He had been a constant roamer for a while now and the footsteps of his size 8 boot left their prints all over the map. Only in the country, that was true, but the country was not small and the frail, uncommitted trial to sneak onto the borders of Canada, jumping onto a freight train, without having the proper passport, papers and such necessary elements, the thought to sneak into the neighboring country went away. So in the process of being kicked around for some time, he ended up in the shores near Frisco, 27 mile away from the nearest civilization.

Like every hitch hiker, he started the walk at the shoreline, slowly drifting South and by evening, the bustle of a dock, stationing monolith ships, greased stout working men, battered exhausted sailors in their tight white outfits woke him up about the identity of his whereabouts.

He had the look of lost youth, carved onto his absent eyes and the yearning to find shelter from the cold withering weather. He had perfected that expression from time to time since the sight of wasted and adrift young men brought work quickly. He masterfully hid the smile when a heavy bearded man, probably a quartermaster of one of the ships, standing on the edge of 50 or more called him up with a wave. And as he expected, he was a quartermaster of a ship called S.M. Diana, a large vessel which was bound for Europe.

The officer was exotic and there was no doubt. The loud whispering of the man promised him the price to see Europe and if the sea would treat him well, he would be in luck to see Africa, maybe even Asia, the beautiful Calendar lands of the East.

He had said nothing unnecessary when the ship pimp established his job. The Quartermaster was short on coal man. Even though, he had highlighted the fact that, the other man was skinny and din't have bundles of muscles flaring out of him, he would easily do the job of shoveling coal down a large fire heaven to power the ship. The other man only nodded, bought a liter of beer for both of them.

That's when he met the woman. Not the woman, not Emyln. But a lady who loved Frisco more than anything else in this whole large blue world. She gave the impression of her unprecedented love to some man she had once been married to. At last, he died but stole her heart forever.

She was nothing more than a drunk poetess, usually found in the shores of the sea, departed melancholic literate women and men who had seen the world and perhaps found a bit of a hint of life. She poured the rest of her philosophy out to him and he had decided that, it would be a fool's task to listen to her and end up in Frisco.

But he did end up in Frisco, but not in a good way.

He realized he had made a mistake and a gigantic, throbbing and painful one at that matter, when the shiny chromed 67' Buick smashed headfirst into the nearest lamp post in the secluded highway to test the strength of the telephone polls. It was a terrible accident, with a tremendous bang and it wasn't the man's fault since he was just hitchhiking and a kind man named Forlan Levi offered him to give a ride. And Forlan Levi, the man in the driving seat, was only drunk in his 70 dollar suit.

He had dragged the man out of the car in the cold streak of February air. The tone of the highway was empty and it would be trouble to find help for the man, not for himself since he only had the fortune of breaking a wrist.

" Carson. " Forlan woke up the next day, under the white sheets in the emergency room and found the hiker sleeping in a chair, with a white, fresh sling around his right hand. He knew it was his fault and his dreadful habit of drinking, which was getting worse and worse every night was the prime cause of everyone's injuries. So his moral obligation to help the man named Carson grew stronger and he gave into it.

Therefore, in the next 2 weeks, Carson, as he called himself Carson Marter, slept in the outhouse near the grand home of Forlan Levi and ran at every beck and call of him. The wrist was not fully healed but the stubbornness and the annoyance it caused, made Carson take the sling off after the third day.

Even thought, it hurt from time to time but he enjoyed the company of Forlan who did everything and nothing at the same time. They would go fishing and Forlan would actively fish, hold the rod for a few minutes, then he would give up entirely and slowly, without raising an alarm. And a beer bottle would be seen. The same tiring sense was into when they went hunting, a trip to the lake house and everywhere.

Levi was not old yet as he just surpassed 40 in the beginning of February. He had a fishing company and an army of boats, along with the finest managers he could find, so nothing necessity of human life needed him. For his dull behavior and workaholic character, he didn't enjoy anything. The grump and the frown appeared on his face at every morning and stayed there before he went to bed or became blind drunk. He had a wife who had once loved him deeply but was nothing but annoyed to be around him. His son thought of him the same way, already urging to leave home to some faraway University.

Forlan wanted to be happy more than anything else in the world. But he just said the word Adventure, never had the commitment to go on a lucid, impulsive trip himself for his blue, dejected and downcast mentality.

The man called himself Carson in Frisco. In Colombia, he would respond to you if you regarded him as Broker Banks. When he was in New York, he filed to be a fireman under the name of John Ruber.

The name switched with the states and the story changed too. Forlan Levi knew him as Carson Marter, a mechanic who had left the job in the midst of Winter, frustrated with life and out to see the country to settle his nerves.

But he did not know Broker Banks who was desperate to be a Caddie, especially for a newspaper in Colombia. When Carson was Broker, he was an intellectual creature. A man of words and tense and terms. Determined to throw his vigor and life in the marriage of letters and words. He would jump at every spark and spar of something that can be great, an idea that was just in a cocoon, waiting to be a butterfly. You could easily notice him in a table of men, as the glitter of his eyes was hard to ignore when he spoke.

But before he was Carson or Broker, he was John Ruber. A sullen, fresh, dismal face of a teen on the cusp of adulthood was John Ruber. He was nothing of specialty. Just another brick in the wall. Another ignorant face in the crowd and nobody would look at him twice with notice because there was nothing to examine or be at awe. That's why when the muscular man in the Fire Department desk saw him, he knew right away that, the kid in the overused beat up coat and maltreated body was not 23 and almost everything he spoke of was a lie.

But that's all in the past and the past was not changeable. Even thinking of the times that went away, especially of the time that was not worth thinking, was a waste of breath.

The bouts of Forlan Levis' depression only became explosive on the last day of February. Carson had driven him into the country club and in his usual routine, before the sun was on the 12th pedestal of noon, he was drunk. So, like always Carson drove back, only to find the wife and the son in a tormented state. No one could blame them, because they reached home after midnight, at 2 o clock in the morning.

He tried ignoring his wife who was insensitive and loud, yelling on and on about what a mess Forlan was. That snapped him and all the regrets of his life came out that night and there was not anyone in the house who did not hear it.

He yelled how sad his life was and in reality it was just one mistake after another.

" One fuckup, then another and then you. " He pointed aggressively to his wife and she had shrieked in with a surprised gasp.

He achieved the sober head when the afternoon sun was taking a dive into the horizon and Carson had already left. " Driven away " was the proper term for it as the angry wife who was not just furious but sad, threw a few dollars at him, yelled loudly with blame.

And he was back on the road again. Richer, yes, that was true. But sadder.

The compass was pointing towards Dixieland.