Gray

No matter where I lived, there was always one place, somewhere in the city or town in which I humbly dwelt, where I could go and be by myself, mulling over the thoughts in my head like they were leaves in my tea. When I was eight years-old and still living with my parents, there was a park down the street from our yellow, suburban two-story where all of the nannies would take the children during lunchtime and the kids would slide down the slides and swing on the swings and hang on the monkey bars. I had never been very interested in playgrounds, even as a young child, but on evenings when my parents went out (which was nearly every evening) I would cut through the playground part of the park and run to the furthest sycamore tree from where all of the kids played. I would climb up into the sycamore tree – which was the cause of many a scraped knee during that time – and sit there, dreaming of pirates and the ocean and other childish fantasies. I carved my name into the branches of that tree every time I went up there, until it was covered in Tawny.

When I was nine, my parents told me that they were taking a vacation to somewhere warm and that I couldn’t go, but they promised to take me next time. They drove me to my grandparents’ house five hours away from where we lived and told me that they’d see me in a week. But they didn’t come back. They didn’t call once. They didn’t write any letters. And they never took me on a vacation.

Of course, as a nine-year-old I couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened after the first two weeks; after a month, however, I knew they weren’t coming back. My grandparents had a large, light blue house with a porch that wrapped all the way around it. For three years, I went up to the attic whenever I needed to be alone and think. The attic was cramped, dusty, and smelled like moths were lurking in all of the clothing that was packed away in boxes. There seemed to be no room for me to think.

When I was twelve, my grandfather and I decided to build a tree house. It was everything I had dreamed of and it was all mine. In the beginning, I reluctantly had told my grandpa that he could share it with me, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Once again, I had somewhere to go, should thinking need to be done.

My grandfather died when I was sixteen, leaving all of his money to me and my grandmother. I didn’t want to leave the house or my grandmother alone, but I moved out when I was eighteen, in order to get a taste of the real world.

In the city, my place was under the bridge, where I could sit on rocks and chalk my name onto them, just like my sycamore tree when I was eight. I could look out over the rippling river and I could hear car after car speeding across the bridge above my head, but no one could see me.

And that made it perfect for thinking.



Beneath the bridge that evening, it was particularly frigid. The tiny, swirling vortexes down in the river caused the turquoise-white waters to crash up against the rocks; the wind flew by me every so often, chilling my exposed face (because I had been stupid enough to leave my scarf at home) and bare hands (because I had also been stupid enough to forget gloves). My black knitted hat was shoved down on my brownish waves of hair and I had a bomber jacket pulled tightly around my small frame, but those only did so much. The ebony utility boots on my feet did nothing for my toes – luckily, I was wearing wool socks underneath them, so my feet remained not frozen. My teeth chattered and I gripped the mocha in my hands furiously, trying to steal its warmth away.

I had come to sit under this bridge and consider everything that had occurred a week prior, but as far as I was concerned, it was far too cold for me to think. (Truth be told, however, I desperately needed to sort out my thoughts. Things were just getting messy in my head. It was like a spring cleaning thing, only in my mind.)

As I stood up underneath the bridge and stretched my limbs, an especially bone-chilling gust of wind rushed into my sleeves and I cringed from the cold. Yes, it was certainly time to go home and lay around with Jubb. Maybe I would pick up some wine on my way and have a party (because that wouldn’t be sad at all).

I was about to leave, when suddenly a large, hulking figure lumbered down beneath the bridge and I was caught off guard. We noticed each other simultaneously, my eyes wide and the man’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. He was the first to speak, and he certainly didn’t waste any time before he began throwing out accusations.

“What’re you doin’ under my bridge?” he demanded to know, his voice a gruff growl coming from his chapped lips in between a bushy, salt-and-pepper beard and mustache combo. He wasn’t much taller than me, but he looked shorter and squatter, due to his multiple parkas and other coats. He had been smart enough to wear a scarf and gloves that day and in one gloved hand, he held a paper bag, its contents unknown to me.

My first thought was that he was going to mug me, beat me to a bloody pulp, and leave me underneath the bridge, but I ignored that, because he seemed to be under the silly delusion that he owned my secret hideaway beneath the bridge.

“Your bridge?” I scrutinized the grubby hobo, shivering but trying to look menacing at the same time, “You don’t own this bridge. I come here all the time and I’ve never seen you here once.”

“I sleep here ev’ry night,” he barked at me and I could tell that I was angering him. Instead of being angry at him, I cocked my head to the side curiously.

“Really? Every night? Don’t you think it’s kind of dangerous to sleep here?” I asked him, my gazing moving down to the frightening waters below, “I mean…you could just roll down into the river. Ever thought about that?” The grumpy looked left the man’s face as he sighed and rolled his eyes, clearly not wanting to put up with me and my obvious mediocre, homeless practices.

“O’ course I’ve thought about it,” he shook his head at me, and then he pointed toward a spot behind me, “See that stick that’s stuck in the ground back there? I put that there. That keeps me from rollin’ down into the river.” I looked behind me and sure enough, there was the stick. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now that I did, I thought it was pretty clever of this man to put it there in order to keep from tumbling into the river.

“Huh. Do all homeless people know these tricks?” I asked the man, completely over the fact that my spot under the bridge was no longer solely mine.

“The ones that live under bridges do,” he told me in reply, “Clearly, yer not homeless, you do not sleep under here, and therefore, this is not yer bridge.” I let out a deep breath in defeat.

“I guess you’re right,” I shoved my hands into the pockets of my bomber jacket, looking ashamed of myself, “You can have this spot under the bridge. This is always where I used to come and mull over my thoughts, though, you know? Everyone needs someplace like that, I think.” The old man regarded me for a few moments, before he sat down with a huff and took a sub sandwich from his paper bag.

“It gets lonely here sometimes,” he mentioned, not looking at me all the while as he took a bite from his sandwich, “If you wouldn’ mind keepin’ me company for a lil’ bit, I’d be much obliged.” A small smile lit up my features as I took a seat on a rock next to the man. He made it sound as though I was doing him a favor, but I know he just felt bad about kicking me out of my thought-mulling space.

“I’m Tawny,” I introduced myself, crossing my arms across my chest in order to stay warm.

“You can call me Captain,” the man said.

“Why? Is that your name?”

“No,” he confessed, “but everyone calls me Captain. It’s my street name.” I was immediately envious of Captain, because not only did he have my thought-mulling space, but he also had a cool street name. I wanted a badass street name more than anything.

“How does one go about obtaining a street name?” I asked in an off-hand manner, not trying to seem too interested.

“You make one up,” Captain told me simply, in between bites of sandwich, “and then you go around introducing yerself to people as that.”

“So…you just made yourself up a nickname –”

“Street name,” he corrected me.

“Right, sorry,” I apologized, “So you just started calling yourself Captain?”

“No.”

“But I thought you said –”

“I used to own a boat, but I had to sell it,” Captain explained to me, “People called me Captain because I had a boat.” I wanted to mention that just because someone owns a boat doesn’t mean that they’re a captain, but I remained silent, wanting Captain to relish in his captain status.

“What should my street name be?” I asked Captain, hoping he’d be able to come up with one just as badass as his own. He gave me an incredulous look.

“Why should you have a street name?” he demanded to know, “You don’ even live on the street.”

“You don’t have to live on the street to have a street name,” I argued.

“How would you know?” Captain grilled me, “You don’ know anythin’ about street names.”

“Well…” I paused, trying to think of something to say back to him, “There’s…no need to be greedy with street names. I just want a street name, that’s all.” I hugged my knees to my chest, pouting slightly about Captain pulling that you’re-not-even-homeless card on me. I heard Captain’s chewing slowing down, meaning that he had ceased eating his sandwich for a moment or two.

“Alright, I’ve got it,” Captain said, after a minute of silence. I looked over at him, a question swimming in my eyes.

“Huh?”

“Yer street name. I know what it is.” This immediately pepped me up and I looked to Captain with a stupid smile on my face, waiting impatiently for a cool street name.

“What is it?” I demanded to know, but Captain waited a few moments and took a couple of bites of his sandwich before telling me what my street name was.

“Moxie.”

“Moxie?” I arched an eyebrow, “Like the soda?”

“As in, you’ve got a lot of moxie,” Captain clarified, “You know. Nerve. Guts. Grit. Sand.”

“Sand?”

“Do you like the name or not?” Captain barked, before burying himself in his sandwich once again. I looked off into the distance, a pensive appearance to my face.

“Moxie,” I tested it out on my lips, “I like it.”

“Hmm. Good,” Captain chuckled slightly, “So there you go. Yer very own street name.” I felt superior suddenly, now that I had my new name. I silently thanked Captain, not bothering with sloppy sentiments (because he really didn’t seem the type). A thought occurred to me at that point, as I realized that I tended to make friends with homeless people fairly easily. Hell, I even had one living in my car. A small smile appeared on my face, but Captain didn’t notice, far too enraptured by his sandwich.

Minutes passed by in a comfortable silence, broken only by sounds of the rapids below, the deafening roar of the cars driving over our heads, and Captain’s chewing. I took a drink of the coffee that was in my hands, relishing in its warmth as the caffeine and heat spread through my body like wildfire. I suddenly didn’t mind sharing my hideaway with Captain and decided that if I was going to share it with anyone, it would be this stranger whom I had only just introduced myself to.

“Captain,” I addressed him after five or so minutes, “can I…ask you a question?” Captain was just finishing up the last bite of his sandwich when he looked over at me with a gruff, squinty-eyed stare. He didn’t say anything, but I took that as a sign that I could ask him my question.

“It’s kind of an odd question,” I rubbed the back of my head gingerly with my free hand.

“Well, out with it,” Captain commanded in a scratchy bark, “I don’ have all day, ya know.” I drummed my fingers on the side of my coffee cup, not knowing why I wanted to ask Captain about these things involving H, but knowing that I simply wanted someone to talk to.

“What do you know about…Greek mythology?” I wondered, hoping that he would have something insightful to say that would put my mind at rest. Instead, however, he laughed at me.

“Tha’s not such a strange question,” he assured me.

“It isn’t?” I raised an eyebrow at him.

“The strangest par’ is that you call it mythology,” he informed me. I ignored this statement entirely, and once again asked him what he could tell me. Captain took a minute to ponder and look up at the underside of the bridge in deep thought, before he spoke.

"Zeus commands the thunder and lightning. Poseidon rules the sea. Aphrodite, well, she's a love, i'nt she?"

I listened to these statements, first writing them off as useless information; then, however, I rethought. When H told me his true identity, it hadn’t sunk in that if Hades was real, then so were the other gods. I tried not to let frightened state of mind show in front of Captain, and then I asked a more specific question.

"What about Hades?" I wanted to know, my eyes blankly staring down at the water below me and Captain.

"Who?"

"The ruler of the Underworld,” I clarified.

"Oh, right, him. He's a right nasty piece of work, he is. Don't want to cross him, no ma'am.” I had been hoping that Captain wouldn’t say something along those lines, but there it was. Hades was always painted as the bad guy and everyone knew that.

"You don't actually believe all this, do you?" I asked Captain, trying to make it seem as though I was just asking him meaningless questions. He gave me a narrow-eyed stared before speaking.

"Don' you?"

“Well, there isn’t really any proof, is there?” I shrugged my shoulder, but my shrug quickly turned into a shiver, “There are books, sure, but it’s all just folklore. There isn’t any solid evidence. I mean, you’ve never actually seen any of the gods, have you?”

“I see ‘em all the time,” Captain countered my skeptical argument.

“You’re lying,” I told him matter-of-factly.

“Do I look like a lyin’ man to you?” Captain stared at me with his stormy, weathered eyes and as long as I looked at him, I couldn’t bring myself to say that he was lying.

“Well…how do you know it’s them?” I asked softly, looking down at my coffee cup.

“They’ve got a way abou’ them,” Captain explained to me, “You jus’ look at ‘em or talk to ‘em and you know. You know that they jus’ aren’ human. O’ course, you can’ go lookin’ for ‘em. They have ways of hidin’ ‘emselves.”

“Why do they hang around this world?” I wanted to know next.

“Differen’ reasons,” Captain replied, “Often, they’re jus’ checkin’ up on the world. Sometimes, they jus’ like to mess with mortals. Other times…”

“What?” I asked, demanding an end to Captain’s sentence.

“They fall in love with mortals,” he told me, his eyes narrowed to slits in my direction, “When they fall in love, they can’ leave. Or, rather, they won’ leave.” I was quiet after this information was given to me and I chose that moment to finish up my coffee.

“It’s getting late,” I announced to Captain, standing up abruptly, “I should go home. It was nice meeting you and I expect that I’ll be seeing you in the future.” Captain tipped an invisible at to me, before I turned around and began to make my way up the rocks and to the top of the bridge.

“Moxie,” I heard Captain call out my street name, but I only stopped walking and didn’t turn around.

“Only bad things can come from a love between a god and a mortal,” he told me.

I remained silent and continued up to the topside of the bridge, shivering in the night air.



That night, I didn’t sleep.

Instead of easing my mind, Captain had only made things worse with his ridiculous faith in myths and stories, and his way of saying things in a manner that was directed at me without actually pertaining to my problems. Captain had a knack of knowing exactly what I was thinking, despite only meeting me a mere five hours ago.

I rolled over in my bed, staring at the red numbers on my alarm clock that read 1:30 AM. I let out a deep sigh, trying to calm my thoughts by counting sheep. But that had never worked, even as a child, because I had always hated that the plural of sheep was still sheep.

Sitting up against the wall behind my bed, I looked down at my comforter-covered feet, where Jubb lightly snored and sometimes twitched in his sleep. Trying not to wake my precious canine, I slipped out of my bed and made my way out into the living room, where my laptop rested on the couch. My grandmother had gotten me a laptop for my eighteenth birthday, as a not-so-subtle hint to try to get me to attend college. The ploy was unsuccessful.

I went straight to Google, hesitating only a moment before my fingers typed ‘Hades’ and then clicked search.

I lost track of the hours that I sat on my couch, mulling through webpage after webpage of information on Greek and Roman mythology. Eventually, however, I saw rays of a rising sun peeking in through my blinds and I realized that I hadn’t gotten any sleep. Words were permanent-pressed onto my brain from reading them so many times. Hades, Underworld, death, evil, feared, loathed. None of it was good and all of it frightened me beyond belief.

And then I stumbled across yet another thing that I had managed to overlook when H had initially told me who he truly was. This particular thing, of course, was far more severe than any of the other things that I had so recently found out and it made my eyes wide and my lips unable to move. I couldn’t believe I had overlooked such a crucial point, but somehow I had, and recalling it now at seven oh three in the morning, it was difficult for me to process.

This portion of H’s life that I had managed to completely forget about?

Persephone.