The Things We Find

Harold didn’t like school. Every morning he regretted waking up as he put on his shoes to walk out the door. He loathed the unwelcoming, uncomfortable, unattractive blue plastic chairs. The way the teachers’ flabby arms shook when she wrote on the board. The clicking of the chalk when they practiced multiplication. Most of all, he despised the slow, taunting clock and the way it would say to him, “You thought class was over, huh? Hah! Thirty minutes left! And now, I’ll count ‘em extra slow.”

For Harold this was every day.

He failed tests. He didn’t bother with homework. He had been held back three times and now towered over his fifth grade class. The Mexican boys called him “Viejo” and the porcelain-skinned girls gave him blank stares. Everyone else, even the teacher, was afraid to make eye contact with the elephant in the room, the supposed-to-be eighth grader who sat at the back of the class and misspelled words like “orange” and “necessary.” Some cowered at his size on the basketball court, nobody wanted to get in his way. So Harold kept his mouth shut.

It was April and his nose was running without mercy. He concentrated on the flow of snot slowly trickling down his nostril. He tried to predict when the river would finally drip out of his nose and onto the paper in front of him. His whole body throbbed with his heartbeat, he focused on the sound. “Harold?” The teacher asked. He looked up from his paper quickly and the river finally streamed down his lips all the way to his chin. “Yes?” he replied as he attempted to wipe clean his face. He smeared the snot across his cheek as one of the porcelains skinned girls murmured “Ew,” under her breath. “Well, what’s the answer?” The teacher asked. Harold’s face turned bright red as the fire began to burn in his cheeks and the horrible lump as big as a golf ball pushed on his throat. He excused himself to the restroom, walked quickly past the snickering boys and out of the heavy green door. He let it shut hard behind him and at the sound of the slam he took off running. Heavy tears fell down his cheeks as he sobbed and gasped and ran out of the hallway, onto to the soccer field, past the gates and finally off school grounds. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t care about the snot on his face, his watering mouth, the tears on his cheeks. He didn’t bother to wipe himself clean. His chest heaved with every stride. He wouldn’t stop. The cold air put out the fire on his cheeks and with every minute, he felt better. The burning in his side didn’t matter, the cold was his fuel. He ran until his breath got ahead of him. He ran until his shoelaces became untied. He ran until at last, his knees buckled and he fell to the ground. For a moment, he felt he could lay there forever, breathing deeply, feeling the tingle in his thighs and the sweat beads running down his armpits.

As his breath became shallow and the cold air no longer rushed past his face reality began to set in. He had run from school and he had run far. He wasn’t sure what kind of trouble he would be in once he returned, and as much as he didn’t want to, he knew he had to go back. There was no other way for this day to end and Harold understood that. He slowly got to his feet and hung his head low. He tried to remember what it had felt like to have his blood pumping so fast, only a few minutes ago, but he couldn't. The feeling had died and left its remains as a headache and throbbing legs. He made his way back to school. The river of snot resumed its course.

Out of the corner of his eye something caught his attention. He looked at the small white rectangle that had been lost on the sidewalk and felt the compelling need to pick it up. It was a school picture; it had been face down showing the message written in green ink that read “To Liz, BFF’s Forever! Love, Amanda.” In the picture was the most beautiful person Harold had ever seen. Her long, brown hair, parted down the center. Her eyes, dark brown, her smile, stark white. She was wearing a pink sweater that hugged her in all the right places. Her cheeks were painted rose with blush. She was perfect. In amazement he froze, like a fly on glue paper, marveling at how something could be so delicate and so flawless. He truly felt there must be some order in the world to consummate such a person. He needed to posses this treasure, if only to save it from it’s impending doom on the sidewalk. He carried it with both hands down the street, never looking at the path he was walking, only at her lips, her teeth, her breasts. His heart beat faster.

When he finally reached the school he gingerly folded the picture into fourths and put it in his pocket. As he made the long walk across the soccer field and through the playground he occasionally would rub his thumb along the edge of the folds to ensure she was still there. He walked into the schools hallways easily- they didn’t have much security and during lunch time there was always a fight to keep most staff busy. In class, the teacher said nothing to Harold, and he nothing to her, and that was that. He tapped his foot through the rest of day, the image of Amanda burned into his brain. As he thought of her, time flew and when the bell finally rang he had already had his stuff packed and he bolted out the door, keeping one hand in his pocket the whole time.

He went home and resumed life normally. In the comfortability of his living room he sat slumped in the sagging part of the couch as to blend in to the scene. He pressed the worn remote buttons that turned on the T.V., mindlessly shoving Doritos into his mouth and humming along with the theme song of each cartoon. He would lick the cheese off his chubby fingers and put his hand in his pocket to hold his treasure that was steadily growing damp along the edges. When night finally fell, Harold brushed his teeth, took off his socks, and went to bed. He propped the photo on his nightstand and turned on his side to stare into her eyes. He reached his hand down his pants, staring at the unblemished skin, and in that moment he was King.

Weeks passed and Harold fell in love. She was always there for him when the clock began to taunt, when the boys and girls laughed, when he failed a test. During the day when the kids played handball, Harold would tell Amanda about his life. About the day his Dad shut the front door behind him for the last time. How his mother then picked up the bottle and extra graveyard shifts. How he had learned to use the can opener and microwave, not to bother mom when she was napping, and how to sign her name on the failed test notices. And how he had stopped bothering with grades, like the mold that grew in the bowl of the toilet that his mom had stopped bothering to scrub off. Every night, when everything was quiet, he would conjure Amanda in his bed, with eyes closed he could feel her beauty. Afterward he would fall fast into a satisfied sleep and dream of a life with his Queen and the empire they owned. Where there were no spaghetti-o’s or frozen dinners, no can openers or microwaves, but only homemade mashed potatoes- like the ones his mom used to make. And fathers would hug their sons, and lace up their shoes real tight and practice shooting from the 3 point line with them. And the King would feel loved, and his Queen would kiss him on the lips.

Nothing else mattered in the parallel world, but the King and his Queen and the love they shared. At school he would hide in his mind, day dreaming about the fire breathing dragons he would slay, and how his Queen would smile and declare him her savior, and the crowds would cheer, and she would undress, and they would make love. The bell would ring, Harold would get up quickly grabbing for his stuff that was already packed and go home to hum along to cartoon theme songs until night would finally fall and he could crawl back into the life he preferred, surrounded by all the love and beauty in the universe.

For Harold, this was every day.

One afternoon, he sat at the edge of the playground, staring at the familiar face in has hands, telling her about clouds. A group of boys played soccer in the field ahead, cheering and wooping as they made and blocked goals. A boy kicked the ball too hard and it flew in the air rolling right to Harold's outstretched feet. “Hey big boy!” yelled the kicker, “throw the ball back!” Harold was dumbstruck for a moment, he wasn’t used to people talking to him, only about him. He folded his Queen and put her in his pocket. He kicked the soccer ball back, but only halfway. His heart picked up up speed as he ran after the ball, dribbling it between his feet. Eleven boys stood in a line and watched Harold race down the field, finally stopping to kick the ball in the goal and turn to grin. Nobody cheered. In spite of them, Harold walked away with his chin held high. He was on top of the world because he had scored and he had done it for his love and that was enough. He couldn't stop the smile from creeping up his cheeks and he didn't want to.
The bell rang and he made his way to the back of the class. He listened as his teacher read a story aloud about a girl and her pig and for once his foot didn't try to tap the hours away. He decided he liked the little girl in the story but only because she loved the runt and was willing to save him and care for him when everybody else thought he was worthless. His mind never wandered far from Queen Amanda as he thought of how she had saved him and loved him when nobody else was willing. Even as his mind was consumed, he listened intently and for the rest of the period his hand never made it to his pocket. He lost himself in the story, after a while he could barely tell where it ended and he began. He listened to the words leave his teacher's mouth until the end of class when she finally dogie eared the page and the bell promptly rang, as if she had told it to.
Today, he had to stay behind to pack his things like everybody else. He left the classroom with the rest of the kids and crossed the street mixed in with the herd of students, his head above them all. On the way he mindlessly reached into his pocket and stopped in his tracks. He felt around over and over but all he came up with was lint and a bent paper clip. He turned both pockets inside out in a panic. He felt a sharp rush as his stomach sank.
He spun back to the school and sprinted, pushing through the crowds of children, only looking at the sidewalk hoping to spot his missing Queen. He ran to save her, tripping and falling twice, never looking up from the ground. He reached the soccer field, looked around for the familiar folded white paper but saw nothing. A feeling of doom began to creep up his neck, stealing his hope ounce by ounce. Around the blacktop he sprinted in circles but saw only a sea of asphalt, not one white speck in sight. The feeling grew stronger as he ran through the hallways, scanning the linoleum.
Finally back to his classroom, he banged on the locked door relentlessly until the teacher finally answered it. "Harold, uh what can I.." she said, but before she could finish Harold pushed past her and ran to his desk, looked on the ground around. Nothing. The feeling finally stole the last ounce and rushed over him, too powerful to fight. Harold fell to his knees and began to sob. His breath couldn't be caught and he struggled to inhale, gasping and sniffing. He had lost his Queen. He had lost his love. He wiped the big, heavy tears with his sleeves, the golf ball reclaimed its place in his throat and his teacher watched in confusion. Harold willed himself to his feet, the tears continued to fall and he let them. He was deaf to his teachers calls. He walked home in a daze, silent tears never ceasing as he reached into his pocket in disbelief. He got home, shut the front door behind him, and walked to his bedroom.
He fell face flat on the bed and he soaked his pillow with wet tears, all the time wondering if he could ever have something so precious again. Exhaustion finally conquered and he slipped back into the world of dreams he had known so well. This time there was no Queen on the other side. This time there was nothing but black.
He rolled over in his bed to the sound of his mom getting ready for work. The clock read 1:30am and Harold felt wide awake. He made his way to the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror. His chest felt heavy but, at least for now, the tears had stopped. The skin around his eyes was puffy like a marshmallow. There was a crust of snot that covered both nostrils. The whites of his eyes had turned violent red. "Harold. What are you doing up so late?" his mom asked as she walked past the bathroom.
He looked into her eyes and she looked into his face and began to understand. "Honey, whats wrong? What happened?" she said and in one fluid movement she pulled him in her arms and held him against her chest and he couldn't help but let the tears fall once more. His voiced quivered as he said, "I lost my love."
"Oh, honey," she said as she stroked the back of his head, gently swaying him back and forth. He breathed in deep the smell of her perfume. He remembered the heart shaped bottle that he used to spray on his pillows when she first started working the graveyard shifts. Tonight, there was no hint of whiskey. "I lost mine, too," she said. Now they both cried and shook together in the hallway of his bathroom. She lifted his chin in her hands, brushed his hair from his face and stared him in the eyes as she said, "But I still have you." She walked him to his room, kissed his forehead and tucked his sheet around him, just like she used to. As she left she wiped her eyes and said,"Goodnight my King, I love you." And the pain in his heart felt like love. And just for tonight, he didn't have to dream.

Shipwrecked

This is my first stab at fiction. It isn't perfect, but it's a start, and I love beginnings. I figure this blog will be a developmental one. Start small and possibly work my way to something... better. So with no further ado I present to you, my very first short story. Enjoy.

Shipwrecked
The old man sits staring through the mesh squares in a reinforced window. While he stares a carousel of memories loop over and over in his mind- a birthday, a wedding, a birth, a bat mitzvah, a death, a play, a graduation. All of them as familiar and yet equally unfamiliar, as if he was looking through a photo book on an acquaintances coffee table, compelled to turn each page.

He turns to watch the red headed nurse walk down the hallway and through the double doors. He knew her face so well, chubby, pink and round. Her familiar bright white uniform and nametag with the smiley face sticker. She had been administering his daily 7 pill regimen every morning for the past 3 years. And every morning she began with the same cheerful greeting, “G’mornin Mr. Grady! The sun sure is shinin’ today!” The old man liked her quite a bit and had grown accustomed to the snaggle tooth in her big dingy smile and the way she always smelled slightly of mildew. Sometimes, though not always, the damp smell made his stomach lurk. That same feeling you get when the bike starts to tip over or as you hear the click click click climbing up the rollercoaster tracks and understand you are about to fall. Though he wasn’t falling, no danger in sight, this unidentifiable anxiety would sweep over him, knotting his stomach as it moved through his mind. Once or twice he mentioned this to the red headed nurse, though he’s now forgotten the conversation. “Must be all them pills,” said the nurse, “they’re just too darn harsh on your tummy.”

The old man turned his attention from the window to the world inside the room in which he was standing. 3 men in hats sat on a couch watching Wheel of Fortune and remarking about the contestants to one another. An old lady sat in a wheelchair, mindlessly knitting purple yarn, staring blankly at the radiator in front of her.

Suddenly, the room shook. The old man was thrown to his knees. He tried to get up but the room stole his balance and each time he was swept to the ground. The building rumbled and growled as the walls cracked and the pipes broke. The old man made it to his feet just in time to see the huge wave of water barreling toward the double doors. He watched in horror as the wave came crashing through, shattering the glass and throwing the red headed nurse against the reception window. In an instant the entire room was flooded and water continued to pour in strong and steadily. The old man became submerged and struggled to swim, barely surfacing in time to breathe. He grabbed onto a floating couch cushion and marveled at how strong the reinforced windows were. Around him bells were ringing, alarms were sounding, children were crying, lights were flickering, someone was screaming for life jackets. Thunder boomed and the storm raged on, swallowing every sliver of the old mans energy, feasting on every ounce of his will to fight against the current. To his right 2 men were looking for a third, their hats ripped from their heads, floating down the hallway through the broken doors. The old woman lay, face down and floating. Blood seeped from the large open wound on her head that the radiator had unsympathetically impaled upon her when the room shook her off her chair. Around her, purple yarn unraveled mixing with her blood and the space shone in a plum colored hue . The old man sobbed and yelled, “Somebody! Help! Where are the life jackets? Help! We’re trapped!” He swam around the open air pocket at the top of the room that was quickly loosing volume. He grabbed at the metal chairs that were floating in the water and began throwing them at the windows. He threw them harder and harder, and harder still but to no avail. He was distraught, frantic, uncoordinated. He could hear someone calling for his name, but with every turn of his head he could see nothing but death, chaos and the green blue of foamy seawater.

He felt a deep pinch at the back of his thigh and cried out in confused anguish. He slowly sank into the sea, tasted the salt, let go of his will, let go of breath and watched helplessly as the world around him went black and, finally, silent.

“Oh no… it happened again?” Exclaimed the red headed nurse as she ran toward the two large men carrying the old man to his bed. “We don’t really know what set it off this time…” said the first man, “He just starting yelling about life jackets again. He was really upset. We tried to calm him down and get him back to his bed, but then he picked up the chairs and began throwing them against the windows. We had to tranquilize him, we had no choice.” The first man looked at his shoes after saying this. He hated the way they cried out when tranquilized, the way they soiled themselves and that glassy look in their eyes afterward.

“That crazy fuck,” said the second man, “I told you we have to keep an eye on him- that’s the second time this week! You know he scared Mrs. McGrath so much that she fell off of her chair and hit her head on the radiator? She had to go to the hospital! 13 stitches!”

“Now Larry, you just watch your mouth, you know it’s not Mr. Grady’s fault, not one bit. Well… something must be settin’ him off... just hard to tell what’s goin’ on in his head. Come on, now, boys, lets finish gettin’ him cleaned up. It’s almost time for my lunch break.”