I would wake up. Slowly lower my feet to the floor. Walk quietly into the dining room. Heavily place myself in a chair, and eat my breakfast. The white sliding door was always closed into the kitchen so the dog wouldn’t get out and so my mom could sleep quietly. I would sit there and take long lasting bites of whatever burnt food my dad had prepared for me. I could faintly hear voices from the T.V. in the kitchen, and the sink was usually running and the overhead fan above the stove was on, failing to suck up the smoke from the black breakfast. The fan’s failure then led to the smoke alarm sometimes deciding to scream, followed by the sound of the stool squeaking across the floor with my dad grunting and the swishing of the dish towel to get the fumes away from the sensor.I sat there. Listening. Thinking of nothing really and just staring outside. The large windows cut off the span of the street I could see. I saw the front lawn of my house, with large bushes in the front. I saw the street. And, I saw the green belt, with the ice plant on the hill leading up to the woodchip path with trees covering the other side. And then just roofs of houses, for as far as my eyes could reach.
Then, the sound came. The noise of the squeaky cart. He came running down the street as usual. The feeling is so comfortable. But every day I was scared shitless. My heart started throbbing and my face tingled numb. The fork in my hand started shaking uncontrollably. The old guy was there. The homeless man. Some called him Santa Claus, some called him King Triton, either way, he was the homeless guy with the long white beard, long white hair, and the shopping cart. He was skinny. Really skinny. He always seemed to be on a mission.
I saw him every morning. I waited for him. He made every breakfast that much more exciting. I sat in nothingness with a blur of morning. Sitting, eating, staring, nothing. But he consistently ran by.
One day, I remember seeing him walk into my drive way. I jumped out of my seat and hid behind the table. I peeked out and realized it was just him making a large turn with his cart, but it still freaked the hell out of me.
He would walk by. I would smile. And I never followed him. I just let the existence of him stay within my window, and that’s it.
You never really saw his mouth. A bandana always hid it.
One day. That rushing sound of the squeaky wheels was way faster than any other normal day. I heard it from afar. He came sprinting down my street and he ran and ran and kept looking behind him as if someone was chasing him. This time, I stood up, looked out the window, up and down the street as he ran. I didn’t see anything. But he was running so fast I barely saw him. He was running from something scary. But I never knew what it was. The street was empty. Completely empty…
After that day, I never saw the skinny Santa Claus again. He never creaked by at six in the morning. And I don’t really ever see him in town anymore. If I have, I feel like it was just a dream. But if I ever do come across King Triton…well, I guess I’ll remember eating my breakfast.
