“They say at sunset on a clear evening, the mirrors all glow orange and meet in one spot, and if you sit there and close your eyes you can see the other side.”
“The other side s’not real, Birch.”
“Says who?”
“Says normal people.”
“Who’s normal nowadays?”
The glass twinkled on the beach in the evening sun. Spread all throughout the ground were shards of it from broken things. A big, rusty sign swings on its hinges saying ABANDONMENT BEACH. SHOES REQUIRED. Birch’s toes brushed the line of fiberglass sand and felt the prickles they caused like microscopic needles. Shoes in hand, she tossed them on the sand and squeezed her feet through too small sandals. She took one look at the greasy brown water with its hint of pale blue. Then Birch took off, leaving John in her dust.
"Hey wait up, Birch!"
"Keep up, John!"
They flew through the sand, stumbling around the broken glass and rusted furniture, ducking under pearly trees until they found their shack.
Built of crumbling floorboards and hair ties, it only stood four feet tall and six feet around. There was a plastic shower curtain as the door, decorated with ducks that had turned brown about a year ago. They crawled in, Birch first, John second, to find their piles of dusty treasure collected off the beach; fake precious jewels that had fallen out of bracelets, tarnished spoons, rotting ties, and an old threadbare blanket of a hideous honey hue - these were Birch’s favorites. John’s favorite abandoned piece was a blue teddy bear - the newest thing here. He grabbed it with pasty, stubby fingers and hugged it as a child would. He began to hum an old nursery rhyme quietly; Birch silently peered around for a specific seem.
“What’cha looking for, Birch?”
She turned around to stare at the boy. He was at least a head shorter than she, with wide, innocent eyes and a soft mouth half open. Birch thought he looked ridiculous holding that cotton-candy-colored bear. She thought he looked like a toddler.
“Nothing important, Johnny Boy.”
Birch felt he was young enough for a little boy nickname, or at least acting young enough. She was tired of watching him rock back in forth, humming a baby song, holding a baby toy, thinking of Mom and Dad.
The sun through the curtain holes showed signs of a perfect sunset approaching. The air quieted, the waves grew calm, the water an oily shade of navy.
“It’s time to run home Johnny. It's getting late.”
“But we just got here, Birch! I don’t want to go yet.” He put a whiney emphasis on here and yet, setting Birch’s teeth on edge.
“We have to, it's almost sundown. Come on, we got to go. Don’t make me drag you, Johnny Boy.”
She dragged John out of the shack, set him upright, and dared him to race her. A big smile lit his face as they sprinted back to the rusty sign. She let him win. At the beginning of grass she said goodbye to John and mumbled her house was a different way than his. She stood and waited for him to get out of sight before running back to the middle of the beach. Birch made sure she was in the cluster of mirrors, closed her eyes, and waited until she would feel all the mirrors glow. Five minutes passed, then ten, and after fifteen minutes, she thought she felt a little bit of warmth around her. Regaining hope, she felt a reel of film click-click-click behind her eyelids and an image began to form. It was herself, sitting on a bed full with lush pillows and fluffed blankets of royal golds and crushed velvet reds. She had the same face, same hair, same skin, but everything had a glow to it; her hair a brighter blonde with shiny short tendrils curling to her chin, her eyes a brighter sandy blue, her mouth and cheeks rosy. The Birch in the image started to smile, but soon a melodic voice sounded in Birch’s own ear, yet strangely enough dream-Birch turned her head. Real Birch – as she was calling herself now – watched as a beautiful blur of a woman walked in, took dream-Birch’s hand, and drew her away. The image faded, the last imageof Birch’s hand slowly waving as it disappeared into the unknown. Real Birch opened her eyes, and the sun was down, the ocean’s oil-slick black water was dead, the glass as still as before, and she was very confused. Birch refused to believe the hazy image was more than a daydream, because if that was the other side, she might lose all hope in the unexplainable. She stood up, slowly walked back to the shack, a frown embroidering her face, passed the curtains, and curled up in a ball on the ground of the horrid honey blanket. She reassured herself again that the mother and daughter were just a dream. Because Birch didn’t know of a world where she wasn’t apart of Abandonment Beach.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
The Jumper
The sunset is not all that romantic. It doesn’t leave you gasping for air the way Hollywood claims it does. It doesn’t make you release a gasp of astonishment the way you would when you realize the Mona Lisa is as small as a postage stamp and covered in bulletproof glass the first time you visit Paris. It doesn’t make you stop for a moment in your tightly scheduled life to catch a breath and reflect upon the complexities of your life. No, that is not what watching the sunrise is like. Not for Marie, anyway.
The first time Marie watched the sun set, she woke up three hours earlier than the time she had set on her alarm clock. Groggily, she hauled herself out of the comfort of her warm bed and allowed her feet to carry her to the closet. Without giving more than a second glance at the clothes, she threw on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Well, nothing unusual there. However, her choice of clothing was unique in that she included a dark purple jumper.
Her friends and family had often made fun of her for the plain and unattractive sweater but she paid no heed to their comments. Whether facing winds traveling at twenty miles per hour or standing under the scorching sun in the hundred-degree desert, she had worn that sweater. She could recall being upset at the harsh red of her skin the summer before, as a result of the constant exposure to sunlight, and she was determined to prevent the same outcome from recurring. Additionally, wearing a garment that others would not wear made her seem unique, and she stood out among her peers. Although initially driven by a simple mentality – to prevent burning and to be distinctive among others, these goals were ultimately the manifestations of her early forms of rebellion against society’s expectations and push for conformity.
Despite how her defiance had little to no impact on changing the ways of the community, this was her first step in acknowledging the aspects of society she didn’t agree with. Marie had seen the standards of beauty mainstream media set for individuals, most of which were unrealistic and almost impossible to fulfill. Although she could not fully articulate it at the time, she understood that the walls of this mainstream culture easily bound individuals, mainly women. These impractical standards were simply glorified ideals, yet we are all expected to achieve these goals. Perhaps, she thought, that it would be all right to not abide by these expectations and expand beyond these restrictive walls of photoshopped photographs and perfect pixels.
As Marie made her way down to the park to watch the sunset, her sister decided to accompany her.
“I brought my video camera with me,” she said.
“Yeah, I brought my camera too,” Marie, replied.
Once they reached the park, the girls settled down in the swings, waiting for the sun to greet them goodnight. They sat in silence as they observed the stillness of the empty streets, full of eerie tranquility as if the streets devoid of living souls were unnatural, but the silence provided them with comfort. The street lamps further down the street seemed so small that they had reminded Marie of fireflies. Some of the lights even flickered.
As the sun descended from the horizon, it spread a warm orange glow across the sky. Marie turned her digital camera on and snapped a few quick shots of the sunset. Within a matter of minutes, the sun was already long gone into the depths of the sky and the entire town was enveloped under a blood orange haze before it was sent to bed and covered with a blanket of darkness. Her sister turned to her, and with curious eyes, questioned her attire. “Are you going to wear that jumper all night? We live in Florida, even though it’s night it’s still going to be hot.”
Marie cast her eyes downwards, towards the compact digital screen on her camera. The pictures she took of the sun didn’t seem to quite capture the essence of sunset that she was hoping for, the ideal romantic sunset that movies seemed to offer with the comforting knowledge that yet another brilliant day was finally over. The reality of the sunset did not meet her expectations, as Marie was sure she didn’t meet the suns.
Marie gave the picture one last, hard look, and then turned the digital device off. “Yes,” she said. “I think I’ll keep the jumper on.” After all, the sunset really was not all that romantic.
The first time Marie watched the sun set, she woke up three hours earlier than the time she had set on her alarm clock. Groggily, she hauled herself out of the comfort of her warm bed and allowed her feet to carry her to the closet. Without giving more than a second glance at the clothes, she threw on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Well, nothing unusual there. However, her choice of clothing was unique in that she included a dark purple jumper.
Her friends and family had often made fun of her for the plain and unattractive sweater but she paid no heed to their comments. Whether facing winds traveling at twenty miles per hour or standing under the scorching sun in the hundred-degree desert, she had worn that sweater. She could recall being upset at the harsh red of her skin the summer before, as a result of the constant exposure to sunlight, and she was determined to prevent the same outcome from recurring. Additionally, wearing a garment that others would not wear made her seem unique, and she stood out among her peers. Although initially driven by a simple mentality – to prevent burning and to be distinctive among others, these goals were ultimately the manifestations of her early forms of rebellion against society’s expectations and push for conformity.
Despite how her defiance had little to no impact on changing the ways of the community, this was her first step in acknowledging the aspects of society she didn’t agree with. Marie had seen the standards of beauty mainstream media set for individuals, most of which were unrealistic and almost impossible to fulfill. Although she could not fully articulate it at the time, she understood that the walls of this mainstream culture easily bound individuals, mainly women. These impractical standards were simply glorified ideals, yet we are all expected to achieve these goals. Perhaps, she thought, that it would be all right to not abide by these expectations and expand beyond these restrictive walls of photoshopped photographs and perfect pixels.
As Marie made her way down to the park to watch the sunset, her sister decided to accompany her.
“I brought my video camera with me,” she said.
“Yeah, I brought my camera too,” Marie, replied.
Once they reached the park, the girls settled down in the swings, waiting for the sun to greet them goodnight. They sat in silence as they observed the stillness of the empty streets, full of eerie tranquility as if the streets devoid of living souls were unnatural, but the silence provided them with comfort. The street lamps further down the street seemed so small that they had reminded Marie of fireflies. Some of the lights even flickered.
As the sun descended from the horizon, it spread a warm orange glow across the sky. Marie turned her digital camera on and snapped a few quick shots of the sunset. Within a matter of minutes, the sun was already long gone into the depths of the sky and the entire town was enveloped under a blood orange haze before it was sent to bed and covered with a blanket of darkness. Her sister turned to her, and with curious eyes, questioned her attire. “Are you going to wear that jumper all night? We live in Florida, even though it’s night it’s still going to be hot.”
Marie cast her eyes downwards, towards the compact digital screen on her camera. The pictures she took of the sun didn’t seem to quite capture the essence of sunset that she was hoping for, the ideal romantic sunset that movies seemed to offer with the comforting knowledge that yet another brilliant day was finally over. The reality of the sunset did not meet her expectations, as Marie was sure she didn’t meet the suns.
Marie gave the picture one last, hard look, and then turned the digital device off. “Yes,” she said. “I think I’ll keep the jumper on.” After all, the sunset really was not all that romantic.
Someone Like You
She was hardly ready to go when Ella got the text-message saying, “I’m here.” She still had to finish her hair and choose a pair of shoes. It was about eight thirty in the evening and the summer light was still visible outside her window. There was a knock on the door and with a brush in one hand and two different of shoes in another, she opened the door and let Tyler in.
“Evening.”
He took a step in and closed the door. He was wearing dark jeans with a white button down and a grey blazer. He gestured at a picture on the wall and asked, “New canvas?”
She nodded.
“It’s nice. Are you ready to go?”
“Almost.”
She ran back into the bathroom to finish her hair while he waited in the living room.
He teased her, “If you keep touching it, it’ll only get worse.”
Once her hair was finished and the shoes were picked out, they were finally ready to leave. It wasn’t until she walked out of the door that Brad’s face popped into her head.
Ella and Brad were together for just about six months. Their feelings towards each other, however, went deeper and farther than that. He was her first love.
From the beginning, they were both way in over their heads; obsessed with each other – from texting constantly to always being together –no one or nothing could separate them.
Brad was everything and more than what any girl would look for in a boyfriend. Not only was he an excelling athlete in golf, soccer and lacrosse but he was also an extremely intelligent student. He was tall, with medium brown hair and brown eyes that made her smile every time she gazed into them. Everything about him attracted her to him and with each passing day their affection towards one another grew stronger. In a matter of weeks they were in love- a love that most would describe as puppy love. Eyes grew twice their size at the sight and even thought of one another. When the two were together, no one else existed. Every morning Ella would wake up to a message on her phone reading, “Good morning beautiful, I hope you had a good sleep.”
“So I was thinking Italian, is that okay with you?” said Tyler.
Ella had forgotten all about Tyler for those few moments.
She failed to notice that she was in the car with Tyler and had subconsciously carried out their conversation from the house to the moment she answered, “I love Italian, that’s fine by me.”
Italian – it reminded Ella of the time her and Brad went downtown to grab a slice of pizza. She had a slice of cheese with a Sprite, while Brad had a slice of pepperoni with a Coke. They sat outside eating and talking. Occasionally they would see someone they knew and conversation was put to a halt. Following pizza, they went their favorite ice cream shop and order the same thing – a cup of mint chocolate chip.
“I’ll have the Chicken Parmesan with a Coke. And she will have…”
“Ella…” said Tyler.
“Oh my bad, I will have the Shrimp Scampi with a Sweet Tea. Thank you.”
As Tyler and Ella sat at the table, she couldn’t help but think about Brad. Why did they even break up? Is there something she could have done differently to save their relationship? Nevertheless, Ella told herself that she was over it, and not to recreate the past.
“Is everything okay?’’ asked Tyler.
“Yea, everything is fine just remembered something, but its not important” she said. Someone Like you by Adele played in the background through the restaurant’s rusting speakers.
“Okay, if you say so. Ella, have you decided where you wanted to go to college?”
“Well you see, to be honest Tyler, I’m not really sure where I want to go. All I know is what I want to do.”
“Which is?” asked Tyler.
“Journalism. Broadcasting journalism, to be more specific. What about yourself?”
Although she was unsure about where she would be attending college in the Fall, Ella did know where Brad was going – to an Ivy League.
“I got a full scholarship to play football for the University of Michigan” claimed Tyler, whose face lit up at the chance to tell someone this.
“That’s great news! I’m so happy for you, I know how hard you must have worked and trained.”
This conversation between Tyler and Ella was becoming more pure. Brad was no longer on her mind, reminding her of what could have been. He was no longer distracting her. She was finally starting to enjoy being with Tyler – talking and laughing with him. Just then she realized something that she had never grasped before:
Ella had kept dwelling on the past; remembering how things used to be instead of how they were. Rather than enjoying her time spent with Tyler, all she could think about was Brad and what he was doing. In reality, Brad most likely never thought about what Ella had been doing or how she was. She was consumed with the old relationship; therefore making this new one cease to even begin to exist. She had missed the opportunity to start a new chance at finding new love. While thinking about what could have been, Someone Like You popped into in her head and she began humming the tune- contemplating if the right choice was made.
“Evening.”
He took a step in and closed the door. He was wearing dark jeans with a white button down and a grey blazer. He gestured at a picture on the wall and asked, “New canvas?”
She nodded.
“It’s nice. Are you ready to go?”
“Almost.”
She ran back into the bathroom to finish her hair while he waited in the living room.
He teased her, “If you keep touching it, it’ll only get worse.”
Once her hair was finished and the shoes were picked out, they were finally ready to leave. It wasn’t until she walked out of the door that Brad’s face popped into her head.
Ella and Brad were together for just about six months. Their feelings towards each other, however, went deeper and farther than that. He was her first love.
From the beginning, they were both way in over their heads; obsessed with each other – from texting constantly to always being together –no one or nothing could separate them.
Brad was everything and more than what any girl would look for in a boyfriend. Not only was he an excelling athlete in golf, soccer and lacrosse but he was also an extremely intelligent student. He was tall, with medium brown hair and brown eyes that made her smile every time she gazed into them. Everything about him attracted her to him and with each passing day their affection towards one another grew stronger. In a matter of weeks they were in love- a love that most would describe as puppy love. Eyes grew twice their size at the sight and even thought of one another. When the two were together, no one else existed. Every morning Ella would wake up to a message on her phone reading, “Good morning beautiful, I hope you had a good sleep.”
“So I was thinking Italian, is that okay with you?” said Tyler.
Ella had forgotten all about Tyler for those few moments.
She failed to notice that she was in the car with Tyler and had subconsciously carried out their conversation from the house to the moment she answered, “I love Italian, that’s fine by me.”
Italian – it reminded Ella of the time her and Brad went downtown to grab a slice of pizza. She had a slice of cheese with a Sprite, while Brad had a slice of pepperoni with a Coke. They sat outside eating and talking. Occasionally they would see someone they knew and conversation was put to a halt. Following pizza, they went their favorite ice cream shop and order the same thing – a cup of mint chocolate chip.
“I’ll have the Chicken Parmesan with a Coke. And she will have…”
“Ella…” said Tyler.
“Oh my bad, I will have the Shrimp Scampi with a Sweet Tea. Thank you.”
As Tyler and Ella sat at the table, she couldn’t help but think about Brad. Why did they even break up? Is there something she could have done differently to save their relationship? Nevertheless, Ella told herself that she was over it, and not to recreate the past.
“Is everything okay?’’ asked Tyler.
“Yea, everything is fine just remembered something, but its not important” she said. Someone Like you by Adele played in the background through the restaurant’s rusting speakers.
“Okay, if you say so. Ella, have you decided where you wanted to go to college?”
“Well you see, to be honest Tyler, I’m not really sure where I want to go. All I know is what I want to do.”
“Which is?” asked Tyler.
“Journalism. Broadcasting journalism, to be more specific. What about yourself?”
Although she was unsure about where she would be attending college in the Fall, Ella did know where Brad was going – to an Ivy League.
“I got a full scholarship to play football for the University of Michigan” claimed Tyler, whose face lit up at the chance to tell someone this.
“That’s great news! I’m so happy for you, I know how hard you must have worked and trained.”
This conversation between Tyler and Ella was becoming more pure. Brad was no longer on her mind, reminding her of what could have been. He was no longer distracting her. She was finally starting to enjoy being with Tyler – talking and laughing with him. Just then she realized something that she had never grasped before:
Ella had kept dwelling on the past; remembering how things used to be instead of how they were. Rather than enjoying her time spent with Tyler, all she could think about was Brad and what he was doing. In reality, Brad most likely never thought about what Ella had been doing or how she was. She was consumed with the old relationship; therefore making this new one cease to even begin to exist. She had missed the opportunity to start a new chance at finding new love. While thinking about what could have been, Someone Like You popped into in her head and she began humming the tune- contemplating if the right choice was made.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Vanity
Walking upstairs to her bedroom, Lisa Blum imagines what her night is going to be like as she slides her freshly manicured hand up the polished wood banister. She daydreams of her date arriving at her ornately carved entry doors, his arms filled with vibrant roses, dressed in a sharp black Armani suit. He takes her by the arm and leads her to the passenger side of his expensive sport car. She lifts her dress and elegantly slides down into the leather seat. Inside the large foyer of her house, metal vines wrap around the rungs of a long winding stairway. She passes by the framed family photos hanging in the hallway, all poses displaying her various stages of life as the only child of a wealthy couple. Large windows adorned with tasteful draperies partially block the view of the passing boats along the intracoastal way. She stops for a second to notice her mother lying by the pool under a giant, tan umbrella shielding her from the radiant Palm Beach sun. It upsets Lisa to see that her mother has returned from a long vacation and did not bother to see her. I take it mother does not care enough to say hello, she thought. Oh well, at least I get to go out for an exciting night; she will be jealous. Having justified her reasoning, Lisa skips off to her room ignoring the bitter feelings she has towards her mother.
Lisa enters her oversized room with lavender walls matching the silk comforter on her bed and heads straight to her walk in closet. Lisa’s clothing and shoes are organized by style, designer, and color. Her wardrobe accessories are neatly arranged in crème color armoires. Umbrellas of different size, shape and color are neatly lined in her closet. Lisa admires her extensive collection and envisions different outfit choices for each umbrella. The majority of her collection consists of umbrellas her father has brought home from places all around the world. She sits down on the long narrow bench in the center of the closet and wonders which dress she should wear. She decides that wearing a new outfit is necessary for the occasion because in order to have a good time she must look her best, and partly because it will help ease the displeasure she feels from mothers recent return.
As the day before her date night progresses, she continually wonders what is going to take place. She feels as if she is living her entire life waiting to be escorted by a man with a resume her parents would approve of. Although she has feelings for the young man who asked her out, all she can help to think about is who is going to be there and what will the other guests think of her date, as if he was a paid companion. Feeling guilty about these thoughts, Lisa decides to search her mother's closet for an impressive outfit that surely no one else would be wearing. She hesitantly creeps back through the hallway and peers through the windows that overlook the pool, hoping her mother catches her sneaking off to the master bedroom closet as if it was off limits. Without surprise, Lisa’s mother has not appeared to have moved since she last saw her. Again disappointed by her mother’s disregard, she hurriedly sets foot into her parents’ monstrous suite and rushes straight for the closet. She snatches the newest edition to her mother’s wardrobe, with the price tag still attached, and muses, I have no need to worry about returning the dress like most other teenage daughters borrowing from their mothers, she will not even notice its disappearance.
With only two hours remaining until her date is due to arrive, Lisa becomes overwhelmed with a brief surge of adrenalin, then saunters back to her room for what she always considers the most exciting part of the night. She lays out her entire outfit, jewelry and all, on her bed and steps back to take a final look. Perfect, she thinks, feeling less pleasure and thrill than her normal reaction. In her bathroom she plugs in her curling irons into an outlet and sits down in a heap onto the stool in front of her vanity mirror as if these rituals were monotonous chores. She runs a giant, wooden brush through her hair, slowly letting the bristles massage her scalp. Starting from the bottom to the top, Lisa rolls her hair around individual curling rolls and watches the steam rise quickly to the lights in the ceiling then disappear. Next, she begins the procedure of applying her makeup, starting with one eye then the other, carefully imitating the makeup consultant lessons over the years. Afterwards, she unrolls the curlers in her hair and dresses very carefully, not to ruin her makeup. She stands admiringly in front of the tall hanging mirror, assesses her final appearance, and leaves her room with a quick turn down the stairs, fighting the temptation to glimpse out of the hallway window.
Lisa carefully sits in her living room, trying not to wrinkle the back of her dress, and picks up the latest fashion magazine. She quickly flips through the pages, looking disinterestedly at the photographs. She looks up at the massive clock hanging above the fireplace over and over, but only a minute passes. Lisa carefully removes her shoes and rests her legs on the antique table in front of the couch. Now in a more comfortable position, she waits thirty minutes, then an hour. After the second hour passes, she realizes that her date is not going to arrive. Lisa wonders, has a man just stood me up for the first time in my life? Is this the feeling girls experience when they are unwanted by a guy? She glances up to the clock for the last time, recognizing that the event has already started without her and begins to weep. She does not bother to wipe away her tears as they swell in her eyes and run down her face in black unattractive streaks. She collects her shoes and the stray pieces of jewelry she slowly disassembled from her outfit, and returns back to her room. Although she was disappointed at first, a wave of relief passes over her as she ascends the stairs. In front of the lengthy mirror in her bedroom, she turns and unzips her mother’s dress, letting it fall to the ground. Lisa leaves the dress on the floor and climbs into her bed. She turns out the lights of the lavender tinted chandelier hanging from the ceiling and immediately falls asleep having nothing left to think about.
Lisa enters her oversized room with lavender walls matching the silk comforter on her bed and heads straight to her walk in closet. Lisa’s clothing and shoes are organized by style, designer, and color. Her wardrobe accessories are neatly arranged in crème color armoires. Umbrellas of different size, shape and color are neatly lined in her closet. Lisa admires her extensive collection and envisions different outfit choices for each umbrella. The majority of her collection consists of umbrellas her father has brought home from places all around the world. She sits down on the long narrow bench in the center of the closet and wonders which dress she should wear. She decides that wearing a new outfit is necessary for the occasion because in order to have a good time she must look her best, and partly because it will help ease the displeasure she feels from mothers recent return.
As the day before her date night progresses, she continually wonders what is going to take place. She feels as if she is living her entire life waiting to be escorted by a man with a resume her parents would approve of. Although she has feelings for the young man who asked her out, all she can help to think about is who is going to be there and what will the other guests think of her date, as if he was a paid companion. Feeling guilty about these thoughts, Lisa decides to search her mother's closet for an impressive outfit that surely no one else would be wearing. She hesitantly creeps back through the hallway and peers through the windows that overlook the pool, hoping her mother catches her sneaking off to the master bedroom closet as if it was off limits. Without surprise, Lisa’s mother has not appeared to have moved since she last saw her. Again disappointed by her mother’s disregard, she hurriedly sets foot into her parents’ monstrous suite and rushes straight for the closet. She snatches the newest edition to her mother’s wardrobe, with the price tag still attached, and muses, I have no need to worry about returning the dress like most other teenage daughters borrowing from their mothers, she will not even notice its disappearance.
With only two hours remaining until her date is due to arrive, Lisa becomes overwhelmed with a brief surge of adrenalin, then saunters back to her room for what she always considers the most exciting part of the night. She lays out her entire outfit, jewelry and all, on her bed and steps back to take a final look. Perfect, she thinks, feeling less pleasure and thrill than her normal reaction. In her bathroom she plugs in her curling irons into an outlet and sits down in a heap onto the stool in front of her vanity mirror as if these rituals were monotonous chores. She runs a giant, wooden brush through her hair, slowly letting the bristles massage her scalp. Starting from the bottom to the top, Lisa rolls her hair around individual curling rolls and watches the steam rise quickly to the lights in the ceiling then disappear. Next, she begins the procedure of applying her makeup, starting with one eye then the other, carefully imitating the makeup consultant lessons over the years. Afterwards, she unrolls the curlers in her hair and dresses very carefully, not to ruin her makeup. She stands admiringly in front of the tall hanging mirror, assesses her final appearance, and leaves her room with a quick turn down the stairs, fighting the temptation to glimpse out of the hallway window.
Lisa carefully sits in her living room, trying not to wrinkle the back of her dress, and picks up the latest fashion magazine. She quickly flips through the pages, looking disinterestedly at the photographs. She looks up at the massive clock hanging above the fireplace over and over, but only a minute passes. Lisa carefully removes her shoes and rests her legs on the antique table in front of the couch. Now in a more comfortable position, she waits thirty minutes, then an hour. After the second hour passes, she realizes that her date is not going to arrive. Lisa wonders, has a man just stood me up for the first time in my life? Is this the feeling girls experience when they are unwanted by a guy? She glances up to the clock for the last time, recognizing that the event has already started without her and begins to weep. She does not bother to wipe away her tears as they swell in her eyes and run down her face in black unattractive streaks. She collects her shoes and the stray pieces of jewelry she slowly disassembled from her outfit, and returns back to her room. Although she was disappointed at first, a wave of relief passes over her as she ascends the stairs. In front of the lengthy mirror in her bedroom, she turns and unzips her mother’s dress, letting it fall to the ground. Lisa leaves the dress on the floor and climbs into her bed. She turns out the lights of the lavender tinted chandelier hanging from the ceiling and immediately falls asleep having nothing left to think about.
Hello, Old Friend
The summer-green blades of grass covered the lawn like the friendly fur of a puppy. As the mid-day sun hit the tips of each blade, the scene captured that nostalgic cliché image of summers past. She stepped across the lawn from the main house, in its pale-blue glory, to the small house next to it; as if this were a sibling or a child tucked under the arm of its elder.
“The bunk house” was more of a shack than a house. You could see every board that kept the place standing; all dotted with spots where the paint had chipped away from the salty sea air and the long, wet winters. Catie imagined the messes of lures and hammers and nails and screws that had filled the cupboards that she would stand on the balls of her feet to reach into as a child; the fishing rods that were always covered in dead cob webs after a each year of cold solitude and made her tingle in paranoia that a spider might wander onto her hands.
It wasn’t the safest place for her and her brother to play. Nails would jut out of the walls and floor. The sand-filled bunk beds would wobble if just one adult sat on them.
She stepped onto the miniature porch. The light bounced off of the new frame of the sliding glass door, its black richness stinging her eyes. Inside she could see fresh, white walls and clean-cut windows.
She had forgotten. The final summer her family spent there, her father slaved over reinventing this old shack. He had to replace the old boards, the foundation, everything. She had never seen the end product until now.
Her friend had become a new person. This bittersweet reunion was the realization that she was no longer welcome to revel in its childhood charm. The furniture sat back, looking at her in that same awkward, observing manner- neither of them sure what to say, neither one willing to say much. It’s sense of character had been replaced with the cardboard cutout of a summer vacation home, a sign reading “the beach life” hung in a cute, quaint tackiness. She could her the voices of renters taking a tour of the house. They probably would have said something about how this room would just be perfect for their children and grandchildren to use, with just the right amount of privacy but accessibility at the same time. Who would want to stay in a hotel anyway? The whole family could be right here on the beach. And what a wonderful view! Oh would you look at that! Can you just imagine waking up to a sunrise over the bay?
No. You actually couldn’t. Because the bay faces north and your sunrise would be behind you, hidden behind that big pine tree.
The furniture mocked her. It was all out of place. The lobster trap table did not belong in here and neither did the futon or the quilt on top of it. That quilt had kept her warm on chilly June nights, when her tanned little legs would shiver in the unfamiliarly cold rain and purple buds would bloom in a delayed spring. The new pieces of furniture “just tied it all together,” she could hear the realtor say in excitement.
“Let’s go,” Catie said, “I’m done looking.”
“Okay,” Nicole said.
The faces of the owners- no, renters- sat on the couch where they could overlook Cotuit Bay, a jubilant blue with scattered sailboat polka-dots as was typical of late July. The two girls came up the main porch and into the living room to exchange thank yous and goodbyes.
Unfortunately they were very nice people: difficult to dislike, and even harder to hate. They were an old couple perhaps in their sixties and did not seem greedy or mean-hearted. They were probably fantastic grandparents- maybe the type that would take their grandkids to the zoo just for fun, or make sandcastles with them, or have stay at their house for the week just to simply be with them. As the girls had left they stayed on that couch. Content. Vacationing. Passing time exactly as they wanted to.
The dock managed to remain unchanged. Catie always resented people who would wander from the town dock onto her beach. The sea breeze was as fulfilling as she’d left it. It filled the lungs and surrounded you without making you freeze. Fluffy air, the kind you crave on a hot, still summer day. The bay shone before her like an image through a camera lens. Now she was putting it all together. She knew it wasn’t hers anymore but she had to know, actually know and feel that it wasn’t hers. It was her past and that’s all she could ever see it as now. She could never truly live within this backdrop of her childhood summers. Her brother and father would not pull into the dock with the fish they’d caught that day and her mother would not be at home reading.
Nicole observed in silence. She was not going to say anything, mainly because there was nothing to say. This was nature’s course taking control. All she could do was patiently take it in with her friend.
They walked through the parking lot and climbed into the car. Catie drove. She had learned the roads of cape cod this past week that she stayed with her friend. She had driven from Sandwich to Provincetown with three teenage girls in the car and gone through “suicide alley” on highways infested with senility. Her brother was in Alaska, her mother in Colombia, her father in Florida. It was only her. And, as if she had known all along, she had known that this was the truth of the matter, of her reality.
Little Wilma
The Edwin family estate lies in near isolation at the heart of England’s Lake District on a green stretch of land that reaches from the region’s first paved road west to the commodious lake their mansion is built upon. Ros Edwin commissioned the building of the estate as part of his plan for an early retirement out of manufacturing engine parts for English Railway companies. He had moved into the house at age forty-seven after its completion with his wife Victoria whom he called Vic, his eldest daughter Wilma, who was four at the time, and his infant daughter, Rachel. Victoria had been due with their son Jacob when they moved, and gave birth to him two months into her family’s new life.
The house that the Edwin family had come to live in was a grand, rectangular fortress composed of three equal stories adorned with tall rectangular windows spaced between electric lamps, which were encroached upon by ivy on the first and third stories. Ros Edwin had been adamant about buying all of the land from the site of his house several miles out to the road, and fencing it in to ensure his property would not be swallowed by the expansion of industry and cities that he foresaw progressing ceaselessly towards the coast. He saw his investment as a security that would allow him to continue raising and educating his children at home, and ensure their prosperity growing up. He had put in place the means on his property and hired the necessary hands to provide himself his own food, water, and electricity so that life could be self-sustaining. Town was twenty miles away, an unreliable, full-day’s travel by carriage that Mr. Edwin only planned to embark on once a year to take care of his finances at the nearest courthouse.
Wilma was the only of the Edwin children who had any recollection of their previous life in a suburb two miles outside of the city of Mancaster. Her memory was of little consequence except for the curiosity that it came with when the Edwins moved into their lake home. There, Wilma developed a proclivity for the outdoors and would wander from the lake around the hedged perimeter of the house, through the orchards, gardens, and stables that dotted the interior of the estate. She wore a brass whistle in case of need or an emergency, or if either of her parents wanted to check in on her. Wilma seldom used her whistle, however, for she became so proficient in her outings that she could consistently plan what her needs would be for a day, and meet the schedules she delivered to her parents on the mornings she went out. On the days that Wilma went out, she would come home in the early afternoon with nothing to show for her ventures but dirt, red skin, and a smile, and would bathe with her mother in the master bathroom before having supper and spending the evening in the foyer playing with her parents and two younger siblings. Wilma’s parents taught her how to take a hand in raising her siblings, which became her happiest pursuit on the days she chose to stay in. By the time Rachel and Jacob could talk, when Wilma was seven, she took great pride in stimulating the development of her siblings by retelling to them all of her stories of exploration and lessons in history, English, philosophy, and arithmetic, which she absorbed from her father.
One day, on an outing in which Wilma decided to walk out to the main road and watch for traffic, Wilma spotted a caravan of four or five identical carriages trotting at her from a little under a mile down the road. She watched them anxiously as they approached her, and imagined what they were carrying when she noticed the unusually large size of the rotund oak cabins. As the lead carriage approached to where she stood beside tall gate to her property, it came to a halt and a tall man with dark brown hair, a small round face, and a bristly moustache came out to greet her. He was wearing a dusty suit that was dark grey and pinstriped, and glowed a yellowish hue when the bright sun struck the dust particles on the lapels on his jacket. “Hello little miss”, he said as stopped a comfortable distance from her and stood erect with his feet together and his hands cupped gently behind his back “Do you reside here, or are you in need of a way home?”
“I reside here sir. My name is Wilma Edwin and my parents, my brother and sister and I live here. My father is Roscoe Edwin, but he is quite a ways up in the house now. My mother Victoria is as well. There are several groundskeepers nearby though if I can be of any assistance to you”
“You speak marvelously for such a young lady”, the man said “My name is George Morrow, and my associates and I”, he waved back the carriages which had stopped a ways behind him, “ are members of the Royal Society, returning from Scotland where we were giving seminars and sharing some of our recent findings with a few remarkable astronomers ”
“Astronomers?” Wilma asked looking up at the man.
“Heavens!” George Morrow said as he lifted his toes and rocked slightly on his heels “ Why, we are looking up at the stars and planets trying to clues. Trying to find what’s the same and what’s different and how it all moves the way it does. We even think there is another planet out there causing some strange things we can’t quite explain. So far we haven’t been able to see it yet”
“Oh,” Wilma said, clearly trying to process the meaning of such a foreign word.
“Would you like to see what we have going on?” the man asked with a rising tone of excitement.
“Yes, very much” said Wilma.
“Well come then!”
The man turned and Wilma skipped to keep up with lengthy steps.
“All that would be of any relevance to you would be in my carriage, much of the rest is paperwork, supplies, and some equipment which I guess you may find interesting a bit” He walked around the back and reached into his pocket for a key that he used to open a heavy padlock on the back of his carriage. He swung open the heavy wooden doors to a cabin so cluttered and marvelous that Wilma could not help but gasp. The first thing that caught Wilma’s eyes in the dim and dusty cabin was an enormous golden device that was round at the base, bulky, and composed of many gears and rods tipped with orbs of differing sizes With all of the differing mechanics, Wilma hardly recognized it as a planetary model, similar to one she had seen in one of her father’s books, but that he had never explained to her. On the walls were posters, diagrams, sketches, and letters, all depicting orbs, distances, ellipses, and calculations, and on the floor there was also large, black trunk that the man said contained a telescope.
“Its lovely”, the man said “isn’t it?”
It was more than lovely, Wilma thought. She was overtaken by the significance of it all. She did not need any explanations. It was clear to her that the collage of pictures and instruments in this mans carriage were going to change the world and impress people just as she had been impressed. This man was an explorer just as she fancied herself, and she fell in love with the bounty of material his explorations had produced. The man reached inside the cabin and began to crank the golden handle on the geared machine, rotating the shafts that carried the planets in the solar system. As they began to turn in different ellipses with seemingly no reason, he pointed to one in particular and said “This is where we are, on Earth”
As he pointed, Wilma watched the rest of the orbs turn, and knew she would never think about the world again without wondering about all of the other spheres she was watching rotate around with it.
“Thank you Mr. Morrow” Wilma said without warning “ If there is nothing I can help you and your travelers with, I must return home”
“Nothing I can think of little Wilma,” the man said “It was a pleasure meeting you. I am on a schedule, too, and must be going. The man took her delicate hand and gave a small curtsy, the hopped on his carriage and shook the reins of his horse. He waved, and Wilma turned around and began to run home as fast as she possible could.
Wilma was enthralled to tell her father about the man she had met, and to question him about the planets, and about space, and about astronomers. At home, after she had washed with her mother and put on her evening gown, she climbed the stairs to the second floor to see her father who had been writing letters in his study. “Daddy!” she exclaimed as she ran to him and jumped to hug him. He hugged her warmly and said “How are you Wilma, how was your day?”
“Amazing”, she said. “ I want to learn about space, Daddy, I want to be an astronomer” Mr. Edwin’s face tensed with confusion. It was after all, completely unlike anything she had said after a day of exploring. “Wilma…” he said.
“Daddy I met this man today—”
“A man?” What man”
“George Morrow. He is an astronomer from the royal society and showed me this incredible machine of our planets, and these sketches, and pictures of what’s around Earth. He even said they thought there is another planet that we just can’t see yet”
“Wilma, where is all of this coming from?” her father asked with little amusement.
“I think I want to be an astronomer, Daddy, I want to discover something like that that nobody thought existed” Her father could not teach her to be an astronomer, nor could he see it as a way for his daughter to be successful or respected.
“Honey, you can’t be an astronomer. Women don’t do astronomy, and besides, an astronomer may never discover anything. You could waste your entire life looking up and not do a thing to change what’s around you. You don’t want to be an astronomer Wilma. It’s a poor idea for you. There are more important things. I have to finish these letters so I can mail them tomorrow. Go and see your mother, and your brother and sister for a little while. It’s getting late soon”
Wilma left the room and was crushed and confused. She had been convinced and could not cope with her father’s judgment. He had been so cold and disinterested, and had upset Wilma who had expected support. Wilma was no less convinced though, and this made her feel scared alone. She walked to her room and opened the window, and folded her elbows on the sill as she looked up at space. The stars, the planets, and the empty black spaces were calling her. She thought for a minute and began cry, but stopped herself just as quickly. She thought about her father, and waited for a feeling to change. It did not though, and she felt scared again until she looked back up at the shimmering night sky. Things became clear to her, only very far away. She put her head down to think, and fell asleep dreaming about space.
The house that the Edwin family had come to live in was a grand, rectangular fortress composed of three equal stories adorned with tall rectangular windows spaced between electric lamps, which were encroached upon by ivy on the first and third stories. Ros Edwin had been adamant about buying all of the land from the site of his house several miles out to the road, and fencing it in to ensure his property would not be swallowed by the expansion of industry and cities that he foresaw progressing ceaselessly towards the coast. He saw his investment as a security that would allow him to continue raising and educating his children at home, and ensure their prosperity growing up. He had put in place the means on his property and hired the necessary hands to provide himself his own food, water, and electricity so that life could be self-sustaining. Town was twenty miles away, an unreliable, full-day’s travel by carriage that Mr. Edwin only planned to embark on once a year to take care of his finances at the nearest courthouse.
Wilma was the only of the Edwin children who had any recollection of their previous life in a suburb two miles outside of the city of Mancaster. Her memory was of little consequence except for the curiosity that it came with when the Edwins moved into their lake home. There, Wilma developed a proclivity for the outdoors and would wander from the lake around the hedged perimeter of the house, through the orchards, gardens, and stables that dotted the interior of the estate. She wore a brass whistle in case of need or an emergency, or if either of her parents wanted to check in on her. Wilma seldom used her whistle, however, for she became so proficient in her outings that she could consistently plan what her needs would be for a day, and meet the schedules she delivered to her parents on the mornings she went out. On the days that Wilma went out, she would come home in the early afternoon with nothing to show for her ventures but dirt, red skin, and a smile, and would bathe with her mother in the master bathroom before having supper and spending the evening in the foyer playing with her parents and two younger siblings. Wilma’s parents taught her how to take a hand in raising her siblings, which became her happiest pursuit on the days she chose to stay in. By the time Rachel and Jacob could talk, when Wilma was seven, she took great pride in stimulating the development of her siblings by retelling to them all of her stories of exploration and lessons in history, English, philosophy, and arithmetic, which she absorbed from her father.
One day, on an outing in which Wilma decided to walk out to the main road and watch for traffic, Wilma spotted a caravan of four or five identical carriages trotting at her from a little under a mile down the road. She watched them anxiously as they approached her, and imagined what they were carrying when she noticed the unusually large size of the rotund oak cabins. As the lead carriage approached to where she stood beside tall gate to her property, it came to a halt and a tall man with dark brown hair, a small round face, and a bristly moustache came out to greet her. He was wearing a dusty suit that was dark grey and pinstriped, and glowed a yellowish hue when the bright sun struck the dust particles on the lapels on his jacket. “Hello little miss”, he said as stopped a comfortable distance from her and stood erect with his feet together and his hands cupped gently behind his back “Do you reside here, or are you in need of a way home?”
“I reside here sir. My name is Wilma Edwin and my parents, my brother and sister and I live here. My father is Roscoe Edwin, but he is quite a ways up in the house now. My mother Victoria is as well. There are several groundskeepers nearby though if I can be of any assistance to you”
“You speak marvelously for such a young lady”, the man said “My name is George Morrow, and my associates and I”, he waved back the carriages which had stopped a ways behind him, “ are members of the Royal Society, returning from Scotland where we were giving seminars and sharing some of our recent findings with a few remarkable astronomers ”
“Astronomers?” Wilma asked looking up at the man.
“Heavens!” George Morrow said as he lifted his toes and rocked slightly on his heels “ Why, we are looking up at the stars and planets trying to clues. Trying to find what’s the same and what’s different and how it all moves the way it does. We even think there is another planet out there causing some strange things we can’t quite explain. So far we haven’t been able to see it yet”
“Oh,” Wilma said, clearly trying to process the meaning of such a foreign word.
“Would you like to see what we have going on?” the man asked with a rising tone of excitement.
“Yes, very much” said Wilma.
“Well come then!”
The man turned and Wilma skipped to keep up with lengthy steps.
“All that would be of any relevance to you would be in my carriage, much of the rest is paperwork, supplies, and some equipment which I guess you may find interesting a bit” He walked around the back and reached into his pocket for a key that he used to open a heavy padlock on the back of his carriage. He swung open the heavy wooden doors to a cabin so cluttered and marvelous that Wilma could not help but gasp. The first thing that caught Wilma’s eyes in the dim and dusty cabin was an enormous golden device that was round at the base, bulky, and composed of many gears and rods tipped with orbs of differing sizes With all of the differing mechanics, Wilma hardly recognized it as a planetary model, similar to one she had seen in one of her father’s books, but that he had never explained to her. On the walls were posters, diagrams, sketches, and letters, all depicting orbs, distances, ellipses, and calculations, and on the floor there was also large, black trunk that the man said contained a telescope.
“Its lovely”, the man said “isn’t it?”
It was more than lovely, Wilma thought. She was overtaken by the significance of it all. She did not need any explanations. It was clear to her that the collage of pictures and instruments in this mans carriage were going to change the world and impress people just as she had been impressed. This man was an explorer just as she fancied herself, and she fell in love with the bounty of material his explorations had produced. The man reached inside the cabin and began to crank the golden handle on the geared machine, rotating the shafts that carried the planets in the solar system. As they began to turn in different ellipses with seemingly no reason, he pointed to one in particular and said “This is where we are, on Earth”
As he pointed, Wilma watched the rest of the orbs turn, and knew she would never think about the world again without wondering about all of the other spheres she was watching rotate around with it.
“Thank you Mr. Morrow” Wilma said without warning “ If there is nothing I can help you and your travelers with, I must return home”
“Nothing I can think of little Wilma,” the man said “It was a pleasure meeting you. I am on a schedule, too, and must be going. The man took her delicate hand and gave a small curtsy, the hopped on his carriage and shook the reins of his horse. He waved, and Wilma turned around and began to run home as fast as she possible could.
Wilma was enthralled to tell her father about the man she had met, and to question him about the planets, and about space, and about astronomers. At home, after she had washed with her mother and put on her evening gown, she climbed the stairs to the second floor to see her father who had been writing letters in his study. “Daddy!” she exclaimed as she ran to him and jumped to hug him. He hugged her warmly and said “How are you Wilma, how was your day?”
“Amazing”, she said. “ I want to learn about space, Daddy, I want to be an astronomer” Mr. Edwin’s face tensed with confusion. It was after all, completely unlike anything she had said after a day of exploring. “Wilma…” he said.
“Daddy I met this man today—”
“A man?” What man”
“George Morrow. He is an astronomer from the royal society and showed me this incredible machine of our planets, and these sketches, and pictures of what’s around Earth. He even said they thought there is another planet that we just can’t see yet”
“Wilma, where is all of this coming from?” her father asked with little amusement.
“I think I want to be an astronomer, Daddy, I want to discover something like that that nobody thought existed” Her father could not teach her to be an astronomer, nor could he see it as a way for his daughter to be successful or respected.
“Honey, you can’t be an astronomer. Women don’t do astronomy, and besides, an astronomer may never discover anything. You could waste your entire life looking up and not do a thing to change what’s around you. You don’t want to be an astronomer Wilma. It’s a poor idea for you. There are more important things. I have to finish these letters so I can mail them tomorrow. Go and see your mother, and your brother and sister for a little while. It’s getting late soon”
Wilma left the room and was crushed and confused. She had been convinced and could not cope with her father’s judgment. He had been so cold and disinterested, and had upset Wilma who had expected support. Wilma was no less convinced though, and this made her feel scared alone. She walked to her room and opened the window, and folded her elbows on the sill as she looked up at space. The stars, the planets, and the empty black spaces were calling her. She thought for a minute and began cry, but stopped herself just as quickly. She thought about her father, and waited for a feeling to change. It did not though, and she felt scared again until she looked back up at the shimmering night sky. Things became clear to her, only very far away. She put her head down to think, and fell asleep dreaming about space.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Too Good to be True
The night always started with the car ride out to the restaurant. It was about a fifteen-mile drive, but it felt three times as long on the way there, in anticipation, and three times as quick on the way home, in satisfaction. Webb sat, feeling lonely, and gazed out of the window and watched, tirelessly, the outdoors pass by like the stages of life, the ups and the downs of hills and the shifts from smooth, paved roads to bumpy gravel ones, and back again. He sat in the window seat, not feeling the desire to engage in the conversation or the music playing. They, Webb and his large family, were working their way to the shore. It would have been relatively undetectable, but due to the unbroken pine tree forests on their left and right, and the freshness of the breeze through the open window, he could smell, taste, and almost feel the salt in the air as they made their way closer to the destination. As he sat in the back looking out to the East, he caught quick, refreshing glimpses of the bay between the tree line, and his eagerness would only double.
Always sudden, as if it had been there all alone and untouched since the last time they left, they arrived in the rocky parking lot of Miller’s Lobster Co. A small, family owned restaurant that always had enough room for the large families who enjoyed it. The rush of fresh air in Webb’s face as he hopped out of the old Suburban and smell of the sea and the day’s catch, some of it still arriving from the last few lobster boats gliding across the bay, made it impossible to think of any problems or struggles or bumpy roads from the ride in. He made his way down towards the pier, towards the beautiful sunset, and passed open tanks of lobster and clams with groups of young kids reaching in and laughing at the touch of the shellfish to their cold hands. As they rounded the corner of the main part of the restaurant all of the quick glimpses of each part of the bay that had left only a fraction of the pleasure, came together like pieces of a puzzle; the parts fit together perfectly into a scene that could never be forgotten.
Webb leaned over to his twin brother, John, who was, after all, seven minutes older, and asked softly, “John don’t you think we could come back to this same restaurant every night for the rest of our lives and never get tired of it...” He trailed off, for his remark was of no importance, it seemed, as always because John was already engaged in conversation with the beautiful girl at the table next to theirs.
John was technically seven minutes older than Webb, who were just turning sixteen and the eldest of the five boys in the family, and it always seemed that John’s extra seven minutes propelled him far ahead of Webb in every aspect of life. Except, of course, in the classroom where Webb excelled beyond John’s furthest hope.
Webb glanced around the restaurant and felt alone. He saw John talking with the beautiful girl who looked to be around the same age as the two of them. He saw his younger brothers making friends with the lobsterman who were finishing up the day, and he saw his parents waiting in line to order their usual order. He was beginning to fall back in to his lonely mood when he noticed John’s girl look over, smile, and motion for him to come join them with her hand. Webb turned his head the other way as if to check if she had recognized and old friend of hers sitting at the table behind him, and he just happened to be in the way. The other tables were empty. He looked back at her, she was laughing with John now, and he got up to join them.
On his walk over, Webb thought of all the times he wished to be social and fun, like John, but remained his pensive self. As he sat down he noticed just how beautiful she actually was, and he blushed as he sat down next to his brother. She looked over to him and asked him something, but he couldn’t hear a word she said. He felt weird on the inside but didn’t question it. It was great. As she waited for Webb, she laughed quietly and smiled a smile he would never forget.
Always sudden, as if it had been there all alone and untouched since the last time they left, they arrived in the rocky parking lot of Miller’s Lobster Co. A small, family owned restaurant that always had enough room for the large families who enjoyed it. The rush of fresh air in Webb’s face as he hopped out of the old Suburban and smell of the sea and the day’s catch, some of it still arriving from the last few lobster boats gliding across the bay, made it impossible to think of any problems or struggles or bumpy roads from the ride in. He made his way down towards the pier, towards the beautiful sunset, and passed open tanks of lobster and clams with groups of young kids reaching in and laughing at the touch of the shellfish to their cold hands. As they rounded the corner of the main part of the restaurant all of the quick glimpses of each part of the bay that had left only a fraction of the pleasure, came together like pieces of a puzzle; the parts fit together perfectly into a scene that could never be forgotten.
Webb leaned over to his twin brother, John, who was, after all, seven minutes older, and asked softly, “John don’t you think we could come back to this same restaurant every night for the rest of our lives and never get tired of it...” He trailed off, for his remark was of no importance, it seemed, as always because John was already engaged in conversation with the beautiful girl at the table next to theirs.
John was technically seven minutes older than Webb, who were just turning sixteen and the eldest of the five boys in the family, and it always seemed that John’s extra seven minutes propelled him far ahead of Webb in every aspect of life. Except, of course, in the classroom where Webb excelled beyond John’s furthest hope.
Webb glanced around the restaurant and felt alone. He saw John talking with the beautiful girl who looked to be around the same age as the two of them. He saw his younger brothers making friends with the lobsterman who were finishing up the day, and he saw his parents waiting in line to order their usual order. He was beginning to fall back in to his lonely mood when he noticed John’s girl look over, smile, and motion for him to come join them with her hand. Webb turned his head the other way as if to check if she had recognized and old friend of hers sitting at the table behind him, and he just happened to be in the way. The other tables were empty. He looked back at her, she was laughing with John now, and he got up to join them.
On his walk over, Webb thought of all the times he wished to be social and fun, like John, but remained his pensive self. As he sat down he noticed just how beautiful she actually was, and he blushed as he sat down next to his brother. She looked over to him and asked him something, but he couldn’t hear a word she said. He felt weird on the inside but didn’t question it. It was great. As she waited for Webb, she laughed quietly and smiled a smile he would never forget.
Avila Road
Avilla Road
The sun had a way of turning the old grey chipped paint into a light blue hue during the long warm days of fall. A sea of yellows, and reds, and dim orange blanketed the ground around an old oak tree that the two kids climbed each holiday to redress its apparel appropriately. The fence around that yard had its own decorations year round of Jasmine that perfumed the home and the neighbor’s home and the streets; a sweet smell that forever became connected to the old quiet town full of Jasmine. Behind the boastful branches of an oak, behind the shutters, beyond the glare of the afternoon rays, lied a living room caressed by family photos in light wooden frames along the walls. Inside that room was a fireplace, and its masculine mantel piece, and there were little tick marks on the wall with little numbers, and a yellow floral couch, waiting for the family in the photos to come home. In the front of the house there was a young maple tree rooted deep within a small dirt patch next to the dark maroon bricks that created stairs leading up to the dark grey and light blue paneled doors. The kids knew that one day that maple tree would become more of the house than the house itself; it would grow to define the yard, and the street, as it did their memory of the solemn grey house.
He was a boy of five and she was a girl of seven but they resembled each other remarkably. Out in the middle of the road they looked like identical twins; their metallic brown hair glowed in the sun, and their collection of freckles was visible through the pastel dust covering their pale Irish faces. The set of siblings could sit there for hours swimming in the puddles of California leaves, relishing the warmth of golden sun on their backs, only moving when they found themselves in the shadow of the Maple tree. They loved that tree, and the squirrels that danced on its branches just like they loved the way lizards poked their heads in and out of the tiny slits of the shutters next to the windows. Everything was big and meaningful and held feelings; everything had a story, and the two best friends made sure to remember every character and plot.
“Jonathon, Rebecca, come inside real quick.” Their parents were not yet middle aged but were already tired of working, and responsibility. With retirement came the opportunity to move and without consideration they took it. They would leave in three months, but in the children’s eyes it wasn’t enough time; there could never be enough time to finish the stories.
Their glorious fall turned into a bitter winter that blockaded them inside a house full of cardboard boxes filled with Styrofoam padding. Their holiday became filled with packing away belongings and erasing their marks from the home; erasing their height charts, taking down crayon paintings of sunflowers and rocket ships, and cleaning out the storage closet they converted into a laboratory the summer before last. It was too cold to say goodbye to the acorns, and the pines, and the Jasmine lined fence. Behind a tower of labeled boxes, they gripped on to the vacant window sill, and with all their weight balancing on the edges of the their toes, they stared out into the yard through a blurry window and whispered goodbye from a afar, taking pictures of a memory they thought they would keep forever. “Goodbye spider in the corner, goodbye spider web, goodbye brick pathway, goodbye lizards”. Soon they were silently wiping each other’s tears during the ride to the air port, they told themselves they would be back soon. “Good bye Maple tree”.
Their hopes for frequent visits dissipated in the sun of their new playground. Their new home had the same yellow floral couch and a larger yard to play in. They would occasionally question when they would go back to their real home with the chalk filled street, but eventually the questions veered away from returning. They only wondered whether their Maple Tree was lonely, and in months time when they become reassured it was not, the questions stopped altogether.
They moved into a small white house, with a large wild yard in the front that went on for a mile until the mail box. In the backyard was a pool with a broken screen that was framed by old rusted metal and a dock made of soggy driftwood that creaked when the current was rough in the river. The living room was designed to overlook that river, and that’s where the old yellow couch went. The windows took in light that filled the white walls and white tiles illuminating the whole house, and those same windows stayed open on most days to let in a slight breeze along with a trace of sea wind.
The little boy grew much taller than his older sister but they had the same brunette curls and toothy grin and when they stood together and talked their mannerisms mirrored one another’s. But as time gradually went by they no longer found themselves needing each other for entertainment or comfort. Before long it became time to leave the white home and they went off to college, and graduated, and had families of their own. Soon only annual Christmas cards kept them in touch.
So much time had gone by before their parents felt obligated to host a reunion of sorts. They showed up with half grins and cheap bottles of wine and a need for people to assume they were happy. They masked away their problems but from years of experience they couldn’t keep anything from one another. They confided in each other; they missed enjoying an embrace, smiling at memories, laughing at dumb jokes; they missed being happy. A picture in a glass aqua frame brought them back to a time when they were astronauts, and princesses, and dragon slayers, and when anything was possible. Jonathon bought the plane tickets the next day.
What they wanted to find was their youth, and the ability of simple things to make them happy again, but they realized they couldn’t find it here. The grey shutters had been painted over maroon and the maple tree grew tall and beautiful but it no longer loomed over the entire yard as they remembered. They were graciously welcomed into the cream colored living room that had the same rose wood fire place, but it was empty without the chocolate syrup stained rug and wooden picture frames and bowls of Gardenias their mother would collect to perfume the home. It was the same house, with nearly the same furnishings, but it was no longer their home; seeing the house, just seeing it, could not bring them back. As hard as they tried they couldn’t connect to the nostalgic memories when everything had stories and a point and could bring smiles to their freckled faces bringing out their identical dimples.
The solemn siblings walked to the window overlooking the front yard. The dusty window sill held a pumpkin spice candle in between a crystal bowl of pine cones and a picture frame of an elderly couple with their grandchild. They had to squint. The window held the same opaque tint from years before, and through it they saw their children beneath a pile of dark red maple leaves throwing each individual leaf in the air and then watching the beauty of it as it slowly zigzagged its way back to them in the pile of leaves. Jonathon opened the front door and called the cousins inside, it was nearly time to leave. He was disappointed because his plane ticket could not buy him back to happiness and every second he stood there looking over what he thought he could remember of laughter, and genuine joy, was making him more aggravated. He wanted to leave the grey house.
Up the dark maroon pathway ran his blonde son who completely took after his ex-wife with his wide brown eyes and golden mane. He rushed passed his father with youthful enthusiasm and an inability to stop. Frustrated, Jonathon motioned to the car and said, “You need to calm down. We are leaving soon.” Jonathon looked at this small, peach skinned boy with a blanket of dried mud covering the length of his two legs, when he caught a glimpse of familiar dimples. From behind his back, his son held out a handful of Jasmine filling the room with pungent sweet cologne. Jonathon stared at the jasmines and closed his heavy eyelids and slowly soaked in the clean fragrance. He could feel it manifest inside of him. After long uninterrupted seconds, he turned to the elderly man by the door, “If you wouldn’t mind, we would like to stay a bit longer.” And he went outside and silently sat down on the damp brick steps. He twirled a bit of Jasmine in between his calloused fingers and watched his children play and noticed the spiders in the corner.
A Hollow Fence
Sun burnt ears poked out from under weathered baseball caps. The sun seemed to pulsate down on the young boy and girl, drying the mud that covered three quarters of their body. They sat on the ground, backs against a white metal picket fence, sharp chips of mulch poking uncomfortably through their shorts. Small flies buzzed around what moisture was left on their legs and crawled over the blonde hairs sticking out through patches of already dry dirt. It had been the boy’s fault. Now they just had to sit and wait in the sun and the dirt with the mulch jabbing their legs and the fence burning their back.
The white metal fence was old, like the rest of the house and the cracked pool it enclosed. Its hollow metal panels were covered in enamel that had been peeling off for as long as the girl could remember. Only three months ago they had painted over it with bright white paint. Now as she ran her finger over a panel, the paint rubbed off like a sunburn, revealing enamel and rusted metal underneath.
She rested her head back against the fence, tilting her cap so that it barely blocked the yellow ball in the sky. She knew it was bad to look into the sun and she wondered if the boy remembered that too. She almost reminded him, but she was still mad. Bored, she began to focus her eyes on the thin threads that dangled below the brim of her hat. Loosing interest in its frayed edge, she began to cross her eyes at the blue weave that covered the underside of the brim, bringing the fraying threads on the brim in and out of focus. She blew up towards the threads so that they moved.
“What are you doing?”
It was a reasonable question. She didn’t answer. Instead she pulled the hat down so she could see only their legs and the mulched ground around them and the grass a few feet beyond.
The air was heavy and dry and thick and the weight of it seemed to build up on the brim of her hat, dragging her head down. Even the flies that buzzed around their legs seemed to get pulled down by the air, never climbing more than a few feet above the ground. She tilted her head slightly so she couldn’t see the boy’s skinny legs. Behind them, she could hear the hose running into the pool, making up for the water the hot air was always sucking up and never returning.
A slinky green anole emerged slowly from the browning grass onto the mulch. Belly low to the ground, it moved easily, gliding over the mulch for a few inches and then stopping to bob up and down. When it was still, it almost looked fake, its green skin too bright, too perfect to naturally exist on the ugly brown wood chips. The lizard moved again, gliding, its throat expanding, red and scaly and beautiful. The lizard was a boy. Remembering another boy, the one by her side, she jerked her head, looking to the length of the ugly white painted, yellow enameled, and rusting metal fence. A few feet down, the green of the hose that threaded through the fence to the pool reminded her of the lizard. When she looked back, the green anole was gone.
Beside her, she felt the boy squirm, trying to find a more comfortable way to lean against the fence. The girl plucked a piece of mulch from the vast array around her and started to peel it apart with her fingernails, setting the fibers in a line along her leg. The boy shifted, bumping the fence accidentally. She slipped, a sliver of wood jamming up under her nail.
Tears welling in her eyes, she tossed the mulch away, scrunched her eyes shut, and hit her head back against the fence. The fence shuddered, jostling the boy and sending white chips of paint fluttering down on her hat. The tremor traveled down the length of the fence, rattling the gate and provoking a delayed stream of wasps to trickle lazily from inside one of the rusted out fence posts. She kept her head back and eyes closed, tipping her hat up and feeling the sun beating directly on her face.
The boy sat motionless as the wasps hummed around their post, for the first time since they sat down, the shadow of a smile on his face. Casually, he reached a hand out and tapped the fence gently. Another wasp crawled from its hole.
“Stop”.
Ignoring the girl, he tapped the fence a little harder- a wasp flew out this time.
“Stop”.
This time he hit the fence, sending a quick spasm down its length- three more wasps.
“STOP”.
Shooting a sideways glance at the girl, the boy rotated his whole body around, grabbed the fence with both hands and shook.
“I said, STOP”. The girl’s eyes shot open to see the old pool gate fly open, and slam back against the rusted out post. A dozen wasps streaked out of the hole, joining the few that had already been provoked into the open. Their swarm expanded, traveling down the length of the fence, weaving angrily between the panels.
The boy jumped to his feet, whacking the fence again with his elbow, awakening more wasps and sending another volt of energy through those already in the air. Momentarily forgetting the wasps, the boy started shuffling in a small circle, half bent over in a combined fit of laughter and whimpering. Seeming to sense the movement, half of the wasps separated themselves from the cloud.
Still cradling his arm, the boy started yelling as the wasps began to drone around his head. The girl dove along the length of the fence, turned and fired. She pummeled the boy’s head and body with water. The cold spray cut through the heavy air until the only humming left came from the water gushing out of the hose.
Exhausted, the boy sat down and slumped against the fence. Observing thing, the girl picked up the hat that had been sprayed off and put it on his head so only his sun burnt ears poked out from underneath. Laughing, his sister sat down, pulling her own hat low over her eyes.
“I’m still mad at you”.
The white metal fence was old, like the rest of the house and the cracked pool it enclosed. Its hollow metal panels were covered in enamel that had been peeling off for as long as the girl could remember. Only three months ago they had painted over it with bright white paint. Now as she ran her finger over a panel, the paint rubbed off like a sunburn, revealing enamel and rusted metal underneath.
She rested her head back against the fence, tilting her cap so that it barely blocked the yellow ball in the sky. She knew it was bad to look into the sun and she wondered if the boy remembered that too. She almost reminded him, but she was still mad. Bored, she began to focus her eyes on the thin threads that dangled below the brim of her hat. Loosing interest in its frayed edge, she began to cross her eyes at the blue weave that covered the underside of the brim, bringing the fraying threads on the brim in and out of focus. She blew up towards the threads so that they moved.
“What are you doing?”
It was a reasonable question. She didn’t answer. Instead she pulled the hat down so she could see only their legs and the mulched ground around them and the grass a few feet beyond.
The air was heavy and dry and thick and the weight of it seemed to build up on the brim of her hat, dragging her head down. Even the flies that buzzed around their legs seemed to get pulled down by the air, never climbing more than a few feet above the ground. She tilted her head slightly so she couldn’t see the boy’s skinny legs. Behind them, she could hear the hose running into the pool, making up for the water the hot air was always sucking up and never returning.
A slinky green anole emerged slowly from the browning grass onto the mulch. Belly low to the ground, it moved easily, gliding over the mulch for a few inches and then stopping to bob up and down. When it was still, it almost looked fake, its green skin too bright, too perfect to naturally exist on the ugly brown wood chips. The lizard moved again, gliding, its throat expanding, red and scaly and beautiful. The lizard was a boy. Remembering another boy, the one by her side, she jerked her head, looking to the length of the ugly white painted, yellow enameled, and rusting metal fence. A few feet down, the green of the hose that threaded through the fence to the pool reminded her of the lizard. When she looked back, the green anole was gone.
Beside her, she felt the boy squirm, trying to find a more comfortable way to lean against the fence. The girl plucked a piece of mulch from the vast array around her and started to peel it apart with her fingernails, setting the fibers in a line along her leg. The boy shifted, bumping the fence accidentally. She slipped, a sliver of wood jamming up under her nail.
Tears welling in her eyes, she tossed the mulch away, scrunched her eyes shut, and hit her head back against the fence. The fence shuddered, jostling the boy and sending white chips of paint fluttering down on her hat. The tremor traveled down the length of the fence, rattling the gate and provoking a delayed stream of wasps to trickle lazily from inside one of the rusted out fence posts. She kept her head back and eyes closed, tipping her hat up and feeling the sun beating directly on her face.
The boy sat motionless as the wasps hummed around their post, for the first time since they sat down, the shadow of a smile on his face. Casually, he reached a hand out and tapped the fence gently. Another wasp crawled from its hole.
“Stop”.
Ignoring the girl, he tapped the fence a little harder- a wasp flew out this time.
“Stop”.
This time he hit the fence, sending a quick spasm down its length- three more wasps.
“STOP”.
Shooting a sideways glance at the girl, the boy rotated his whole body around, grabbed the fence with both hands and shook.
“I said, STOP”. The girl’s eyes shot open to see the old pool gate fly open, and slam back against the rusted out post. A dozen wasps streaked out of the hole, joining the few that had already been provoked into the open. Their swarm expanded, traveling down the length of the fence, weaving angrily between the panels.
The boy jumped to his feet, whacking the fence again with his elbow, awakening more wasps and sending another volt of energy through those already in the air. Momentarily forgetting the wasps, the boy started shuffling in a small circle, half bent over in a combined fit of laughter and whimpering. Seeming to sense the movement, half of the wasps separated themselves from the cloud.
Still cradling his arm, the boy started yelling as the wasps began to drone around his head. The girl dove along the length of the fence, turned and fired. She pummeled the boy’s head and body with water. The cold spray cut through the heavy air until the only humming left came from the water gushing out of the hose.
Exhausted, the boy sat down and slumped against the fence. Observing thing, the girl picked up the hat that had been sprayed off and put it on his head so only his sun burnt ears poked out from underneath. Laughing, his sister sat down, pulling her own hat low over her eyes.
“I’m still mad at you”.
Giants Win
It was 1:30 at night; he was sitting on top of the lifeguard tower looking over the ocean that was lit up by the full moon. In his left hand he had the last bottle in his six pack, and in the right hand he was debating whether to call a girl.
The girl whom he first met five houses down the boardwalk.At the she time was much taller than he was, which always made him feel uncomfortable. It was uncomfortable for many reasons, because that is all anyone would talk about when they were together. Every time they stood next to each other her breasts were at his eye level. However, when they were alone, they didn’t care. They were great friends, and on the last day of their summer, they did something crazy her parents would never approve of. The last day when her mother left, theyimmediately got on her family’s Jet Ski and headed straight for Fisher’s Island. The Island seemed almost a country, with amazing views of houses, its own hotel, and even its own airport.
When theyarrived, they wanted to do something neither of them had ever done.They decided to go pool hopping, an activity that was dangerous, simple, fun, and stupid. It was simple, because all you do is trespass property and jump in their pools. It was also dangerous, since you can easily get caught, and get in trouble especially if the rich oldies were more than cranky and whiny. And judging by their faces that day they seemed they were having fun. Until the fourth and by far the nicest house, where they were spotted, caught, brought back to their realities, and they were not allowed to return. Even thought they returned to the island a few times each year, for sailing regattas and tennis tournaments, they never had as much fun as they did that day. He then realized that she is still in the middle of her party, a party he was not invited to.
He thought a little bit about the party she was in, and if it was a cool and relaxing dinner party, or if it was in Las Vegas, and the party involved night clubs and exotic dancers. Then he thought about his own weekend, and how much he enjoyed it. How they witnessed their most exciting sports weekend possibly ever, with watching the longest NBA game with his best friend Aiden and a man whoAiden loved, and hated at the same time. That man was the New York Knicks’ favorite fan, and a very famous man with most sports fanatics, Spike Lee. His achievements in life were winning some Emmys and Oscars for sport stories. What he is really known for is mostly making real life stories in sports, and has more arrests in sports venues in his town, than how many times he has watched the Yankees and Giants win World Championships, which are the two teams he partly owns.
The game we saw he was very quiet for his standards, until Aiden’s favorite player Alonzo Jones swished a Hail Mary, a thirty yard full court Hail Mary. Then Mr. Aiden McAleergot a black eye so bad for talking smack to him, so black that it looked as if it were an eye patch. Lee got thrown out again, and everyone in the stadium thought Aiden would not be okay for anything tomorrow. To everyone’s surprise, he was fine, and Aiden was ready to go, and both those crazy guys were ready for the 2nd event, the Final Four. As soon as Aiden was released from the Hospital they left straight to Boston for the game. Boston was Aiden’s favorite town, and he claimed it was his hometown, even though he lives in Connecticut, and was born in a suburb of Boston.He always wanted to pretend he was a bad ass, by saying crap like that, and always thought it would impress the ladies. With that black eye he got from Spike the previous night, he could fake that image with ease, even though Aiden and Spike knew each other pretty well.
The game was packed and the fans were really boisterous. The atmosphere was amazing. The game definitely did not live up to the hype. Low scores. Really low, like a football game. Lucky for us, we sat next to some of Boston’s most famous celebs Matt Damon and Tom Brady. It all made for a great weekend among friends. For him, he was kind of glad she did not invite him, because he would rather do that with Aiden any day, or go to Fisher’s Island with her than go to her stupid Party.
He looks at his phone again the clock just changed to 1:33 and he hears a ring from his fiancée Ashley. He picks up the phone, “Hey Mrs. McAleer.”
“Hi Mr. McAleer, are you still at the game.”
“No. That ended hours ago.”
“Oh well, what are you doing then”?
“I am Sitting on the Main Beach lifeguard tower, finishing three packs of root beer leftover from the car ride.”
“Ooooh,is it the tower by my old house, or the one by our house?”
“Your old house, hey how is your cousin?”
“Spike is fine, his girlfriend bailed him out this morning?”
“That’s good, how was your party?”
“Hang on, I gotta call you back, they are bringing out the…..”
Energizer Batteries on a Dreary Day of Travel
Waiting in an airport can be a cathartic experience. This is what I realized sitting in Terminal A of Manchester-Boston airport in Manchester, NH (why Boston decided she needed to be thrown into that name I’m not sure). It was February, and a cold one at that. The light pierced through the slit in between the grey curtains that separated the cold world from the bubble of the airport.
To me, it seems, people are very much themselves at an airport. This is because, in my experience, many don’t care what others think of them while they are in transit. This is to say, why should one put on a face and try to impress when they will never see their fellow passengers again? I think this accounts for screaming men whose flights have been delayed and women in sweatpants and ponytails.
I don’t say women in sweatpants and ponytails generally, because that was the exact specimen that walked by me. She was short and had a young face. Her ponytail was dark brown, and as she walked by and farther away, I noticed the bright pink color of her sweatpants. She wasn’t very pretty.
She walked over to a booth that sold electronics. Headphones, batteries (lots of batteries) and phone chargers studded its shelves. Much of it was overpriced and excessive. The man working at the booth served as both its cashier and its salesmen. I do not think it would be a pretty sight if more than one customer showed up.
The man was old and to me this was peculiar. The age was in his sad face. His wire rimmed glasses sat in front of old, green eyes. He was a New Englander, and that was for certain. He wore a blue and red flannel shirt with corduroy pants that barley touched the top of his penny loafers. This struck me as odd too, because generally airport workers are in uniform, whether it be a security shirt or a Dunkin Donuts shirt, but this man was just in regular clothes.
It also occurred to me, much out of prejudice from my own experience, that an older person shouldn’t have been working in a technology booth. They just didn’t understand what they were doing. I feel like much of what he knew was told to him by some younger, higher up.
I felt bad for this old man, because I don’t like to see old people working. If I were that age, I reasoned, I wouldn’t want to be working. Especially at a technology booth in the airport. But it was so and there was nothing that I could do about it.
As I sat and pondered the life of this man, he asked the girl with the sweatpants if he could help her. She perused the selection of headphones, trying some samples on here and there. No, she was just looking. She was very rude. After a few minutes she left the booth and continued walking down the terminal on the gray and navy patterned floor. The man sat on a stool next to the register. He looked bored. I felt sad for the man.
In the following seconds, another traveler walked up to the booth. I had seen him sitting down on the other side of the terminal waiting for a flight. This man wore a navy business suit and held a rolling briefcase, that I’m sure housed his important things. He looked around at the selection of electronics.
The volume of the airport picked up due to a plane unloading in the terminal, making it harder to hear. It seemed as though the older man asked if the business man needed help, to which the business man asked about headphones, for the older man immediately began recommending headphones. He showed him the samples, fitting the headphones perfectly to the man’s head size. They tried about four pairs of headphones. Meanwhile, other people walked by the electronics booth, looking at the selection. But upon seeing the busy salesmen, they walked off.
The businessman was at the booth for about ten minutes. There were five potential customers that were consciously ignored out of the salesmen’s priority for the client at hand. After trying on what he needed to try on, the businessman left without even making an offer. He had no intention to buy anything and wasted this poor man’s time. This was irritating.
Trying to get my mind off of things I scanned the other side of the terminal and smelled the coffee shop of the other side of the booth. It was foreign coffee that smelled strongly. But despite the olfactory distraction, I couldn’t resist turning back to look at the man at the electronics booth.
I felt really bad for him. I was sad that he was rejected by the girl and angry that the businessman wasted his precious time. In an effort to make myself feel better, I scanned his hand for a wedding ring. If he’s married, I reasoned, then that will be good. Unfortunately he looked forward and I saw him from the side, so I only saw his right profile. Maybe he felt my concerned looks and he eventually turned around.
He was married. This made me feel good and relieved. At least, I thought, he had someone that he could turn to, someone that he could be with.
But then, my thoughts continued to go south. What if, I worried, his marriage was a bad one? What if he didn’t even like his wife?
I needed to make this all better. I reached down and dug around my bag for some money. I came up with sixteen dollars. This could work I figured. I got up and walked over towards the technology booth. The man was sitting on his stool next to the register, waiting for the next disappointment.
I walked up and began to look at the selection. The booth itself was unimpressive. It was very small, smaller than I thought. There was also dust on both the shelves and the products.
I took a look at the old man. Close up, he looked older and greyer than he did before. His glasses were smeared with fingerprints and looked dirty. His shirt had a stale brown coffee stain on the left side. As I examined him, he asked me if he could help me with anything. His voice was raspy, but warm.
“Yes, I’m looking for some batteries,” I replied.
“Oh alright, well what kind?”
I didn’t know what kind. “Double A, please.” He then showed me to the double A batteries. There were only two brands, and each brand had different packages with different amounts of batteries. He recommended Energizer. To me they are all the same. I looked at the selection of Energizer batteries and chose the biggest pack, the 6-pack. It cost seven dollars.
“I’ll take two of these,” I said.
The man lit up with the excitement of making a sale. He asked me if that was all and took my two packages of batteries to his register and began to punch numbers. His bony fingers slowly selected the numbers. He used a little hand calculator to factor in the taxes.
“Your total,” he said, “is fifteen fifty-three.” I handed him my money and he gathered my change. He put the batteries into a white plastic bag and held out his hand with an array of discolored change. “Thank you for stopping by!”
I smiled and walked away with my useless batteries and worthless change. I began walking towards my seat and realized what I had just done. Well rather, what I hadn’t just done.
It dawned on me what became of my effort to help this poor old man. Nothing. I didn’t do anything. My purchase of Energizer batteries will have no effect on his life. In fact, if anything, I have fed into what has put him where he is now.
In the airport full of people, I felt so alone. As I leaned back in my chair, my plane began boarding. I put the batteries in my backpack and got on the plane.
Some months later, I found that backpack that I used on that trip. Inside were the untouched batteries in that lame white plastic bag. Luckily at the time, I needed some batteries for my electric toothbrush. I opened up the package of Energizer batteries to find that their shiny, silvery coating had already crumbled into dust, like the dust on the booth they came from. I threw the batteries away and thought of the old man, whom was probably still sitting in the airport, still selling the batteries.
Anticipation
It was a bitterly cold mid-January day on the southeastern tip of Lake Michigan. These weeks were the worst for the region–especially the children who lived there. While the outdoors were considered to be every kid’s playground, these lightless weeks proved to not be very beneficial area. The sky was filled with clouds whose shadows blocked the sun and made the area a cold shade of grey as if nobody were supposed to enjoy the hidden beauty of the atmosphere. The beautiful, fresh, green grass that the mothers had worked endlessly on was now dead for the remainder of the year. The trees were leafless and the branches were dead. The snow was the turning point during this time of the year. When it fell, nature was awakened with new life. The sun reflected off the new white land, the dead grass was covered with powder, the aching trees were gorgeous again. The snow was weird around this time; it would fall in late December (which had turned to grey slush from the cars at this point), stop during this desolate month, and pick back up again around the turn of the month. Everyone, parents and children alike, waited for the snow to fall.
Charlie was one of these kids who woke up thinking of the snow. The first thing he would do was fumble his hand around until he found his worn down, bronze-rimmed glasses and put them on. Next, he would run towards his window in his long johns, fully awakening on the way. With his hair in a mess, the young boy would press his hands firmly against the already fingerprinted cold, frosty glass, and stare out hoping for something better than the day before. Whether he was satisfied or not, he still would watch through the window after scanning the area. He would keep his hands and face pressed against the glass until his vision was blurred to the point where he was able to see only beyond a few feet, and then he would step away and say to himself in a distraught yet hopeful tone, “maybe tomorrow.”
This particular morning Charlie was slow to get ready. The weather was changing around him and when he went to sleep the previous night, he had a certain feeling only comparable to excitement about what he hoped would happen. When it did not, the day was ruined. Well, ruined in the sense of a 10 year old which really only meant a few more hours. He took his time though this morning, grabbing his shirt off the hanger and dragging his feet to his bed to lay it down. Then, he would do the exact same for his pants, socks, and underwear, all while being reminded by his mother that he could not miss the bus. Finally, after what seemed to be the longest morning ever, she laid eyes on her son walking down the flight of grey-carpeted stairs. “This is why I should still dress him,” she thought to herself after noticing his uncombed hair, he clip-on tie falling off, his buttoned shirt lacking parallelism, and his new shoes untied. She knew her son had a rough morning, so she politely fixed his sloppiness for him and sent him outside. This time of the year truly did alter the demeanor of the youth.
The bus was something that Charlie actually enjoyed. He did not mind the moldy smell that came from the heater or the bus driver who hated him or the lack of comfort in the seats; when the doors of that big, outdated, yellow Blue Bird bus, opened and he stepped in, he knew that everyone understood. The reason for this was because everyone on that bus went through exactly what he went through the night before. He knew he was not the only person hobbling over to his window earlier that morning, he knew that he was not the only one let down, he knew that every kid on his block, every kid in his class, had the same routine as he had this morning.
While Charlie felt that everyone would be depressed and not very talkative today, he was wrong. When he entered that giant clump of metal, everyone was happy and excited. He went to the same rickety seat he sits at everyday and he best friend Andrew was waiting for him.
“Why is everyone so happy?” Charlie asked.
“Didn’t your mom tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“The snow storm coming, it is supposed to be huge! The biggest one since the one that happened in 56.”
And with that, the mood was instantly changed. Charlie went through the day being happy and excited for what was in store that night. When he got home, he rushed to talk to his mom about it and she validated it for him. With so much on his mind, Charlie didn’t really know what to do. He debated about going outside to play with his friends, but then remembered that the weather was so terrible that it in no way could make him happier. He had already done his homework and so it had seemed like he was in a stalemate. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the outdated Zenith radio that was usually off limits to him as well as all the other young kids. Knowing that information about the storm would be transmitted, he ran to his mom and asked, “Mom, would it be ok that just this one time I turn on the radio and listen for updates on the storm?” After actually thinking about it and giving off the notion she was going to say no, she saw the dread in his eye and caved, “Just this one time honey.”
Charlie ran to the old wooden table where the large rectangle radio sat, and turned the black knobs until the static was cut down to the best of his ability. He knew now, that it was a waiting game; he couldn’t control when the broadcasters were going to talk about it, and he was content with that. Luckily for him, it didn’t take long. He had been gazing over the different shades of brown in the wood as if reading a book left to right when suddenly a man’s voice broke over the static saying, “Hi, I’m Bill Wellington the Weather Man out of South Bend, and you all better get your shovels ready, we are in for a blizzard!” The words he just heard were enough, he was now full of energy and he showed it. He got up from the living room and ran to the kitchen to tell his mom who had been secretly listening. She was as excited as he.
An hour later, when his mom was telling him to go wash his face and brush his teeth and all those other little nit picky things you have to do before you go to bed, the energy had not worn off whatsoever. As he was brushing his teeth, all he could think about was the snow and how much fun he would have in it the next day. As he was washing his face, all he could imagine was that first snowball hitting his face having the same effect that the water splashing on his face had. He went to kiss his mother goodnight and she said to him, “honey, don’t get your hopes up.” But, he and his mother both knew that they were as high as they could be. He ran to his bed, and even though he was in no mood to sleep, he shut his eyes as tight as he could because Charlie knew that the sooner he was asleep, the earlier he could see the snow.
It finally came, and this time he was not dreaming. Charlie’s eyes opened, his ceiling was a blur until he put his glasses on. He was so confident it would be there, he even took time to stretch he arms and legs as if he was a full-grown cat. Then, he tore back the blanket and ran to the same window that had brought him much disappointment in the weeks before. This time, he did not even stay long enough for the window to fog because of his breath or for his nose to run. He looked, he blinked for reassurance, and he walked away as every other child in his town did that morning.
Charlie said to himself, “Well maybe tomorrow.”
Peace
The weathering pebbles in the yard take the place of grass and scrap against my flowered sandals, leaving a chalky residue against my soles. Fishing pole in one hand and my father’s father’s callused hand in the other, I lengthen my stride to keep up. Bright green sea grape leaves shade my sun-screened, seven year old, baby face. Wearing my favorite pink sundress, I trip over my own feet, practically skipping down the gleaming pavement. And finally I see it; the old dock that stands proudly over the open ocean as if it owns the place. Here is where I will learn to fish. This is my memory.
Now, the peebles still scraping, the seagrapes still shading, the road still gleaming, the rickety dock waits. I’m ten years older, still wearing my new favorite pink sundress. My left hand sways with the natural cadence of my stride, my right, loosely clutched in my father’s palm. We walk to the end of the street, where the water is, together. I listen quietly as my father’s voice fills the salty air with his memory.
We finally reach the end, but my father isn’t done telling his story. I notice a change—my dad transforming in my palm. His rough, aged hand grows softer and his sun-speckled skin seems to paste over with a tint identical to my seventeen year old skin. Except, he is much tanner. The wasps of faint grey hair mysteriously vanish and his locks shine with a youthful strawberry blond in the sunbeams. He was back.
Back to adolescence when his father walked him to the end of Dove Street to show him simplicity. He is sixteen, peering over the edge of the dock at his grinning reflection in the crystal Key’s water. His bright blue eyes glimmer with a youthful enthusiasm for the vast expanse before him now. He is thin and almost awkward and I’m pretty sure his voice just squeaked. The blue transitive liquid brushes the side of the dock, gently painting the timeless barnacles. I don’t think I exist anymore, at least not to him.
A little orange boat pulls up to the dock with another teenage boy controlling the outboard motor. My father leaps off the dock, splashing the boater with a belly flop. His stomach fire red and smile, laughing, he pulls himself into the “Orange Peel”, as it has been playfully named. My father, the older of the two, shoves his brother out of the way and takes control of the little bobbing motorboat. And they disappear behind the corner of mangroves; I still hear their voices. I can’t make out their words, though.
I smile, step right, and bump into my dad standing, still. But, I realize he’s aged. He looks like his father. He’s back. Back to when he was a proud grandfather walking his skipping granddaughter to the end of Dove Street to show her simplicity. The faint strawberry blond hints sparkle amongst the sea of grey hair. His fisherman physique stands strong for an old man, but his wrinkled skin radiates sun exposure. His piercing blue eyes seem to spot fish twenty feet away and his hand quickly reaches for my fishing pole. He mechanically baits the hook, castes the rod, and hands it back for me to fish. I hear his voice whisper in my ear to stop dancing around.
I sit down immediately, softly though, and everything gets real still. I impatiently resist the urge to move, when my fishing rod is almost yanked out of my lightly gripped hands. I think he recognized my overexcitement, my grandfather that is, and helped me reel in my fish. It was 4 inches long and not much of a catch for his standards, but he acted as though my little wiggling catch was a fifty-pound dolphin, struggling in all its beautiful strength to leap off the dock and to get back to simplicity.
“I’m proud of you little girl”
I smile and look down, realizing that a fishing rod was no longer in my hand. My father’s palm was. He’s back. Back to when he walked his daughter to the end of Dove Street to show her the simplicity his father, loved. With his fraying khaki shorts and favorite t-shirt he claims isn’t stained, he stands strong. His blue piercing eyes gaze through his polarized sunglasses at the vast ocean with not a boat in sight. Those eyes are the one thing that hasn’t changed. The brim of his North Sail baseball cap shadows his light scruff from the unshaven weekend in the Keys. I look at my dad and smile. I breathe in the air filled with unspoken memories and pure ocean silence. It is peace.
More than a Game
The air was a cool ninety-five degrees. The sun shined down with all its might, hiding behind a white puffy cloud every ten minutes or so, and the humidity was enough to make us sweat without moving a muscle. The alternating stripes in the grass just beyond the raked, orange clay left a freshly mowed scent. All four bases were painted white enough to make your eyes squint at their reflection of the piercing sun. The sounds of metal bats clinking and catchers’ mitts popping could be heard throughout the park of neighboring diamond fields. Adults littered the bleachers, stuffing their faces with hot dogs, hamburgers, and nachos. Dogs barked at one another and small children screamed at the top of their lungs when they didn’t get what they wanted at the concession stand. Airplanes roared overhead en route to the neighboring airport, and overexcited fathers (convinced that their child would star in the MLB) cursed out the “Men in Blue” after almost every call. Both teams had to tune this out if they were to win one of the most important games of the season--the playoff qualifier.
The sweat stung as it dripped down his forehead and into his eyes. It was the 3rd inning and so far he was on the top of his game. Tommy Smith had been fielding bad hops and fly balls with ease. The star player on the team, he was also the best shortstop in the league. He was two-for-two at bat already, hitting a single and a double while earning two RBI’s (runners batted in) in the process. His teammates used him as inspiration, and, before long, the momentum was in their favor. The Northstars were leading the Wildcats by four runs and showed no sign of slowing down. The Wildcats sent a line drive to center field. Zach sprinted, put out his arm, and dove forward catching the ball at the tip of his glove to get the third out. The parents went nuts and the team hustled to the dugout, each of them filing in, one by one, past all of the Gatorade bottles and sunflower seeds littering the floor.
“We’ve got this thing in the bag, bro,” said Tommy.
“I know! We’re killing them. That pitcher’s got no heat, he’s throwing meatballs straight down the pipe,” replied Mike Thompson, the Northstar’s starting pitcher.
“I want a bigger lead though. You know they’re gonna bring in that closer in the 7th. That kid isn’t human!”
“Even you can’t hit his breaking ball Tommy. The kid’s a beast.”
“Yeah, I don’t think anyone in the state can touch it. You gotta stay in as long as you can. Don’t throw your arm out, but David can’t pitch today and the only other pitcher we got is Daniel.”
Daniel gave Tommy a dirty look.
“Hey, no hard feelings bro, but no offense, they’re gonna get a few hits off of ya. You know that. Just step it up that’s all.”
Daniel turned his head without muttering a word.
“I think I pissed him off,” Tommy said. “Maybe he’ll throw faster.”
The fourth inning started with a bang. The bases were loaded with only one out. Tommy was up to bat. He stared at the pitcher’s hand, never taking his eye off the ball. And a split second later there was a “ping,” and the right fielder was sprinting for the small ball of cork. Tommy almost made it around the bases but stopped short at third when the ball made it back to the infield. By the end of the inning the Northstars had scored three more runs and had a commanding lead of seven.
Over the next couple of innings, Mike’s arm grew tired. He had done so well, forcing strikeout after strikeout, but fatigue was more than obvious and the coach put Daniel on the mound at the bottom of the sixth.
It all fell apart. Hit after hit. Run after run. There’s only so much fielders can do when the ball makes it to the outfield over and over again. Soon, the lead was lost by one run, and momentum changed direction completely. The parents on the Northstars’ side of the bleachers grew silent. When the third out was finally earned, the team walked back into the dugout, all heads dropped except for Tommy’s.
“It’s not over yet guys!” exclaimed Tommy. “We can still come back from this. We have three innings left, let’s get up to that place and knock ‘em out of the park. We can’t blame it all on Daniel. We gave up out there and made errors we shouldn’t have made.”
“Why don’t you pitch Tommy?” asked one of his teammates.
“Yeah, you can pitch for me. I don’t want to let the team down anymore than I already have. You pitched last season right?, asked Daniel.
“Well don’t ask me, ask the team what they think.”
“Go for it Tommy!”
“You’re the only other guy who can pitch!”
“You got this bro.”
Tommy thought to himself for a minute. It won’t happen again. That was once in a lifetime. It couldn’t happen twice. That ball won’t come near my face again, I know it. Besides it was only a few stitches anyways. All I have to do is keep them from scoring. Yeah, no sweat.
“I got this!” exclaimed Tommy. “Now let’s score some runs and get back into this game!”
They psyched themselves up again. They were all ready to send that ball out of the park. As fast as their excitement rose, their hearts dropped. The closer. Right on time to start the seventh. Three batters up. Three batters down. The pitcher grinned as he ran back to his dugout.
Tommy snarled. I have to win this. It’s my last season. We have to make the playoffs.
The Northstars took the field, and Tommy didn’t fail to deliver. Just as easy as the closer struck out three batters, Tommy followed suit. It was like something out of the movies. Something that just wasn’t possible in reality. A shortstop, who hasn’t pitched in a year, pitches nine strikes, back to back, and ends the inning. It was truly remarkable. The Northstars were back up to bat.
But the eighth inning was the same story. No runs scored on either end, and before they knew it, it was the top of the ninth. The last chance for the Northstars to come back. Tommy was up to bat, and they were
He was dead tired. Everyone was out of gas. The sun hadn’t let up for the past two hours. Each player looked as if they had just hopped out of the shower as sweat poured down their clothes. The putrid smell body odor rose from the catcher and umpire into Tommy’s nose. He ignored it and focused long and hard, never losing sight of the ball in the pitchers hand. As the pitch came towards home plate, Tommy swung as hard as he could, missing the curveball by a hair. His hopes of making the playoffs began to disappear. The second pitch came right down the pipe, and at the crack of the bat, Tommy sent the ball past center field and over the fence. He jogged around the bases, with smile nine miles wide as turned third base and headed home. His team was waiting and cheering as he neared the plate. And then it happened.
Some say it was the heat that got to him. Some say he just couldn’t handle the excitement. Others say it was the head injury from the previous season.
As Tommy was about to touch home plate, he leaned over and picked up the baseball bat responsible for his walk-off homer. He never broke eye contact with the pitcher as he sprinted towards him, pulled the bat back, and swung for his skull.
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