A Story

February 27, 2010 in Fiction | No comments

My report card came in the mail the same day the Ben & Jerry’s from across the street closed down, and while I know it would be foolish to think I caused anything to happen, it is always fun to dream. Within the realm of your own mind, you can make believe the most absurd situations, and play around with the rules of logic, just for the sake of it — for instance, a man staring at his cell phone and screaming, “Did you see his grades? We much close down! For the children, god sakes man, we must close down!”

There are three employees staring frightfully at their boss, two of whom are raising their hands to their open mouths in apprehension. Sally needs the job to pay the rent. So does Thomas. Gregory, on the other hand, a high school student, is on the job merely to make some extra cash to spend lavishly on his girlfriend. But Sally and Thomas are now thinking about what they will do. Thomas has a father who owns a general store, and though it would deeply shame him to go back working with his dad, he is seeing no other choice. Sally is staring at her nails. You could always tell how stressed she was based on the length of them. Today, they are short and jagged. She told herself a week ago she would stop biting them for good. “So long to that resolution,” she murmurs quietly to herself.

Richard continues, “I never would have thought in a million years he would get such poor grades, Jim. Did you? Yeah, neither did I. In elementary school and middle school, he had such great promise, such talent, such potential. But now he’s really done himself over with this one. It’s a shame, it really is.”

Gregory is staring at his watch, tapping his foot rapidly. He has a date with Jen tonight, and he knows he has to take a shower beforehand or he’ll smell like a parody of sugar. He is debating with himself what kind of flowers to get Jen. No one dislikes roses, but roses are too normal, and they say, ‘I don’t know anything about you, so I’m going to give you the most uninspired type of flowers I can possibly think of.’ Perhaps chrysanthemums would be best. But then again, not getting roses would mean her knowing that a lot of thought was put into not getting roses, which would be creepy to her. Roses, then. Definitely roses. A first date is meant to be a get-to-know-each-other sort of deal, anyway.

Thomas is staring at Sally. She seems distressed.

“And it’s not like he doesn’t have the brains to get all ‘A’s either,” Richard continues. “He’s a smart kid, who just got lazy. He got addicted to video games, his parents tell me. He’d play them day and night, some nights never even going to sleep. Yeah, Jim, for real. I don’t know why. You should ask him.”

Sally notices Thomas staring at her. Does he like her? She continues pretending she doesn’t notice him staring. A tear is forming on her left eye. She wipes it off with the sleeve of her shirt. She thinks a more important question is if she likes him. Certainly he has a country boy quality to him that she likes. He is always such a gentleman. And the stubble on his chin always did make her feel fluttery.

“Jim, why you got to ask me so many dumb questions?” Richard is continuing. “How the hell am I supposed to know what games he was playing. Oh, don’t give me that. Jim, how long we known each other? That’s right, and you know I don’t like stupid questions. But back to the topic of John.”

Gregory widens his eyes. Why is Sally kissing Thomas? What the hell? Why is Thomas now kissing Sally back? This doesn’t make any sense.

“But it does,” I tell Gregory.

“Wait, what? Who are you?

“I am your God,” I say giggling slightly. “Now, take the hatchet and kill Richard. Do it. Do it now.”

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Overpass Overhead

December 24, 2009 in Fiction | No comments

For a pedestrian overpass, the one overlooking I-64 is quite a show. It is fully enclosed, with small ventilation ducts attached to the ceiling, clean carpet on the floor, and slick metal hand rails that are attached length-wise to the clean, continuous glass panels along the sides. Here, calm music quietly resonates, mixed in with the soothing strum of passing cars from down below, and you can see people pass quietly from side-to-side, mumbling softly to themselves in random cadence. Most importantly, there is but one metal bench to view the passing traffic on, and it is this bench I took the day off to experience. I straighten up my tie, take a slight breath, and sit down.

According to Grandma, this metal bench was where Grandpa spent most of his last days enjoying himself: watching people walk across the overpass, listening to the soft hum of the music, studying the cars hurdling from down below, and enjoying the vagrancy, as a watcher of the scene, whom no one cared about. I think I understand Grandpa’s affection for the place. You can just be, without any burdensome thoughts or restraints. Freedom through itinerancy. The cars, particularly. It’s like watching time tick away.

Within a half hour, you have seen hundreds of cars, from all states and uncountable cities, pass under this overpass. These hundreds of cars temporarily house thousands of people, all of whom have their own unique reasons for traveling on this particular day.

I am looking at the scene of thousands of stories, all complete with millions more facets and intricacies. I am looking at a couple in love, driving to the airport for their honeymoon in Hawaii. I am watching a family of five, going to a family reunion, where the father will find out about his brother’s car accident. I am being entertained by a strikingly pretty blond, who is listening to “Learn Spanish in Five Weeks” audiotapes. I am smiling at the innocence of a baby boy, strapped in tight in a car seat, who will one day grow up to become a corrupt policeman. I am laughing at a nervous wreck, mumbling to himself and speeding to try to mitigate how late he’ll be to work. All of this I see from my Granddad’s seat on this overpass, over his private interstate, on this particular day.

I don’t remember my parents’ funeral much at all, perhaps because I was tired, but most probably because you simply don’t get to choose what you remember when you’re six. What I do remember, though, was the ride back to Grandpa’s house, in his sleekly polished convertible. For whatever reason, I remember admiring this bright, black coating the most. Then I remember the distinct image of my reflection off it, a snapshot of me with eyes swollen-red, tear stains down my cheeks.

My grandparents were kind to me, and for the most part, I had a pretty normal childhood. I never called my grandparents “mom” or “dad,” but I’m pretty sure my feelings toward them were similar to that of most other kids.

When I was eight, Grandpa taught me how to ride a bicycle. When I was ten, my Grandparents had a big fight, and Grandma moved out for a week. When I was thirteen, Grandpa sat me down to talk about girls and related issues thereof. When I was fifteen, Grandma began an interest in piano, and started practicing on a daily routine. This got even me and Grandpa excited about music for a few cheery months.  Then on my sixteenth birthday, Grandpa gave me his then-old, black convertible, and chills went up my spine.

We three cried together at my graduation. We cried some more when I left for college, driving in that damned convertible which broke down midway to Truman State University. After checking into a motel, I cried some more by myself.

I graduated with honors, and have been working in and out of politics ever since. Presently I work for a congressman named Stern.

“You want to do what?”

“Sit,” I reassured the congressman, “on a bench, on an overpass overlooking I-64.” Stern stared at me blankly. “You know I play for the team. Just give me one day off. It’s all I’m asking for.”

He agreed. For most people, he wouldn’t have. But my grandparents instilled in me a sense of pride and hard work, and from this, my bosses learn to respect me as I respect them.

A gruff man stops in front of me. He wears a worn out army jacket and boots, and smells vaguely of liquor and urine. He takes a moment to scratch at his unshaven face, producing a sound like that of two pieces of rough sandpaper rubbing against each other. I glance at my watch. An hour and a half has passed since I first sat down. The man is giving me a contorted facial expression. Awkwardly I give him a weak smile, and he slowly turns around to sit next to me. He takes out a cigarette and offers me one. After collecting myself, I refuse. He takes out a lighter and lights up. Together we now watch the people pass, we gaze at the cars run wild below, we listen to the music pollute the inside of our overpass, and we exist as vagrants, as time merely passes because it must pass. We have no worries.

Grandma hated Grandpa’s smoking with a passion, and I suspect Grandpa did, too. For an addict, though, the need for the next fix is stronger than gravity in all its might, pulling at you from within, stretching your body to the core. A rubber ball bounces rapidly against the inside of your skull, and it’s not so much that you want your next fix as it is that you somehow are in the process of getting that next fix without your control, without too much conscious thought. You could see this all in Grandpa’s eyes, everything that he wanted to say but couldn’t for the life of him.

The man sitting next to me coughs. Then he turns to me, as if to study me in my loneliness. I glance at my watch. Three hours have passed since first sitting down.

“You related to Albert?” he asks me.

“Yeah, I’m his grandson.”

We don’t talk after that. We sit there, watching the people pass by, watching the cars zoom below, listening to the music in the air, all this until the sun dips beneath the earth. Then we sit some more, experiencing this all. Then the sun rises again, and I get up.

I have to get to work.

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My Name is Harvey Setlow

October 31, 2009 in Fiction | No comments

Gloria’s bra wraps around, caressing the lamp on the nightstand, projecting a strong pink onto the walls of the hotel room. The intricate design on the bra causes this projected tint to be fated and disoriented. And to David, who is staring in transfixion at these motley blends of color, the scene feels surreal, like a dream. The sun’s rays, which are beginning to creep through the window, and the sounds of birds chirping from outside ameliorate the experience. David is thinking up facetious remarks — how he will describe this incident to a few of his ninety-nine coworkers — and thinks that a few of his witty inventions are pretty clever. He would tell them to Gloria, but he doesn’t want to rouse her from her peaceful slumber.

Gloria is always so lovely, thinks David. Always so lovely.

David turns his head away from the window to glace upon her body. He can smell the sweat evaporating off her warm, saline skin, and he takes a moment to bask in her image and crack a smile. There are moments in life that, as they happen, you know you will forever remember, and to David, this is one of those moments: he knows this memory will stay with him to his deathbed.

A knock resonates from the door, and wakes Gloria with a start. David tells her to stay asleep — “Not to worry, I’ll get it” — and heads expediently toward the door.

“Hi,” greets a man in a red uniform. “You ordered room service?”

David gives the man a confused look. “No, no we didn’t. We just woke up.”

“Well, yes you did.”

“I think I’d know if I did,” says David.

“You placed an order just five minutes ago. I recognize your voice.”

David hears Gloria turn over on the bad. She is getting up; he is getting annoyed.

“How much?” David grunts.

“How much for what?”

“The food, dumbass! What do you—”

“That’ll be an even seventy dollars.”

David turns around. Gloria is getting dressed. David commands her, “Give me my wallet, will you,” and she does.

“So what’s your name, anyway?” asks David as he gives the man the money.

The man in the red uniform points at his name tag. “My name is Harvey Setlow. Here are your burgers. I think will be a day you will remember for a long” — David widens his eyes in surprise — “trust me.”

*

Mrs Tharp finds out about the affair with everyone else: through Debate Now, a late night political talk show which brings two guests on every week, one from both political aisles, to discuss a main issue. Today’s issue is Senator Tharp’s affair and how it will affect his political career. The host introduces two congressmen — one from the left, one from the right, both David’s friends — and the studio audience applauds vociferously. The three start their discussion.

What confuses Mrs Tharp more than her husbands’ cheating the show’s banter. The three do not talk about the morality or the emotional impact of David’s cheating, only the political consequences and the possible strategic repercussions. Sitting lazily against the backboard of the bed, Mrs Tharp tries to wrap her head around the discussion. She can’t figure it out.

David isn’t home, and it’s late at night. The ill-boding moon seethes through the window. The sounds of crickets make her tense up. She’ll fall asleep eventually.

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God is Great

October 25, 2009 in Fiction | No comments

(The following is my first attempt at fiction.)

The air conditioner isn’t working. My t-shirt feels glued to the back of my chair. To the left of me, Andy takes out a tissue from his pocket, because shards of sweat are falling off his forehead and pelting his desk like napalm and he needs a dry desk to work on.

We are seated in room 208, summer school, completing math problems, while Mr Palmer is lying back in his chair, his legs hoisted on his teacher’s desk as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Mr Palmer wears a metal cross around his neck, and the reflection stings my eyes.

Andy is still trying to wipe his desk dry (he still doesn’t realize that Kleenex is not used for cleaning wet spills), when Sally pokes him from behind with a pencil. Andy turns around, and immediately Sally starts to giggle. Andy smiles and rolls his eyes. He turns back round again, and resumes, fruitlessly, drying his desk with Kleenex. I had been watching their exchange, but now continue working on my math problems. The air is still intensely hot. The reflection off Mr Palmer’s metal cross still stings my eyes.

Two minutes later, we notice Mr Palmer has fallen asleep, and we begin discussing our plan of action. We have active imaginations. Jonathan, from the back of the room, suggests we place Palmer’s hand in a bucket of warm water, and the class has a riot over the thought. We make a lot of noise, but Palmer remains asleep. Then Samantha suggests we draw on him, but David interjects that we leave Palmer alone. David’s comment quiets the room. It’s such a silly thought, such a silly thought.

Andy sets down his Kleenex, and raises his hand. “You know what we should do—” he begins, but is quickly interrupted when Sally again pokes him from behind.

Andy turns around, and is shocked. Sally had poked him with a marker this time, and the marker had branded a thick line around his shirt when he had turned round. The sweat on his shirt had bleached the line and exacerbated the damage. The entire class stares in anticipation.

“Oh my god!” Andy shouts in disgust, and Mr Palmer is suddenly awakened. Had Andy used God’s name in vain? This isn’t a religiously-oriented summer school, but Mr Palmer, the head teacher, is known for being very religious and very Christian. Once, Palmer had shouted at a student for wearing a Black Sabbath t-shirt, a t-shirt which was demonic and not appropriate for his summer school. In that previous incident, he had raised his hands, and went on a tirade about morals and values and the degrading ethics of a new American society, a secular society which couldn’t care less about the importance of manners and morals and values. The student followed Palmer to the office, and came back with a plain, white dress shirt. Palmer had even made the student change into dress shoes and dress pants, and made him take off his ear ring. We didn’t talk to that student until the next day. He avoided us.

Now, Mr Palmer is noticeably angry, and you can see the white in his knuckles. Palmer charges the room, and finds himself in front of Andy’s desk. Sally slams her marker onto her desk. I watch in anticipation. The entire class watches in anticipation. To Andy, it feels as if the entire world watches in anticipation. And for a second, a few seconds, Mr Palmer just stands there in front of Andy’s desk, not saying anything, but just eyeing him closely and watching him nervously twitch.

“I’m sorry,” Andy pleads. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I won’t do it again.”

Mr Palmer pauses, and sighs. “Pray,” Palmer commands.

“Pray?”

“Yes, pray.”

Andy looks from side to side, to Jonathan, to Samantha, to David, to me. The entire class does not move. Then Andy turns to Sally, who wears a face that seems to convey the message: ‘I’m so sorry, but I don’t know. I’m so sorry.’

In frustration, Andy folds his hands together on his desk, but not before mumbling the words, “Goddammit.”

I know then that we will not talk to Andy until the next day, because he will avoid us.

I empathize with Andy, I really do. In Mr Palmer’s mind, he is doing the ultimate good: saving Andy from an eternity of maximum pain to the maximum degree. In Palmer’s mind, salvation trumps any earthly consideration, and so he can justify any action. Funny, it somehow occurs to me that 9/11 may not have happened had the Iraqis not had such a useful outlet for irrationality.

*

My father is normally in a jovial mood when picking me up from the summer school, but this day is different. Neither is there a “What did you learn in school today?” nor is there a “Hey kiddo.” His face is tense, completely unmoved. His eyebrows squeeze inwards toward his nose. Something is wrong. I feel compelled to ask him what.

“They didn’t attack us!” he blurts out at me. “They don’t have weapons of mass destruction. We don’t have proof they have weapons of mass destruction. They had nothing to do with 9/11. We should not be going into Iraq! Why are we invading Iraq today?”

I get into the car, and my father resumes his lecture. My father seems angry, almost as angry as Mr Palmer was at school. But most of his lecture flies over my twelve-year-old head, and so I put on my iPod and listen to music. Four years from now, I will become a liberal, and I will wonder if my father will have had anything to do with it.

I will realize that politics is a lot like religion. And, after having read Dawkin’s The God Delusion, I will realize that we passively label children as “Christian children” and “Muslim children,” but that we would have major problems labeling children “liberal children” or “conservative children” or “libertarian children.” I will think about this issue, and even write much about it in essays and stories and poems. But at the age of twelve, I do not understand my situation fully enough to realize I am being brought up as a liberal. I do not realize the immense pressure that coerced me into becoming who I will become.

*

At home, Sally calls me and tells me that Andy isn’t returning her phone calls. I tell her not to worry. With a cynical smile on my face, I hold back. Only in my mind do I tell her to pray.

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