His hands had lines, hundreds of intricate lines, lines and folds of rough skin. Above his head floated streaks of blue, sometimes green but mostly blue. Floating like spirals of dust that never left. The man across from him had hands like a woman, they looked soft, even beautiful hands,
maybe hands like a pianist. Hands that held the cards with a regality to them, he talked about the trail in between throwing in and shovelling back coins. And when he talked about women and money his colours changed ever so subtly from green to yellow, which reminded me of that time I asked Mari Carmen was she seeing the salsa teacher. And I told her to tell me the truth, and she said she was, that she swore she hadn’t, but above her head remained yellow. The room shook, and the coins on the makeshift box rattled, and the man with the lines and folds on his hands had crimson above his head, as he kept losing every hand, and it stayed crimson. I knew by experience that it wasn’t good, so I intentionally lost a hand and asked him did he have any children, two daughters he replied, and he seemed relieved to be distracted, and so was I. Above his head slowly turned to green, then blue, then slow relaxed intermittent switches of the two.
He asked me how long I was on the trail, too long I said, you can say that again he mumbled as he concentrated on his cards, with an expression that looked like he was wishing them to change, it was easy to read, and he lost again. The man with the female hands was expressionless as he scooped the coins towards himself from the makeshift box. I looked above his opponents head and saw crimson again. The candles in the room shook and the light flickered, I took out a small square mirror I’d found on the trail. I looked at meself, it didn’t look like me, I looked at the reflection above me head, but there was nothing, I took a sip of moonshine from me bag, it tasted like turpentine, but it got me through, I passed it around to the two men. They took large gulps, winced, but didn’t complain. The bones in me hands hurt sometimes, arthritis they said, but you couldn’t avoid it, not with the labour. I moved me hands, trying to somehow shake away the pain.
The Puerto Rican man looked at me from the corner of the room sat on the floor like a Nepalese monk, he looked back down at a battered copy of the book of Mormon.
The colour above his head I’d never seen before, it was a colour I couldn’t describe with words. He didn’t talk much, and when I spoke to him in Spanish he was more interested in correcting me than chatting. He made me a bit uneasy as he looked around the room at some invisible force above our heads. The room shook, but nobody seemed to notice. The coins rattled on the box between the two men, their hands clutching cards, willing them to win. The candles flickered as the room kept moving. The man with the rough hands said the North was different, he said that the fields, they go on for miles, further than the eye could see. The pianist looked surprised, then looked back at his cards again. The north is different he said, then he looked at my hands and grinned.
I looked toward the corner of the room and the Puerto Rican man was still watching me. Are you long on the trail? asked the pianist. As long as I can remember I replied, and he nodded his head, and so did the man with the rough hands, and as I looked toward the Puerto Rican man he even nodded in agreement as well. The drink made us repeat ourselves but sometimes we gave different answers. I win a hand, two nines, two aces. The rough handed man gripped his cards and I could see above hid head, go blue to green, then green to crimson, and it stayed that way, like boiling blood floating above him. The room stopped, and we grabbed for anything we could to keep our balance, and when we got our bearings the room began to move again.
The man with Crimson above him spoke, he held his cards with force, as if his life depended on it. It’s the mines, they go up, in the air. The mines, they don’t stop, they go on for miles and miles, further than the eye can see. They go up in the air, like skyscrapers. Once you get into doing the mines, you never get out. I looked above the pianist and saw turquoise, and I remembered that colour before with little Marie, above her baby face, right before she fell.
How is trail treating you? I asked the pianist, he loosened his grip on the cards, and thought about the question for a moment. I’m not sure he said, everything’s going good so far, but I just feel like something bad is going to happen any day now, I can feel it but I can’t explain it. I get that sometimes with colours I said, I could see the Puerto Rican man flinch to attention, as soon as his ears picked up on it. What do you mean by colours asked the pianist. It’s hard to explain I said, I understand he replied, it’s all hard to explain these days, fucking all of it. And the room mumbled in agreement, and I looked towards the Puerto Rican, he nodded, but this time in a friendly way, and I nodded back ,but not really sure what I was nodding for. The room stopped, there was only stillness now, and it didn’t move again, outside there was noise, of metal cranking and clicking, and I tried to stand but as soon as I got up I felt dizzy from sitting too long. We played a last hand, I let the player with crimson above his head win, and he was happy, and he left with at least something, and we both left with our lives. And the turquoise above the pianist reverted to blue then green then sometimes blue again.
I could hear movement outside the room, a squealing of machinery, a clicking then the sound of a whistle. I got the feeling I should brace meself, for something awful beyond the walls. The room rattled, and the wall moved, slowly sliding it’s weight like a shutter, and a blinding light filled the space. Passed the light there was shouting, and smoke but I still couldn’t make out what was going on yet, not with the light. We made our way towards the door, all our candles now extinguished, except one, it still burned confidently, nonchalant, like nothing happened, on the makeshift box above the cards. Me eyes began to adjust to me new surroundings, a man spoke loudly in Mandarin, waving us towards where the crowd was heading, I only realised how ill we all looked, it was amazing really, what a bit of light could do. The smoke in the air made me cough, and for moments it was almost overpowering but I got it together again.
I looked up and saw the mines, mines that were like skyscrapers, ones that went up in the air and never seemed to stop. And along the edges of some mines you could see movement, if you looked close enough. The skyscrapers were black, but had lights that blinked, for some reason it gave the impression the mines were watching me. The man with the rough hands told me about the mines, but I brushed it off like he was exaggerating, maybe it was because he was older, or maybe I thought he was a spoofer, the type that would overcook stories for attention or a reaction. I think people saw me like that sometimes. I looked back at the man with the hands and he nodded with indifference, he looked different in the light, he looked stronger. I realised the Puerto Rican man was by my side, he spoke in a calm voice. Los colores he said, los colores, the colours, your colours. The crowd became heavy and our group began to fragment as more people funnelled towards the red gate we now found ourselves stopped in front of. Dusk was coming fast, the black smoke didn’t help either, and the lights, thousands upon thousands of lights, from the mines. Blinked in perfect symmetry, in perfect lines that went vertically and horizontally.
And for a moment there was order and perfection, in the filth, sweat and grit that this hell spewed out. The red gate opened and the walk was quieter as we moved away from the mines, towards outhouses by a dark river. Where people like us bathed and washed their clothes, they gave us weary looks and bowed their heads nervously back to their choirs. I realised the Puerto Rican man was by my side again. He offered me a cigarette, the company issued ones, I took one lit it, even though they gave me a headache. Los colores he said, you’re colours my friend. The pianist passed me, counting his winnings, he nodded, folding his money delicately with those hands, with those fingers that looked skilful, delicate and spotless, even if the rest of him looked filthy.
The outhouse looked clean enough, but I worried about the bed-sheets, a dose a scabies on the trail could drive a man insane. I took a top bunk. The Puerto Rican man eventually found a bunk through the crowd, and I sighed as he settled in under mine. The dog eared book I’d found on the trail was good for putting me asleep. The rumble of men in the outhouse began to die down, apart from a group of young drunks in the north corner, but they were too far for me to worry. Chico, chico came a whisper from the bunk below me. Your colours, I’ve never seen anything like them before, I think you are like me. I think we have something in common. Eres como yo. I mean you are like me, the same as me. I didn’t reply, there was no need. We are the same he said. I put down me book, we talk about it tomorrow mate. OK said the man, thank you Senor, buenas noches.
I took out the small square mirror, it’s amazing what people leave behind on the trail.
I look at my reflection, then tilt it to see above me head, there is nothing, just darkness, but it’s OK, because you can never see your own colours.
DoubleSpeak 