"Aw, (bad word)!" the man yelled, breaking consecutive hours of silence.
The unlit sewer was filled with junk parts, corroded water which looked more like a cess pool of Energizer battery fluid that keeps going and going and going, and yes, scum. Nothing but the sound of rats squealing.
In his retro-1970s makeshift leisure suit (slash) uniform, Javier stands idle but tall. A glossy reflection in the still water reveals a young, Hispanic male in his early thirties. I suppose you could call him a man, or at least what remains after a bitter divorce, debilitating drinking problem and subsequent "one night relationships". Javier is down, but certainly not out. The hair is parted evenly down the middle, held firmly on each side by gallons, it appeared, of Dippity Do. After dusting off his weathered jacket, Javier notices a small patch over his left front packet, the letters half-covered in tar smudges, "Javier Lopes, Head Custodian."
"In this world," he proclaims boldly, "No one can keep me from doing what I know I want to do. This is my world, amigo!" Clutching the most recent e-mails from his children in his left hand, Javier settles into a meditative state, eventually lapsing into a deep sleep. Two hours pass. Waking up with bugs on his face, surrounded by different types of plant and fungal life, Javier decides to sort out his belongings. He empties out his pockets as well as a leather knapsack. Among the e-mails are a couple of stray messages from some individual named "G-Money the Mack Daddy." These messages are each addressed to him personally, inviting him to sign an electronic petition to support free speech on the Internet. Laid out beside him now are his e-mail letters, toothbrush, two pairs of cotton underwear, a flannel, his G# harmonica, and a yellow sleeping bag. The ground beneath him is cold and hard.
It is in this vast, unfeeling quagmire where a grungy, pure of heart ex-petroleum transfer engineer can make his dreams come true. "I am beneath everyone else, yet I am free to do as I please. No one can harm me and my mind is safe from corrupt thoughts. I am poor and wretched, but that does not matter since I am no longer being judged by my appearance. Rats, vermin and slime may attack the body, but they cannot contaminate my heart." The underground river continues to send shards of glass, metal particles, random papers without meaning and soiled garments floating quietly into view.
An article of clothing lying near him captures his attention. Javier is again enveloped into thinking about his circumstances. "Oh Sylvia," Javier laments, "how could you take away our children?"
After several lonesome minutes of picking at the rocks underneath his boots, Javier realizes something important. That it is not enough to be free from the world's influence. The world needs more than that. The world needs people willing to sacrifice themselves for others. He also notices another person wading through the murky water towards him. Bizarre, quick images flash through Javier's mind. He sees the marble facade of a corporate tower. He sees his son Pablo playing some synthesizer type drum pad. He imagines what it would be like to be in his wife's position, to be sitting in the court room and know that custody would automatically be granted to him. He sees his limp body suspended lifelessly in the air.
Returning to the external 3-dimensional world, the words come almost involuntarily tumbling out of his mouth, traveling down the tunnel in broken English, "Hey there sir, what's your name?" The sewer was now being transformed by its increasing darkness into a cavernous primordial realm. Not a single shaft of natural light penetrated from above. With a flick of his cigarette lighter and dirty rag, Javier puts together a makeshift torch. He holds the torch a few feet above the water's surface.
The scum-soaked man seems fierce yet anxious, perhaps the product of parents who push too hard. He was young, perhaps in his early twenties, yet it was impossible to judge how close to death this man actually was. "Phtuh, what the fuck are you doing here?", the man finally replies with biting disapproval in his voice. Javier is so filled with joy at simply making contact with another person that he doesn't seem to internalize the man's words. It had been three days since his migration to the underground, having reduced Javier to a diet of chunky-style peanut butter and a large suitcase stocked with cheap domestic beer. The stark man, having managed to climb out of the muck, stared intently at Javier, taking in his physical appearance. Suddenly, Javier got the impression that this man knew who he was.
Javier smiled back awkwardly. The man's demeanor changed like mercury. "Hey, sorry for being rude there. My name's Jonathan," said the man with disguised antipathy. "You're probably wondering what I'm doing down here and the truth is, I'm looking for some peace and quiet. I think better down here."
Javier was flabbergasted. Could there be someone else as insane as he was? Javier asked the man politely, "So what happened to you, and what do you plan to do while you're down here?"