"Whoo-sa!"
Anthony was practically doubled over, his stubby toes trying in vain to get a hold on the sandy bank as he shoved his raft, inch by inch, into the murky grey river. This is what the Mississippi had been reduced to: a cloudy, expressionless, dead grey. The sea's reflection was no sight to see, either. No clouds, but no blue either. Perhaps if there were clouds, they would have leant a certain dynamism to the sky above, but today, fate had other things in mind: blander, more banal, quotidian things.
Anthony, however, refused to accept what fate had to offer. Like a greedy big brother, what he had been offered was not going to be enough. Today, Tony refused destiny and chose action. Earlier in the day, taking one heavy blanket, a raincoat, a fishing rod, and a gallon of water, he sold everything he could and walked away from the rest. With the money from the car he sold (a 1985 two-door Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme), he bought a loaf of bread, a sharp folding knife, and a small, sturdy rowboat. Having served two tours in the navy, he knew what a sturdy rowboat resembled. And although this one, a deep green boat blistered and peeling under years of supporting the sun's weight, could do with a good scrubbing and simple paint job, it was going to do for now. Anthony would have plenty of time on his hands in the coming weeks.
After all, he was no longer employed, nor did he have any family that he could see. His job, his love, his family, his perspective had all disappeared in the preceding week as if engulfed by a heavy fog. First one end of the boat pierces the veil of humidity, feigning victory, but soon the fog creeps, and before you know it all that's left is the opposite end of the boat, stretching, extending its fingertips to flee from being swallowed by the overwhelming mass of air. With that image in mind, that caricature of fate and life in general, Anthony found himself sitting in his nameless boat as it floated further and further away from the banks of Red Wing, Minnesota and integrated itself with the larger Mississippi. He felt in his shirt pocket and realized he had a couple cigarettes and a lighter left. He had left in such a hurry he forgot to quit smoking. "Why fight it?” he figured, and lit up.
Anthony drifted, smoking a stale cigarette and observing the smoke emanating from its tip. Gently but constantly burning, the smoke seemed to divide the horizon in two ever so briefly before dissipating into the equally grey skies. Its movement reminded him of water being poured from a pitcher: smooth, fluid, infinite. Disgusted by his musings, he turned his head and looked at the world around him, expecting it to be drastically different from what it was before debarking on this journey. But there was nothing new or exciting to perceive; other than his being surrounded on all sides by the Mississippi, nothing had changed: the skyline was the same, the reeds on the bank the same, even the limestone typical of the area had been sucked dry of the interest it once held.
An immense frustration welled up in him, filling his heart and making it hard to breathe; seized by a violent nausea, he lurched himself over the edge of his rowboat and prepared to vomit. But what was looking back at him shocked him out of his sickly state, and he recoiled, nearly capsizing his small, sturdy boat. He took a breath. Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, he felt himself creeping back across the boat and poking his nose over the edge. Tony never was one to miss a good train wreck.
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