The Dragon

I remember it was September and I was approaching my stop. I finished a sentence, slipped a bookmark between the open pages, and packed the book into my satchel. In the practiced manner of a habitual commuter, I gave the cord above me a quick tug. Standing up in the aisle, I moved towards the door.

As I stepped onto the curb, I took a deep breath. The smell of autumn washed over me. It was back-to-school and hayrides, new shoes and old friends. I started up the sidewalk with slow steps and raised eyes. The maple leaves were beginning to yellow, and the sun struck them so they glowed. I glowed in response, beaming and carefree. Every year I fell for the colors, the crisp, the cozy. Someone had a fire going and it made me warm.

Halfway up the block I noticed a boy. He sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, hands resting in his lap. Dark hair hung in his eyes but didn’t seem to get in the way. He stared at the house to my right. It was a single story rambler with cheap vinyl siding and a half porch. A few dying flowers decorated the dirt patch under the windows, mostly hidden by the grass and the nettles.

Hearing my steps, the boy turned. For a few seconds he watched my progress. I gave him a quick nod and stopped, looking at the house.

“Be careful,” the boy said, “there’s a dragon in there.”

I noticed his serious face. “A dragon?” I laughed. “I didn’t know there were any left.”

The boy didn’t smile. He looked back at the house and started picking at the grass. “Do you know about dragons?” he asked.

Had I been in a different mood I would’ve excused myself and continued on my way. But I was giddy with the season and willing to play along. I tried to recollect the stories and pictures, the dragons I grew up with.

“Let’s see now,” I began. “The first thing I know is that dragons fly. And when they aren’t flying, they sit on their piles of gold. They think gold thoughts and dream gold dreams. They have great fiery breath and tough scaly skin. You can’t get through it until you find the weakness. They always have a weakness.”

I was having fun now. “Sometimes a dragon will capture a princess. And then a knight will come to her rescue, and if he can make it past the claws and the teeth and the fire he might slay the dragon. Or he might end up a pile of bones.”

I grinned, expecting a response. The boy nodded but said nothing. He rested his chin in his hands and watched the house.

A light came on in one of the front rooms, and I saw it was the kitchen. A man walked by the window. He was a big man, over six feet tall. His belly hung over his belt and stretched the fabric of his shirt. He was well dressed but unkempt — even from the street I noticed the wrinkles in his clothes. A few days of stubble covered his cheeks and neck.

He leaned heavily on the fridge with one hand, and used the other to open the door. I heard a rattle of glass. Barely looking, he grabbed a bottle and turned around, kicking the door shut. Another rattle. With a meaty hand he twisted the cap and threw it at the sink. He left the room without turning off the light.

The boy was lying in the tall grass, as he had been since the man appeared. He looked up at the sky. His arms stretched straight down the sides of his body, and I remembered the awkwardness of youth. I was suddenly aware of my arms and legs and did not know what to do with them.

“On Monday he gets on a plane,” the boy said quietly. “He flies all over the whole country. He goes to New York, I think, and other places too. He finds people who don’t know any better, and he buys them up. He lies and tells stories and makes people see things that aren’t really there. When he says things, people are afraid. He growls at them, but the people thank him. When he leaves, they all thank him.

“He comes back on Friday, and he doesn’t go anywhere. He sits in front of the computer and looks at numbers. The numbers don’t do anything, but he watches them carefully. Sometimes he growls, and then he grabs a beer and a cigarette and finds someone to yell at. He spits and shouts and breathes out smoke and fumes. Then he watches the numbers and drinks and drinks.

“There’s a woman too. He doesn’t like when she’s here, and he doesn’t like when she leaves. He won’t let her buy new clothes. He wouldn’t buy his own clothes if they weren’t such a good disguise. Sometimes he grabs her and yells and breathes out smoke and fumes.

“He does nothing all weekend. He doesn’t mow or clean, he doesn’t go anywhere. He comes back from flying all over and stares at his numbers. He does nothing and he feels nothing. He’s big and strong and doesn’t feel anything, except for one soft spot. All day he growls and he yells and he smokes, but he has one soft spot.”

The boy stopped talking and sat up. He looked at me as he brushed the grass from his arms; I saw the bruises then, purple and blue ringed by sickly green. “Be careful,” he said, and he walked up the sidewalk to the house.

Heavy clouds were covering the sun, and I felt a chill. I watched the boy as he opened the door. I turned, and I ran. I wish I could say I was running for help, but I was running away. I was running away and I was scared and I didn’t know what was real.

I stopped when I heard a roar. I turned around and saw the sky was orange in the direction from which I had come. I do not know if I saw this or dreamt it, but I remember it was September and there were flames in the sky.

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