you could melt into the walls of and never come back.

Across the darkened horizon sparks the light of buildings too innumerable to count. Between her and the fireflies of blurred and muddled light, there stretches a vast and silken field of gathered, bending wheat. The color has been seeped out of the golden stalks by the night and as they fall one over the other in waves reaching towards the infinite edge of the horizon they’re colored a silver-white and dark gray in the cast of the moon. Where she stands, still, the rippling wheat emits the sweet smell of hay, and the ground under her bare feet is still warm and dry from the day’s harsh heat.

A wind blows across the infinitely expansive stretch of grain and the whole field seems to breath with the fresh night air, rippling moonlight like crashing waves all around where she stands, occasionally flicking bits of silver debris like sparks into the air. Against her skin, the summer night air feels fresh, but lacks the comfort it would if she was familiar with its naturalness. It whips hairs into her face, hums against her ear and cools the day’s sweat, but something about the scents it carries- the mildest mildew smell of wheat further away that has begun to rot, the smell of dirt, the hint of something almondy in an intoxicating way which carries on a wind that only graces the nose on occasion- unnerves her in this vast, no-walled, open space.

Her eyes are stuck to the distant lights of buildings that glow yellow like sickly fire, and the black shapes of the buildings against the dark of the sky. Looking at it now, she thinks the sky has to be one of the least dark things to ever be labeled as such. It contains color that true darkness doesn’t, purples and blue-greys and the occasional pinkish hue, and compared to a space where no surface reflects light and your eyes don’t ever adjust to the dark, the starry sky seems less and less like a vast void of darkness. More like an endless space where light bounces so incredibly quickly and back and forth from so many planets and stars and suns that it could never truly get dark, illuminated by infinite, impossible-to-see lights far off in space. In its newness to her, it feels strangely comforting compared to the unnerving nature of the night air and she wants to fall off the surface of this dry crumbling earth and find herself in the cold sanitary space of sky instead, surrounded wholly by entities of light.

If she looks to the west, at the horizon stretching out like a tired cat, the silver of the wheat continues there, dwindling into merely meaningless patterns until they kiss the sky, with no mountains or hills rising into the distance to interfere with their concurrence. The east is much the same, but distantly a stocky ridge lifts into the air, bringing the wheat to a rough furry crest silhouetted against the starry sky.

Ahead lies the impossible city, painting pale gold sparks, dark buildings, and a discolored smudge of light onto the sky around it, like a rancid halo. She can’t see where the wheat ends and the city begins from here: it rises minuscule straight out of the wheat as far as she can tell, perched there on the horizon. To the south, behind her, she doesn’t turn her head to look. Doesn’t dare to cast her eyes at the endless wheat behind her, at the now unseeable but hauntingly there object that rests far beyond the silver horizon. She knows just how the place looks, just how the shed rests in the middle of a wheat field, can visualize how it looks like the smear of a dead bug against the gold wheat and the white-blue sky of day- the only time she had seen it up close before she turned tail and ran as far as she could get.

The mountains are vague,

distant grey and green decay

all muffled by snow

Along the river, winding so,

the trees draw hotly close

Dry air, wet ground,

But lack of unshod feet

The groggy song, of tired stream

with dark along the banks

light will filter through the leaves,

but lack that cleansing heat

No bodies part the echoed image,

No shouts of joy do ring

and a something sings a cheerful song,

with grieving tone beneath

An eddy stirs an empty boat

in a river wide and deep

The sway of water, and of trees

will put anyone to sleep.

The smell of moss and dead things,

warmed by rising sun,

the carrion eater’s call rings

above the clear springs run

The heat of day so tiring

the nature so relaxed

the sweetest death aspiring

the creature’s minds untaxed

Green on green with brown below

draped in palest yellow light

only naturally, life will slow,

and wake once more at night.

Most other high schoolers had to worry about grades, or girls, or petty group drama and not about whether or not their mob boss father would wring their neck when he found out they were gay. Or, at least, as far as Tommy knew, they didn’t. Sure, every kid has problems with their parents, roundabout arguments and things like that, but not quite to the point that Tommy does. He had been trained in the workings of the mob since a young age as his father’s only son. However, as he got older he began to realize that within the workings of his life, so heavily monitored and splayed open by his father, he had been keeping a secret all along, just out of sight, unintentionally.

In other aspects of his life that weren’t his sexuality, he and his father had a very friendly, kind relationship. Even through training Tommy to take over the mobbing business, he didn’t push his son to perform actions he didn’t agree with. His father, like his father before him had used his brute force to make an impression when he was younger but as he had climbed the ladder of power, he had succumbed to the bureaucracy of it all. Nowadays, the Silvano family was so heavily tied into the power and control of the mob that allies and enemies would fall apart without them. Tommy, born into third generation power, would not have to fight like his father had. Of course, only if he didn’t want to. He was trained in self defense none-the-less, but only so that when the shift of power finally came, he would be prepared to teach those that doubted the youngest Silvano’s strength a sore lesson. Unfortunately, there was little to no “heart-to-heart” discussions in a family that leaned more towards punching their feelings out. He would have talked to his mother — (“mother, how do you talk to your mob boss father about wanting to be able to bring your boyfriend into your million-dollar skyscraper home?”) — but she had died a few years before he had even started middle school and found out that being attracted to boys was a weird thing. Besides her, there was virtually no one he felt comfortable talking to about this particular issue. However, things were starting to get out of hand, as they usually did.

Recently, he had been spacing out way too often in the presence of his father, standing in the background as he negotiated some sort of deal or standing next to him in less dangerous situations. Case in point: recently he had been standing, leaning against the dank brick of an alleyway as his father and two high ranking mobsters gathered information from some cop snitch. The alleyway had a smell of trash and wet moss, but it had faded into the background after about fifteen minutes. Completely lost to the world, when his father wandered over Tommy started at the sound of his voice.

    “Toms, Tommy,” his father said, voice as deep and casual as usual, shocking Tommy out of his reverie. His father laughed wholeheartedly at the shock on his face. “What’s got your noggin’ out in space, boy?” he asked, amused, one bushy eyebrow lifting as he placed his hands on his hips.

    “Nothin’ Pops, nothin’ at all. The pig was jus’ puttin’ me to sleep.” he said, trying to sound casual, tucking his hands in the pockets of his silky jacket. His father was still taller than him, even if only barely, and had elected to wear a suit to the meeting, the usual charcoal, and had slicked his black hair back. But Tommy, more partial to spendy silk letterman’s that clung nicely to his muscled form, had dressed rich-casual and left his dark brown hair an unruly mess atop his head.

    His father’s eyes sparkled with mischievous amusement, even with no smile on his lips and turned, inviting his son to walk ‘right-hand’ as they left the alleyway. “Ah, that so,’ he drawled easily, gesturing with one hand to the fellow mobsters, who paced ahead to start the car. “I wonder if you get enough sleep, what with you strollin’ off into the stars so much as of late.” he said, shooting a look down at his son.

    Tommy held back a grimace, a bit of fear lancing through his heart. He pushed it down before it could show on his face. “Mmm,” he started, as they loaded into the fancy car parked on the curb.

He hadn’t even realised that his spacing out problem had been that bad, but he supposed coming out had been on his mind a lot lately. He knew that he had to come out at some point and, being raised as a mob boss’ son, couldn’t help but feel a coward that he hadn’t already gotten it over with. Even if his dad would be upset, potentially lethally so, Tommy supposed that if he was going to have to fight with his father he’d rather do it now than later, when he would be in the spotlight of every mobster in the city.

“Just feelin’ plagued lately, Pops. Lotta thinkin’,” he said honestly, gesturing with one hand vaguely, only really making eye contact towards the end of the statement.

His father hummed lowly in response, looking contemplative, before he reached forward to grab a drink from the in-car fridge and the topic was forgotten for more important things.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later that Tommy was suddenly confronted with a chance to be honest to his old man. He and his father had been invited to some studded-chaps’ ball far away from the city in a large, off-white mansion. The whole thing was excruciatingly boring. As the night drawled on and the greetings finally settled down, he and his father had drifted to the side of the room, standing with formal posture against some tightly bundled curtains and talking humorously with each other.

His father was chatting about a deal that Tommy had unfortunately missed out on, winding down to the end of the story of a comically idiotic rival and the conversation flowed easily, low below the voices of the other party-goers. As the story concluded, both of them laughing heartily, the topic shifted with ease to the dreaded lady-talk, as a young gem drifted by in a cream colored ensemble.

“What a pearl, that one!” his father exclaimed, leveling him a completely non-subtle glance, gaging his reactions. “She’s got power in her eyes, I can tell that much,” he added

Tommy almost winced, heart already picking up pace in apprehension of the talk ahead. These were always opportunities for him to shift the conversation towards his sexual identity, but evidently, he still hadn’t found it in him to bring it up. “Sure,” he started, stalling for time, “love her hair.”

His father wrinkled his nose slightly, turning towards him fully, “Toms, at your age I was carrying two girls on each arm. I understand the training takes away some of your freetime, and you don’t need no mafiaette to help ya, but it don’t seem like you’re interested in the crowd at all!”

An honest to goodness opening. Tommy really couldn’t think of a better one. But, even so, his heart had pressed a painfully tight knot into his vocal chords. Squeezing at his heart right back, his anxiety had taken up a roost in his ribcage. He hadn’t had time to prepare the words, so how could now be the right time? He certainly didn’t feel even remotely courageous enough to bare his soul to his father at the moment. But —

If not now, when?

He took a silent but deep breath, and though it didn’t help even a little bit, stubborn Silvano courage started to flow through his veins.

“It’s not that I’m not interested in the crowd,” he drawled, purposefully digging himself a hole so he couldn’t back out, “I just, er, might be looking at a different part of it.” He could see his father’s face twist up in confusion and felt his own face grimace in response “as in, at the pearls in suits rather than the pearls in dresses,” he rushed out finally.

In the silence that followed, it was hard to get a breath and even harder to hear over the buzzing of blood in his ears. His father’s face was emotionless, and Tommy nearly wanted to cower, but Silvano courage still flowed stubbornly to and from his racing heart. His face twisted in comprehension, and looked slightly upset, and the feeling of dread hit Tommy tenfold. His father’s expression changed again, this time looking even more upset, and then straightening out into stubborn acceptance.

Then, suddenly — his father smiled immeasurably wide, and Tommy felt his jaw fall open.

“Son! Why didn’t you tell me so, I’ve been botherin’ you about this for months!” his voice was jovial and, impossibly, proud. “If I were you I wouldn’t’ve been able to take it.”

Tommy had prepared himself for hate and contradiction, but not for pride and easy acceptance, “Uh.” he tried, and didn’t know where to go with it.

His father ignored the attempt and slapped him heartily on the back before wrapping an arm around his shoulder, “you may be the bravest young Silvano yet!” he intoned lowly and smiled down at Tommy with pride sparkling in his dark eyes.

Tommy smiled back sloppily, still overwhelmed from the mood whiplash, and felt amazingly, floatingly, drunkenly happy for the rest of the night.