Spartacus Redux

“Where are you headed?”

“That way.”

“What’s there?”

“Don’t know.”

“Why there?”

“Don’t know.”

“Well then, what are you going to do when you get there?”

“Don’t know.”

“Why go then?”

“I have to I guess. I don’t know.”

“What do they call you?”

“Spartacus is what they call me.”

“Why do they call you Spartacus. Isn’t that a slave name?”

“It’s my name.”

“Yes.”

“My folks were old line Commies. They read Howard Fast.”

“And what do you do, Spartacus?”

“I carry the mail.”

“I don’t see any mail.”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“What’s it like, then?”

“A morning sky, an empty road, a fading moon, and a sturdy pair of runners, is what it’s like.”

“Carrying the mail?”

“Yeah, carrying the mail.”

“I see, I guess.”

“I guess you do.”

“See you again?”

“Don’t bet against it.”

As he turned to go he looked back towards the eastern ridge. Shot through with red and orange and burning streaks of purple, sunrise shredded the rising mist.

“Yeah.” he said again, “Don’t bet against it.”

Note: I wrote this a shortly before I ran my last marathon, earlier this year. Haven’t run worth crap since June, age and injury taking their inevitable toll. I have a piece to write about coming back to the early morning rain with my runners laced and a renewed sense of possibility. Haven’t written it yet. Sometimes I reread what I have written before.  When the new words are  yet to be found it sometimes helps. Sometimes not.  I read the piece above and thought, well, hell, it’s okay. Let’s see if it helps me find my words for today.