She wasn’t stumbling per say, but she was tripping a lot. Mostly on sidewalk cracks. She had stubbed her toe at least a dozen times by now. She wouldn't notice until the next day, during her routine, weekend morning body inspection for unexplained bruises. Having had several more shots of tequila than necessary, she had been keeping her head up and her ears open. At some point, she fumbled for a cigarette and hadn’t noticed her drivers license slip out, take a tumble, and rest on a sewage grate.

~

Meanwhile, a young man sat on the edge of a freeway overpass about two miles away. Dressed all in black, hood up, he stared at the cars passing incessantly below. Red lights beside white lights, he squinted to turn them into a river. He debated. He had been debating a lot lately. He imagined becoming a part of the river, simply being swept up into the lights. What would it feel like? He pulled at the skin at his arm, watching it tent up. Somehow he still seemed to exist.

Maybe not tonight. Maybe. He walked back to his dingy apartment, and stood, staring at the entrance. He became nauseous at the thought of going inside.

I’m not supposed to live tonight. If I can’t even exist where I’m supposed to living, I shouldn't be alive at all.

He took a deep breath and started to run in the direction he had come from. His sweatpants caught around his legs awkwardly, detracting from the intensity. His hood flew off and he wrestled the wind every few minutes to put it back on his head. He ran desperately toward his death. One thought echoed as he ran:

“If I slow down I won’t have the balls to do it.”

With a long stride he kicked a white card into the air, hitting him as he ran forward.

What the fuck? His desperation was put on pause. He had stopped as an automatic reflex, and walked back to see what hit him. The drivers license is from here. Los Angeles. He squinted in the dark at the face. A twenty-two year old girl with short, reddish blonde hair. Fairly pretty, a little plain, a little bit punk. The license was issued two weeks ago. 5’5, 116 pounds. He moved closer to the street light. Astrid Emile Connors. Green eyes.

Weird fucking name. Whatever, it only costs twenty bucks to replace it. He quickened his pace, thinking back to his intention. He started jogging again, running faster as he got closer, his fists clenched. He ran up to the barrier, and looked at the holes in the crude chain link fence. The only obstacle left. As he observed them, he noticed his hands were still gripping. Tightly. The drivers license had almost folded in half.

Fuck, I can’t just kill myself holding this girl’s drivers license.

He walked a few feet away and set it down. No, no. That would be bizarre too. I’m not trying to ruin someone else’s life tonight, what if she gets arrested for murder? Screw you, Astrid. Now I have to deal with putting you somewhere that isn’t weird, like at the scene of a suicide.

He looked around and saw a Shell sign a block or two away.

I’ll put you in a gas station parking lot, that seems like reasonable place that you could have been. Hope you’re happy. Why do you have a guys name as a middle name? Your parents must not like you. I don't like you either. I should cut up your license and burn it. No, that’ll smell awful, I’ll just cut it up and then I’ll toss the pieces around town. No, that’s too much effort.

He reached the Shell station, and tossed the card definitively at the ground. As he walked away, he heard a muffled, Southern accent grumbling “errybody nowadays just be litterin’ wherever dey want. Like the world is der trash can. Well guess what? The world is where I best be sleeping son!” Tapering off his words, a drunk, homeless man sleeping a few feet away had been roused at the sound of footsteps. He peeked his head over his thick blanket and gave the young man an indignant look, without blinking. He stared expectedly, while picking something out of his tooth.

“I didn’t litter. It’s not mine.”

“Well it be yours if you be throwin' it all over in my territory! I don't see nobody else in this here station, this is my home.”

“Sir you can’t own a gas station, it’s a public place.”

“And is a federal crime to be here litterin’! In my day, all the mommas would slap you. Maybe I’ll come slap you to teach you here youngun a lesson!” He started, slowing lifting his frail body up, straining with the effort while he continued to stare.

Oh my god are you kidding me? This is most definitely not what I need right now.

“Here, sir, I have the card okay? I’m taking it with me, thanks.” The man put his strained efforts on pause, as Eli watched, relieved.

Now where in the hell is a trash can? None in sight. Almost by miracle. Why is it that trash cans are always in your way, yet when you need them, never seem to have been invented?

Honestly, fuck this, I’m going home.

He passed several trash cans after that. It seemed beside the point. He kept the card clenched in his right fist, and focused on the pain in his palm. Punishment, to make his defeat seem reasonable.