At first, I didn’t know what I was seeing. Second glance solidifying the fact that, yes, there was a man crawling into the sewer.

By the time I had rounded the corner where St. Patrick meets Palmyra, his head was already in the drain. So just a torso, legs, arms spread out across the pavement. Hands pressed into the curb, wan talons with a plastic sheen. Digging in, though no sense that anything was pulling at him. That would have made more sense, and maybe this secret would have been 34 or 35 on the list. But he wasn’t being dragged. If he was a he. White dress shirt. Grey slacks. White sneakers pointing outwards in a plié. He wasn’t struggling. Whatever it was, he was digging. Fingertips making actual indentations in the slanted concrete. Using that alien strength to move in.

And when I stopped to decipher just what I was witnessing, it happened fast. Fingers disengaging, elbows forming a pair of upright pyramids, before slithering in, embracing the storm drain, accepting the rot. So now his head, torso, and suddenly, fucking waist were in there, and I swear I could see sharp protrusions from the iron overhang, taking a bite, and he was still so willing to surrender.

Purpose-driven life.

One last gasp like milkshake dregs through a straw, and he was gone. I felt there might have been a popping sound at the end there. Satisfied smack of that moment when you know your meal is done.

Only noticed the sounds returning once I discovered they had hushed . Children walking home from school. Men laughing outside the corner store, crack of a tallboy just down the block. Planes overhead. Cars violating potholes on nearby crossroads. Cathedral bells signaling half past, well past.

My only other choice was to stay rooted to the spot. Middle of Palmyra Street, where a car could come by at any moment and make a moment out of me.

So I stepped forward. Walked along the gutter, closing in on the site of my hallucination. Noticed a fresh puddle around the opening. It was close to a hundred degrees in the Crescent City that day, no way that was rain.

I stood, my feet confronting the drain.

Magnetic tug insisting that I bend down.

Take a look for myself.

Most likely how that man had ended up down there in the first place. Or whoever had come before him, or her, or it, whoever. Whatever.

I crouched low.

Felt the clouds part. Summer brightness lapping at my neck.

Got lower. Knees on the street, rough surface scraping through my denim jeans.

Resisted the urge to plant my palms.

Leaned in.

No sign of anyone peering back at me.

But the void wasn’t entirely in keeping with its namesake.

Hanging just past the underside of the drain was a scrap of paper. Meal ticket from a greasy spoon with no POS. Something scrawled on the surface. Black marker, but still too dim to read its suggestion, prophecy, its plan for me.

I reasoned with my head, Don’t do it.

Hand not knowing what was best for any of us.

Reaching in.

Fingers closing around the note.

Ripping it free.

Arm now back to where it was supposed to be.

Daylight offering what it had to say for itself, and what was written there was

SECRET #17

And from inside the sewer, I heard someone smile.

So I finally shot up, legs pumping, and ran up the steps to our home. Key twitching into the security gate, swinging open, same with the door, and it was done, slammed shut behind me.

I leaned my back against the wood.

Rested my head.

Remembered to breathe.

Then remembered the note.

Secret #17.

Turned and looked at the door, as though

it would better my chances, lock doubling my luck, when it came to keeping the outside from coming in.

###

in print:

Amazon.com

or for fucking free in digital

Smashwords.com

so long and thanks for all the pish.