Prompts by HB - 6. Prompt #566

“Cup of coffee, please?” Cam reached into his battered knapsack to pull out his wallet.

“Sure. How do you like it?” The guy behind the bodega counter was about as typical a New Yorker as he could get. Big guy with a tattoo sleeve on one arm, scruffy face under a Mets baseball cap, and an accent so thick it took Cam’s brain a second to translate.

“Just black. Thanks.”

“That’ll be two dollars.”

Cam handed over the money and his gaze wandered around the store. A bodega on a street corner; it felt so familiar and so foreign at the same time. He picked up his coffee. “Uh, can you point me toward the beach?”

The bodega guy raised an eyebrow at him. “Buddy, it’s April. What are you going to the beach for? It’s fucking freezing out there.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Cam said. “Is it just down the street?” He pointed outside the bodega window.

“You’re funeral.” The bodega guy shrugged. “Next corner. Turn left. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.” Cam braced himself against the cold wind as he stepped outside, cup of coffee in one hand, his knapsack slung over the other shoulder.

It took less than five minutes to find Rockaway Beach. The bodega guy was right, the beach was hard to miss. And it was fucking freezing. Cam hunched his shoulders and climbed the short flight of stairs that took him up onto the boardwalk. With no buildings to block the wind blowing off the water, Cam felt the coldness seep through his thick winter coat and into the depths of his bones.

He used to like winter. He liked to skate as a kid and his family had gone on ski trips when he was a teenager. But more than a decade spent in sub-Saharan Africa where the temperature never dropped past sixty Fahrenheit had robbed Cam of his tolerance of the cold. He would have been lucky if that was the only thing that had been stolen.

He wasn’t even sure why he was at the beach. It wasn’t like he’d ever been particularly fond of the water. But Manhattan had gotten too claustrophobic over the past couple of days and the beach was the only place he could think of that was wide open and empty. It was also close to the airport, and just an ocean away from Africa.

The beach was deserted and there were signs everywhere warning people against getting into the water. The storefronts that dotted the boardwalk all summer were shuttered, the restrooms were locked, and there wasn’t even a single seagull circling in the grey colored sky.

Cam walked until he felt he was far enough away from civilization and then sat down on a cold wooden bench. He took a sip of the steaming black coffee, reveling in the trail of heat it forged down the middle of his chest before settling in a warm pool in his stomach. He was grateful for the warmth, but the coffee itself was shit. Africa—everywhere he’d been in Africa—had better coffee than this.

Who would have thought that he’d miss African coffee? But as he sipped at the thin, bitter brew, he longed for the fragrant aroma of those early mornings when the air was still cool, the sun just peeking over the horizon, and the muted sounds of a waking refugee camp chased away the silent night. He missed his daily runs around the camp, when he went with no team and no security, just himself, learning the lay of the land. He missed the gaggle of children who would greet him with big smiles and waves, running alongside him before they headed off to the single overrun school room.

Holy fucking shit. He actually missed Africa.

Cam lean his elbows on his knees and hung his head forward as he tried to catch his breath. He missed Africa. How could he miss Africa? It didn’t make any sense. Africa was the place that stole his youth, his innocence, his idealism. Africa turned him from someone who wanted to save the world into someone who just wanted to get through the day with no one else dying on him. Africa had fucked up his brain until he couldn’t sleep properly, couldn’t eat properly, and couldn’t have a normal relationship with…

His fingers drifted to the broken watch he wore on his wrist, tracing the roughened edges of the bezel, the cracked glass of the face. He wore the watch as a reminder of what was at stake, of the lives he could put in danger if he wasn’t careful, of the innocent life he had destroyed because of his young naiveté.

Robinson. His name had been Robinson. A young gay man who had been volunteering with Cam’s team when Cam had been just as young and gay, who had confided and trusted Cam with his secret. And instead of protecting Robinson, Cam had encouraged him to be out and proud, not understanding the full consequences of his advice. The watch had been damaged when Cam had tried to fight off the attackers. He had landed in the hospital and had to be evacuated from the country; Robinson had landed in the grave.

That was the other thing Africa had stolen from him. Africa had stolen his sexuality, forcing Cam into a closet that he had never been inside before. And Africa has stolen Robinson and all the other people like Robinson who were seen as aberrations by their own compatriots.

But it wasn’t really Africa, Cam knew. That was too simple an excuse, and unfair. It was the lack of understanding, of education, and of exposure to diversity that put so many lives at risk. And his own emotional and mental instability weren’t Africa’s fault, either. It was the constant danger of a war zone, and the constant lack of resources and support. It was being faced with extraordinary needs and no ability to meet them, being isolated from the rest of world and feeling like they’d been forgotten.

Yet now, having been transferred back to headquarters in New York, arguably the center of the world, in a safe and reliable environment, with all imaginable resources at his disposal, and a thriving, vibrant queer community, Cam felt lonelier than he’d ever felt when working in the field. It didn’t make any sense; yeah, it didn’t make any fucking sense.

Drop.

Cam glance over to the right where one drop of rain had landed and was soaking into the wooden board.

Drop.

Then another one over to his left.

Drop. Drop. Drop.

They came in quick succession, big fat drops of rain falling from the darkened sky. Cam sat back on the bench and lifted his head as the water fell on his face, drenched his hair, and ran down his neck. He sat there, drowning in the heavy rain.

It was a cold rain, mixing with the cold air blowing in off the ocean. But the water on his face felt warm, even hot.

He couldn’t go back to Africa. It tore at him to think of all the people he’d left behind there, the overwhelming need, and the lack of skilled aid workers on hand. But he couldn’t go back anymore, no matter how deeply the guilt gnawed at him.

The problem was, Cam didn’t belong here, either. He didn’t understand the appeal of the Kardashians, or Trader Joe’s, or Netflix. He nearly had a meltdown trying to take the subway during rush hour. And the people walking past him on the street felt just as foreign to him, as the people of Africa did when he first started working in the field.

The tears ran more steadily down his face, camouflaged by the deluge of rain, as the harsh truth of his reality dawned on him. He didn’t belong anywhere anymore. He had no home.