Sisyphonomics
by jakeStephens

 Meandering and randomly intentional, crossing and crisscrossing the snowfield of the backyard, the old dog’s paw prints were a puzzle of lines in the small, unfenced lot of urban tundra, quietly shivering in the shadow of an aging brownstone, where her master, equally rheumy, yet more balding, sat at the window, waiting and counting.

The smart sound of coins, appearing first at his fingertips, and then striking a methodically expanding sum of riches at his feet, contrasted the otherwise gentle susurrus of his absent voice.  Mental calculations, passing unheeded into stagnant air over dry and flaking lips, lingered momentarily, as if amazed, then dispersed, interrupted by the next gentle tink of metal on metal.  He sat, hunched, tallying absently, coins emerging from his fingertips every shivering, aged breath or two, amidst the collected, rusting milk cans, crumbling cardboard boxes, rotting coffee cans, and yellowed bowls, caked and choked with the dust and collected debris of years, each overspilling with loose change.  Among myriad, prismatic bottles, pitchers, banks, dishes, and basins of all shape and design, each overflowing with coins, he watched the old dog crisscross and transect the still white snowfield, black coat inky against the brilliant azure of the clear, cold, February sky.

“…forty six”

A rattling breath in.

“Ninety nine five, twenty five eight, ninety five nine and …”

A whispering breath out.

“Ninety nine five, twenty five eight, ninety six oh-oh six…”

Animated surprise cracked otherwise placid, yellow features, John Kennedy’s heavy profile dropping loudly, the man’s dry lips, cracking into a blood-flecked smile.

“Been while since we see you now, Johno” two coins falling rapidly from his right index finger, another from the left pinky, his slight frame, grey and gaunt, shivering and giddy with forgotten laughter. 

“Faster they come today… faster now,” the old dog barking at the door to be let back into the murky house.

“Not so long now, not so long” while he walks, ninety-five-ninety-ing to the door, coins tumbling about his feet, rolling into dark corners, joining, with a muted clink, forgotten brethren, amongst cobwebs and tumbleweeds of dog hair and dander, their faces and dates reflecting at least a century of constant counting.

“You see now old girl, free soon “ while smiling at the open door, a wagging tail, her melting prints at, on, then over the threshold, crumbling, fading clues, steaming.

“Not you worry” as the door closes, attempting in vain to keep the cold at bay, a sliver of razor-sharp draft along the crooked sill, two-five-eight-ing back to the threadbare chair and the overfull basin, chipped, and bone white.

“Sure, we make the not-so-good choice, sure, is not a good wish to make with bad, smiling devil, but we, nine-seven-oh-two-one, free soon, free, right girl?” with glistening eyes, smiling, totaling, then freezing, horrified, coins trickling uncounted in a jingling rain of newfound despair.

“No, girl, no… please girl …what you do? ” while chewing, smiling a devil’s smile, the old dog sat eating the coins.