I was the first.
It was a terrible Massachusetts day when I heard the ImmerTech doctor’s voice booming form the microphone during the enormous press conference. I will never forget the words he said, I remember word for word.
“The experiments on the animals have shown great success and we are unaware of any negative side effects. Saying that, it is my great honor to report that the same experiment will be performed using a homo sapient. After a long, exhausting search we have come up with our man. Please welcome Adam Christianson.”
* * *
The procedures went just how the doctors had planned. All together, the procedure took about three days to complete. The started by injecting stimulators into my nervous system at precise points in the body. The simulators are designed to last forever and as long as they work, so does my nervous system. Next, they put a microchip about the size of a needle’s eye into my brain. This chip acts as a memory device, a storage system of sorts.
After a few more small surgeries the next thing on their agenda was to manipulate my DNA so that my body will be incapable of wearing down. My immune system will remain as strong as ever and my muscle tissue cannot atrophy. I’m as close to superhuman as a mortal can get.
I also had a vasectomy. The doctors feared what might happen if I had offspring. It wasn’t a risk they were willing to take. That was the hardest decision for me, but if that’s what it took to be an immortal mortal, then it was a sacrifice I had to make.
They discovered a way for the brain to stop aging, as well as the ability to stay physically fit forever. They beat aging. Basically, they had discovered the fountain of youth. Juan Ponce de Leon searched for a fountain of youth throughout the Southeastern United States during the 1500’s after hearing stories from different Indian tribes. He never did find a fountain of youth, but he did discover and name Florida. This idea of beating aging is where ImmerTech derived the name of their project, The Ponce de Leon Experiment.
They chose me because I was a healthy, physically mature male at my prime physical state. I was also chosen because I volunteered. I believe it was every man’s dream to have the ability to live forever. I would be an instant celebrity.
I was only twenty-three when they cut me open. I went through many vigorous hours of therapy, both physical and emotional, because immortality would be a heavy burden for anybody. They said I was recovering just fine and that I now had the ability to live forever.
I can still be killed; don’t get me wrong, I just cannot die naturally. My body will never deteriorate, and my brain, with ample nutrition of course, will never stop being active. I have the ability to live forever, but I probably won’t. I can die in a car wreck, or by gunshot or other unnatural methods. I can drown but my lung capacity is amazing and it would take a very long time. I am immune to nearly every disease and since cancer was cured over forty years ago, that is no longer a problem either.
I can’t leap tall buildings in a single bound, can’t run faster than a speeding bullet, and x-ray vision is still in the experimental stage. I’m not Superman; but in my mind, I am superhuman.
The doctors deemed the experiment a huge success. After thirty years I was still in peak physical condition and life was great. I was the only one who went through the experiment because shortly after I went under the knife some interest groups complained to the government that the idea of the whole thing was immoral and dangerous. The whole project was shut down, but ImmerTech still stood financially stable by coming up with age-enhancing drugs, muscle-enhancers, and other nonsense. Most of it was bullshit, but some of the products actually worked. Either way, ImmerTech made plenty of money to support me. That was part of the deal. I wasn’t getting cut open unless they promised to take care of me for life, both financially and medically. And for the most part they have; after all I am still by far their biggest moneymaker ever.
* * *
I am one hundred and fifty-seven years old now. I only know this because a calendar on my wall says ‘March 2197’. Living forever was gonna be great; I could see the world, go everywhere, meet everyone. At least that’s what they told me.
The nightmares never stopped. My brain never quit at night and all of my worst fears and insecurities came out at night. I hated sleeping and I dreaded each night when I would lie in bed. I didn’t dare tell the doctors for fear that they would consider the procedure a failure and take away my financial backing.
I could never live happily with the constant phone calls—reporters, magazines, television producers. I used to hate television anyway. I also had constant checkups and examinations, blood samples, urine tests, DNA tests. My life was a living hell…but it gets worse…
* * *
My new residence is ImmerTech Laboratories, Boston, Massachusetts. ‘Immer’ is the German word meaning ‘forever’; and ImmerTech specializes in beating Father Time. Damn fools.
ImmerTech itself is a monotonous-looking place. It is like a city all its own. Huge glass buildings filled with monkeys, rats, and other experimental creatures. Large labs containing syringes, scalpels, and other surgical tools used to perform God’s work. Cloning rooms used to recreate body parts. Oh, if the government only knew the evils performed behind those glass walls.
I live in the top level of the tallest building. My room is completely white. I have a big bed, a large-screen television, a desk, two reclining chairs, and a quaint little bathroom. It’s my prison.
You see, I’ve been dead now for over sixty years. Not physically dead, but emotionally. I lost my soul one night when I was sleeping in my old bed in my old home. It was the night I was supposed to die naturally in my sleep, but I messed with fate. Fate took my soul, and along with it everything that meant anything to me that is my penalty for the sins that I have committed.
When my emotions left so did my personality—I am a vegetable of sorts, but I know I am. I guess I’m more like a zombie than a vegetable—a real-life zombie. I still have a conscience but there is no bearing between my mental state and my physical state. One does not control the other.
I feel no strong emotions anymore—no pain, no fear, no joy, not one hint of love. Thos all died with my soul. The doctors tried to play God, and I tried to beat God; but He has won. Instead of striking me down for spiting Him, He has done the opposite—eternal suffering. Now I’m stuck here, forever.
After my soul was lost, ImmerTech took me in. They could not let anyone see that their great experiment wasn’t really a success at all.
So here I am in my cell, just breathing.
I watch a lot of television. I like television; fools running around, making a mockery of normal lives by over-exaggerating emotions. Damn fools.
My day is filled with nothingness; waking up at ten o’clock, stopping in my quaint little bathroom preparing myself for my busy days. Breakfast at eleven. Judith brings it to me; usually bacon and oatmeal, glass of milk to wash it down; always health food.
Dinner is at two usually. Judith brings me that, too. She is a young lady, standing about 5’7”, a blonde hair, blue eyes—the total package. She’s a very kind lady, in my old life I should find her to be quite attractive; but now, not here. She speaks very soft but not often, as she has no idea that I can understand what she is saying. She is my only hope of getting free from my incarceration. She is the only person I come into contact with during my day, thus being the only person that can kill me. I don’t have the ability to self-terminate because my subtle mind tells me I have no reason to. Judith is my friend, my only hope: she must betray me.
* * *
After dinner and back to the television, I usually fall asleep during this time. Today is no different.
My large dinner meal makes me tired. Sleep is my escape and I dream a lot. Not odd dreams, just usually flashbacks of my old life. I miss that. My girlfriend, Evelyn, she was always so good to me, even though she was not in favor of the experiment. She wanted to children so badly and I couldn’t give them to her and yet she stuck with me. She understood my ambition and maybe even loved me for it. Damn fool.
Evelyn died when I was ninety-three. She was eighty-nine years old and passed away in a nursing home. I left her long before then for younger women. I couldn’t bear the thought of waking up each morning to such an old woman. How naïve I was. The only true love I ever had and I had fallen victim to my own lust. I miss Evelyn.
I dream about the children I never had. Little angels they are. They seem to grow up each time I dream, little Damian and little Lucy. My little angels.
I wake up now. I usually wake up around five o’clock and this evening was no different. I walk around my room a little bet, maybe play solitaire with a worn out deck of cards the let me bring from my old room in my old home. I have mastered the game of solitaire, and can usually tell if I will win or lose before I even flip through the deck. It doesn’t matter. Solitaire passes the time, but I wish I could play solitaire outside my cell.
I haven’t been outside in decades. I do have a skylight though; and if I don’t feel like playing solitaire, I stare up in the light at a nice summer day for minutes, hours maybe, just waiting. Waiting for the light to reach out to me and pull me up to heaven. It never reaches and I am never pulled. But I keep my faith.
* * *
Six o’clock is nearing and that means hop is on the way. Judith should be heare any minute with my supper. Oh sweet Judith, I know someday you will betray me and I will love you for it!
I hear her coming.
My supper smells delicious. It consists of chicken noodle soup, crackers, and grilled cheese sandwich. A slice of apple pie followed up the meal. Everything tastes all right here, although I wouldn’t probably know the difference if it didn’t. Even still I enjoy eating and look forward to doing so tomorrow because I was not drugged tonight; no poison in the pie, no lethal concoction in my milk, just food. No poison.
And so here I am tonight lying in bed, lights out at eight o’clock, wondering what new adventures my dreams will bring. I will still be here tomorrow, and the day after that. Hope is lost. When all civilization is gone, I will still be here in this room awaiting my next meal.
I will be the last.
Babel
By Mary Dodson
After twenty minutes of trying in vain to pay attention to the lecture, Judy closed her right eye and held of her thumb and forefinger so that it looked like she held the professor’s head between them “I’m crushing your head!” she muttered to herself as she clamped her thumb and finger together. She stifled a giggle at the old joke, then sighed. Most lecturers move from one point to another along a linear path, like a cyclist riding on a flat country road. However, this professor leaped from point to point like a kid trying to get across a fast-running creek by jumping from one jutting rock to the next, leaving no trail of where he had been and no indication of where he was going.
The professor droned on, and Judy’s mind wandered far away. She thought about children with hearing disabilities, ostensibly the subject of this lecture. She could understand why these children sometimes throw fits of frustration at their inability to communicate with others. She could picture herself lying on the floor of the classroom, kicking and flailing and screaming, “Start making sense! For the love of God, start making sense!”
She decided to make a fresh effort at paying attention, so she tried to copy down his notes form the board. Never had she seen handwriting like his. His Fs looked like mutant sevens and his capital Es resembled the symbol for the British pound.
The professor paused for questions, and Judy imagined raising her hand and asking facetiously, “Sir, would you mind repeating that in English?” She chucked silently to herself, but then a terrible thought occurred to her: what if she had sudden lost the ability to understand English? How would she function? Oh sure, she spoke a little French, but that probably wouldn’t do her much good unless she could somehow migrate to a French-speaking area.
Then another horrible thought hit her. What if, without realizing it, she had suffered damage to the language centers of her brain and had contracted aphasia, thereby losing the ability to understand both English and French?
She picked up her pen and wrote, “This pen is blue.” Then, just to be safe, she wrote, “C’est un stylo bleu.” It made sense to her, but then she remembered that one episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine when some members of the crew contracted aphasia. When they tried to communicate through writing nobody but themselves could understand what they wrote. If something similar had happened to her, then she would be able to read what she had written, but nobody else would. She racked her brain, but she couldn’t remember how that episode ended.
What could she do? She tried to think of a solution through the whirlwind of panic that had formed in her head. English was out. French was out. She didn’t know sign language; well, just the alphabet but eve that probably wouldn’t do much good, since the same areas of the brain probably control sign language. Perhaps she could go around speaking English with a French accent…No! mentally she slapped herself on the forehead. Desperately searching for a solution, she had temporarily lost sight of the problem. What to do? What to do…
Suddenly one of her classmates dropped a book and startled her out of her reverie with a brief yelp of surprise. She felt the rest of the class looking at her and blushed slightly.
“Are you all right?” the professor asked her.
Any embarrassment Judy felt at her silliness quickly melted away in the relief of having all her linguistic facilities intact. “I’m fine,” she answered, and started copying down the professor’s hieroglyphics from the board.
Fool Hardy and the Table of Plenty
By Mary Dodson
Some of my friends thought I was crazy to buy a house next door to my Grandma Ginny. Other thought it was sweet. To me, it was just the thing to do. I mean, she took care of me when there was no one else to do it, after my parents died. It only made sense that I would do the same for her.
Grandma’s 76 now, still in pretty good health, but I can tell she’s winding down. She guards her independence ferociously, though. She almost bit my head off when I asked if I could help her take care of her finances. “I’ve been looking after my own affair for years now, Jeff. I can take care of myself, thank you very much.” I suppose I should have been tougher, really put my foot down, but…well, hindsight is 20/20.
It was Friday the day she got the letter from the insurance company saying that she’d let her homeowner’s insurance lapse. Have you ever noticed that those sorts of things always happen on the weekend? It’s true, at least for me. Bad things always seem to happen to me on the weekend when I can’t do anything about it because the people who can fix it have the weekend off.
Well, at least firemen don’t take the weekend off and good thing too. Because wouldn’t you know it, that was the very weekend the old wiring in Grandma’s house decided to give out and set the house on fire.
I never used to believe in fate and all that supernatural psychic stuff, but I admit that it was pretty weird that I just happened to wake up to the bathroom soon after the fire started. I’ve never understood why some bathrooms have windows, but for once I was glad ours did. I saw the flames through the gauzy curtains, but I was still kind of groggy and it didn’t register at first. Fireworks…Fire…FIRE! As soon as the information made its way from my eyes to my brain I woke up like I’d been jolted with electricity.
I ran back into the bedroom, screaming for my wife to call 911, then I ran outside and across the lawn to Grandma’s house.
I don’t really remember what happened there. When I look back on it, it’s like a dream. Well, a nightmare, actually. All I really remember is picking Grandma up out of bed, knowing that I had to get her out quickly, but trying to be careful not to trip and fall.
We got out of the house and I hurried back to my lawn just as June, my wife, was coming out of the house. I set Grandma Ginny down in one of our lawn chairs, then I turned around and ran back toward the burning house. Faintly, under the roar of the flames I could hear Grandma and June calling me, shouting at me to come back.
It’s strange the thoughts that go through your mind as you enter a burning house. I remembered when I was a boy and Grandma read to me from the Bible the story of the Holy Spirit descending on the disciples like “tongues of fire,” and how she read me fairytales featuring man-eating monsters that were always “licking their chops.” Those phrases kept running through my head; they hadn’t meant anything to me until now.
It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for, but I was worried the fire had gotten to it first. But my luck had held. The flames had not yet reached Granma’s antique end table. I picked it up; it wasn’t heavy but I was awkward to carry. I managed to get it out of the house and stagger back to my yard. The firefighters had just arrived then, and I was only too happy to get out of the way and let them do their job. When Grandma Ginny saw what I’d gone back into the house to save she yelled, “Jeff Hardy, that was FOOLHARDY!” Suddenly she, June and I realized what she’d just said and started laughing hysterically. We laughed so long that after a while we didn’t know if we were laughing or crying; probably both. We didn’t stop until Grandma started coughing and the paramedics treated her for smoke inhalation.
Apparently the reporters from the newspaper got there in time to catch Grandma Ginny’s remark, because the headline the next morning read, “LOCAL MAN SAVES GRANDMOTHER FROM BURNING HOUSE” and the subtitle read, “Jeff ‘Fool’ Hardy Also Went Back for Table.” I guess they just couldn’t resist the pun. I wonder how long it’s going to take me to live that nickname down. Not that it matters.
I suppose you’re wonder why I saved the table. Well, do you ever watch Antiques Roadshow on PBS? These antiques appraisers travel around the United States and people bring in their heirlooms on their garage sale finds and the appraisers tell them if their items are worth anything. My wife really likes that show. I thought it was pretty dumb at first, but it gradually sucks you in and the next thing you know you’re looking at an old lamp at a flea market and you think, “Hey, nice patina.”
Anyway, about a week or so before the fire I saw an old table kind of like Grandma’s get appraised. They estimated it’d bring at least 100,000 dollars at auction. Wow, I thought. I should take Grandma’s table to be appraised sometime. When the fire started I knew “sometime” was about to run out.
I mean, I’m not stupid. I realize that Grandma’s table probably isn’t going to be worth that much money, but if it’s worth anything that’ll be a big help towards rebuilding. I just needed to do something for Grandma after all that she’s done for me. Believe me; she’s worth running into a burning building. Twice.
Trivial Things
Mary Dodson
Ted Roland and his wife Lola stood side by side at the kitchen sink, silently washing and drying the dishes. The tension hung in the air like a sour-smelling fog. Ted could tell by the way she plunged eadch dish into the soapy water with a splash and a glug that she was still angry with him. In fact, the only dish she did no immerse so vigorously was her mother’s antique glass candy dish.
The evening had started out pleasant enough. Ted reflected on the delightful conversation they had shared over their evening meal. Lola glowingly described the new client she had brought to her accounting firm and proudly speculated that she would soon be up for a promotion. Ted, a sportswriter for the local newspaper for the past ten years, told her about the interview he had conducted with the college basketball coach. They laughed together over the tired old clichés and Yogi Berra-isms he used to illustrate teamwork and victory.
After dinner they retired to the living room, he with a newspaper, and she with her novel. “Did you take the garbage out?” Lola asked casually.
Ted flushed and twitched his newspaper. “I forgot,” he admitted hesitantly. “I’m sorry.”
Lola sighed. “Why can’t you ever do anything I asked you to?”
“I’ll do it right now,” Ted said, hurriedly getting to his feet.
“No, don’t bother!” Lola snapped. “I’ll do it myself.”
As Ted sat back down, the old, neglected Trivial Pursuit box on the wooden bookcase across the room caught his eye. A shiver suddenly shot down his spine as he read the Alexander Pope quote on the lid: “What mighty contests rise for trivial things?”
Like and instant replay set on a continuous loop, Ted’s thoughts lingered over the previous events of the evening as he took his wife’s candy dish out of the water to dry it. The delicate dish slipped from his dripping fingers and seemed to fall to earth in slow motion. He lunged spectacularly to save it, but his muscles felt as though they had been replace with sacks of wet sand. The dish eluded his grasp and shattered on the kitchen floor
Horrified, Ted slowly looked up and met his wife’s gaze. Her nostrils flared slightly and he could see rage smoldering in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, instinctively backing away, his hands n front of him in a gesture both defensive and supplicating.
“You did that on purpose,” Lola said in a low growl.
“No,” Ted pleaded, “it slipped—it was an accident…I swear.”
“How could you?” Lola exploded. “How DARE you? You KNEW that dish was special to me, that it was my mother’s…”
She advanced on him and he backed against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he said again, wholeheartedly sincere, but at the same time he furtively searched for an escape route.
“Shut up!” Lola barked and slapped him brutally across the face. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you!” She shot him a venomous look and stepped back to the broken shards of glass. “You always hated my mother, didn’t you? She knew from the start what a worthless piece of shit you are!” She picked up two of the biggest fragments and held them gingerly in her hands before flinging them at Ted. He raised his arms to protect his face; the shards were deflected by his thick sweater and plummeted harmlessly back to the ground. “Clean the mess up,” she ordered contemptuously.
Ted shuffled to the back porch for the broom and dustpan. After sweeping up the sparkling remains of the dish, he sought refuge at his computer. He tried to concentrate on typing up the interview with the basketball coach, tried to ignore the stinging in his cheek and the tears stinging his eyes.
After about an hour or two he saw Lola’s reflection his computer screen. His muscles became taut as she advanced towards him and he tried not to wince as she put her hands gently on his shoulders.
“I’m sorry, honey,” she murmured into his ear. “I shouldn’t have acted lke that. But you know how I get sometimes.”
Ted let out his breath slowly and fought to keep his voice steady. “Yes, dear,” he answered, “I know.”
At First Sight
By James Ingram
The day I turned 18 years old, my life changed in ways I could have never imagined in my wildest dreams. I was born with bright blue eyes, but around the time of my six birthday they began to slowly turn to steel-gray color. As they changed color and I lost my sense of sight, my senses of hearing and smell took on a whole new depth for me. I could identify people by their smell, or the sound of their footsteps. I was slowly losing my memory of sight, and this had been my lot in life for the past 12 years. I remember that morning; my little sister was in my room waking me up earlier than usual.
“Vorion, Mom said it’s time to get up. Vorion, wake up!”
This was accompanied with her pouncing on my chest, momentarily taking my breath away. I pushed her off and slowly sat up, rubbing my face. I looked in what I thought was her general direction and then asked, “What time is it anyway, Marion?” I was answered by Marion suddenly jumping on my back and screeching, “It’s time to get up!” Having no way to argue with her nine-year-old logic, I got up and slowly shuffled my way downstairs, with her still clinging onto my back.
I could hear mother, Jennifer, bustling around downstairs making breakfast. The house smelled like pancakes and bacon, which must mean that Marion’s dad, Tony, spent the night last night. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, Marion and I are only half-siblings. Shortly after I went blind, my father left my mother, because she had caught him cheating on her. We lived in a car for about a week, and then she met Tony. He took us in and bought us a house, but never made a commitment to my mother, so she never made one to him. He came and went as he pleased, leaving my mom to raise us both of us, and she had various men over pretty much when she wanted to and he didn’t care. Anyway, back to the real story. As Marion and I made it to the kitchen, she yelled out, “Daddy!” and jumped off my back. I heard Tony say, “Hey, there’s my little girl.” And then his chair creaked as Marion threw herself on him. I smiled and gently sad down in my seat, waiting to be acknowledged. Like usual, Tony disappointed me, but Mom didn’t.
“Morning honey, how do you feel this morning?”
“Lousy, like usual. Why did you want me to wake up so goddamned early for? It’s a Saturday.”
At this, Mom slammed down her spatula and yelled, “Vorion! I told you I don’t like you using that kind of language in this house, and especially not around your little sister. Besides, it’s already 9:30.”
“Besides,” Tony said, “it’s your birthday today, no time to sleep in.” I turned in his direction and responded, quite sarcastically, “So what, one more year. Excuse me while I go jump up and down for joy.” Tony chuckled and responded, “Yeah, but you’re getting one hell of a present this year.”
“What is it? Another one of those stupid audio-olfactory movies you like to make me watch? Thanks, but no thanks.”
After this remark, Mom proceeded to jump down my throat again. “Why can’t you be a little more pleasant sometimes? Tony isn’t out to get you! He’s trying to be pleasant.” Tony piped up, “It’s OK, Jennifer, he’s just tired. The guys kept him out really late last night. He didn’t stumble in until 4:30 this morning.” I grinned sheepishly at this and could imagine the kind of look my mother was sending my way.
I quickly tried to change the subject. “So, what did you get me?” Instead of Tony answering, like I expected, Mom responded, “Oh, it’s not from us; it’s from Sam.” Sam is my no good father. I could almost hear the pathetic smile I’m sure she was wearing in her voice. After sitting there silently for a moment, I said, “So that’s the stench I smell. You’re here too, aren’t you jerk?”
The room fell deathly silent for a moment until Mom gave a strained little laugh. “Come on everyone, let’s give these two some privacy.” Mom, Tony, and Marion left the room in a rush, leaving me alone with Sam. “So what do you want anyway, Sam? Finally decided to see if I was still alive after all this time?”
He sat there for about five minutes before he answered, “Don’t be like that. I’ve had important things to do.”
“For almost 12 years I haven’t heard from you. What the hell do you want?!”
“I’ve come bearing a very special gift, Vor. I’ve found a surgeon, one who specializes in vision, who thinks he can help you see again.”
“That’s impossible! If you bothered to check up on me more, you’d know that Mom had asked everywhere, and no one can figure out how to do it! And don’t call me Vor; that’s not my name.” He had called me Vor when I was younger, and after he left, I couldn’t stand the sound of it.
“I know you mother and her multitude of boyfriends haven’t found anything, but they haven’t asked where I have. This surgeon operates in Japan and is not easy man to reach. It’s taken me the better part of two years to do it, and he’s agreed to see you.”
I quietly contemplated this for a moment, and then stated, in a civil voice, “Why?” At first, Sam didn’t respond, and I began to think that I had made him angry. But after a few moments, he retorted, “Why not?” You’re still my son, even if you don’t think of yourself that way. At least see him, he might be able to help.”
I turned around as I heard a footstep in the doorway. Mom whispered, “I think you should see this man, Vorion. If he can really help you see again, you can’t just pass it off as unimportant. “I turned in her direction and said, “If you want me to try Mom, I’ll give it a shot.”
Within days I was on my way to Okinawa on a Trans-Pacific jet. I was nervous because Mom couldn’t come with me. It was just Sam and I. we talked very little on the flight; he seemed content to let me ponder what was happening in silence. When we arrived in Okinawa after a grueling three hour flight, we were met at the airport by my surgeon’s chauffeur, who introduced himself as Pablo.
“Welcome to Japan!” he bubbled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you!” I mumbled something vaguely polite; Sam refused to be outdone. “It’s great to be here,” he nearly yelled. “I can’t wait to meet Dr. Kim in person. We headed out to the car, and my senses were assaulted by a myriad of new smells and sounds. I found it quite disorienting. Thankfully, the limousine we were hustled into was soundproof and smelled of meticulous scrubbing.
The drive to the clinic where Dr. Kim worked took about twenty-five minutes. During this time, Sam tried to engage in conversation with me, but I pointedly ignored him. So he went to visiting with Pablo, who was being far more pleasant than I was. I listened to them talk about the weather, the Tokyo Dragons, and the Naginata Samurias.
We finally reached the clinic, and Pablo bustled us into Dr. Kim’s office. He left immediately, asking us to remain in the office. Shortly after that, Dr. Kim joined us in the office and immediately asked Sam to step outside for a moment. After Sam was gone, Kim sat down next to me and turned my chair to face his.
“Why exactly did you come here, Mr. Trac?”
I thought it was definitely an odd way to start a conversation, but I took the bait anyway.
“Well, Mr. Kim, I’m here because my father told me you might be able to make me see again. Can you, or has this trip been a monumental waste of my time?”
“For starters, Mr. Trac, I didn’t go through fourteen years of college to be called ‘mister’ by someone as young as yourself. Second, I can’t make you see. I can just let you see again.”
“Point made, and please call me Vorion. Mr. Trac is my father.”
“Fair enough, Vorion. But yes, I’m confident that I can give you back your sense of sight. Just as good as it used to be. I’ve developed a groundbreaking new procedure that regenerates the main optic nerve from its base out to the eyeballs. I can even replace your eyes themselves if it comes to that.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing; it all sounded too good to be true. “So I can see again, just like that?”
“No, not just like that,” Dr. Kim responded. “It is a very long, painful procedure, and I can’t guarantee that it will work. Unfortunately, the one way to be certain is to try. Give it some thought.”
I felt a slight bit of dread start to creep up, but I quickly quenched it. “Well, I can tell you know I don’t have anything to think about. I want to do it. If it doesn’t work, at least it can’t get any worse.”
Before I truly realized what was happening, I was on a cold table with my head restrained. I heard Dr. Kim say, “All right, Vorion, just relax. I’m going to give you a sedative, and when you wake up the surgery will be all over.” I felt a mask being placed on my face, and I slowly slipped into unconsciousness. People are always asking me if I can see things in my dreams, and I usually don’t. But for some reason, my dreams were filled with colors and lights.
When I finally woke up, I couldn’t remember where I was. I tried sitting up, but felt someone restrain me. I started to thrash around, trying to get away, but quickly settled down when I heard Sam’s voice. “Calm down, Vor, everything is fine. You’re in the recovery room of Dr. Kim’s clinic in Okinawa. The surgery went well. Now you just need time to heal.”
“What’s there to heal? The doctor said that he was going to regenerate everything, not injure anything. Why can’t I see?”
“That’s actually quite simple, Vorion,” Dr. Kim said, silently slipping into the room. “It takes time for the nerves to completely regenerate. We implanted a pair of dark lenses over your eyeballs. In a couple of weeks, after the tests show that everything worked, we’ll remove the lenses and you’ll be able to see.”
“Dr. Kim, I really hurt. Are there some pain killers or something that I can get?”
“No problem, Vorion, I’ll get my nurse to bring in some morphine.”
I lay back down on the bed and looked up in the direction of the ceiling. I had already made it over a decade without my eyes. I could do another couple of weeks, no problem. Suddenly coming to a decision, I blurted out, “Hey, Sam.”
“Yes, son?”
“I want Mom and the others here when these lenses come off. I refuse to let them off without Mom here.” Sam started to say something, but Dr. Kim interrupted him. “Ok Vorion, I’ll have your family out here on the first available flight.” Sam started trying to speak again, but I cut him off, “Thank you Dr. Kim. They’re the first people I want to see when I open my eyes.” I heard loud footsteps, and then the door slammed. I looked aroundin confusion until the doctor calmly said, “It was your father. I think he’s angry.” I started laughing and didn’t stop until several minutes later.
Two days later, I heard three familiar sets of footsteps coming down the hall. I sat up and eagerly awaited what I knew was coming. I heard a small, nervous nock on my door, and then the door cracked open. A small voice asked, “Vorion, can I come in?” I felt a smile spread from ear to ear on my face and happily responded, “Of course, you can come in Marion!” the door banged open, and Marion executed a running dive into my waiting arms. She was laughing and crying at the same time. “Oh Vorion, I’ve missed you. No one has played any puzzles with me, or pused me on the swing, or spun me on the merry-go-round, or…”
“Marion, honey, move over and let me hug him,” I heard Mom say. Marion climbed off my bed, and Mom sat down and wrapped her arms around me, burying my head against her breast. “Oh baby, it’s good to see your okay,” she said, stroking my hair. I hugged her back and felt Tony’s hand slap down on my shoulder. “How are you doing, sport?” he asked me. It took a minute to get my head up, and I replied, “I’m doing better now that you’re with me.”
The next several days passed quickly. Marion never left my side, and Mom only did when Tony insisted that they see some of the sights of Okinawa while they were there. Dr. Kim had been nice enough to lend them a car, and Mom had new stories almost every day about things she had seen, things she would take me tosee when I was healed. Sam never came back in the room; at least while I was awake. Mom assured me that he spent almost every night just sitting by my bed, staring off into space. Dr. Kim was also in frequently to run tests, and he always left with a cheerful, “It all looks really good so far, Vorion.” He also had the nurse keep administering morphine because the pain was nonstop.
Finally, the big day rolled around. All the tests came back positive, most of my pain had left, and the doctor said he was ready to remove my lenses if I was. Mom and Marion kissed me good-bye, Tony even hugged me, and the nursed wheeled me back into the operating room. Dr. Kim said, “OK, Vorion, I’m going to put you under again, and when you wake up we’ll see if everything worked out.” I felt the mask on my face again, and I quickly passed out.
When I came to, I felt something over my eyes. I reached up to remove it, and Dr. Kim stopped my hand. “Careful now, Vorion, it’s just gauze. I wanted you to decide what you wanted your first sight in 12 years to be. This is too big a moment to just look at anything.”
“I’ve been thinking about that since I came out of surgery the first time. The only thing I remember the most vividly from my childhood is my mom. I want to see her, and only her.”
“No problem, Vorion. I’ll go get her, and then I’ll leave the room and let her take off the gauze.” He was gone and back before I could even start to get situated. Mom had been waiting outside my room. “Now listen to me, Vorion; when your mom removes the gauze I want you to take your time opening your eyes. They’ll be very sensitive at first.” With this, Dr. Kim slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him.
Mom came and sat down on my bed and took the gauze off with trembling hands. I held my eyes closed and thought nasty thoughts about how bright it was. Then it hit me. It was bright! I could see light coming throughmy eyelids. I almost opened my eyes wide, but then remembered what Dr. Kim had said. I slowly cracked my eyes, and the light hurt so much I almost couldn’t continue. But I had come this far and wasn’t goin to let simple light keep me in the dark. I slowly opened my eyes the rest of the way and saw my mother for the first time in 12 years. I couldn’t believe how beautiful she looked, and my eyes started to tear up, and I barely managed to croak out “Mommy?” before she wrapped her arms around me and I started to sob.
We sat like that for almost 20 minutes before I heard the door open. I looked over and saw Dr. Kim standing there with a small smile on his face. “Do you mind if I let the other two in? I’m afraid they’re going to start beating me away from the door.” I laughed through my tears and agreed. When Marion and Tony came in the room, the tears started all over again. We all sat there holding each other and crying for quite awhile, even though Marion seemed confused over why we were crying.
The next day Dr. Kim told me I could go home, and I gladly left. I was like a six-year-old boy all over again, exploring our house from top to bottom, rediscovering everything. It’s been three years since the operation, and I still look at everything around me with unabashed wonder, taking immense delight in everything from sunsets to garbage dumps. Sam never came to see me before I left, and Mom said she hadn’t seen him since before I had the lenses removed. I wanted to see him, if nothing else then to actually SEE him, and to thank him. I don’t know how I feel about him anymore, but I no longer hate him.
Divine Inspiration
By Malene Little
Michael was at a loss for words, literally. He was about 1000 words short of the required minimum for his creative writing class. I may as well go to the store and get something to eat. Maybe that will get my creative juices flowing.
He went to the Food Center with the best intentions of getting healthful snacks. He purchased chips, pop, and candy. In the next checkout lane, he saw one of his classmates. “Hey, Sarah, have you started your story for tomorrow?”
“No not yet,” Sarah replied with a laugh. College I a procrastinator’s playground, she thought, not for the first time that semester.
“Me neither,” he grinned conspiratorially.
“I’m waiting for divine inspiration.”
“Well, if you find some, send it my way too.” He smiled
And left with his stash of junk food.
Well, well. What do we have here? Standing by his car was a beautiful young woman with honey-colored shoulder-length hair and a flowing white gown. The gown seemed to be more than one piece and blew easily in the light breeze.
“Hi, will you give me a ride?” her melodious voice seemed to float on the wind as freely as her gown blew in it.
“Sure!” Michael replied and threw his groceries in the back seat. He opened the passenger door for her and threw the pile of books into the back with the groceries. “Please sit,” he invited her. As she settled into the seat, brushing aside a few stray crumbs from too many drive-through dinners, he asked her, “So where am I taking you?”
“Your place,” she replied, lying back easily against the headrest. She looked radiant with the glow of parking lot lights playing across her face.
“Um, I may be taken with your beauty, but that doesn’t mean I’m taking you to my place. I thing you assume too much. I don’t even know your name.”
“Melpomene, the Muse of Tragedy,” came the unhurried answer with a slight sigh, as if she had uttered it many times before. “I’m your ‘divine inspiration.”
With the echoing of Sarah’s words spoken just moments earlier, he hesitated then asked, “So… what, is some kind of Xanaduish thing or what?”
“I get that a lot, but Gene Kelly’s dead so don’t expect any big dance numbers,” she joked. “But yeah, basically. I’m here to help get that story out of you.”
“You said muse of tragedy, right? Why tragedy?”
“I thing you should write about your love life,” she answered promptly, then laughed at the appalled expression on his face. “Just joking. The other Muses were busy so you got me. So should we go to your place or what? I have other people to inspire tonight too,” she beamed at him.
Michael drove to his apartment, worried about the chaos he had left there. Oh, well. It’s not like I’m going to get lucky or anything. She’s just going to help me with homework. It had actually been quite a few months since a girl had done anything non-scholarly with him; his love life was, to hear him tell it, quite the tragic story.
When he reached his apartment, Michel was in such a hurry to get started on his story (he’d never had the help of a Muse before) that he forgot his groceries in the backseat. “Michael, I know you’re excited, but you might want to grab your bags,” Melopemene lightly reminded him before he had bounded all the way to the front door. He sheepishly went back to get them, then more slowly led the way into his place.
They settled onto the couch and he pulled out his paper and pen. “So what should I write about?”
“What do you love most?”
“I don’t know. I can’t think of anything and I thought that’s where you cam in,” he replied testily.
Her laughter seemed as rich and flowing as a freshly uncorked bottle of champagne. “I know you’re frustrated, but I’m just trying to help you. It’s not my job to write your story, just to help you get going. Writer’s block is really just authors’ fear that what they have to say isn’t important. That’s wrong. If you have something to say, it’s important enough to share it with everyone. People may disagree, but they should write their opinions and the world should be able to review that dialogue. So let’s get started.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in a sort of “let’s get down to business” movement.
He realized then that she was right. He did have something to say. Michael decided he wanted to write about the difficulty of writing and how sometimes we all need a little divine inspiration to even get started.
Sleeping Trudy
By Chris Sund
“Why of all the curses in the world for the scary old witch lady to put on my beloved Trudy did it have to be that one: honestly, what are the chances of two-ton truck running her down as she tended to her garden?” I frantically asked the uninterested doctor. He simply nodded in the nonchalant doctor sort of way.
“Well, the chances are slim, sir, but I highly doubt she’s in a coma due to the curse,” he replied to me smugly. After that Dr. Kiosk began to speak about my head in that complicated medical lialect. I thought it was English. At that moment I wished I hadn’t slept through hihgt school human anatomy class.
“Will she ever recover doctor?” he looked uneasily calm, not a good sign.
“I’ve spoken to the family; they think it’s best to take her off life support. We decided it’s in everyone’s best interests.” I felt more than just a little bit flustered by the fact that they never thought of asking her husband’s opinion. That’s me by the way! I wanted to beat the mercy of God into this bastard-of-a-doctor and Trudy’s whole family for being so full of themselves; I never really did like my in-laws. Trudy wouldn’t want to die, she lived life. No matter how corny that last statement may have sounded.
“We’re pulling the plug tomorrow at noon.”
Good! Well, minus the death thing. That gave me time to wake her up! I had a lot of work ahead of myself. I quickly formulated a grand plan; I need to make quite a few phone calls.
First off, I got a hold of a local emo band that Trudy absolutely loved and invited them to play a show in her room. The idea seemed good on paper. The band began her favorite song, but there came no reaction from my beloved. Plus, by the second chorus security escorted the band and myself off the premises. Far be it for me to be deterred by a large hairy man named Bubba though.
Plan two…I needed flowers, lots of flowers. People don’t appreciate jus thow much money it takes to buy and ship every flower from a florist. People appreaciat obscene amounts of pollen even less, especially the hospital. Once again, Bubba kindly sent me flying home and took my flower jungle to the incinerator. Beat me once, shame on you; beat me twice, shame on me…or uh, something.
Plan C included a tub full of Jell-O, Trudy always said, “I would love to bathe in a giant tub of strawberry-flavored Jell-O.” It’s very hard to outrun angry Bubba up three flights of stairs with a tub of Jell-O. Eventually though the behemoth overtook me and my precious cargo. I nearly made it into her room too. Yet again Bubba showed me the door, his foot, and the pavement. By now, I had used all of my money. What else could I do? I finally gave up.
Destroyed, I reentered the hospital to await the inevitable with my sweetheart. No sooner had I entered the building then Bubba and his friends greeted me. Panicked, I did the only thing a respectful man could do. I ran like my head spontaneously burst into flames.
With agility that even amazed me, I ran down the halls, dodging the many obstacles. Bubba and the brutes couldn’t keep up with someone my size. Thanks to the ever-widening gap between us, I got a chance to hide. I grabbed for the nearest door, jumped through it, and barred it with a conveniently placed cross. With my newfound chance to breath, I turned around to find I had hidden in a quaint little Catholic chapel. Not being the type of person to miss the opportunity, I ventured near the alter, kneeled, and began to pray. “Please God,” the words were harder to get out than I thought. “Please help Trudy. Help her wake up before she dies,” I whispered while crossing myself in the proper fashion. Silence, nothing stirred me. It almost felt like Hindu or Buddhist meditation. I don’t know for sure why I continued to kneel. Maybe it had something to do with the brute horde outside, or maybe the fact that I hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours was finally catching up with me. Either way, I didn’t budge.
Slowly, only a faint whisper at first, the song “Amazing Grace” filled into God’s apartment. Whoever was performing it did a wonderful job. How often does someone hear a completely instrumental verson of “Amazing Grace” done with bagpipes and punk rock guitars? The song filled every fiber of my body. Just as the third vers was about to commence a strong voice crammed itself so forcefully into my ears that I fell flat on my face. “Wake up you fool! Yes Trudy enjoys all of those things but she doesn’t love them! Only that which Trudy loves can awaken her!”
“Is that you God?” I asked completely puzzled.
“Pay attention!”
“What is it that Trudy loves? Whatever it is, I hope it’s free! I’m kind of broke,” which was the honest truth.
“Just how daft are you, boy? Trudy loves you.”
The news hit me like the smell of turpentine. Why hadn’t I thought of that? “What do I have to do Lord?”
“Run, that’s what you have to do. I’d wager you have about a minute and a half to make it. Go get her, tiger!” No sooner had the Almighty finished that sentence than I was making a mad dash to Trudy. Nothing could stop me. Bubba and his cronies certainly wouldn’t. my feet flew with the sure footing of a mountain goat and the speed of a rabid cheetah.
Upon arrival I thought my life had ended. Trudy’s family and the smug Dr. Kiosk (doctors always have the weirdest names) all stood in the lobby chatting and…laughing. How could they be laughing at a time like this? Did Trudy wake up? That would be great! I ran as quickly as I could to find out. Then I saw it, a body bag. They had killed her early so that her death wouldn’t conflict with their schedules. With THEIR schedules, how thoughtful I remarked to myself. As the attendants slowly rolled my love away, an anger rose within me, an anger I never before experienced. No! I hadn’t come this far just to be denied, not to mention it would be a waste of divine intervention.
“Wait right there…you…you…you poop heads!” So I wasn’t thinking the clearest, at least my heart was in the right place. Before the attendants had fully understood the situation, I snatched the body bag and ran screaming like the banshee Trudy might have heard in her final moments. Bubba did a much better job of keeping up with me this time. I hadn’t ever realized just how much a dead body really does weigh. Still, I managed to make it out of the building, down the street, and out of town. Let’s just say fatigue finally got the best of me. This spot couldn’t be anymore perfect, I decided in between breaths.
Quietly, I unzipped the plastic coffin, hoping that I just made a mistake and ran with a random dead body for five miles. Sadly though, I hadn’t. The lips that at one time were crimson as Christ’s robes now paled to a Virgin-Mother blue, and her skin had become whit as whipped cream. Distraught, I slowly caressed her dead cold face, brushing her hair out of those once vibrant eyes. She always hated it when her hair got in her eyes. She would always threaten to just “chop it all off.” I chuckled at the memory.
I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. I felt like someone had denied me the chance to live. “I hoped that you can feel this in heaven, Trudy,” I softly told her. I bent down and prepared to kiss her frozen lips, but for a split second I reconsidered. Who really wants to kiss a dead person? But love tooke precedence in my head, and I finally gave in. the kiss certainly wasn’t the best one I had ever given, but the meaning behind it made up for that.
No sooner had I kissed her icy lips then the scariest and happiest moment of my life happened. Her lips parted and took in a slow deep breath. At first I wanted to run like a lunatic away from her, but luckily my legs were too tired to carry my weight. When it happened a second and third time a joy that no one could know except god himself came over me.
“What took you so long sweetie?” Trudy squeaked out at me as she gently rubbed my stubbly face.
I couldn’t reply. My body, overcome by fatigue and immense joy, could do nothing other than weep. For the longest time I could do nothing other than hold her tightly and thank God for bringing her back. Trudy had risen from death. Life was good, for the most part.
Church Money
By Lara Thomason
Wet green leaves stuck to the sidewalk that made its path haphazardly along. It had been poured in 1957, and that was quite some time ago. Chunks were missing here and there and large cracks three inches wide were filled with sprouting weeds. It was not a place for bicycles or skateboards.
Two boys, recently released for the Wednesday night church service at Holy Trinity Church on Lee Street, made their way through the deepening dark. Both were dark in hair. The older one tall and skinny, the younger one broad of shoulders- -they were obviously brothers. Their voices rang out in boyish conversation as they made their way along, feet scuffing at the pebbles and absently treading through puddles. Once in a while one rubbed his arms to warm them. The air had a damp feeling about it- -weather that should require more than t-shirt.
“And what did you do next?”
“Well, I just said, why do I need to know how to spell these words if I have a dictionary in my desk?” the older one said casually; it all seemed so simple and clear to him.
“Then what happened?” the younger one chirped. He was a cheery little boy, with an eager smile and happy eyes.
“She sent me to my seat and I didn’t have to spell no more words. Everyone else thought I was right too,” the older boy said confidently.
“Weren’t you afraid you’d get in trouble?” The younger brother was always impressed with his brother’s bravery.
“Na, Mrs. Couch never gets really mad. Besides, why should I learn words that are in the dictionary?” He was quiet for a moment. In class he was known as the tough boy, but he hoped he hadn’t hurt his teacher’s feeling too bad. School just wasn’t fun. The spelling list he’d brought home to study was still in his school bag from the day before. There were more interesting things in life, like finding fishing worms in the backyard after the rain.
They were passing a sagging wooden fence covered with ancient roses smelling inviting in the night air. The oldest paused for a moment and removed a small pocketknife his dad had given him on his tenth birthday saying every man should carry one. Holding his hands low and secretive h cut a large flower from the fence.
“Get me one?” his brother whispered. “Momma can put them on the kitchen table.” Glancing at the old house behind the fence for signs of movement, the older brother looked for a vine with the biggest rose. Soon both were walking away with their treasures cradled close to their chests.
They were passing a house on the opposite side of the street with a statue of the Virgin Mary illuminated by a small light and a pink faded flamingos perched aobut when the older boy spoke.
“Robby, I have something. You gotta see this,” he said in almost a whisper. Handing his rose to his brother, he bent down and removed a soggy shoe without untying it and pulled out something folded in half and wet like the shoe.
“What do you got?” They were both hunched together. From the house light the little brother could see a handful of money. It wasn’t just a couple of dollars, but a lot. “How much is it?” It was more than he’d ever seen his brother have. “Where’d it come from?”
The older boy glanced around as if afraid someone might be watching. “It’s 53 dollars.”
“How’d you get that much money?” It was impossible to fathom that much. In his little boy’s mind it seemed as much as a million dollars.
“Well, you know when they pass those baskets around at church. I’ve always been itching to get some of that money. It just passes by every Wednesday and Sunday over and over. Sometimes people put money in those little blue envelopes, but sometimes they just throw it in, and then you can see it all. All that money,” he said in almost a whisper. “I always think about how much it can get.” He wasn’t thinking about toys or other childish things. He had always been older than his years in many ways. Unlike his younger brother, he was acutely aware of the holes in the knees of his jeans and the times when there wasn’t too much to eat. The cupboards would slowly empty until nothing remained but a few cans of corn and a half a loaf of bread and there would be nothing in the refrigerator but a jug of milk and some eggs. No one ever said anything, but everyone knew that money was running out for food. Mom would fix macaroni for supper instead of chicken and potatoes and she would be so worried and so tired. The money would help mom. He would say he earned it. He knew it wasn’t right, but he felt that he had taken it for a good cause.
“Do you think I shouldn’t of taken it?” He asked his brother, hoping for a little reassurance. The little brother was secretly proud of his brother. He had seen the money at church before and thought about all the candy and extra chocolate milks at lunch it would buy. He’d never had enough never though.
“It sure is a lot of money,” Robby answered. The older brother pushed his shoe back on and shoved the money into his pocket.
“Nobody even saw me. What should we do with it? What should we get Mom?”
There was silence for a while and then the younger boy said “I think she liked that shirt with all the birds on it at the grocery store. Let’s get her that. She could wear it to work.”
“I thinkg we should get her one of these ice cream cakes that we had a long time ago- -maybe a washing machine too.” They both liked this idea.
The houses were older and smaller now. The boys were quiet as each thought of the wonderful treasures the money would buy. The train tracks weren’t far away and they could hear the whistle being blown as it went crossing.
“What about Dad?” The younger one asked.
“I’m not sure,” the older one said and then his face took on a brooding look as his eyebrows drew together. His younger brother was a lot closer to their father for many reasons. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell Dad,” he finally said.
His brother was confused at that. “You mean just buy him some presents?”
“What do you think dad would do with the money? The older brother asked. He felt bad thinking such bad thoughts about his father and didn’t want to prejudice his little brother against him.
“I think he’d take us all to the movies and buy us lots of popcorn and soda pop and candy bars too! And then we’d have ice cream and maybe we’d be able to play those video games at the store!”
“And then it’d be all gone,” the older brother cut in.
Both boys looked extremely sad for a moment.
“Yeah,” the younger one agreed, even though it was a little reluctant. “Let’s not tell dad. Let’s just give it to mom. We can say we worked for it.”
They were silent again. The sidewalk ended all together. They drifted onto the road. It was getting late. Their conversation. Had slowed their walk.
“You don’t think the money’s cursed or something do you?” It was beginning to occur to the older boy he’d stolen God’s money and he had been brought up to believe in such superstitions. The preacher said that everyone owed God’s money and he’d taken it.
The younger boy did not know what to say. He watched his brother carefully. What would God do to them if the money was cursed? He noticed how dark it was and how alone they were and he was a little afraid.
The older brother could picture everything that the money went to buy turning bad and God hating him for eternity, but he also thought it wasn’t fair. The money had been so tempting and it could buy so much.
He was predispositioned to bouts of bitterness and temper at times. “It’s God’s fault I had to take the money!” He shouted, making his brother jump. The boy felt that God had purposely deprived his family of money compared to others. He pictured his mother coming home tired from working late and the donated clothes they always wore. He pictured his mom washing clothes in the bathtub with dish soap when they didn’t have enough money to go to the laundromat, and countless other things that represent poverty. He was angry, because he knew things were better for others. God must hate them for making life so miserable. Now the money would probably make things worse if they used it.
He liked church for the most part. It was all so confusing. Both brothers walked along again debating within themselves whether the money should go back. The younger brother was afraid of the tainted money now, and pictured awful stomachaches coming from the food it bought. The older brother pictured God in the clouds above brooding over him for the rest of his life. Would God ever make things better if he kept the money?
“Are you going to give it back?” the younger brother asked. The small white house with the slanting porch and overgrown hedge was now in sight. Sparks flew out of the stovepipe and lit up the sky like orange fireflies.
The was no response for a minute and then he said “NO.” It was a strong “no” that came from much thinking. “Maybe we can get more too, and we’ll get it to mom somehow.” He struck his hand in his pocket and felt the bills.
“Okay,” his little brother felt that anything his brother did must be right, and his doubts and concerns slipped away gradually.
“Nobody will ever know.”
“Someday we’ll be rich. I know it?” The younger brother said, excited a the prospects of good times.
As they crossed the yard the younger brother gave his older brother his rose and the two figures entered into the house, hungry for the late supper waiting for them.
Rainy Awakening
By Lara Thomason
It was raining steadily, cold and icy. There wasn’t a star in the sky. My headlights seemed to bounce back at me, hitting some invisible wall. I was going home during my last semester at the university. It was along drive, because I’d opted for one far away form home. It had a better computer program than any school in my home state, but it made my mother miss me. Finally I had relented and took spring break off from work to come home- -the first time since Christmas. I was pulling an all-nighter and planned to be home by morning.
The trees were thick on the side of the road. The route I liked to take went through the very back country of the state, but it seemed faster and much less stressful than the interstate. I’d just stopped for coffee at some little town, and was leaving the city limits when I spotted him. He saw a skinny figure standing in the night, not with his thumb out or with a sign, but apparently needing a ride. I think it was the face. Something spoke to me when I saw his face. I’d never picked up a hitchhiker before. There were too many risks nowadays, but this time I slowed my car up, just like I did it all the time and put the window down.
“Need a ride?” I’d asked. He replied something like “Sure do Man,” in his casual way and hopped in. Thinking he must be freezing by the looks of his soaked jacket and bag he laid on my back seat without asking, I turned the heat up for him. I had asked him where he was going he said he wasn’t sure yet. Not wanting to pry, I was silent for a while. By the way he slouched in the seat next to me it was apparent that he was no threat at all. His whole being seemed to radiate relaxation. His hair wasn’t too long, but much longer than my conservative cut. Gold wave were pushed behind both ears. His pants were a little loose on his legs, and his t-shirt stuck out from his lived-in sweatshirt. I tried to guess how old he was by doing a series of sidelong glances, but I really couldn’t tell. He looked young, but old too. I decided he could be anywhere from 16 to 20 something.
I launched into my “I’m John Wilkinson” speech, and because of the silence, kept going, telling him I was headed for Whitehall- -a suburb of Columbus. I think I hold him about my school, and even my job and roommates. He just sat there and listened. Or at least I believe he did.
When I’d finally finished, it was quiet for a bit and then he said, “Chris Laufer, thanks for the ride man, it was getting cold out there.” The words had a poetic sound coming from, and the name fit like a glove. He stuck a hand out to mine and I remove it from the steering wheel to engage in a firm handshake.
Because I was not comfortable with the silence, although he seemed like a nice guy, I turned on the radio thinking sometimes conversation was easier that some way or something. But in these hills reception wasn’t so good. One station crackled out some America song. I was not a huge music fan, never having had time to settle on one genre due to the fact that I had always been such a serious student, but I knew this song wasn’t recent and didn’t want to seem uncool.
Chris seemed to like the song though. I could tell by the way his head kind of moved up and down and his thing lips revealed a little smile. He had a very friendly face, I decided.
“Hey that’s good stuff,” he said and listened intently. When the song was over he was quiet for a little while longer, and then asked me, “Ever been to the mountains, man?”
I replied no, I’d never been anywhere but the east coast. When I had a family I wanted to go places like the Grand Canyon, and I told him about Kathleen, who was my fiancé back home. We’d met at the neighborhood party three years ago and had carried on a long distance relationship since then. She was the ideal image of the perfect wife- -sweet, innocent, supportive, and eager to be “the perfect wife.” She couldn’t wait to start a family and keep house, then move on with her own career once the kids started school. That was exactly what I thought I wanted then. I’d popped the question the August before, and we’d set the date for July 23rd. I think I decided to stop talking after I told Chris about the honeymoon locations Kathleen had e-mailed me. Chris didn’t seem the type of guy interested in matrimony. But just the same, he sat quietly and didn’t look bored.
“That song reminds me of the mountains,” he said, referring back to the song that was long gone after my spiel. “Mountains with crystal snow- -you should see it man.” And then he told me about an orange sunrise in the mountains of Montana, and him sitting on porch steps watching the snow turn from orange to white and shine so bright it hurt his eyes. I could see it with him instead of the slashing rain and windshield wipers.
He told me about early summer in the mountains just after the last of the snow has almost gone and everything is so green. Then moved from the mountains to the ocean and then to the rain-soaked forest with moss growing on every rock whispering streams.
Chris was obviously well traveled. He went on for a long time. Once in a while I would interject something like “I wish I could see that,” but for the most part I just listened and it was nice. I’d always had the urge to visit new places and live carefree for a while. Once in a while, on my way to or from someplace I would be captivated by the beauty of the clouds or a meadow full of green clover, but the rush to get where I was going and the drive for success made these moments fleeting, and I always managed to shove those feeling far down and away.
Gas was getting low, but I was reluctant to stop. I think I was afraid that he’d decided to move on. He seemed like a free spirit. He could decide to take off in some different direction, and I was unwilling to lose his company just yet. Finally I had to stop in some little town. Chris got out and stretched his long arms, but returned to the car despite the offer for coffee or food. When I came back he was fast asleep, his head resting on the passenger side window.
I drove on fro probably two hours or more, him sleeping and me just thinking. I thought a lot that night, probably more than I ever had.
When Chris woke up with a yawn and stretch, he sat back and resumed conversation. “So you’re a computer guy, man?” he asked. I told him I hoped to get a programming job and added they paid quiet a bit of money. He must have mistaken my excited tone when I said this for something else.
“You gotta find something you love to do, man, and stick with it,” he said. “It’ll pay off in the end.” Honestly, I had to admit to myself that I really didn’t like computers, let alone love working with them. It was just a way to achieve the “American Dream” I’d been brought up to desire.
I got the impression from Chris that he had a different idea about this dream and was already living it.
“What do you do?” I asked him. He shrugged and said, “Stuff here and there.” I asked him wasn’t he worried about money, and in response to this he pulled a folded bunch of bills out of his pants pocket.
“I got money, man,” he said with a laugh. I’m sure there couldn’t have been much there though.
It was a pleasant night. Even though we were total strangers, it was easier talking to Chris than with my best friends. Sometime in the night I got the feeling that I wished I could follow him wherever he was going to next. I asked him where he was headed.
“I think south, man. I’d like to try some fresh watermelon from one of those farmer’s stands or something,” he said. Now how could he come up with something like that? Next to Chris I felt very shallow.
When the sun began to rise, we were approaching the suburbs. I was awaiting his word. At any moment I expected him to tell me to drop him here or there, but soon we were in my neighborhood, and soon on my street. My parent’s house came in sight and soon we were in the driveway, free of oil spots, of the two-story home with its carefully tended yard containing shaped little trees. I don’t remember seeming stressed that he was still with me. As I got out, a little stiff from the long drive, and pulled my small suitcase from the backseat, he did the same, putting on his jacket and slinging the strap of his bag over his left shoulder.
“Thanks again for the ride, man,” he said as he looked over the top of my care at me.
“You sure you don’t need a lift anywhere else?” I asked. I was almost tempted to offer him some of my father’s frequent flier miles to help him get where he was going, but I don’t think he would have accepted.
“No way, man. Good luck with those computers,” Chris said, and I saw him glance down the street. It was barely daylight.
“Maybe I’ll see you out west, in the mountains,” I said to him. At this he showed a huge smile.
“You think so, man?” he asked, and told me to look him up. I had the desire to drop everything and forget about school, my parents sleeping nearby, and Kathleen. I wanted, I knew then with all my heard, something else.
“Well, see you around, man,” and with that said, he turned and headed off down the sidewalk of my perfect suburban neighborhood. I called a goodbye and watched until he rounded the curve and went out of sight.
I’m not sure how long I remained in that position by my car. When I finally went inside I felt like another person. I believe a better one.
I’ve seen a lot of crystal snow since Chris and never get tired of it. Sometimes I think about looking him up and asking him how that watermelon tasted.
