In the plywood room nick-named Shanty Town, there is nothing to sit on except a mattress on a plywood floor. There are cigarette butts lined up in rows like small armies arranged by brand on a petite bow-legged bedside table. Agafia, at 24, is in between womanhood and girlhood. Her jeans are low, over her hips, pushing a small, rounded roll of skin and flesh over their belt line. Her gray t-shirt is oversized with two white lightning bolts screen printed on the back. Her hair, sliced down the middle of her head, is wrapped into two sidelong braids that hit the center of each shoulder blade. She is wearing no jewelry, but the antique horn-rimmed glasses perched on top of her nose gives her face the appearance of a sliver unibrow. Her complexion is smooth, clean, but just intentioned enough to seem dispirited, anxious, and a little crazy. A mess is spread before her. On top of the mattress sits a black and tan canvas rucksack. Underneath a red and black tartan sleeping bag are clothes. She needs to pack whatever she can find. Each item is inspected with her nose, looking for olifactoric indicators that the item is indeed hers. Roughly, as if forcing something so annoying into something equally as annoying, she stuffs the bag.
As the daylight folds away into a small broken seam of orange in the only visible corner of the sky behind the mountains, the wind is rustling. The furnace which is directly below her separated only by a single sheet of plywood, is about to turn on. The gas ignites as a whoosh from the underbelly of this dream-like place. As the heat kicks in, she hums. It is a hum from deep within, melodic molasses oozing from dark creases, spilling over soft edges.
Between humming and packing, Agafia lights up a cigarette. It’s American Spirit and organic. She abhors the idea of lung cancer and is afraid of secondhand smoke and she pays extra to support the illusion. Her romanticized pretensions are often seen as someone who puts privilege above practicality; something that will take the burdens of added responsibility to outgrow. She balances the cigarette from the corner of her mouth; something she loves to do while also doing too many things at once. She tries not to get smoke in her eyes, but it’s only expediting the inevitable. She looks around. She has been here before.
When Agafia opens the door to the outside of Shanty Town, she stops to notice the frost on top of the staircase. She reminds herself to be careful. The late March evening is lovely with occasional birdsong, but right now it is in between sounds. Agafia inhales the smell of the air. Lost in a moment of woodstove magic, she closes her eyes and takes a deeper breath. She wants to burn this feeling of simultaneous wholeness and emptiness inside of her being. A Ford pickup truck pulls onto the gravel driveway. She opens her eyes, kisses her right palm and touches the edge of the railing. As an old woman, she will regret not blowing that kiss towards what was then a darkened sky.