On a Saturday, at precisely 9:37 in the morning, Alice woke abruptly to the commotion of West 45th Street. She listened to two people screaming at each other on the sidewalk below, along with the honking of cars and the occasional revving of an engine. The city may never sleep, but she sure wished that she could, at least past ten in the morning.
On the same Saturday morning, at 9:37, Lily’s eyes fluttered open, comfortably regaining consciousness at her parents’ house. She looked around her childhood bedroom, hearing faint fragments of her family’s conversation, the sun gently shining through the glass between her curtains. The slight opening of her window provided an entrance for the songs of nearby birds, their soft voices narrating Lily’s peaceful morning.
Approximately two-hundred and five miles apart, the day began for both of them.
_____
Trying to catch glimpses of memory from the night before, Alice audibly sighed as the sun broke through her windows, directly into her blue eyes. She shivered as the early spring air circulated throughout her Manhattan apartment.
Cursing under her breath, she walked across her apartment, rubbing her eyes and running her fingers through her knotted hair. After taking her iced coffee out of the fridge and pouring it into a mason jar, she walked over to the window and shut it, blocking out the noise that ricocheted around her head. Still, she couldn’t find silence.
_____
Immediately, she adjusted her sheets and pillows, restoring the bedroom’s neatness to appease her mind. She walked over to her closet, running her eyes across the muted colors that characterized it, putting outfits together in her head. After changing into a pair of jeans and a sage green tank top, adding an off-white cardigan in anticipation of the cool Massachusetts breeze, she walked downstairs to join her parents in the kitchen. As she entered, their conversation ceased immediately.
Once they all said good morning, the chirping of the birds was the only noise that remained, as Lily made pancakes for her family.
_____
After drinking her coffee during a failed attempt at overcoming writers’ block, Alice walked to the nearby restaurant for her weekly Saturday lunch shift. A man catcalled her on her way there, but she kept walking and forced it to the back of her mind as she opened the doors of her workplace.
She didn’t think it was possible to find an environment even more fast-paced than the city streets, but every time she walked into the restaurant, it proved her wrong. The cluttering of pots and pans didn’t help her hangover.
While she rushed between tables, she tried to remember the names of the people she went bar-hopping with last night. They probably wouldn’t invite her out again anyways. She tried to take comfort in the city’s large population, with opportunities to meet people anywhere she turned. There was one problem, though: most of them forgot about her pretty damn quickly.
Another aspiring writer with a waitressing job, she thought. Nothing new.
For the rest of her shift, she envisioned herself walking through her college town with Lily, spending their Saturdays going to coffee shops and writing their essays. Or going on drives, music blaring out the opened windows, finding nearby places to watch the sunset. Or just sitting in their apartment, sharing whatever thought entered their minds.
When she met Lily, her loneliness gradually left her, with each of their conversations pushing it further into the distance.
Whenever it started creeping back, she hid within her memories.
_____
Breakfast with her parents went relatively smoothly, as Lily only noticed a few passive aggressive comments passed between the two of them. She had become used to that in recent years.
For the rest of the morning, she sat on the porch reading her book as her father did his daily crossword. She asked him what he and her mother had been discussing that morning; overhearing a conversation between the two of them without her involvement had become a rare occurrence. Without giving her a clear answer, he mumbled something about how it didn’t concern her.
Later, Lily went to the store with her mother, picking out ingredients for the recipes she planned to try that week. Her mother asked her when she’d get an actual restaurant job, leaving her managerial position at the coffee shop she’d worked at since high school.
Without telling her mother that she refused to start a new job in her hometown, Lily assured her that she’d get a new job someday, pretending that the coffee shop “couldn’t run without her.” Besides, the shop provided the same sort of familiarity that her childhood home did. Frustrating, for sure, but familiar nonetheless.
Lily thought about a trip to Boston that she had taken with Alice during their sophomore year of college. As they walked around the city, they talked about moving there together after they graduated, with Lily becoming a chef and Alice pursuing her writing career. It was never a serious plan, just a dream of two twenty year olds – but at that moment, in her local grocery store, Lily wished they would have followed it.
Instead, she stayed at her parents’ house, making as much money as possible at the same place she had worked at since she was sixteen. Before moving anywhere, Lily wanted to see the world. And Alice thought there was no better place than New York for her writing career.
So they went their separate ways.
_____
Ten months prior, the summer after their college graduation, Alice visited Lily’s hometown for a few days. After living together since their freshman year, it was the last time they’d see each other before Alice packed up her car and moved to New York City. They coexisted like they had for the majority of their last four years, despite their attempt to ignore any reminders of the distance that would soon separate them.
Alice had stayed in Lily’s childhood home before, but this time, she looked around the room more intently, creating a mental image that a four-hour drive wouldn’t diminish. She noticed a new addition to the bedroom: pinned on one of the off-white bedroom walls was a map of the world. Lily bought it soon after moving back to her hometown.
“There’s not many yet,” Lily said, after noticing how Alice’s eyes moved to each of the map’s thumb tacks – one for every place Lily has traveled. “But I’ll add more eventually,” she added, wishing she knew her next destination, eager to escape the mundane routine she had fallen into.
Without speaking, Alice picked up a thumb tack from the desk, pressing it into New York City.
“I’ve never been there, so that feels like a bit of a lie,” Lily told her, with a slightly forced laugh, wanting to forget the city’s existence.
“Not really,” Alice quickly countered, shifting her gaze to the familiar face in front of her. “A piece of you will always be there with me. You know that?”
“Yeah,” Lily replied, quietly. “I do.”
“Good.”
_____
That Saturday night, after her dinner shift finally ended, Alice was greeted by the sound of footsteps from the floor above her. She opened her window to let more noise into her apartment, knowing she might regret it in the morning.
That same Saturday night, Lily had dinner with her parents, but the three of them rarely spoke. She searched through Spotify, but she couldn’t figure out what she wanted to hear.
Approximately two-hundred and five miles apart, at the exact same time, they both picked up their phones and clicked on each other’s names.
Before Alice could press the call button, her phone began to ring, and Lily’s contact photo lit up her screen.
Two swans swim side by side. Around me, the crisp warmth of a new spring brushes over the blossoming trees, blooming flowers, and dewy grass. A faint song, one composed by birds’ unseen, kisses my ears softly. I rest my legs onto a dark green bench, still ripe with the night’s rains. Should have known, I think silently while laughing to myself. The swans float slowly under the arched bridge. The bridge’s age was shown by the swans. A vibrant white covered the swan’s feathers, beak to toe. The bridge once shared that color. I remember seeing it for that first time. It was the spring of 1950, the first warmth of the new decade. Randy excitedly punched my arm as the clock slowly inched closer to 3pm, then we were out for a whole week! A purer form of joy rarely grazed my heart than that of a Friday before a break. “Cut it out, Randy!” I snapped, already feeling the bruises form. Either he didn’t hear me, or he didn’t care because he continued to ramble off all the amazing things he had planned for this week, “Then we’re gonna go to the beach with my grandparents! Then I’m gonna eat a tub of ice cream! Then we’re gonna make s’mores! Then we’re gonna…” I tried to tune him out and gave up attempts to make him stop hitting my arm, half my shoulder was already numb, so what’s a little more? I was always jealous of Randy and the other guys; they always went away during spring break while I was stuck working at my dad’s bookstore. Stocking shelves all day without an extra dime in my pocket, even when I was eight, I knew there was something fishy about that. Still though, any number of hours in a bookstore is better than a day at school. “3!… 2!… 1! Spring break!” The class all cheered at once. I quickly snatched up my book bag and bolted out the door, trailing behind Randy and the other guys. At lunch, we realized that I had an hour between school getting out and my shift at the store starting, so we decided to spend it together. The Memorial Park reopened last week, decorated with a brand-new playground, bridge, and freshly cleaned pond. We had to check it out. The tight collar of the school uniforms combined with the lumpy backpack made running a pain, but the excitement to hang out with Randy and the other guys kept me going, even if I was a decent way behind them. Finally, after what felt like running forever (in hindsight it was only a 5-minute jog), we made it to Memorial. I rushed past the fancy new gate, the freshly plowed baseball field, and the new basketball hoops, I could check all those out later. At the top of my list was the new playground. Boy was it worth it! And to my surprise, Randy and the other guys were the first ones there! None of the other kids from school could run as fast as ol’ Randy. The new structure was off the charts cool. There was a twirly slide, a net to climb on, two sets of monkey bars next to one another for races, rows of swings that went on for miles, and so much more. We started up a game of manhunt that didn’t last long because Stanley tripped and scraped his knee. After patching Stanley up with some dirt and spit, I wanted to go check out the bridge and pond. Randy and the other guys agreed, seeing that I only had another thirty minutes before I had to go to the bookstore. The pond was a magnificent tell of what the future had in store. The bridge hung high above the deep blue below. It was arched, painted with a vibrant white. The color had a glow that told me a thing this pure would never cease. The railings were ornate figures that protected little kids from falling and mothers from heart attacks. We rushed to the peak of the arch. Gripping tightly on the rail we peaked our heads over the edge. “I’m gonna perfect my backflip this summer with the help of this thing!” Randy exclaimed.
Me and the other guys cheered him on. We began to race around the pond, tackling and pushing each other to show our love without ever explicitly saying so. Randy pushed me into a pit of mud, I laughed and started to hurl mud pies at Randy and the other guys. A spring snowball fight ensued. By the end of it we were all laughing so hard none of us could move. “Guys! Check this out!” Randy yelled while we all washed ourselves off in the pond. He’d discovered a perfectly flat rock. So smooth it was like the earth formed it solely for skipping. Randy winded up his arm and with the grace of all the rock skippers before him, he sent the disk skipping along the pond’s circumference. Seven perfect jumps, the rock had, before it came down with a plop right under the bridge. Me and the other guys went wild after seeing what Randy just did. Our youthful masculinity had us immediately searching for our own rocks to skip. The bits of earth I found were lumpy and unfit for skipping, though the feeling of throwing a rock into a pool of water was, in itself, amazingly enjoyable. We skipped rocks and talked about spring break for another 10 minutes before I said, “Alright guys, one more rock.” They all mocked me for having a job as I searched for one last rock to skip. Finally, right near the edge of the pond, sat a circular rock, smooth on all sides. My heart skipped a beat while I winded up my arm, hoping I could be as cool as Randy. I had my target locked, but right before I released the greatest rock ever skipped, something caught my eye. Two swans.
Their beaks were touched together, forming a heart. Across the pond they floated still, beaks together. Inside this heart was a girl I had never seen before. She was very pretty, the prettiest girl I had ever seen in my long eight years on this planet. For what felt like hours, I stared hopelessly at this girl, imagining the life we would share together. I felt myself drop the rock back into the water, the thought of this girl was too much for my body to handle everything at once. The natural heart, her beautiful smile, the newborn flowers, the air of a new week. It was all perfect. Suddenly, the sound of a rock skipping caught up with my ears as I watched the two swans break the heart and fly away. Randy had skipped a rock at them. I gaze now upon the bridge, its breath of fresh life ceased along with the rest of the park. I wish Randy never skipped that rock. That way, she could have stayed in that heart for a little while longer. I wish I had more time to appreciate her, spent more time simply appreciating what she brought to this world, but like the heart, she was gone too soon. Luck still blessed me, for every image that filled my head when I first saw her came true, except one. I lay one flower into the pond and let it slowly drift away. I’ve grown comfortable with letting the flowers go. I’ve placed ten into this pond so far. One for every year she’s been gone.
A long time ago, before cheap flights spread them throughout the world like summer pollen, people used to go on holidays by the sea. I was not around yet to witness this. Because my parents tell me stories, I know that the quiet Blackpool beaches before me were once crowded. There was a shining tower and long piers that pierced the ocean and bright lights and carnival rides and one-night-only acts. Now there are empty spaces designed for invisible crowds. The boardwalk paint is flaking, the wood rotting. I imagine that one day a hole will open up in the pier and those who still remain will silently fall through. A trapdoor will click shut above them and they will be left in the near-darkness, saltwater around their ankles, where they will wait for the light to come pouring in again.
My great-aunt’s boyfriend Steve starts a conversation with anyone he can find. He casts his hooked bait to the old men standing by the glassy ocean, whose fishing lines hover just beneath the waves. They are spread evenly across the waterfront, like sentries, guarding against the sunset. They are the final patrons of the Irish sea. Through Steve we glean the most vital tidbit: These fishermen will be eating from the chippy this evening. We feast on this—How ironic, how satisfying!
I imagine that the boardwalk arcade has to hum itself to sleep these days. Towers of pennies in coin-pusher machines slant lazily. Fog wipes the end of the pier from sight. Outdoor cafés are carpeted with flattened astroturf. Sticks of Blackpool rock are piled high on countertops in strange colours and sugary flavours. Haziness seeps into the body. Arcade lights flicker. Claw machines are out of order. Nobody mans the prize counter. You could take anything. The boardwalk no longer needs to swindle you, for it runs on pity now.
My cousin’s friend Jasmine is from Blackpool, although soon she’ll be moving to Leeds. Fresh start, she says. In Glasgow, everyone knows everyone, she says. She’s light blue all over—eyes, eyeshadow, skirt and shoes. While we’re in a pub, my cousin tells the story of the time he and a friend drove Jasmine home to Blackpool, and the friend fell so in love with her during the car ride he wrote her a song. She never spoke a word to him. Our heads shake; everyone is laughing. The third gin and tonic gives me vertigo. The rain pauses and begins again. My cousin’s girlfriend makes foosball players dribble the ball as if they’re the real thing.
One of my paintings hangs on the wall of my cousin’s bedroom, a portrait of two dogs. The one with perky ears is no longer with us. On the opposite side of the family—my mother’s side—I have a cousin who lives in a flat near Manchester’s Old Trafford. It has a beautiful view. Another one of my paintings hangs on the wall by the entrance to the kitchen. This is the only time my ability to create art feels like a gift.
My cousin’s apartment in Glasgow is filled with light. I draw the people wandering in the street below. My brother and I are starting to enjoy each other’s company. We’re visitors here, cousins from America, knowing just enough to fit in but not enough to assimilate. Jasmine asks us, in a voice light and sing-songy, what it’s like being American. Asks if we own lots of guns or hoard food. We say no, no, we aren’t American. We only live there.
On the turbulent road that leads into Blackpool, a biscuit factory is embedded in the razed earth. Burton’s Biscuits. The building is hemmed with barbed wire. Are they trying to keep intruders out, or the biscuits in? When I first arrived in Blackpool, a fight broke out in a pub across the road. Mid-morning. Men in the street, throwing punches. Barbed wire, boarded houses, demolition. The sea shines in the weak sunlight, but it is not enough.
My mother’s mother was born here. She moved away to a snoozing cul-de-sac in a bomb-stunted city, where not even cars carve craters in the quiet of the night. Coventry could have been the greatest British city, she says.
Both of my grandfathers were artists. I visit my mother’s childhood home, where her father’s art hangs on the walls. I never got to know him before he died. My mother’s mother struggles with her eyesight, and I find it eerie that these paintings go unseen for much of the year. Whenever I visit, I stare at them for long periods of time, trying to memorise them.
I sit to paint my father’s father, who chats to me about portraiture and glazing techniques. I miss my other grandfather deeply. He deserved to know, when he set aside the start of my education fund, that it would be going towards studying art. He can never sit for a portrait, but he is with me when I paint, and that will have to be enough.
Miles away from Coventry, rain soaks the air above the Yorkshire moors. Down below, in the city that no longer bleeds soot, the masses sway to and fro like heather in the wind. I am happy to be from here, because they are awfully proud of their painter, a man who dutifully depicted the gruesome, banal, industrial reality of it all with brushstrokes. Here is your smokey, dirty city. Here are its tired people—but they are not tired anymore. They buzz. The city symbol is the bee. Old canal boats float beneath tall towers of blue glass and steel. Greenery grows all over the rusting pipes of the viaduct. The people of Manchester frame and display their painter’s work, as if to say: Look at how hard we have worked for this. Look at what we have created from our history.
L. S. Lowry, born and raised in Manchester, once said that he was most proud of his seascapes. They are blank expanses of ocean—no beach, no beachgoers, no blue skies, only a wavering grey horizon. He proclaimed them a reflection of his loneliness. How can a man be so lonely, when he has the voice and the image of his people inside of him? As well as the grimy haze of the workers and their machines, he captured the vital detail of their lives. Perhaps his seascapes are so excellent because he already knew the way crowds moved in waves, to and fro, mill to homes, like clockwork. The tides are relentless. Maybe Lowry saw the future in them. Nobody works in the mills anymore. Nobody goes on holiday to Blackpool. The sea remains, mute and steady, working.
In England, during the summer, the days feel like they never end. I play football in a backyard with my cousins. The makeshift goals and flat ball are familiar; my brother and I used to do this in people’s backyards and make all the adults join in. I’m part of the older crowd now, standing there with a pint of beer, chatting, watching the ball roll back and forth. My cousins say come on, come play, and the evening disintegrates. The ball slowly disappears out from under me, washed away by the growing darkness. I don’t even notice it’s happening. Suddenly there are no clearly defined shapes anymore, just the moving outlines of my family, the fuzzy glow of the football, the beer in my hand, my new old age, and the passing of time.
The darkness of Manchester’s suburbs is translucent, draped delicately over the river and fields. In pub doorways, I part ways with people I only half know. I have listened to their chatter, their catching-up. We all go different directions, into the night. Careful, now. These evenings are pearls, achieved through months of routine. School, homework, dinner, television, for months and months until I earn my reward. I hold the pearls in my palm, count them, remember them. Treasure from the sea and the land.
On the corner by the red-brick church, two girls hug goodbye and go their separate ways. They say, see you soon, see you next time. My next time is much different to theirs. My next time weighs me down in the street, invisible and heavy, while the girls float away from each other. Under the streetlamps, we are all briefly illuminated, and it starts to drizzle.
I walk the family dog around the block each night, pausing only to examine the shuttered storefronts. It is dark and quiet and the air is filled with a feeling that I do not care to discern, for I am just here to walk the dog. I am here to play musical houses and make cups of tea. I am here to visit a castle. I am here to climb the moorland paths.
Like the old industrial machines, my family rumbles on. Much has been generated in my long absences—new cousins, here and there—two dogs that merge into one. Thankfully, there are pubs that let you in no matter your age. Thankfully, there are old friends of your dad who turn up and say “I remember when you were this tall”, and ask what you’re up to these days. The answer is, usually, I’m here, and I’m walking the dog. I’m making cups of tea. I’m looking for myself in old photographs of my parents. I’m eating Sunday dinner. I’m on the train to Glasgow, watching the world widen before me. I’m painting my grandparents. Most importantly, I’m listening to the stories my little cousin invents about trains and fire trucks.
He asks to see me one last time before I leave, and paints me a picture as a gift. Maybe he will be an artist. We sit on the floor of my grandparents’ house and slot the wooden train tracks into place. I have been here before, three years old, playing in this same room with these same toys. My grandparents look on, smiling. It is not often I get to be here like this, quiet and peaceful with my family. I never get used to it. The train track is long and winding. The tiny wooden carriages take the invisible passengers home and back again, and home and back again.
It was December of winter break, my junior and your senior year. You would leave before Christmas, to spend the holiday with your family, but it felt like the perfect timing for you to meet mine. We sat comfortably in my childhood home, in the warmth of the fireplace, as the night fell and the New Hampshire temperature dropped even lower; with the sight of a snowstorm out my living room window, we were happily trapped inside.
My father, generally a man of few words, briefly walked in to poke the logs beneath the flames, before leaving us alone again. As he walked away to rejoin my mother in the kitchen, I thanked him and he nodded. He had a quiet presence, speaking up through mumbles and hums, still managing to define this corner of the house. My favorite corner, especially in the winter months.
I’m sure that fireplace looks different now, years later; though I remember it so clearly that, I swear, I can visualize the intricate lines between each brick, bordering the fire that illuminated one side of your face – the side that, without fail, remained turned towards mine.
You told me it was nice, hearing my parents’ conversations, occasional laughter hovering in the background. I knew what you really meant. From the fragments of information that you had already revealed, even back then, I could sense that your childhood wavered between a fragile silence and too much noise.
As we spoke, my mother moved to the grand piano that she inherited from her own father. She sat there often, learning Joni Mitchell or Billy Joel songs, the melodies planting themselves in all of our heads for days to come.
While she played, you said that my life had a soundtrack, with a slight smile, and I wondered if sitting in my living room revealed a contrast that you didn’t know existed.
Listening to the wind and watching snowflakes cling to the windows, my mind drifted back in time, through the changing seasons, landing on the day we met. It was April, and spring had begun to gradually creep in, a few bright days of warmth scattered here and there. We sat on a bench and watched our mutual friends throw a football around until you finally worked up the courage to ask for my name. Now, sometimes, I wish you never did.
After a few glasses of red wine, I told you that you fit perfectly into every area of my world. This became clear in that corner of my childhood home, on the burgundy sofa, across from my great-grandmother’s matching chairs, next to the wall of red brick.
Ten months later, and you spent Thanksgiving with us, and we sat by the fire again, a senior and a college graduate. You wondered if you should take your philosophy degree and apply to law school, or if you should just find a job in sales. Selfishly, I mostly wondered if you would stay nearby.
For someone so eager to get away from their hometown, you had stayed awfully close. I asked if you would consider packing up your apartment, leaving our college town, and moving to one of the places you dreamed of. You spoke so highly of Oxford and Edinburgh and Dublin and Rome for someone who had never visited. One night, I dreamt of you packing your suitcase and boarding the plane without a goodbye, as I remained in my childhood living room. I refrained from telling you this.
I asked you where you saw yourself in a year, and I hoped you didn’t catch onto my shaking voice. You said you didn’t want to leave your sister. You didn’t need to add like my mom did, but I knew that’s what you really meant. Instead, you said that ninth grade had already proven that high school did not suit her. She’s an old soul, you told me.
My parents wandered in and out of the living room every hour or so, and I loved to watch you interact with them, every conversation working to intertwine my past with the present. You complimented the new vintage picture frames, which they had added to the room since your last visit, and they thanked you, knowing they would soon pack them into boxes.
They didn’t know I had overheard them talking about the move, about how they couldn’t afford to stay in our home for much longer. During one of their trips to the grocery store, when I knew for certain they were out of earshot, I told you that it would probably be our last time sitting by that fireplace. You reassured me that my home would still be your favorite place to visit, wherever it was.
My college graduation was tainted by the knowledge that I was going home for the very last time. With my mother’s framed paintings taken down and placed in boxes, the walls were more bare than I had ever seen them. With the move, our house would become my parents’ house.
We had to give away the grand piano, as my parents had no hope of wedging it into the corner of our new living room. It would move to my aunt’s house, and my mother could visit whenever she wanted, even just to sit at that piano. I wondered if the holidays would become the only season in which I would hear my mother play. I wondered if songs would stop getting stuck in our heads, collectively, for days at a time. I vocalized neither of these concerns.
Before I left school, you told me you had an early birthday present for me, and I reminded you that we had dinner plans on my actual birthday, in just two weeks. You told me you knew that, but you couldn’t wait, and you handed me a letter. You said you could express yourself better that way, claiming that your written words tend to come across better than your spoken ones. I nodded, but I never agreed. I loved all your spoken words just the same.
I read it when I got home, once we were apart, because I could already picture how red your face would get if you sat there, watching me read. At the end, you wrote, I know you’re leaving behind a part of your past, but keep in mind that we still have the future. At the sound of my father’s footsteps, I wiped away a tear, and he walked in without notice. A moment of privacy you and I shared, even without you physically there, sitting beside me.
With your handwriting in my firm grip, I said goodbye to the familiarity of the brick mantel surrounding the flames.
Over two years passed and December rolled around again. I sat in my parents’ house, a condo, further from the center of town. As I waited for you to knock on the door, I sat on the sofa with my book, struggling to focus on the words; instead, my gaze shifted around the room, the same furniture and picture frames in a less familiar space. The living room still had a fireplace, the mantel painted white, replacing the brick I had grown so attached to.
When I opened the door for you, I could tell you seemed just as distracted. I couldn’t seem to stare at a collection of words printed across a page, you couldn’t seem to look me in the eyes. Rather than your usual spot on the sofa, next to me, you chose to sit on one of my great-grandmother’s velvet chairs.
I thought that moving back home, out of our shared apartment, would help us. Instead, you must have realized that my home was no longer your favorite place to visit.
I guess our change of location encouraged your change of heart. Tell me, if we were in Oxford or Edinburgh or Dublin or Rome, would you still feel the same?
I never really asked you that. I didn’t want to be convinced that I’m just no longer your favorite person to see.
Grasping for straws, I suggested that we spend a summer backpacking across Europe. We could even live there for a year. Or, if you’d rather, you could go to law school after all, wherever you chose, and I could keep working from home. I told you that we could live all of our own dreams before our shared ones.
I tried to hint that we weren’t your parents.
I guess I didn’t get the message across, and your lack of faith in us shattered my own.
One side of your face was still lit by the fire, but it was no longer turned in my direction, your green eyes drifting between the flames and the hardwood floor.
ELM: This meadow. It used to be empty. I used to be here alone, and then they built you.
CAR PARK: I am here for the humans. They need me. They built me for a university. I am a part of something. Are you?
ELM: You are.
CAR PARK: Isn’t that nice? To be a part of something? I was made with a purpose. I know what I need to do here. Isn’t it wonderful, knowing you mean something to someone?
ELM: I wouldn’t know. I was not made to be a part of something. I came from nothing and now I am part of the Everything. I may not have as much meaning as you, but I bet I know more secrets.
CAR PARK: Like what? I know where everyone goes. I know when they come home.
ELM: But you don’t know why. I know why the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, why the squirrels don’t store their food beneath me anymore.
CAR PARK: Tell me, please.
ELM: Perhaps you’ll know, once I am dead.
CAR PARK: When will that be?
ELM: Soon, I think. The school is growing. They’ll need more cars, and less of me.
CAR PARK: That’s horrible.
ELM: It will be, but only for a while.
CAR PARK: Well, you know, when you fall, I’ll be there to hear you. I will listen to the wind for you when you are in the ground.
ELM: I know you will.
CAR PARK: I will be the one who mourns you.
ELM: That’s the thing, though. Knowing someone will miss me when I’m dead — I don’t think it’ll make leaving hurt much less.
[they watch the afternoon sky turn black with smoke. tomorrow, snow will fall.]
[for years, it was quiet.]
ELM: Why did you come here?
CAR PARK: Come where?
ELM: This meadow. It used to be empty. I used to be here alone, and then they built you.
CAR PARK: I am here for the humans. They need me. They built me for a university. I am a part of something. Are you?
ELM: You are.
CAR PARK: Isn’t that nice? To be a part of something? I was made with a purpose. I know what I need to do here. Isn’t it wonderful, knowing you mean something to someone?
ELM: I wouldn’t know. I was not made to be a part of something. I came from nothing and now I am part of the Everything. I may not have as much meaning as you, but I bet I know more secrets.
CAR PARK: Like what? I know where everyone goes. I know when they come home.
ELM: But you don’t know why. I know why the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, why the squirrels don’t store their food beneath me anymore.
CAR PARK: Tell me, please.
ELM: Perhaps you’ll know, once I am dead.
CAR PARK: When will that be?
ELM: Soon, I think. The school is growing. They’ll need more cars, and less of me.
CAR PARK: That’s horrible.
ELM: It will be, but only for a while.
CAR PARK: Well, you know, when you fall, I’ll be there to hear you. I will listen to the wind for you when you are in the ground.
ELM: I know you will.
CAR PARK: I will be the one who mourns you.
ELM: That’s the thing, though. Knowing someone will miss me when I’m dead — I don’t think it’ll make leaving hurt much less.
[they watch the afternoon sky turn black with smoke. tomorrow, snow will fall.]
Counting the elements on the table, I am ready to begin the ritual of creating my first artificial crystal. These tiny natural formations that have always caught my attention, could finally become my own patented creation. I proceed to grab the sugar jar that reads zucchero Italiano, aluminum foil, and a pen. While writing, I remember that this last item is an Argentine invention—the country where I grew up and live in despite being born in the United States.
Asthe ink dyes the sugar, I ponder how the blending of such different ingredients will culminate into replicas of those crystals found close to where I was born in Sequoia National Park, California. Next, I continue shaping the crystal’s base by molding aluminum foil into a shell, and placing the sugary mixture on top. This metallic support is vital, just as our society, citizenship and its needs, are for me.
“Why learn about crystals? I thought you were a social sciences kind of girl,” teachers and peers asked. I reflected upon their questioning but could not find a concrete answer: I guess I am more intricate to decipher. While a part of me was still occupied with daily activities such as writing newspaper-like articles and debating about politics, another part of me was starting its crystallization process.
When making crystals, I observe my soul’s reflection. Harmonically merged, all the elements building up the crystalline compound, are just like my life. No two crystallized sugar grains are alike. Nonetheless, they all possess the same significance inside the preparation. The same diversity is exhibited amongst my passion for working with and for others: cooking for those in need inside my community, mutating into characters onstage for people to enjoy and identify with, and cleaning collectively Paraná River’s waters hoping to preserve our environment.
Interestingly, this particular crystal has a special color: my biculturalism. I used to feel I was not enough for neither Argentina nor the United States. I was the outsider inside my own stalactite cave. Searching within myself became as arduous as finding resources to accompany my independent, and amateur crystal research.
However, despite others’ skepticism about both crystallography and my cultural identity, I continued to find myself shedding light on more unexplored topics, questioning what was out of the norm. I did not surrender because I was confident in my ability to transform these feelings of inadequacy. I recognized the beauty behind my biculturalism was born to be shared: teaching the 50 States Song to my peers, improvising Spanish translations for my American friends, and connecting people while building understanding with new perspectives.
My biculturalism is equally as important for me as it is for others: uniting people from diverse backgrounds makes us understand we are all humans, and that our cultural differences are no impediment to building relationships—sharing cultural awareness and acceptance. We all share the same aspirations, dreams, and feelings, regardless of time zone or latitude.
Now, I consider myself my own unique type of crystal. “Bi-union”—bicultural unity— is what I like to call it. Its distinctiveness lies in integrating cultures without the limitation of borders, and constantly sparking eachother’s curiosity about languages and traditions. My individual life perspective has been shaped by American values while incorporating Argentina’s culture. I continue to celebrate my bi-unity by praising Spanglish and my latino heritage with pride and gratefulness while inviting others to discover their inner crystal.
Crafting my own kind of biculturalism is a process as challenging as shaping any crystalline piece to my liking. Today, my goal is to become a communication channel between countries: integrating, motivating, and educating others while making them feel part of the team. I, like any crystal with its superficial impurities and unique brilliance, will forever be a soul in constant construction open to growth and built by the people and new experiences incorporated into my life.
The lighthouse, which hasn’t aged throughout my countless years here, casts its heavenly beams to the endless ocean in front of me. Besides this lighthouse lay a ring of rocks of various shapes and sizes that collide with the incoming tide, creating an almost rhythmic and soothing thunderclap that sends salt water flying to whoever lay beside it.
That salt water, the scent, the feeling of it on my face, sends me back to a time where the rocks I sat beside felt a little more nostalgic.
After sitting on a particular rock in this ring, facing the now darkened ocean occasionally lit up by the flashes of the lighthouse for what feels like a few minutes now, I hear someone begin to shuffle towards me.
A little boy, bearing a remarkable resemblance to my little brother from years before, scales the rocks and sits beside me.
“What are you doing?” the boy says to me in a very slow and cold cadence.
“I’m sorry am I disturbing you?”
“No, I was just wondering what you were doing.”
“I just wanted to sit here for a minute.”
A brief silence soon follows. The boy flickers in and out of the flashes between the lighthouse and the darkness beyond him.
“You know I’m going away very soon, and I grew up here practically my whole life, and I have so many good memories here. I just wanted to sit here for a moment and just take stuff in, you know?”
The boy continues to look at the sea. “I love climbing the rocks.”
“Oh definitely, I love it too. Me and my brother used to pretend we were ninjas and bounce off the rocks and stuff, but this rock in particular I always liked.”
“That’s good to know.”
I feel tears well up in my eyes and look away from the boy.
“He uh… he died a little bit ago. And this was usually the spot where we hung out for a bit. I heard a folk tale that when you sit here at a particular time and whatnot you might get to see a spirit. Hopefully it works.”
I force a laugh, and the boy remains silent.
“Kind of sucks cause he had quite the life ahead of him.”
My voice begins to break, and my tears begin to drip.
“I just want to see my little rock buddy again.”
The boy says nothing, his gaze staring out into the great beyond.
“I’m sorry, I know I’m disturbing you but it just feels good to get that off my chest. I’m sorry.”
I get up and look at the boy again, and he slowly begins to fade into nothingness. The ocean roars once again as salt water sprays against my face.
You don’t have to start over. You get to live in this stupid delusion that the shitty friends you have around you and all the things you get to do are working out for you. Things just naturally fell into place for you, but for some people, it isn’t like that. For some of us, we aren’t loved or even liked. We go around this world meeting all these new people, and doing all these new things because we are desperate. So lonely, and so broken, that we just want something to fit. We want someone, anyone, to see that and just sit there in that broken, shitty silence with us. You. You’ll never understand that. You have your problems too, but why? Why do I have to sit around and just be here for you, whenever you find it convenient? Do you know how lonely I am? How shitty it feels to have nothing? And no one cares. No one cares that he raped me. No one cares that he hit me. Do you know what they do care about? Themselves. I make them laugh, I boast their ego, and all of a sudden I’m the funny guy, but God forbid I have feelings. So you know what? I’m done. I left. You don’t want to talk about how I came out. How I look like a freak to you. How being not a girl is the weirdest thing you can think of. How all the little weird comments you made, I still remember. How I’m a little gay freakshow, a bullet dodged. Well, you know what? I. don’t. care. I don’t care that I’m alone. How everything about my body scares me. How I look in the mirror and don’t like what I see. These are problems I am willing to confront. Because I am worth it. I deserve better. I can have a life. I get to have new friends. And no, when you see me at the bars with them, I will not introduce you, because you know what? They’re no one you’d really get along with. But enough about me. How was practice, how were your classes? Is anything interesting going on, that isn’t about me? Please, feel free to share.
Slice olive green meat, dig
out pale brown pit
bite into its toast
and frown at the taste
of lemon.
Avocado is not
supposed to taste
zesty, unlike
haddock filet
when you use fruit
as a substitute
for wine.
Grow it into compost
let it stew in darkness
turn it into a divine creation.
Let that avocado be
the closest thing
you get to God—
roll its decayed flesh
over softened earth;
sacrifice it for more
of that dank deep dirt.
If you can donate
your food to bugs
and bacteria, they will take
away your guilt, let you sleep
a little better, and absolve
you of your sins.
Pray to the centipedes
and that slimy avocado.
They are the ones
who grant forgiveness.
Falling into place, matching energies,
Feeling the life you bring with each laugh and passing smile,
You complete two halves of a whole that makes me.
I will never want you like people want people,
I don’t feel my heart race so I know I’m not chasing you,
I am just connected to you as two people become.
Nothing has happened to tell me the feeling is mutual,
But I still need you in my life,
Staying up till late hours of the night blasting music,
Laughing at each other for our foolishness,
Cooking food together with only one light on,
Watching people pass the window as we talk about our days,
Sharing shows I don’t want to share with anyone else but you,
Figuring out life moments together,
Looking at each other in glances,
Probably both wondering what we even are.
Maybe for a moment my heart raced for you,
But I know what I want, I know who I want.
He will always be the better choice.
I know that one day you will leave,
Letting the space between our last interaction,
Grow and grow till I mean nothing to you and you, me,
But I will always be thankful for the peace you gave me,
And for showing me the kind of people I need.
Inescapable, room of 102 Thompson Hall oppressively wears away at your resolve as it threatens to plunge you into sleep. Illuminated by the dim softness of recessed lights, the humid air weighs heavily on your eyes as the almond brown wood paneling embraces the curvature of the walls, modestly meeting the golden trimmed satin of the stage curtain. Bowing the double belted stage bulges outward into the base of the lectern where ruffled papers droop limply over the edge, slumped onto the lip of the podium. The projector lets out a gentle sigh as it idles, not quite on, not quite off. Its blank canvas dances as dewdrops of light shift ever so slightly, before changing partners, waltzing through the air on beams of hazy blue light, before dissolving into the ceiling. A transposition of stairs reflects the sloping hall, distinguished only by the intermittent folding of black and white into the darkness behind your head. Perhaps it’s the way the paneling catches the light carrying it across the windowless walls or the golden honey slicked floorboards of the stage relaxing your grip on consciousness, lulling you into a comfortable familiarity as you struggle against the current.
Your head snaps forward as the double doors bat on their hinges, creaking and another student trickles into the hall. His feet scuff the carpet as he squirms past the aisle seats into the center. A deep set frown creases his eyebrows as his backpack hits the floor, weakly collapsing into itself. He tucks his chin and pushing into the air he sinks into his chair. Consumed by the warm stillness he too lingers on the verge of sleep, seemingly lost in the distant crashing of waves. You knew that if you could just rest your eyes for just a moment, you could make it through this class. It feels as if only a second; simply a slow blink. Yet the empty chairs were now speckled with weary students.
Suddenly, in the final few minutes before class is set to begin, a gentle drip becomes a full deluge as nearly a hundred students frantically rush to grab a seat. The auditorium becomes a drum chamber, echoing with the steady tenor of cicada song as book stands squeak, jackets rustle, and students excitedly call out to one another. You join the fray hurriedly bending to rummage through your backpack. Here, sleep is impossible. The room is alive with the constellations of bright laptop screens aglow, early everyones’ face cast in white light. Although the room itself has not changed, it buzzes with hurried activity, overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Amidst the uproar the professor shuffles down the aisle, her mid length gray bob springing with each step as her black woolen coat compresses her mousy form. Unnoticed at first, the closer she proceeds to the podium the fainter the sound becomes. She draws vigilant eyes as she prods the projector, flooding the room with the swirl of forest greens and glassy blues. But as time drags on, again the crowded room grows too quiet and even warmer than before. Alas her voice alone is not enough to drown out the presence of the room. Head swimming you start nodding off to the professor’s lullaby, holding your eyes open just long enough to see the streaks of white foam in the crest of the wave as it is about to wash over you. And in that moment you are plunged into sleep.
A safe place to sleep and work. Inside this box, the walls are grey. Some have paintings, some have posters, one has mirrors, and another has hooks for jackets. Above the bed, it is blank for now, awaiting its next contender to be hung.. The closet and the door leading to the hallway are both covered in posters, most of which are music artists. Frank Ocean, Tyler The Creator, BROCKHAMPTON. Only one is a simple skull of flowers. Surrounding the space, LEDs of all colors light up the room, like stars stuck on strips of adhesive. The bed and the wardrobe have been here since the beginning of time. There is a painted side table, three shades of blue gloss it to make a deep ocean. The shelves are filled with books, memorabilia, and objects from other worlds. The carpet is brown and soft on the feet, but when you lie down on it, it becomes coarse and hard, leaving imprints and patterns on the skin if you lay there for too long. Stuck in the dark forest of wool fibers, a different plane of existence takes place. If you run your fingers through the fibers, old dust will unravel that the vacuum cleaner could never seem to eat up.
A guitar stands at the ready with its metal holder, just at the left of the desk. It is sort of sad really, slowly piling with dust each day and awaiting for a replacement of its most delicate string. The closet, and its small, three foot space, carries the fabrics of time. Each one a different age and each one a different color. Outside appearances can be deceiving, you know? Looking down can lead to new discoveries. Reaching down under the fabrics, a strange cold extends back. Smooth glass is felt and shapes ride the lines of the fingertips. That strange cold has now turned to warmth and the glass radiates with darkened snowflakes. It is a snowglobe, of a peculiar shape and mold, filled with twilights honey comb. It is a superior sight, but will lie in the shadow of time for now. There are more important things to do.
At the center of the room, all that is left is standing before the window. The once white cloak covers the portal, waving with the air coming from the vent. Pull on the cloak and watch it cave in on itself. Now, standing on the edge of a world. Looking out of the window at night, when the dark has taken full effect and the stars are glowing, it feels as if the edge of two worlds touch. One world, filled with synthetic colors, dead wood, and processed air. It is a familiar feeling, but it holds no emotion. The atmosphere is motionless and the box becomes more clear. The other world, a dome that turned its brightness setting down, with only the light glimmer of the projector in the sky to show. The locals are dancing from the air flowing out of a big, wide vent. They sway gently and stand upright. Hair is fashioned in green dyes, with roots of brown. In between them, space is left for those that break free of their boxes. Free to explore and discover all there is beyond the walls of this furnished cage.
Because, growing up in a conservative and religious family, there was no other option. Because my dad married a woman from another country, he went against his community’s “values”. Because when I was born in 2000, the world was beginning to change forever. Because by the time I got to kindergarten, I could already tell I was different from all the other kids. Because my mom and dad told me I was a little different from all the other kids. Because I hid under the tables from the teacher, and didn’t talk to anyone, and as a result, got held back in kindergarten. Because when I got to elementary school, I found boys fascinating, but I never thought that the other boys didn’t have the same fascination. Because whenever I could, I would try on my mothers clothes and walk around in her heels. Because by the third grade, I had fooled a few girls already into thinking I knew what I wanted. Because by the fifth grade, I had a first crush on my best friend Michael. Because by the time I got to middle school, everyone was getting girlfriends, even the other boys who I knew at that point didn’t want girlfriends, just like me. Because when I had my first girlfriend and she broke up with me, I did not expect for it to hurt so much. Because I did not think I would be attracted to girls. Because when I got to highschool, the first boy in our grade came out. Because, on October 31st, 2015, I came out as bisexual on Facebook, which everyone but my parents saw by breakfast. Because when I got back home that day, they were sitting on the couch, ready to ask me the questions that were wrong to ask. Because when I stopped talking to my dad for six months, and my mom pretended nothing had happened, they sent me to therapy. Because the therapist was a man, he reminded me of my father, and I resented both of them for it. Because I started to turn inward again. Because I still only dated girls for three years, never once mentioning the possibility of boys. Because I hated myself, because I thought my parents hated me, so I pretended to be who they wanted me to be. Because the entirety of my extended family still do not know I am anything other than heterosexual. Because by the time I was 18, I started to hate girls, because I couldn’t stop hating myself for lying to both of us. Because I was so depressed and sad, I met guys in secret and started to understand myself. Because when I got to college, I found myself and flourished for a few months. Because I started painting my nails, and using lipgloss, and appreciating my body. Because I finally talked to my parents about it again. Because, even though I had fun with some guys, there were still those few bad apples who made me want to go back into myself, and never come out, and never be a person again. Because I lost all love for my body and having my body be loved by another. Because I found someone, just when I was about to give up, that could help me and see me. Because he is someone who loves me and understands the same things I went through. Because we learned together that as we evolve, our gender and sexuality evolve with us. Because we will help each other evolve and discover new pieces of ourselves, if they fit into the same puzzle together or if they go to two different pictures. Because I can feel deep inside me, there is something else that I haven’t found yet. Because I am still not independent from my family. Because no one in my extended family knows that I have a boyfriend. Because I do not owe them that part of myself. Because I still am discovering myself, and they will not force me back into myself. Because I know I am too confused to figure it out right now. Because I don’t need to know it right now. Because, Queerness is Infinite.
When it is raining, they say God is crying. And for some reason, when there is thunder God is bowling. When there is lightning God gets a strike. You think God does none of these things, that he does not exist. You have been wronged too many times for it to be true. But the rain is so wonderful. The two-paned window calls to me, raindrops clinging to it for dear life until they slowly drip down closer to fate. I look at the rain and wish to let it cleanse me.I wish I could feel every little drop hit my bare skin. I wish to bask in my incapability to count each drip down my flesh, to remember the magnificence of insignificance. I wish to be washed by the rain while you tell me you don’t believe in God.
I am in your room, alone, and it is raining. Your room doesn’t have many decorations because your presence would overwhelm posters and rugs and bookshelves. Sitting on your plush and lived-in bedding, the minimalistic pattern of tiny white squares and black outlines is overtaking me. I wish to count every box but remember that that’s impossible. I feel like a small little thing.
Your closet is open, you have certain things you like to wear. I think about the cold fall weather, and how when October starts to get shivery, you return to a regiment of sweaters and some type of thrifted pants. When you’re feeling fancy, or you have somewhere nice to go, you will layer a button-up dress shirt under the sweater. I go to look at all the sweaters and find my favorite. It is made of itchy yarn and is a bit oversized for even you to fit in. I undress completely to put it on. I wish to count the stitches knit by a stranger, but I remember I could never do such a thing. I feel so many good things when I remember this sweater is dry-clean only. I sit on the wood floor. Everyday, it still feels like the first day you told me you loved me.
Champagne is for getting swept off her feet. It’s for first meetings and shiny jewelry and coquettish glances under heavy mascara. It’s for a new pair of lips meeting her rouge-tinted ones, a new hand curling in her hair, a new body pressed against hers. It’s for new, exciting things, for reinvigorating an all-too fleeting youth and reinstalling an all-too fleeting confidence. Her laughter bubbles over like the fizz forming at the mouth of the bottle. Champagne is for a first date at a fancy place way outside her budget, but the handsome face sitting across from her makes it worth it. It’s for a tipsy walk back to her date’s apartment with a wonderful warmness gripping her chest and complacency muddling her mind. Champagne is for being made love to, and she feels something sparking right then and there, like when bubbles pop in her mouth. Feni is for falling in love. It’s for exotic trips to south Asia and plenty of humor (“Wait, what is this called? Feni? Out of cashews? Wow, you really can make alcohol out of anything!”). It’s for long, soporific afternoons bathing in the hot sun and being kissed over and over again until she feels her existence melting away to the man she wants — needs. It’s for losing her mind and inhibitions, the days blurring together into a routine — food, fun, sleep, food, fun, sleep, food, fun, sleep. Her partner is the axis of which her world rotates on; the gifts she is showered with and his gentle caresses pull her in until the gravity is causing her to crash towards him. The ecstasy and bliss she comes to associate with her lover dawns a wonderfully terrifying realization: she’s completely in love. Beer is for simple beginnings. It’s for moving into a new apartment and cardboard boxes and paying rent. It’s for relaxation after a long day at work, and opening doors to unwind. It’s for beginning a new reality that she’s so enraptured by that it still feels like a dream. It’s for chatting and sharing secrets under the stars on the fire escape. It’s for flipping news channels and shopping for curtains and making (and subsequently burning) the dinner. Beer is there when they find themselves enamored by domesticity. They’ve begun to prefer these moments of cheap take-out and post-coital silence over cool nights in the Mediterranean and surfing on Florida beaches. It’s also when, as she sips a can of Bud Light and lets the bitter taste lull her brain into happy mindlessness, she decides she may as well be married to this man, because she now refuses anyone else, forever. He’s ruined her in the best way possible, so they marry in the spring. Cider is for parties.
They invite people over often, open bottles upon bottles as they eat and chat and sing nineties tunes. Her mind is buzzing after the third glass. Between gossip and house tours, a pleasant warmth in her stomach grows whenever someone compliments how right they are for one another. She nods, feigning a noncommittal expression, even though she’s swimming in her own joyous disbelief. How did she manage to find her soulmate? The one person she’s made for, the only one she’ll ever have, ever want, ever need. She doesn’t want to live without these endless nights of guests and finger foods and drinks. She couldn’t. Gin is for waiting. She’s been told that the workload piles up at her husband’s office. They have to meet the end-of-the quarter cutoffs for their bonuses. It doesn’t bother her much; he’s very focused on his career and she wouldn’t dare be an inconvenience for him. She begins to cook meals for one instead of two. Her husband comes home at late hours, exhausted beyond belief. He usually collapses on the couch, absorbed in his own little world, numbers dancing in his head to the tune of his far-away workplace. She takes the liberty in easing his pain by providing a glass of gin and tonic. It’s not her favorite drink, and it’s neither his, but it’s enough. Afterwards, he crawls into bed, and she goes after him, watching him with adoration as he trudges up the stairs to their bedroom. She’s heard that such periods of stagnancy — dips — are inevitable in relationships. It would be selfish of her to whine and complain. She loves him, earnestly and completely, and that means she must make herself as receptive to his behaviors as possible. She needs him, needs this relationship. Wine is for delusion. The nights without him become longer. She comes to that realization one evening at eight o’clock, sipping on Chardonnay. Lately, he’s become too tired for gin, and instead opts to sleep immediately. His smile is weaker, more tired. His eyes are more distracted and he fidgets perpetually. They drink a lot more often. Now and then, she’ll briefly contemplate beginning a discussion on children, just to keep him home more. She’s desperate for redamancy, for his hands all over her body, to watch that expression of unadulterated affection flutter back onto his face. Wine helps her cope with some of the loneliness. It helps her lose her sense of time, turns the world syrupy-sweet, and she’s able to trick her awful mind that he’ll come home soon. She imitates the role of a trophy suburban housewife, longing for her husband while pretending to sweep the floors. Over time, she realizes, she has a better chance of finishing half the bottle and passing out on the couch before he gets home. She drinks extra to try and ignore the smell of unfamiliar perfume on him.
Vodka is to numb the pain. The pain in her heart, the pain of the bruises, the pain of the truth. Her throat is sore from all the yelling, but it’s nothing in comparison to the liquid fire scorching her esophagus. He’s gone. He’s stormed off, and she wonders if she’ll ever see him again. She’s sorry. She’s so, so sorry. She didn’t mean to get angry. It had just slipped out. He had said he’d be leaving for a week-long business trip, and she, unable to bear the combined weight of her brewing hurt and mistrust over the past months, had lashed out, accusing him of cheating. In turn, he’d erupted too. His hands were all over her, but not in the gentle way they used to be. Their voices were raised, but not laughing or calling out each other’s names. And now, she’s on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Please come back, she repeats hoarsely into the silence of her apartment. She clings to those words like a prayer, begging to anyone and anything to bring him back. She’d throw herself at his feet for a chance at forgiveness. She was wrong for losing her patience. Maybe there was a rational explanation to it all. She shouldn’t have yelled at him like that. And she’s so, so sorry. It’s so cold without him by her side, without the knowledge of when — if — he’ll come back. It’s really, really cold, so she takes another sip. Once the hangover has passed and the weight of her grief has dispersed from her chest to her sinus, she hobbles to the bathroom. Every step she takes in bitter sobriety beckons her back into the reprieve of stupor. She makes it, however, and flicks on the light to their bathroom. Her face stings from the (hours? Days? It would have surely been years) that she’s been weeping. She runs her hands underneath the warm water, and blood rushes back into her fingertips all too hastily. They turn red with feeling. She splashes the water onto her face and examines herself in the mirror. Water is for revelation.
The sunset over the pond was a disappointing, faded hue, muted by clouds and the heavy hanging moisture in the air. Naomi Foster, a gangly fourteen year old with too many sun baked freckles watched it anyways, swinging her legs in and out of the water over the side of the flimsy aluminum dock. This hour of the day was one of the few attractions of the campground, and picnic blankets lined the mossy shoreline for families in pre-planned serenity. There was no blanket for Naomi, no overnight camping trip that would end as soon as the tents and sleeping bags were gathered up and tossed into the back of a car. For her, there was only an old school bus, reborn as a trailer and parked anywhere the whims of her mother may lead.
Rose-Louise was the name of the bus, painted on the deep green walls of either side. Fitted with two bedrooms, a bathroom, a tiny kitchen and table, it had been their home for the past year. It was once an ordinary school bus, with sickly kale-green seats and dirt from the bottoms of children’s shoes etched into the crevices of the floor. The weekends of a whole year were devoted to converting the empty tin box into a home, day after day of research, plans, and crushing work. Naomi remembered sitting across from her mother, exhausted, just closing up a grease-stained pizza box. As soon as this is done, we’ll be out of here. I promise. Just you and me and a great big adventure. And all those months ago, at only thirteen, Naomi believed her. There was no way to tell one future from another, and how could she have known? Adventure meant weeks upon weeks of driving, night spent in empty campgrounds, days without groceries or conversation with another living soul.
“Dinn-ner!” A howl through the darkening mist. Naomi pulled herself up, a marionette hovering barefoot over the water, and began to walking back to the bus, tugging low swinging leaves and scraping moss from tree trunks as she went.
Alma Foster was a wispy looking woman, with a slight frame and feathers woven into her dusty brown hair. In one gentle motion, she pulled a disposable casserole tin out of the toaster oven and set it on the counter. “Terry’s coming over tonight.” she said.
“Fine. I’ll go out, then.”
“You know you don’t have to, honey.” She clutched the serving spoon for the casserole a little tighter. But Naomi didn’t want to stay. She didn’t want to see Terry, reeking of beer, his greasy ponytail slicked back against his rotten scalp. He had been coming over for the past four weeks, and the distance was shrinking between visits. She suspected that he, more than anything, was the reason they had stayed here for so long.
“I know.” she said, and she did. It was not, could not, be her mother’s fault, not entirely. Compared to her old, wild minded friends with unnameable instruments and equally musical voices, and even her father in his youth, Naomi was scant company for a long voyage. Alma continued to talk, telling her of the little jar of organic honey bought at the farmer’s market, the odd creaking noise Rose Louise has begun to make when put into reverse, and other daily intricacies that began to blur into the same lull of loose details and polished words meant only to fill the space. She seemed relieved when Terry’s elephant footsteps made the doorway groan, and Naomi slipped away with backpack in hand.
She didn’t get very far. Where was there to go? For miles there was nothing but the same clusters of white pines and craggy boulders, and wilted patches of wildflowers dried up in the summer drought. She sat on a wooden picnic bench, abandoned from the earlier sticky sweet barbeques of families got to leave after only one honey-tinted evening. Behind her, a gauzy yellow light streamed from the windows of the bus.
She fiddled with the zipper on her bag of a while, and remembered losing the backing to her favorite pin, the one her father had given her on her last birthday, sitting on the curb in front of his house. A real house, with curtains and a lock and a working bathroom. Despite the odds, she found the back again the next morning, nestled in the mulch of the campsite, and just for a moment, she believed in miracles. The backing fell off again a few days later, just before leaving yet again, this time lost forever. Terry’s house, a boxy mobile home, was right on the edge of the campground. She had been there, just once, forced to by her mother to have dinner with the two of them. From this, only two memories still clung to her; the key to the door was under the mat, and the key to his pickup truck was perched on a hook just behind the coat rack. Naomi could drive, if only well enough to give her mother a few hours of rest without losing time on the road. She wouldn’t have to go far. Her father’s house was only a few hours away, a few hours she wouldn’t be missed. She imagined pulling into the drive of the perfect suburban house, the relief on Dad’s face as he stepped through the squeaking glass front door. He wouldn’t be mad she had driven, or stolen or run away. No, he would take her up in his arms and and tell her Yes, of course you can stay here. Please stay. Everything will be alright. She knew he had kids, two perfect toddlers with his nose and the eyes of his new wife. She had seen the photos on Facebook. If he loved them, Naomi was sure she must love them too. They might even have a garden, fresh and full of sunshine like the one she used to tend when her backyard was not a blur behind her.
And what of Alma, left in her little green box, without a daughter? She would be fine, Naomi was sure. Glad, even. Good riddance, to the girl who could not sleep against the rocking of the bus on the long drives, who grew too quickly to properly fit scavenged clothes and hand-me-downs from other people’s children. Besides, Terry was here. She would not be missed.
Terry’s truck started without complaint, and more quietly than the matronly groan of the schoolbus. Naomi circled around to the front gate with a cautious lethargy on the pedals, and at last, she was free.
The highway was all but abandoned. It was a weeknight, and late, at that. Where was there to go? The children of the cookie-cutter homes nestled just of the exits were already tucked into bed, their parents adrift in the blue glow of the tvs in their living rooms. Naomi drove following the emerald flashes of road signs, waiting, hoping that she could get close enough to navigate the rest of the way on her own. It was this, perhaps, or simply inexperience, that kept her from seeing the deer until it was too late. It rolled over the windshield, and in the same motion, fell lifeless to the ground. Naomi shuttered the truck to a stop, and stumbled from the driver’s seat. She glanced at the deer, and back at the bloodied bumper of the truck, and held in the tears welling in her eyes. Don’t let anyone take a deer you hit away from you, is what Terry had said, overheard a few day after they had first arrived to the campground. No one, not even a cop. It’s yours, and yours to keep. They just want it for their own freezer. She hated hated hated him, and the crass way he spoke. Hated the campground, stuck too long to the wheels of a lopsided adventure. Hated the deer for jumping into the road, giving its life to nothing.
She shuddered, and turned away. The truck pulled away from the breakdown lane, a machine unaware of the life it had taken. And Naomi, of course, was a capable driver. So she drove, hurdling through the dark between her two worlds. To a welcome, and a bed, and some feeble sort of hope. Please don’t let her see the police sirens and raindrop tears and caked blood on headlights. Let the road be hers alone, for there is a long way ahead of her.
In the hour before Sunday service started, the younger members of my congregation— myself included— would attend a rudimentary Sunday School. There, we would learn the basics of Christianity, bible stories and their meanings, and, as years went by, we would begin to discuss how we each individually approached and understood the concept of faith.
But it was very hard to pay attention, since the couch I’d sit on would prove to be much more comfortable than one could imagine.
That couch was made of this really smooth yellow leather, the wrinkles and stress that scarred it probably signifying the piece of furniture had been around for at least a decade or two. I can’t say it would’ve been justified to throw it out since that thing was soft, incredibly so, the naturally cool temperature of the room that surrounded it often turning its cushions into these cold, pillowy, clouds of comfort.
Soft to the touch, I can still go on and on at how many times I’d just sink into that couch, blissfully unaware of whatever our lesson was and fully allowing myself the pleasure of pretending my parents had just let me stay at home and stay in bed for a few more hours.
“Do You Like To Learn About God?”
I’d be floating on airs half the time I’d go through the motions of Sunday School. The room’s blue paint and lack of artificial light often meaning the most coloration I’d be surrounded by would be the easy white glow of an early morning sun.
I can easily admit that this setting definitely made me sleepy, not bored. I was happy to be there. The lessons and bits of scripture we’d be taught often sticking in my head like a persistent fog of words and jargon.
I was taught to love my neighbor, to understand the importance of honesty, and to believe that, no matter what, we had a place to go when we’d die.
I was taught to understand that, no matter what, there is a God. He was to be understood as ever present and all-loving, not a single thing on this beautiful Earth being able to escape His vision, or, His judgement.
“I Like To Think About God.”
Sunday School to me was a place to rest, but never sleep. I could get in the in-between of conscious thought and a delightful, sleepy, haze but I’d never fully indulge in whatever reprieve my body wanted. Of course, this was mostly due in part to the fact that I wasn’t really alone there, no matter how much it would seem like the only thing I could hear was the gentle fraying motion of my hands brushing up against the leather of that cool, yellow couch.
· 2 ·
Me and my Mama would shop at the local dollar store after every service as if the routine were a part of the worship itself.
Every time we’d visit, a golden hue of an oncoming noon painted the store, its plastic signs and endless products glistening and shimmering with a sheen of artificial value. To me, this sight always bewildered me as the endless aisles of the twinkling snacks, cheap toys, and paperback books all had this sort of honest charm to them. Each and every product bathed in this golden light as if they wanted to show a bit of self esteem in those lifeless shelves.
It was warm there, the thick haze of aging air and poor ventilation falling on me like a blanket, the shimmering sun doing wonders here as well as it was easy to feel comfortable in a place where your skin always had a bit of glow to it.
I’d play with my fingers a lot as my Mama walked me up and down the short but endless aisles. She’d spend a childhood’s eternity carefully inspecting the varied array of spices, discount chips, and Bible coloring books, the whole ordeal doing very little to grab my young attention. In the rare moments of mercy where she’d let me run off, I’d always end up staring at the magical row devoted to brightly colored toys and plastic guns.
“I Wish I Had A Gun.”
I’d find myself lost in that toy aisle, thought sludge and daydreams flowing through my head as I’d imagine the fights I’d be in or the kingdoms I’d build. I wanted to be a soldier, a policeman, a cowboy. I wanted to fight for the honor of that aisle and tell stories of the warzones I’d endured and the opponents I’d overcome to the plastic companions I’d befriended along the way.
To a simpler me, this routine, this perpetual campaign of visits and post-church errands, was as perpetual and indistinguishable from the flow of times and seasons itself. I always wanted to play, I always wanted to snack, and I always had to go with my Mama. Whether it was Spring, Fall, Summer, or Winter, that store was the pillar of my life’s consistency, the be all and end all of where my daydreams would take me and where they’d mingle with the crusting knots of an uncleaned rug floor for all of time’s infinite crawl.
No matter what, I would always, and could only, end up there with Mama. For toys, for food, for pencils, for presents, for medicine, for shampoo, for detergent, and for her.
I never felt like I’d be old enough to shop there on my own, its vast arrays of complex colors and sounds being far too difficult for someone as perpetually young as me to ever fully understand.
Maybe I just don’t have the heart for that kind of thinking, or even worse, the wallet.
It will always be the place my Mama brings me.
“Some Things Never Change.”
· 3 ·
There’s something about cheeseburgers that makes them very easy to crave. I think it has something to do with the juiciness that a good one can bring. It’s strange when you think of it, the last thing you want with something bread based is an overstay of moisture, but a good, juicy —almost creamy— cheeseburger that has been dolloped with a generous helping of mayo and ketchup is something that’s incredibly difficult to ignore the allure of.
“You know how bad this could be for you if things get difficult? You’re… What’s the word, noter- nota- notarized. You’re notarized there,” Moses finished taking a small sip of his soda before continuing, “Notarized… is that the right word Aaron?”.
“That’s exactly it,” Aaron answered as she took a massive bite out of her sandwich, her large jaw practically unhinging to cram as much of the burger as she physically could into her still talking mouth. “You said you sign a lot of paperwork every time you clock out right?” she asked me with a hiccup, “All they need is the slightest hint that you’re involved and you’re screwed for life, retail leaves a paper trail.”
“You Won’t Have To Worry About A Thing.”
· 4 ·
I’m a cashier at that dollar store now. Its historic shelves are now a part of my daily routine, the hands that once twirled onto themselves in indecision now hard at work at keeping things stocked, cleaned, and efficient. If I’m given an early shift, the golden glow that stuck to me in my youth helps keep me focused, It’s continued presence being somewhat of a nostalgic comfort as it keeps me warm even as the air outside turns cold and crisp.
That familiar sense of place makes me happy to be an employee there, my thoughts flitting constantly between scattered scenes of childhood ignorance and present day responsibility, the overstocked aisles still feeling just as alien as they did all those years ago.
As the sun sets however, the white and artificial glow of the buzzing lights replaces any remaining piece of childhood wonder with a hollow pit of exhaustion. The closing routine begins and I find myself vacuuming the same floors, typing out the same credentials, and signing paper after paper of bureaucratic bookkeeping and quality assurance.
On Sundays, I help deliver the day’s bank deposit, that specific routine being a little more involved since we need to do whatever we can to deter a robbery. At this point, paranoia sets in.
When my manager is bringing out the deposit, they’ll stand in wait at the door as I drive my car up to pick them up and drive them over to theirs safely. The 20 second window between them locking up the store behind them and hopping into my car is the only time the deposit is under any sort of outside risk.
Thou Shalt Not Steal.
· 5 ·
As I began to understand the intention behind the lessons I was being taught at Sunday School, I also began to understand just how lonely that place could feel, though it wasn’t the kind of solitary loneliness that drives someone to longing. I had friends, people to talk to, and the presence of others was always felt and present.
No, the loneliness here was because, despite all of this, it always felt as if I were only talking to myself.
When lessons would drone on and much of the class fell silent into a stupor of boredom, I’d be the first to step up and answer whatever questions I could. I’d bounce back the answers I knew our teacher would need to hear and, in turn, I’d get a few kind smiles from both her and my classmates as my continued participation meant less accusations of laziness would be directed towards the group.
I can’t say I wasn’t having my own fun in this educational back and forth, it felt as if I was being used.
Nobody truly cared for what I’d been spouting, they only cared that I said the right thing at the right time, though for many, this was more than enough to convince them I was truly hoping for the promise of eternal bliss.
I’d talk of my appreciation for the sacrifice that people like the Hebrews had made for their loved ones, to allow themselves to be tortured, used, worshipped, and sanctified all for the sake of a God they had to believe in just on the principle of trust and faith. Martyrs and Saints became the stuff of legends to me, and when I’d speak of how often I’d look up to these figures, the smiles and praise I’d be given would far outweigh any religious vindication saying such things would grant. To be faithful, for me, was to be loved.
But this never changed the separation, the mental solitude that kept me from honestly understanding what I had wanted from this class or these people. They liked the things I’d say and the affirmations of the good that kind hearts and good faith can bring. I was the resident child prophet for that cold, blue, room, but sometimes I felt that even my peers could see through what I was doing.
I was loud mouthed and overly zealous. No one my age could truly care this much about the contents of a Book too big to even consider reading through in its entirety. Why would I, the space cadet obsessed with a yellow couch, be the one to step up and adore the word of God?
I had become addicted to the act, solitary in my addiction to putting on a “pious” appearance and chained to screeching thoughts and lessons I didn’t truly believe in… but did I?
I thought a lot about Heaven when I was young. I thought of playing cards with my grandparents and talking to my idols. I dreamed of living in a golden tent amongst an endless field of clouds, of eating from a banquet just for the joy of consumption, and adoring myself and my peers for all of an eternity. But one Sunday, my thoughts taught me something excruciating.
“If You Can’t Die In Heaven, What If You Get Bored?”
· 6 ·
I can’t go to church anymore.
I work.
I think.
I miss my Mama.
I talk to myself.
And I talk to some other people.
I work at the store with a golden hue.
I’m old enough to earn money here.
I’m old enough to keep it up and running.
But I’m not old enough to be alone here.
Because I still think I should be here with my Mama.
I stare down the aisles as the sunset comes.
I remember the warmth I felt.
I see candy bags twinkle and plastic cups shimmer.
I see office supplies gloss over with their inky blacks.
I see canned goods shine with a metallic twinkle.
I see toys.
I see Mama.
I feel bad.
· 7 ·
The store was incredibly busy on the last Sunday night before Halloween. This wasn’t unexpected as a LOT of people tend to leave this sort of shopping to the absolute last second so we made sure to keep our things stocked.
We did a double our usual amount of candy stocking, made sure that all of our décor for sale was up to snuff, and even went out of our way to keep things festive by throwing up some cheap cloth ghosts and paper ribbons wherever we could afford to use the space.
It was nice to see so many people come in from the cold smiling, their moods immediately perking up as they soon found out that we had exactly what they were looking for to keep them well prepared for the night of trick-or-treating and costume parties ahead.
Soon things became a blur of oranges, blacks, whites, and yellows. Each beep of the scanner and the crumple of bags changing hands and money coming in and out of the till created a sonic bedspread of familiarity. Slowly, even as the night turned white and silent, that nostalgic fire re-lit again as the magic of a good night’s worth of work mingled with the familiar smell of candy corn and scented candles.
My manager comes up to congratulate me on the hard work, a few chuckles indicating we’ll have to spend some time tonight making sure all the money is well accounted for as to avoid any possible miscounts for the undoubtedly massive take.
I laugh with her, saying that this kind of night is always something I’ve always hoped of having, the businesses, the festivity, and the aromas all coming together to reform the idealized picture of this comfortable little dollar store that my heart has always held.
But something in me curdles at these words. It’s almost a sickening feeling, the kind of bitterness that builds up in your stomach when you drink something rotten and sweet.
It’s a feeling of loneliness, of abandonment, not on yourself be to those around you.
I felt deeply perverted, and extremely excited all at the same time. It was my last day working here and I’m both happy things got to be so special but incredibly guilty for how my time here will end.
The night lights shift on as the purifying glow of white iridescence brings me back into focus as I start to feel a cold sweat come over me. I check out our last remaining customers with shaky hesitation, some hoping I feel better soon as my skin uneasily turns a shade lighter
I want to run and shake off my nerves screaming, I want my arms to feel less like spindled guitar strings, their erratic twitches and crude feeling reverberating erratically against my chilly body.
I feel the same pit of fear and uncertainty grip my stomach as it had when I first felt myself questioning my lessons, the terror of choosing between an eternity in obliviousness or an infinite amount of time in conscious space breaking me down to my core as I forgot exactly why I had chosen to go through with this.
“It Has Always Been My Dream.”
· 8 ·
Sunday School taught me to rest.
In our brief meditations I’d always stare out the small glass window we had up on the far wall. It pointed out towards the parking lot, the small trees and apartments that surrounded it doing little to block the empty blue sky that always hung over our lessons during the colder months of the year.
These moments gave me pause. At first, I’d think of games and daydreams, always wishing to be somewhere else but here. I’d think of action and tragedy, a life without rules and entertainment without limits as the cold touch of boredom clenched my idle fingers tightly. But this wasn’t to last, as soon I’d think of the banality of the room, the peaceful look of a group of people huddled together in shut-eye unity. Were they praying? Was I supposed to pray? Or were we told to clear our minds? I know I can’t do either.
I’d start to crave sleep, but of course, it never came. My dreams would stay pinned to the sunlight, and my thoughts would blur together. The ticking of a clock, the details of a whiteboard, the feeling of a couch. Am I alone? Can They hear my thoughts? Are They asking the same, or are we different? Can we be different?
Our teacher would quickly bring things back to order as our shared reverie ended. We talked of sin, and punishment, and our fears of the infinite. We talked of thoughts, love, and opinions and, for once, I revealed something true. Something undoubtedly me. Something undoubtedly Mama, who loved, and loved, and loved, and loved.
“I Don’t Believe In Hell.”
· 9 ·
One afternoon, me and my Mama went to the dollar store to pick out some decorations for the Fall. Every year, I loved finding another ceramic candle-house to add to a large collection I was bringing. They were small, decorative, and very exciting to organize as it made me feel as if I ran my own little village of friends and neighbors.
When we entered, the golden glow was bathing me and mama with its welcome embrace once more, I went straight for the nearest display and stood in awe as I looked at each of the little houses. There were cozy cottages, barn houses, and grain mills that all looked like a perfect addition to this year’s community.
Mama smiled as she stood beside me rubbing my head with a gentle to and fro, twisting and curling whatever strands of my hair her fingers fell on with a light tug.
Distracted by the affection, as I went to grab the house of choice, a small wooden ranch-house, my hand accidentally brushed against a little grain silo, knocking it off the shelf.
It’s Okay, It’s Okay, It’s Okay You Didn’t Mean To Do It.
· 10 ·
I came up with the plan when I decided I was going to quit.
Since the deposit always needs to be delivered every Sunday night, it was best to time it so that we’d be moving a lot of money. Halloween was to Fall that coming Monday, meaning there would be a lot of commotion going in and out of the store to get things prepared last minute, making for a sizable cash deposit needing to be made that very night.
As we began to close up shop I sent a quick text to Aaron and Moses to get them into position near the side of the store.
“I always get so nervous that we close this late… parking lot’s too big, can’t see who’s trying to make a move,” My manager told me as we made our way to the front door, a bulging envelope of cash sticking out from the corner of her handbag. “It isn’t safe, though you’re smart for never having to do this again,” She told me with a chuckle.
“I’m Going To Miss It Here.”
“We’ll miss you too! It’s been a good long while hasn’t it?” She motioned me to stay close to her as she pulled out some keys to unlock the door.
I looked behind me at the silent and darkened store. Its shelves were stagnant, shadowed by the lack of light. The rich and colorful displays of products, toys, and banners all stood monochrome, stopped in time itself as the lack of light obscured any friendly details out of sight.
It wasn’t warm anymore, but neither did it seem frozen by the lack of light. It was waiting, pushing me on to make my next move as I left the world I had built there behind me, my head going numb with a dull pain as the shelves, tills, and decorations all stared at me with abject disappointment… Or was it relief?
I could only stare back, for just a moment I felt the soul of the store pass through me as my manager finally opened the door, the cold Fall air pulling me to where I was destined to go.
Now, things were truly over, and all I could see was a decrepit store waiting for the end of time itself to come and take it.
My manager poked her head out of the door to make sure things were clear for me to leave, a quiet nod and a whisper of “Good Luck” pointing me towards where my car was parked just a few steps across the road, a tall street light illuminating it in the all but abandoned expanse of a quiet parking lot.
I walked over quickly, my hands deep within my pockets as the night air swelled around me in a bitter cold. As I got near the car door I caught a glimpse of my reflection, my features barely aged past from when I was just a kid but still weathered enough to show that above all else I was tired. My breath fogged up the image as I opened the door and stepped into my car, my shaking fingers sending out a final text of preparation to let them know it was time.
“It Always Feels Like I’m Only Ever Talking To Myself.”
· 11 ·
Mama taught me never to steal. That being bad was something she couldn’t forgive me for. She told me to keep my hands to myself and to always say “Please” and “Thank You”.
Mama taught me to pray every night before bed, especially when I felt bad about something, since by the time I’d wake up things would already be getting better.
Mama taught me that I was to be kind to strangers and gentle with my friends, so that no matter what, they would know how much I loved them.
I thought about all this as I brought the car around to the front of the store, my manager looking at me through the locked glass door one last time as I gave her the all clear signal.
As she stepped out quickly and locked the door behind her, Aaron and Moses were there to greet her with loud shouts, masked faces, and loaded handguns.
They ordered me to step out of the car.
“Do You Want To Meet God?”
They left as soon as they came, my manager and I staring blankly at the torn open envelope and the few scattered coins that they let fall freely on the freezing asphalt.
We said our goodbyes silently, a huff of disappointment and exhaustion escaping her as she refused to pick up what little money had been left behind and instead suggested it’d be best if we just walked away happy to still have our lives.
I drove back home with my head in the clouds, my tongue feeling numb as I replayed the scene over and over again, my thoughts slowly melting away into another golden memory of what that store had given me.
As I sat on the ground bawling at the broken ceramic silo, my Mama scooped me up and brought me close to her chest, cooing gently and telling me how I didn’t have to worry so much.
She told me it was only an extra dollar, just one other dollar she’d have to pay for the tiny accident and that I was still allowed to get the little house that I wanted. She said that no matter what, even if I had a bad day, even if I had some small accidents, I always deserved to be happy.
“I Love You Very Much.”
I was too young to shop there. Did anyone else tell me that? They might have been right in the end. I was always too young. I was too busy floating on clouds, dreaming on big yellow couches, and waiting for that golden glow to realize I would never be big enough to shop there.
I thought about Sunday School when I held my share of the money in my hands. I thought about those cold lonely Sundays, those long shifts of working and waiting, the emptiness of trying to belong and the bliss of feeling like somehow, somewhere, there will always be someone waiting for you in the end. Was this Heaven? Or did I go to Hell?
When I went to bed that night, I dreamt of hugging her one last time. She was smiling.
Momma said I could get a fish if I would just quit yappin in her ear because apparently I tend to yap in her ear when I get bored but I don’t think it’s entirely my fault because there aren’t many ears around for me to yap in unless you count my own but I’m not really good at yappin in my own ear and to tell you the truth I don’t think anybody really is. So the deal was if I would just stop yappin in her ear she would buy me a fish because I’ve been begging for a fish since…bless his soul—Mr. Armstrong passed. I’m pretty sure I fed him a bit too much or maybe I didn’t feed him at all I’m not entirely sure to be honest but either way Mr. Armstrong is no more. Anyway, the only way I could make myself stop yappin was if I taped my mouth shut which is exactly what I did and by the end of the day Momma just looked at me heaving out a big old sigh after rolling her eyes and said real sweet and real sassy:
Fine.
I couldn’t have been happier—honest. I could tell Momma was extremely enthused at my accomplishment, as was I, because of the way she sighed. It was more of a happy sigh rather than an annoyed sigh—don’t let the rolling of the eyes fool you. Her eyes were rolling of pure happiness. She was happy I was getting a fish. I was happy I was getting a fish. I know Daddy would be upset about it because of the last few times I’ve gotten fishes and acted out but I generally make him upset for loads of reasons anyway so I try to stay away from him but this time I would be real good to the fish and real good overall—honest.
She brought me to the store and I looked through all the big tanks but all the fish just looked sad and old and I didn’t really want my fish looking all sad and old. I put my hands right up against the glass of one of the smaller tanks and a little sad old goldfish swam right up to me and I knew it would be the one. I told Momma I could teach it tricks and everything. She pointed with her fat finger at the fish with her nails all sparking with the prettiest blue you ever did see and said you can’t teach fish tricks. Maybe she was right I don’t know but all I could think about was how I was gunna have a new fish.
She said we had to pick a tank out for the thing and to keep it real simple and real cheap because the vase we kept my last fish in was filled with nice flowers. Most of the tanks were these big old boxy things but I wanted one of those nice looking round fish bowls—the ones that are big enough for you head and kinda look like an upside down spacesuit helmet. That’s all you’d need —a nice simple helmet-looking bowl to put the fish in then you got yourself a happy place for a little sad old goldfish. So that’s exactly what we got. On the way home Momma reminded me that I gotta keep my yappin to a minimum and be real good to the thing because it was living and all. I promised and taped my mouth shut. She just sighed and drove us home.
When we got back I went straight to my room and put the bowl right on my desk and poured the little old fish in it. It just started floating around not really moving much which got me a bit nervous and I started shaking because it was supposed to be moving. I kinda tilted my head to
1
look at it and spun the bowl around and it started wiggling its little fins. It was alright. I started thinking about what I should name it. A fish ought to have a name I’d think. It was a living thing and all but I couldn’t decide right away.
You could see right through the bowl because it was glass and everything. You could see the bright blue sky and clouds through the bowl—not the real ones but the ones on my wall. Momma said my room used to be my nursery and they wanted me to feel like the room was my world so they made the walls real bright and put clouds all over and even put stars on the ceiling —the one’s that glow and everything. Just so my room could be the world. The fish didn’t know that. It just saw the blue and the clouds and the stars and my little gray bed in the middle of the room.
I wanted to give it its own little world and make the fish bowl habitable because Momma said I should make the bowl habitable. I went in the backyard and got some little gray rocks and washed them and put them in it bowl and stuck a really big one right in the middle. The little fish swam all around it and it kinda reminded me of a little ship orbiting the moon! It looked like a little astronaut doing a little dance. When I got in bed later that night I could see out of the corner of my eye the little fish swimming around the moon. I decided to name it Major Tom.
***
Pshh. Ground control to Major Tom…I put my hand over my mouth to make it sound just like a walkie talkie like they do in all the movies when they’re tryna sound like they’re talking through a walkie talkie…Major Tom, are you there? Over. Pshh. I was giggling all over the place under
the covers but I was tryna be quiet so Momma didn’t yell at me to quit yappin. I stacked up the pillows against my bed to make a nice tiny old fort. I peeked my head out from under the blankets to see how Major Tom was doing as he was on an extremely important mission to find extraterrestrial life. Of course it was just sitting on my desk staring at me wiggling a bit near the moon but it liked to play pretend too. Pshh. Mission almost complete. Over. Pshh. I could hear the fish loud and clear.
It was getting real dark outside with the sky turning red and blue and purple the way it does but I kept my lights off so the stars on my ceiling would glow like they usually do. Momma opened my door and saw me sitting under all the covers and told me to go to sleep because it was late as hell and she didn’t want me being all whiny in the morning. I’m not always whiny in the morning but apparently when I don’t get my sleep I get real whiny in the morning and start yappin all over the place and Momma doesn’t really like that. Daddy says it makes me talk in a higher pitched voice than usual but I’m not too sure about that. I wasn’t about to go to sleep because I had my own mission to do.
When it got real dark outside I could hear Momma and Daddy shuffling down the hallway to bed and I waited until they were sleeping real good. I could tell they were sleeping real good because
I could hear them dreaming. Momma said when you’re sleeping real good you make noises in 2
your sleep which tells everyone around that you’re dreaming and to not wake you up. When they were sleeping real good, Major Tom watched me peep my head out into the hallway to check both ways before sneaking into the bathroom down the hall. I knew where Momma kept her prettiest blue nail polish—it was real pretty. It was all dark and blue like the sky at night and it glittered a bit when you put it in the light. I liked opening the bottle and I liked the smell when it was all wet. My hands get shaky sometimes. They actually get shaky all the time, especially when I’m all nervous, but I tried my best to spread the paint over my nails without my hands shaking the entire time because it just felt right. Then I snuck back into my room.
Pshh. Looks like Earth blue from the moon. Over. Pshh. Major Tom liked the way it looked too. It was its favorite color. It reminded it of its mission of being deep in space looking for a new life. I pressed my hands right up against its little glass bowl as the paint dried. I challenged Major Tom to a staring contest. It didn’t blink but I couldn’t help myself—Major Tom always wins. After a few round it was all dry so I hopped on my bed and started jumping around and wrapped the blankets all around me. I got in front of my mirror and I looked all cozy and funny-looking. I spun around with the blanket swirling all around me and started giggling again as Major Tom watched me holdout my hand as I stared at the paint glittering on my fingers. I think I did a pretty good job but that’s only because I copied what I’ve seen Momma do loads of times and I’ve done it twice before.
I jumped right back on my bed and looked up at the stars glowing on my ceilings and tried to get my fingers to touch them but I couldn’t get high enough because the ceiling’s pretty high. The blanket swished around me just like a fish and I could just imagine slipping into Major Tom’s bowl to teach each other tricks. Pshh. Major Tom. Looks like I can swim too! Over. Pshh. Then it taught me how to wiggle all around through the water with my fins and tail. Told me I gotta have determination so I tried real hard to have determination and then I was told I was doing alright but that I had to be careful. Pshh. The current’s tough. You are swimming fine. Just swim to the stars. The spaceship knows which way to go. Over. Pshh. Major Tom was my favorite fish.
***
I wasn’t yappin but I guess jumping on my bed and giggling all over the place in the middle of the night made a bit too much noise because I could hear footsteps in the hallway coming to my door.
What do you think you’re doing—what the hell do you think you’re doing, with that on? Come here…now!
Daddy’s voice was like thunder—it really was. I could feel the paint on my walls turn real gray with the clouds as Daddy spoke because he spoke not in the nice way but in the mean way. He was asking me a question but he really wasn’t and I don’t like when he does that but he does it a
lot. He pulled me in the hallway and made me get real close which made me feel real small because Daddy’s the tallest person I know because he just is—honest.
3
What do you think other kids are gunna think about that, huh? When they see you lookin like this? Scrape all of that off, you hear me? Don’t let me catch you doing that in this house again. How many times do I have to tell you?
I was just playing with Major Tom—
Major Tom what? You’re playing with the damn fish again… I just—I just can’t with it. This is the third time, the third time. “Major Tom.” You can’t be—we’re getting rid of it —that’s it—you gotta straighten out.
Daddy, I’ll be good—honest!
And then I started shaking real bad because I was real nervous and kinda scared and Daddy makes me real scared especially when he makes his voice all deep and angry. Then he got even closer to me and pulled his hand up and I zipped my mouth shut and he slapped me harder than he ever did before and pushed me in my room and said to not come out until I scraped it all off. I thought that was it but he didn’t stop and I just saw all the clouds on my wall start to rain—the sky turned real gray and I started crying. He picked up the bowl and started walking out. Major Tom was completely unaware of what was happening so it just swam around its little moon looking like it was on a mission. You’re fine, okay? You’re just going on a special mission—just another mission. It couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t do anything.
I warned you the first and second damn time. You gotta act like you’re supposed to. And stop talking in that voice you do. You gotta try. You gotta.
And then he flushed Major Tom just like that—and then he looked at me as I sat on my bed crying and shook his head as he placed the bowl down where it was just a couple minutes before but this time it was empty. I scraped the paint off my fingers with my teeth and cried and couldn’t stop my hands shaking all over—my entire body was shaking. Daddy didn’t need to do that but he did because he can’t be raising a different kid but Major Tom didn’t mind. Major Tom liked making pretend and swimming and the moon. Major Tom was a happy little sad old goldfish—a good fish. So I just cried and I couldn’t stop but that’s okay because sometimes you just can’t stop crying so I just wrapped the blankets around me and gave up scraping because it was really pretty and I liked the way it glittered in the light…just like the stars. I was looking out my window when Momma said to go back to bed and to quit crying because Daddy was right.
I just laid on my bed with my belly up and tilted my head a bit and saw the empty bowl out of the corner of my eye. I was still sad but I went over and picked it up along with some tape and brought them on the bed. It was real late now and Momma and Daddy were dreaming again. But
the stars were glowing real bright. I grabbed a long piece of tape and put it right over my lips. I was gunna be quiet until I could learn how to swim a bit better. And then I stared at the empty bowl in my hands with my scraped up fingers wrapped all around it. Pshh. Put your helmet on.
4
The stars look very different today. Look. Over. Pshh. I could hear the voice—I really could. And I put that bowl right over my head and could hear myself breathing real steady and I stopped shaking and the gray covers around me started to rumble before turning into air. And the clouds started to move real fast all around my walls as smoke began to come up from under me. And the stars started to get real bright right above my head as I heard the faintest voice: Pshh. Commencing countdown. Five. Four. Three. Two…
There once was a girl who lived in Trujillo Alto named Analita. Analita was a girl of “never caring”, since she was a smart enough person to know that if she thought about every blade of grass she’d touch, she’d sense the countless ants that hopped off from its green slender form right onto her chanclas, the itching she’d complain about to Mama and Papa never again a mystery as she could just point at the green and say, “¡Eso!”. One night, Analita decided to “never care” by not turning off the big desk light she’d keep on when she’d work no matter how badly it hurt her eyes and felt like burning. This kept her up all night though, something she didn’t like because the heat was already an issue, and the itchy sheets were already a problem, and the half torn PJ’s were already making her sweat but, because she never cared, she knew that all she could really do was lie there and wait.
She closed her eyes hard, harder than ever before, and waited.
She thought about getting up and turning off the light, and waited.
She thought about getting new sheets or, better yet, just going to the living room couch (even though it smelt like ham and dust) because it had that nice silky blanket her stinky abuelo would sit on for his shows.
She thought about all these things but, most of all, she thought about tomorrow, and didn’t care. It was hard for Analita to care about tomorrow because she was too busy not caring about today. Why bother with going to the bathroom (even if your gut feels like sludge)? Why even care about the turned off fan (even with all the beads of sweat making your curly hair turn into a dandruff jungle)? Why get up and find something better, when the right now is so awful to be in?
“Do I like the awful?” Analita thought.
And it was the most she never cared.
But late one night, as the night frog’s chirping became a deafening cascade, she saw a cucaracha skitter right into her closet, the light chitter of its clicking limbs climbing up, up, up. She knew she’d be safe from the insect’s intrusive antennae but, just as a precaution, she climbed right out of her musty mattress and creeped towards the closet’s creaking door. Surely this was too much caring! One little roach was ignorable, maybe even invited, but all Analita felt within her was a glub of dishonesty as each step she took along the splintering wooden floor brought her closer to that towering portal.
Maybe if she turned back now, hopped back into bed, and awoke to a festering nest of scuttling larvae scratching at her pores then maybe, just maybe, she’d claim a climactic victory as the most careless of them all. No longer would she need to stress over any form of defense or longevity, now she was a brood! An emperor of the repulsive! Never again would she need to express any sentiment of caution or thought, her carefree life as a host to the abominable granting her an ultimate reprieve of the mind she so deeply hated.
But now, mere inches away from the door, she persisted on to thwart the vermin. Maybe I can get away with it just this once? A singular treat of effort to allow my planned apathy more empirical freedoms? No, Analita knew, this would only be a beginning.
She swung open the wretched door with the force of finality, her days of ignorance soon coming to a close and she spotted the vile interloper and raised up her bare foot against it. Soon her days of laze and worry would be concluded, no more would she stand idly by to let disgust and pestilence infest her livelihood, now she had the determination to defend it! Her days were soon to be hers at long, long, last!
Crashing down with the full weight of her little patita, Analita victoriously stomped the unwanted filth, the slicing tip of a nail the cockroach sat upon now nestled deep inside her sole.
The grass holds my feet in place while I stare back at my reflection in the glass-like surface. With each breath, the water winds up to reach out for me once again. The scents of pine and fresh earth are still making their way through the air after all this time. Not much has changed about this place, in fact, and it doesn’t seem to mind that I have. The sun still cradles me in its arms, letting me sink deeper into the comfort this little Eden offers. There’s a rope swing behind me that solemnly sways in the breeze, waiting for me to return once more as a child; clenched fists around the rough texture, with only the sweat of my palms to prove that I was scared to jump in. Although that girl will never return. I’m almost tempted to turn around and tie it to the trunk of the tree, letting it know it can finally rest. Maybe mumble an apology as if the passage of time were my fault. Suddenly the grass seems pricklier than I remember, but I still lie back in it, as if to try and soak up the last bits of memory I have here. Trying to keep at bay the knowledge that before long, the water is going to get colder as the sun sinks down.
A cursory look at my surroundings shows that I’m waiting for a train. I’m alone, I think. Someone sits nearby, but I can’t really tell if they’re real. Light permeates the ground around me and everything speaks in soft gold tones. Leaves litter the ground. Train tracks seem to go on forever in every direction, off into the golden red forest. Little stones lie between the wooden and metal bars. Not really sure what to do with myself, I started throwing them. One hits a tree with a nice thunk.
Something about this place feels weird. I feel it rise in my chest and spread out through my arms. Time lazily walks forward and plays in the leaves. I have nothing to do but wait for my train. An hour passes. Two. The sun seems to stay in its place. Maybe I’ve gone to the wrong train station? What does the train station even look like? I realize I’m sitting on a cold metal bench. It sits in front of a little glass closet. It’s old. Aren’t these kinds of buildings interesting? They’re not really meant to be the destination. You just pass though. Something to consider on your way home from work or school. The ground’s hard and cracked, and plants are growing through the floor. The walls are scratched and buffeted from the time it’s spent here. Maybe when the train comes, I could just not get on. Maybe I could just sit here and grow old in this room, until the plants grow through me. Until the sunlight finds me and warms my bitter skin. A man made of stone, watching others live, water flowing like time between my fingers as the seasons pass through my chest, plants growing and dying where my feet used to be. Maybe then I could just stay here for a little bit longer before the train arrives. Sadly, time continues its languid march forward. I can hear the train coming.
The train’s small, I can walk it’s length in a few large steps. I’m sitting on one end staring at the other. Light filters through the windows and dance on the floor, as if the golden sun itself were melting. As if gold were slowly filling the train car and staining every surface it can find. It’s warm. Someone gets on the train and sits next to me.
“Where are you heading?” they ask. I’m not really sure. Wherever the train goes, I guess. How about you?
“I’m going home.” And where’s that?
“Wherever the train stops.”
I look at the person sitting next to me. They have warm eyes and nice hands, and I decide that I like them. The sun sets and the air turns blue to purple. I can’t really see much anymore. The windows are like holes in the darkness of the train, and I can see the sky in all its infinite blue. It’s nice, just sitting here.
“Why did you get on the train?” They ask. “You could have just stayed outside.” I thought about it for a second, and I said I was practicing a certain degree of freedom that’s allowed.
“What do you mean?”
Well, when do we actually get to choose what happens? Like, the major life decisions? The things our parents do, the school we go to. Where and when we live. The teachers we have when we’re young, whether our parents are nice or mean. It’s all kinda random, don’t you think? “Yes, it can feel that way sometimes.”
Sometimes it may feel like we don’t actually have control over who we are or who we get to be. But we need those restrictions to actually be something. So, in the end, how much freedom do we actually get?
“Well, I could have chosen to not go to work this morning. I could have lied, and called in sick. Or I could have had a different kind of coffee. Free will doesn’t have to be your free will, does it? As long as you can distinguish yourself from other people, then you know your actions are yours, even if those actions aren’t necessarily entirely your own. It’s all still you.”
I responded, yeah, I guess you’re right. But sometimes the dread just creeps in a little too far, and you need some room to move. And the only freedom people can’t take from you is the decision to be known. Sure, I love my friends and family, but when people know you they take liberty over who you are, to some extent. It’s almost out of your control how others think about you. That’s just inevitably who you are around them. So when you take the time to be alone, then the only person you have to worry about is you. If you just let yourself be free for a second, then it doesn’t matter who you are. All that matters is that you can breathe and think without being anyone. No one has to know my name or the things I’ve done. That’s the freedom I’m taking, to be alone with myself and let myself get lost. Who knows where this train is going? It’s better if I don’t know.
The sun set and left us in darkness. Small lights came on under the seats, and softly illuminated my face blue and white. Without the sun, I have nothing to look at but my reflection in the window opposite to me. The lights left much to the imagination, I could really only see the consequences of my facial features but nothing that particularly looked like me. I couldn’t see the eyes, just the big wells where they should be. Every so often the lights of some far off building would cut through my blank expression. The lights go out. The sound of the train gets quieter as we come to a stop.
“Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for. Have a good night.”
“You too,” I say back. “Thank you for the conversation.”
I briefly considered getting off the train with them, to walk them home and be somewhere else. Or I could just keep going, and wait for the train to kick me off. But the doors never close and no one comes to get me. I look to the front and notice that there’s no driver. The train wasn’t gonna move. How long has it been? Five minutes? Ten? Is this the end of the track? Tentatively, I take a step out. The night air greets me softly and the moon looks gracefully upon the earth. Light snowfall’s starting to cover the ground. The bench I sat on earlier’s starting to pile up with snow. The building’s still intact, a little more scratched and a little more broken but still standing. I walk inside and greet myself sitting in the corner, vines growing through my cracked smile. Good to see you. He looks up with life in those stoney eyes and greets me.
I touch his hands and fall through the cracks in his gaze.
i once loved a boy who said that he loved the rain.
and it was true: he loved the rain in his good moods. loved the rain when it allowed him to stay inside under a blanket. loved the sound when it would softly hit his roof while he slept. even loved to weather a storm once in awhile.
but he didnt always. he would hide under his umbrella, scared of getting wet. he would curse the clouds from preventing him from basking in the sun. he would wish and pray that the rain would go away. and some nights, when the rain was especially loud on his roof over his head, he would get angry and spite the storms that he claimed to love.
he loved the rain, but only sometimes.
he loved me in the same way.
at times he loved my outbursts, my energy, my wit, my constant questions. at times he told me that it was cute how much i knew about random topics. how he loved to hear me talk about my passions.
but he didnt always. he would tell me to talk quieter. his face would contort with annoyance before i could even speak the question mark. he would huff and sigh and tell me to stop asking. why do you need to know. i dont know. stop asking. he loved me in my quiet, controlled state. he loved me when i supported him and did so gladly. he loved me when he wanted to. when i fit him. but he didnt always.
i love rain. i love when its loud and violent, when it slaps my window, carried by the wind. i love to fall asleep to the soft pitter-patter or the cacophonous thunder. i love to sit by my open window, head on the sill and just listen to it, breathe it in, the scent of fresh water. i love to stand in it, to play in it, to kiss in it, and walk around in it. im not afraid of getting wet. the curious thing about getting wet is that you will always dry.
and now i think that he truly did believe that he loved the rain. he thought that in order to love something, it was okay to not love all of it. it was okay to love parts and pieces, and only when those parts and pieces aligned with how he was feeling. he thought that he could have the soft pitter-patter without the occasional storm, without having to give up the sun, without having to change himself. but storms always move on.
The coffee shop was busy this time of day. Too busy. The morning sunlight glinted off the bronzed wood of the sign above the doors, silhouetting the patrons seated at the tables within. The lone android paused with his slender, plastic-grafted hand poised to push open the door.
For several moments, he didn’t know why he had stopped. Perhaps it was a malfunction in his arm? He’d taken care to troubleshoot his joints before making the walk down the riverside market, so nothing should be amiss. Yet there he stood, frozen in place, in time, like a fly caught in amber.
“They clearly aren’t closed…” muttered a man to his right. The android craned his neck to observe the couple glancing oddly between the crowded shop and him. Furrowed brows…frowns…dissatisfied expressions! He was clearly doing something wrong.
The android forced his static arm forward, shoving open the door with perhaps more force than necessary and letting himself inside. The array of sensations startled him—the bell tinkling daintily above his head, indicating to all his arrival; the distinct aroma of coffee beans and wafting vanilla from behind the countertop; the undulating waves of human conversation blending into a hopeless muddle against his sensors.
The lone cashier barely glanced up at him, too busy writing down the next customer’s order in the long line before him. Lest his joints froze a second time, he hurried to a window booth just recently vacated by a mother and her squealing toddler. As he sat, fingering a small cookie crumb, he both glanced at the dusty wall clock and checked the timer he’d set in his internal computer.
Five minutes. He would have arrived sooner had the marketplace not been so crowded. It was a mistake not to anticipate the popularity of human interactions on Saturdays and Sundays. Yet it was the only day he could arrange to meet with—
“Welcome to The Grind! Cup ‘a coffee, or something exciting?”
The android risked a glance at the waitress. Chewing on the tip of her pen, half her attention was fixed on the notepad already dark with ink scribbles. He kept his eyes trained on the pen, just in case she happened to glance up at him.
Don’t look them in the eyes. His extensive research leading up to this day had warned him of this. The emotions writ within eyes was a telltale sign of humanity. Only a second’s gaze would reveal the glint of machinery behind his own.
The waitress sighed. “Listen, mister. You see the line? If you’re still deciding…”
The android jolted back to attention. Right, she had asked a question. What to consume? He quickly surveyed the other patrons of the café. A woman sitting at one of the round tables, jotting down notes with a latte stationed beside her hand…the man in the business suit at the booth just past his own, shouting into a flat phone while handling a small, clear glass of what could only be alluring espresso…the bedraggled young man on one of the stools, typing away furiously on his laptop while sipping a black, heavy drink—coffee. Now there was the Golden Fleece of drinks, the worshipped treasure that had so claimed the hearts of innocent passerby. It was the drink no one would question, certainly not his visitors.
He spoke the magic word, like a prayer in the breeze. “Coffee.”
The waitress didn’t even look up. She made a little scribble on her notepad and went to greet the newest set of customers.
Now, all that was left was to wait. The android awkwardly folded his hands together on the table, the gesture awkward compared to the humans busying themselves with their phones while waiting for their own drinks. He had no need of a phone—not when his motherboard could access the Internet as easily as a human clicking on an application. And, well…it wasn’t like he had anyone to speak to, anyway.
But that might change, he reminded himself, his circuits sending zaps of electric excitement throughout his body. It was the reason why he had stationed himself in this coffee shop in the first place: crowded, yet commonplace, normal. The perfect place for a group of human friends to meet and engage in conversation and camaraderie.
The android had successfully managed to infiltrate a small pod of humans. Or, perhaps infiltrate wasn’t the correct term. Too militaristic. Oh, if he messed it up when the others were actually here—
The bell atop the door jingled as three college-age customers swept in on the edges of a conversation, the morning breeze skittering discarded napkins at their feet. The android took one glance at them and thought his joints would freeze again. It was time to see if all his research paid off.
He forced his arm to move, extending it in a standard greeting to get their attention. The three of them—two boys, one girl—jostled one another as they made for the booth, tucking themselves into the worn leather seats with an ease of familiarity.
“Got here right on time, huh?” Markos nudged the android’s metal side. His eyes widened; he proceeded to dig his elbow deeper. “Wow, you’ve got some abs. You work out?”
The boy across from him, Adrian, rolled his eyes behind his glasses. “Stop making him feel weird.”
Quicker than the android expected, the waitress appeared once more at the foot of the table. Her eyes brimmed with excitement—old friends, he guessed. “Welcome back, gang! Usual drinks?”
The trio mumbled their affirmations, but not without warmth. As the boys struck up a debate on the ethics of pointing out if one has “worked out”, the android’s vision strayed to the girl. Her name was Cara, and her fingers were fiddling with something on the table, a bit of machinery that she dismantled and reconstituted, over and over. Her skin was pale against her freckles; she spent little time in sunlight, despite the warm embrace of summer just outside.
That is something we have in common, the android mused.
“…your name again?”
He turned to see Markos looking at him sheepishly. The android had not recorded the ongoing conversation; he had no idea of the context. Markos took the weighed pause as an answer and blushed. “Sorry. I suck at names. And we only met you the once…”
Adrian, as if it was his cue, rolled his eyes a second time. “It’s Capar, right? Pretty unforgettable name, if you ask me.”
“Capar! Right, right…weird name. That Greek or something? Reminds me of capers, the food. You know?”
“That doesn’t make you sound clever, you know.” Adrian smirked.
Capar. CaPAr—Conscious Processor Android—was his technical name, with a few extra English letters thrown in to make it sound more human. But he didn’t care for the conversation. Something had locked his gaze on Cara’s deft fingers, screwing and unscrewing the bolt of her little machine, moving almost unconsciously.
“Pipin’ hot!” In the span of a breath, the tray-brandishing waitress efficiently deposited their drinks down before them, nary a ripple disturbing the surface of each. Adrian smacked his lips at the sight of his mocha, Markos throwing his hands up in excitement as he cheered his cappuccino. The android’s own coffee sat expressionless and steaming, a black mirror. And for Cara…
An elegant cup of herbal tea.
“Tea?” the android blurted out. The choice had betrayed his expectations; surely, someone with such unconscious energy would be turn more toward a drink with high levels of caffeine. But silence fell in the moments his outburst as Cara’s gaze slowly lifted up, her fingers ceasing their rhythmic dance. Fool. The stranger he acted, the more they would suspect something off about him, and the more likely it was that he would ruin any chance of being normal.
Cara took the moment in stride, owning it in a way he could never achieve. “What’s wrong with tea? Too delicate for you?”
His internal fan whirred rapidly. Own the moment. “Your energy level…does not correlate with your drink.”
Another pause. Markos leaned on his arm, sipping his own drink while observing him. “You know, there’s something about you I can’t quite put my finger on…something mechanical.”
The android’s computer whirred in panic. In the blink of a second, he calculated all negative outcomes to this scenario, all centered around the possibility of discovery. They would abandon him. Word would spread, and he would lack human companions, allies, in a world like this…
There were too many outcomes. He was overloading on the near-infinite gestures, expressions, words, that could shift the tide of opinion. Humans and their complexities; how did they survive one another?
Yet, as he picked through his options, he noticed that Cara was staring at him in a way that wrested all attention, with what he realized was intent. Don’t look them in the eyes, that was the golden rule, but Cara’s gaze was as strong as a directive.
He saw it, then. The glint in her pupils—that subtle gleam of a mainframe. The way the sunlight caught her skin, as if it was more plastic than flesh. And the small smile at her lips, almost calculated—indicative of one who has studied and mastered the art of human expression.
Finally, her fingers, once more taking up the rhythm of assembling and dismantling. The movement was almost automatic—mechanic.
“Come on, Markos,” Cara said smoothly. “It’s not like he’s some kind of robot.”
Markos scoffed, blushing. “Well, duh. But that would be sick.”
“…Sick?” the android questioned.
“He means it would be cool.” Adrian crossed his arms. “You sure you’re not a robot? Everyone knows that.”
“Not hip doesn’t equal robot.” Markos threw an arm around the android’s shoulders. “But if he is a robot, maybe he can help me with calculus homework.”
“I don’t think anyone can help you with calculus homework.”
“Try me.” The android spoke with ease, without thinking. Cara shared a secretive smile with him.
Markos howled with laughter. “The robot’s got some competition in him, huh? We’ll hit up the park after this. Maybe someone can finally beat Adrian’s smarts.”
Adrian tossed back a bit of his hair. “I doubt that.” But the android saw eagerness flush in his expression.
They drained their drinks quickly; the android managed to consume all of his coffee (though he couldn’t taste an ounce of it), and the other android did the same, sipping her tea with practiced ease. Once they had finished, they stood from the booth, leaving bits of currency tucked beneath their cups for the waitress to pick up. As Markos and Adrian bickered on their way to the door, the android paused before Cara. An expression of gratitude was in order.
“You have my thanks,” he said. He was still practicing his genuine inflection, but words were words.
Cara slipped her mechanical toy into her pocket, pausing to tuck the strap of her purse around her shoulder. She shook her head, but it was not without a soft grin. “Oh, little brother. You still have a lot to learn.”
He sat across a portrait painted from glass. He had spent the day debating whether he could justify a trip to the museum just down the street. Before he ever felt a decision was made, he found himself in this small, derelict room. The motions are always a blur. Steps on concrete, a cold press of hand to metal, an exchange of cash. Perhaps a school was visiting that day. Maybe tourists were visiting, he supposed. He couldn’t really remember, and found it hard to justify his current position. The truth is, he never actually wanted to go to the museum that day. But sometimes the walls of your house become too much to handle. Sometimes the couch just swallows you a bit too deeply, and the walls just seem to cover up some impossible truth. So you have to take the initiative to leave and find something to occupy your melting thoughts. Even if leaving is unbearable, the sun bites a bit too harshly or the light offends your eyes, anything’s better than letting the doghouse tangle you in.
Those were the sort of thoughts he used to explain this sluggish vacation. The museum’s interesting, he thought. It has all sorts of varying and interesting things to consider, he thought. What he doesn’t know, or maybe what he doesn’t want to recognize, is that art doesn’t mean anything if you don’t let it in. After about an hour of staring at nothing, thinking nothing, he found himself sitting across a portrait painted from glass. It was in a small side room, in a hallway separated from all the main exhibits. The portrait was of a man he didn’t know, but he briefly considered what that man must be feeling. Would he hate me? Would he like me? What would I say to him if I saw him in public? The portrait’s glassy eyes stared back, they stared straight into him as if to say,
“you already know the answer.”
He suddenly felt uncomfortable, and decided to leave. He decided that that was enough time spent at the museum, he should go home. No, I can’t go back home, he said aloud, I shouldn’t. I’ll go somewhere else. I’ll walk into town. And do what? Spend money you don’t have? Sit around for an hour? It’s always nice just walking, don’t you think? There’s nothing wrong with that.
So that’s what he decided to do. The only problem being, since he pretty much drifted around with his mind drowning in a fugue state for a few hours, he had no idea where he was, and had no idea how to get out of the museum. Everything looked unfamiliar and foreign. Streets with no names and buildings that stared back in words he didn’t understand like postmodernism, impressionism and expressionism. Sure, when someone says it you pretend to know what they mean, but you never actually cared enough to look into it. Paintings tend to know when you’re lying.
Finally. The exit. He heard the entire room whispering to each other about him, and he wondered what he did to deserve the ridicule. His mind went blank, and the walls closed in again.
Did he go on that walk into town? Who knows, certainly not him. He just found himself at his desk, thinking about how tired he was getting. Did he receive a message from one of his friends? Did he eat? Did he do anything? Does he do anything?
