Closet Addiction

Masturbation was as much a part of Jonathan's bedtime ritual as brushing his teeth and setting the alarm clock. His fantasies usually involved classmates, girls he'd seen around campus, the popular scantly dressed ones, the average less noticed ones. Sometimes teachers. Usually there was more than one involved, too. He would occasionally wonder, after the event, if any girls at the high school were in fact bi. Of course, he'd think to himself, "Well, you are now." The lesbian couple on campus was pretty well "out", but he didn't' find them particularly attractive . . . not that they didn't visit his head once or twice a month. His favorite scene involved the cheerleading coach/Algebra teacher, a short busty, Hispanic woman named Ms. (or Mrs., he didn't know) Torrez, one of the two black cheerleaders, and his friend Dawn.

"Hey! What's up, yo?" Cody, Jonathan's friend met him on the walk to school a block away, with a big smile and a big handshake.

"Dude!" Jonathan returned the greeting.

"So how do you like the new place?"

"It's cool. Bigger at least. I still wish they would have waited 'till I get out of eighth grade instead of Christmas vacation."

"At least you were done before Christmas Eve. But hey, what else were we gonna do?"

"Nothing?" Cody laughed.

"True. Woulda been better I guess. Nice thing is, you've got a short walk to school instead of a long bus ride with nineteen pricks."

"Yeah, now I just gotta put up with one."

"Oh, so you think you're funny."

"I know you're mom's funny."

"Dude, don't." Cody rolled his eyes.

"Funny lookin'!" Jonathan laughed at the horror of his own bad joke. Cody let out a dramatic annoyed sigh. The pair walked through a classically typical suburban neighborhood nearly the same as those resting in the shadow of every large and small city from San Diego to Syracuse. For Jonathan, it was a step up from the cramped apartment barely on the bus route. Here there were trees. The air was filled with birdsong and not car horns. A kindly old lady picked up a case of milk bottles from her stoop and waved to the boys. She paused and stood, her eyes following the two.

"That's Ms. Ramirez." Cody waved back. "She lives alone with some cats and a little rat dog, one of those yippee kind. She's nice, though. Treats the kids around here like her own grandkids, you know? And that's Mr. Collins. He works late at night over at the big K-Mart. We can't hang out too close to his house 'cause he sleeps most of the day. And you know Big Jack, the crossing guard? That's where he lives. He has to get up at 5 o'clock in the morning. And everybody knows about your house."

Jonathan rolled his eyes dramatically. "Please don't subject me to that story again."

"All I'm saying is that big creepy houses at the end of the street are big creepy houses at the end of the street for a reason." Jonathan and Cody stopped at the crosswalk opposite the high school waiting for Big Jack to stop traffic for them and a few freshmen. Jonathan smiled at the only girl amongst the four new faces. She was trim and developing nicely according to Jonathan's normal thirteen-year-old tastes, but she hadn't adopted the scant style many of the girls in his class drifted toward. He responded to Cody, still looking at her.

"Well, if my family goes through some horrible trauma and breaks up through strange circumstances, if my parents split up and move as far away from each other as they can, if we become the Manson family (or the Osbourne family for that matter) then I'll owe you a Coke. What say?" The girl glanced over her shoulder and gave a disturbed look to Jonathan.

"I'm just sayin', the last two families there split up and moved out." Jonathan grimaced.

"I know, all right? I heard about both times when they happened. Besides, we're already moved in."

"Just be careful, all right?" Big Jack moved into a break in traffic and displayed his sign. The kids started across.

"Fine, just promise me not to bring this up until at least tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay, okay I'm sorry . . . you've just got a cool family, so . . ." Cody looked away. Jonathan finally turned his eyes away from the young girl and sighed. He'd made a point to memorize her face first.

"Your dad's not that bad."

"The Colonel? No, he's a barrel of laughs." Jonathan didn't have an answer. The two somberly returned to the campus of Bunnyrun Jr. High. The school was normal for its region: pods of classrooms dotted the north end and the main office connected to the cafeteria and gym, while the fine arts building and sports field stretched out along the west side. A small outdoor amphitheater and much outdoor seating filled in the extra space. Black and red were the school colors and so black and red coated nearly every inch of the school that wasn't organic.

The first day back from Christmas vacation was like any other. The kids were rambunctious and more interested in showing off the presents they could bring to school and in talking about the ones they couldn't. The teachers, almost as disinterested in returning to the curriculum as the students were, shortened classes, spoke little, and assigned little homework. Jonathan and Cody found each other after their fourth period classes and headed toward the cafeteria. The school was much more crowded at this point. Kids were everywhere, mostly heading toward the cafeteria or already eating about the outside seating areas. Nobody wanted to eat inside at the long tables. Jonathan and Cody stepped in line at the outside ordering window and they found themselves right behind their good friend Liz. She turned upon hearing their approach.

"Oh hi, guys!"

"Aw nuts. I wanted to surprise you."

"Very cute, Jonathan." Liz was one of those very centered people. Jonathan envied her sometimes. He and Cody figured she must have had some problems in her life thus far, being human, but it always seemed like she had it together. Jonathan never fantasized about her. She was special. He didn't love her, but there were just some girls he couldn't imagine having sex with. "So, how was your vacation?"

"I spent mine moving, but I got some cool presents by the end of it."

"Oh, that's right. You moved into the . . . that house at the end of Pine Road." Jonathan always thought she was beautiful and always wondered why she was single.

"And I helped!" Cody said, mimicking the old Stove Top commercial.

"I think 'helped' is a generous term." Liz laughed.

"Oh I was with you the whole week." Jonathan joined Liz in laughing. After about ten students took their time ordering, the trio made it to the front of the line. Cody took a deep breath.

"Ah, smell that deep fried smell."

"Like Lucky Wishbone, you get the sense it was all cooked in the same grease." Jonathan added. Liz laughed again. The three got their orders and found a spot nearby in the grass. They talked about the usual and Cody kept his word. He didn't bring up the stories about Jonathan's new house the whole time. Liz did the same. Cody spent most of his time in his sketchbook as Jonathan and Liz talked. She mentioned her dismay at his missing her Christmas choir concert.

"Yeah, I hated missing it, but we were so busy the whole time."

"Oh, don't worry about it. I totally – " Just then she was interrupted.

"Hey guys!" A bubbly high-pitched voice called over to the group.

"Hello, Dawn." Liz was as pleasant and civil as usual. She liked Dawn well enough, but didn't respect her much. She didn't hold much credence for rumors, but the way Dawn dressed didn't exactly draw positive attention. Jonathan enjoyed the view every time.

"What's up, Dawn?" Cody looked over his shoulder to see her. He looked back to Jonathan and raised his eyebrows in regard to her short skirt. Jonathan tried not to laugh.

"Get anything good for Christmas?" Jonathan asked. Dawn was quick to kneel and lean forward, showing off the jade necklace.

"Chris got it for me," her on and off boyfriend of the last two years. After getting a glimpse down the front of her shirt, Jonathan decided he'd be seeing her again. He tried not to look too long out of respect for Liz.

That evening in the kitchen of Jonathan's new home, he finished his bit of homework and moved into the living room with his parents and little sister Madelon. He plopped down on the love seat with his sister just as the phone rang. His father answered.

"It's for you, Jon, it's Cody. I think he needs to spend the night again." Madelon rolled her eyes behind her round lenses and her mother laughed.

"You boys are gonna keep me awake all night. I need more sleep, you know. I'm not as old as you are yet."

"It's okay, Jon, Cody can come over if he wants to. Just get to bed on time and try not to keep your sister awake all night, eh?" Of course this is what Cody asked and so of course he was allowed to stay the night. He used to have to ride forty minutes to get to Jonathan's old house, but it was worth it. He made it in five this time.

"That's a much nicer ride."

"Ha, I bet." Cody walked his bike inside and parked it on the tile foyer.

"Sorry about this, man. Colonel Dad and Captain Morgan had an urgent meeting."

"Nah, you know it's cool, dude."

At about nine o'clock, after checking their homework with each other and watching some television, the two were still bored. They didn't appreciate Law & Order the way Jonathan's family did.

"This place has an attic, right?"
"So you're thinking that might be the source of the evil?"

"Oh I'm just bored."

"Yes, I think there's an attic." Jonathan's mother added.

"With a shed out back I didn't need the room to store anything up there. I was up there once when we took the place, but never really looked around." Jonathan's father said. The attic seemed older than the rest of the house. Opening the door to the attic from the pull-down ladder sent some dust in the air. Jonathan turned his flashlight on. The room was hard to see through all the dust, but the two made out an old chair, several old sheets about the floor and walls and an old-fashioned full-length mirror. They could barely see their reflections past the layers of dirt.

"Hey, check it out." Cody kicked the bottom of the mirror and it rotated forward. Jonathan turned and watched the reflected light shoot across the room. As it passed, a glint of metal shone for a moment.

"That was weird. Did you see that?" Jonathan turned and shined his light where he saw the metal. It was a doorknob. It was a shiny brass doorknob on a plain but perfectly clean white door.

"Wouldn't that lead directly outside?" Cody asked.

"That'd make sense I guess." It didn't make sense, though. Why would a door in the attic lead outside? What were they in, a barn loft? Jonathan carefully tried the knob. It easily gave, but he let it go.

"Well, you gonna open it or not?"

"This is weird, all right?" Jonathan took a breath and opened the door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Week 1:

The next day Jonathan looked forward to seeing Dawn in his algebra class. As he sat at his desk he wondered about Cody. "The heck was his deal?" He rifled through his bag and pulled out his trapper keeper. "I thought we both had a blast, but then he's all mopey and quiet this morning." He opened it up and flipped through school folders until he found the one labeled "algebra". "I mean you'd think he was oh nice, Ms. Torrez." She walked in carrying her usual small black briefcase and wore a usual black dress, not very low cut and just below the knee. Jonathan always liked that one. He figured she didn't know the top was so loose that it flopped forward somewhat when she leaned over to talk to students. Scrambling in just behind her was Dawn. "Oh this is too good." Dawn didn't seem to mind low cut. Cody would often remark that she either wasn't very bright or intentionally wore low cut and or transparent tops. Jonathan would reply that nobody could be that dense. She almost bumped into Ms. Torrez, trying to make it in just before the bell.

"Relax, Ms. Leighton. You made it." Jonathan watched this small exchange with a grin and almost laughed. "There's something awfully familiar about those two together." He joked with himself. Dawn took the only open seat next to Jonathan. The class was a bit chatty and anxious to get to lunch. Ms. Torrez eventually calmed them down by asking for their homework. Jonathan watched Dawn lean to his side to get in her bag.

"And while you're at it, take out your assignment calendars and I'll give you your next homework." A general groan rolled over the class. Dawn's sigh was more serious. Jonathan knew she had a weakness in math. He leaned over and quietly asked.

"Hey Dawn, what are you doing tonight?" Her mood was abruptly broken for a moment.
"What?"

"What are you doing tonight?" He asked again, smiling.

"Well, uh"

"Let me come over. I'll help you with this homework." She thought for a moment. She may have said no if not for a desperate need of points.

"Yeah, that'd be cool."

"There's that smile. I knew I could put it back on your pretty face." Dawn blushed. She was relatively used to compliments even now, but Jonathan was so unexpectedly forward and blunt.

"I'm not interrupting your conversation with my class, am I, Mr. Smith?" The whole class turned to the rear.

"Heaven forbid it, Ms. Torrez, my deepest apologies." She had to hold back a laugh. Dawn did as well. Jonathan only smiled brightly in the faces of all those staring back at him.

Week 2:

Cody didn't spend the night as often. On the times he did, he made a point not to go behind the white door. He'd sleep outside of it, in the attic, worried and sketching.

"No, I'm sorry. I can't. Really, you're too kind. You know I'll be back tomorrow night. Well, you too. Good night." Cody narrowed his eyes at a bright pink light. Jonathan shut the white door with the brass handle behind him with a wide smile. He cracked his neck from side to side; stretched his elbows behind him and sighed. Cody watched him with a flat look. "Aw, what's wrong? You're no fun anymore." He put his book down and rolled over in his sleeping bag. Jonathan shrugged and crawled into his bag. They lay for a moment, quiet. Cody sighed and rolled on to his back.

"So how's the study sessions going?" Jonathan laughed lightly and drew in a breath.

"What's your deal? I'm a changed man." Cody couldn't see the smirk in the dark. "Girls look at me now." Cody grated his teeth a little. "Girls never look at guys like us. You know that. It's like when I talk now, they listen." Jonathan waited for a response, anything. "Come on, Cody. We should be having the times of our lives here. We should be charging other guys to go in there." Cody thought this over and laughed once.

"So how many dates have you been on?" Jonathan didn't say anything. "Well?"

"It's only been what, two weeks?" He couldn't see Cody's subdued smile.

"So it's just study sessions then, huh?" Cody lay back down, amused and relieved.

"Shut up."

Week 3:

Jonathan and Cody ate quietly at lunch. Cody barely picked at a few chicken fingers while Jonathan tore through a double cheeseburger and a large helping of fries. He ate with a smirk. Liz came upon them as she sang Paper Moon.

"Well you two are awfully quiet." Cody looked up at Liz and said nothing.

"Yeah, I have no idea what's wrong with Mister Melancholy." Jonathan added a laugh at his own joke. Cody opened his sketchbook and turned to a blank page.

"What happened?" Jonathan smiled at her innocence.

"Search me. He was quiet the whole walk here." Liz tried to look at what Cody was drawing, but he turned away roughly. Jonathan's eyes remained on Liz. "Aw, that's no way to treat a lady." Cody noted the panic in his voice. Liz smiled a polite smile at the compliment. "Say, why are you still single, Liz? I always thought the hotties were all taken." He smiled a little too big. That compliment didn't go down so smoothly.

"Well, thanks, I think, but I'm just not interested in seeing anyone right now. These junior high relationships are just a bunch of needless drama."

"Oh, sure, but you still gotta get some, right?"

"What?" She straightened up as he leaned forward.

"Back me up on this, Cody. I'm sure girls get horny just like guys do."

"Jonathan, what happened to you?" Cody turned to the side.

"Go. He's not himself." She readily complied and was away from them quick. Her head turned back with a look of disbelief and confusion as she left. Jonathan opened his mouth as he watched her leave. Cody shook his head and turned to a new page in his book after filling the first. He'd never been this inspired before.

"Why even try? You could just go back in tonight."

"But I'm here now. I've got a whole three and a half hours until then. Besides look at all this wonderful young p- hello, Dawn." He spotted her at the amphitheater on the steps eating with some of her friends.

"Jonathan, just don't, huh? If she hasn't fallen for it by now." It was too late. Jonathan's newly acquired swagger carried him across the small grassy plain to just behind Dawn's exposed shoulder. He touched her arm and whispered in her ear.

"Who the – " She was up quick and livid, ready to smack the source of the voice. "Oh. Jonathan? That was horrible."

"Two weeks of study sessions and nothing in return? At least take your top off for me. I don't want to be the only guy here who hasn't seen your -" This time she did smack him then took her food and stormed off. "Well . . . I'll get to see 'em later anyway." He went over the thought in his head, nodded and smiled, reassuring himself. The rest of the day passed in a subdued version of the same manner: leering at classmates, ogling the short skirts and near transparent tops between classes, even asking Ms. Torrez for lots of Algebra help so he could get a good look down her shirt when she came by. He didn't even care that Dawn saw him. The walk home was as quiet as the walk to school. Cody's house was the first stop.

"Don't go back in there, Jon."

"Jon? You must be serious about this." Jonathan had developed a permanent smirk at this point.

"I'm not kidding. I got a sick feeling in there . . . and from you."

"Well I got a good feeling, lots and lots of good feelings and nobody's gonna keep me from going back." Cody stopped and thrust his arm out across Jonathan's chest. They were in the middle of the walk home down Pine Street in front of Cody's house. Mrs. Ramirez down the way watered her lawn. A brisk wind blew a few leaves about the street. Bright, green, well-kempt lawns alternated with clean sidewalks the whole way down.

"I've tried not to tell you but you're taking this way too far."

"Well, I figured you thought that but I also figured you were just a –"

"No, that's not what I'm talking about." Cody was shouting at this point. "My dad," he started. Mrs. Ramirez looked down to the kids. He started again quieter. "You know my dad drinks too much, but that's not all."

"What, he does crack, too?" Jonathan turned up the smirk. Cody shook his head in frustration. He looked from his front door to Jonathan.

"It's sex, Jon, sex. My dad's obsessed with sex." Jonathan's face blanched. A joke flashed across his face, but he turned serious again. "He never cheated on my mom, but when she was in the hospital it got bad." Jonathan sighed and tried to turn away. "I could hear him . . . by himself, Jon, all the time. He didn't have a white door, though, just that computer."

"Pff, that's awful convenient." Cody grabbed Jonathan's shoulder when he turned to walk away.

"I'm serious, Jon. I'm seeing it in you. You're spending more time in there, aren't you?"

"So what if I am?"

"Are you going to go through high school and college, assuming you make it that far, without talking to a real girl?" Jonathan jerked his shoulder away from Cody. He didn't say anything, but walked on. He tried to whistle the rest of the way home by himself. Too many conflicting voices shouted for attention. Madelon was still in school and his parents were still at work so he tossed his bag on the sofa, marched right upstairs, climbed up to the attic and opened the white door again.

"Did y'all miss me?" A slender hand closed the door behind him. His mother arrived home first with Madelon.

"Hello, Jon! We're home!" His mother called to the empty house. "Jon? Where are you?" She moved to the bottom of the stairs and called up. "I'm too tired for hide-and-seek. I see your bag down here. You're not very good at foolin' me, you know." Madelon tugged on her mother's overalls.

"I bet he's in the bathroom, mom. He's so modest." As the two climbed the stairs, the ladder to the attic down the hall slid to the floor and Jonathan quickly made his way down. His mother and sister reached the top just as the ladder quietly hit the roof again.

"Oh, there you are, Jon."

"Sorry, mom, just not feeling too well."

"You look flushed. Are you okay?" She put her palm to his forehead

"He looks like he has a fever, mom, or like he was just running a long way." Jonathan looked at his sister.

"I think it's a fever, Maddie. I must have caught something at school." This would be the first of many lies. Jonathan had never been one for lying, but was surprised at how good he was at it. He did as little homework as he could get away with. Pretences had to be kept. At first he methodically created plenty of time and excuse for being in the attic, not that anyone but Cody knew where he really was. Sickness worked well for about a week. He came to dinner late or left early claiming a lack of hunger. Eating so little naturally caused a weight loss, which helped him look as sick as he pretended. His cheeks began to sink in and his pants hung loose about his waist. Eventually he had to drop that lie and create several smaller ones. He was studying for tests when there weren't any or when he had no intention of studying. He was on the phone with a girl who might like him and would hate to be bothered. Once he figured out that he could access the attic by climbing the latticework in the back he was going to choir concerts that never happened, going out to movies with Cody he'd never see, or going on dates with a girl that never existed.

Eventually his skill at lying broke down as he cared less and less about appeasing his family and more about going in the closet with the white door. His parents noticed a change in attitude but he would never talk about it. They never had to pry before. He was always a good kid and stayed out of trouble. His father understood that sometimes kids needed to deal with problems on their own.

"But what if it's something he can't handle?"

"You know Jon. He'd never get himself into that kind of situation in the first place. His friends are good kids, sweetheart."

"I know, but you also know how much Madelon looks up to him. I don't want her to lose any respect for her brother."

"Oh hon, you're just worrying too much."

"I better be." She turned the lamp off as Jonathan turned his flashlight on. The next morning Jonathan didn't come down for breakfast.

"Madelon, go up to your brother's room and wake him up, would you?"

"Okay, mom, but I don't think I'll be able to do it by myself." Madelon's mother laughed.

"Well okay. If you can't do it, I'll come up after you and we'll drag him out of bed together, okay?" Madelon nodded, turned and headed upstairs. Cody watched the front door of Jonathan's house as he slowly passed by that morning. He stopped walking. Jonathan should be out by now. They hadn't talked for a long time, but had walked together every day anyways. Cody had thanked God every day Jonathan joined him. Today was different.

"Come on." Cody spoke to himself quietly. "Just get out here. Come on, Jon." When he heard Jonathan's mother scream he bolted to the door. She was on the phone after calling her husband first to come home quick and she was telling the police her son was missing and that she had no idea where he could have gone the night before and no it didn't look like anyone had broken in and no she would not calm down.
"Mrs. Smith!" Cody burst into the kitchen.

"Oh Cody! Johnny's missing! My baby isn't here! Where is he?" She was nearly hysterical. Mr. Smith ran in moments after Cody. He hugged his wife and tried to calm her down. "Our baby's missing, Ed!" Cody waited as long as he could. He desperately wanted Jonathan's family reassured, but abhorred telling them what was really the problem. Madelon started crying for her missing Johnny. That was the last straw.

"I know where he is!" Mrs. Smith could have shaken Cody for the answer. His skin was cold and clammy as he led them to the attic ladder. He felt weak all over in absolute dread of going back to the closet with the white door. His heart beat hard in his chest. This was the second and last time Cody had been in Jonathan's attic. He led them to the unusually clean white door with the brass knob and with a visibly shaking hand opened it for Jonathan's family.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"So when are you moving?"

"Next weekend." Cody sat at Jonathan's bedside.

"I bet you're looking forward to that." Jonathan laughed weakly. "You know, I bet it could have killed you . . . or at least held you hostage forever and ever."

"Yeah, but what a fun way to go." Jonathan half smiled. His sallow face poked out from under the sheets.

"No, no it wouldn't be."

"I know." Cody picked up the brass doorknob from Jonathan's nightstand. "Funny how that worked, about the door and all, how dad broke it."

"I never knew your dad could swing an axe so well." They both laughed.

"So there was nothing on the other side of the door when he smashed it, huh?" "Nope. Just more wall." Jonathan's mother knocked on his door.

"It's about time for you to get home, Cody. Jon needs his rest."

"Okay, Mrs. Smith!" He tossed the knob in his hand then set it back down. "Hey, wanna burn those sketches tomorrow with me?"

"Sounds like a plan." Cody shouldered his bag and stood. "Hey, Cody?"

"Yeah?"
"Thanks, man."

"No problem." They shook hands before Cody left.

Making Friends

The room is dark. It is warm and a garbage can ripe with the smell of old food in the corner attracts the roach. The roach scurries along a cheap tile floor from a crack in the wall. An Arby's wrapper lies next to the trashcan. It has been there for a while. Some grease and a bit of some old hard cheese the roach finds particularly interesting clings to the paper. It is hungry. It scrambles over the smooth paper and begins feeding on the processed cheddar. The roach moves from that to a small puddle of the grease. Its legs push into the skin on top of the grease and its pincers bite through. Wings flit at random.

Without notice a blazing fluorescent light floods the room and the roach scurries under the ledge of a wooden wall. It anxiously looks back at the yellow greasy substance it was nibbling on the paper. Tremors spread across the floor as a large human walks into the room. The roach's antennae twitch quickly as the man turns to a dingy white fridge and opens the door. More light fills the room along with a rush of cold air, carrying with it the smell of more food. The man scratches himself through a hole in his boxers. He removes a plate of meat and shuts the door. The roach takes several nervous steps back as the man's feet crash toward it. They stop, facing the cabinet door the roach hides under. The smell of decay wafts from the man's feet, from his whole body.

Some rustling sound comes from above. The roach tentatively steps out from under the ledge to get a better look. A small piece of white meat lands in front of the roach with a thud. The roach looks up at the man eating the meat with his hands. He bites into a large portion, gripping the bone tight. While the man eats, a few smaller pieces drop to the ground. Risk appears small. The roach steps within eyesight of the man and bites into the meat. It tastes relatively fresh. The fridge door closes and the light flashes to darkness again. As suddenly as the man arrived, he leaves. The roach crawls back to the crack in the wall.

In the afternoon of the next day the roach again exits the crack in the wall and sees the same paper and the same bits of meat about the floor. The roach looks up. The same plate appears to be on the ledge above it. It smells like it's up there, too. The roach heads for the wall and begins crawling up. About halfway up the wall, a long creaking sound flows through the room. The roach freezes. The creaking stops, repeats, and then ends in a slamming sound. The roach scampers up the wall and on to a flat surface above the floor. The counter is a whole new world. Several porcelain and paper plates are spotted with more old food. The whole surface is contoured with dirt and stains and a few spots of mold. This excites the roach but the enormous plate of meat on the new level distracts it. The roach is higher up than last night so the tremors of the man's feet are barely noticeable. The smell of meat is too enticing.

The roach darts from plate to plate, pausing under the raised lips of each. As the roach makes its way to the mountain of white meat, the man is thrusting keys into the pocket of his blue shorts and slamming his blue hat featuring a USPS logo into a trashcan. The roach, overcome with hunger lust, scales the leftover chicken despite the man. The man does not notice. He is busily grumbling, rubbing wet red eyes, and rifling through the sparse items of the refrigerator. The roach has made it into the body of the aging meat as the man wheels around, remembering the same. He pulls off the other small leg and opens the bottle of barbeque sauce. A few drops through the breast startles the roach and it runs out into the light, freezing in full sight of the man. He speaks a few gurgling words and bites into the leg. The roach panics and makes for the wall.

The man does not react, only watches it go and continues eating. This is unusual. The roach expected to be attacked by now. It freezes behind an open bag smelling of sour cream and onion. It could scramble down the wall and into the crack, but that meat is so attractive. The roach carefully steps out from under the bag just as the man's hand sails down toward it. The roach speeds toward the wall, climbs down quickly, and slips back through the crack. The man finds the bag empty.

It is late morning. After the roach has kept out of sight for hopefully long enough, it enters the tempting kitchen once again. The roach crawls across the linoleum to the cabinet of the first night. Just then, the roach sense the man's tremors and hides securely in the corner. Returning is no longer and option.

A second roach's antennae emerge from the crack. The first notices them and tries to indicate how dangerous the situation could get. The second is younger and does not understand. It climbs out on to the dirty floor and heads toward the first roach. The first turns toward the second. They meet in the middle as the man steps into the kitchen. This was also unusual. He was never around at this time before. He stops. All motion has stopped in this room.

He is holding a bowl in one hand. He's wearing the same boxers and a tee shirt with an In-N-Out Burger logo on the right side of the chest. The fabric is old and threadbare. Holes and stains speckle both pieces of clothing. A drop of white cream falling from the spoon in the bowl to the floor breaks the stillness in the room. The second roach watches the drop of sugar, just short of the man's yellow, long toenails. The first roach, unable to do anything, watches the second rush out to it.

The man watches, too. He speaks a few words, opens up the freezer and retrieves a box of ice cream. He pulls the scoop from the sink, avoiding the roach enjoying a spot of sugar, and scoops the last of the box into the bowl. He tosses the box at the full garbage can. It bounces off the heap and crashes down toward the first roach, watching this exchange. Suddenly it darts toward the second roach as the box lands behind it sending more spots of ice cream over the floor.

The man stands next to the counter looking over the picked-over carcass of the Safeway bird and then to the two roaches eating his leftover ice cream. The wary roach runs back a few inches as the man brings the plate around and down to the floor next to the garbage can. He speaks a few words and takes his bowl out of the kitchen. The smaller roach abandons the ice cream droplets and climbs over the mountain of chicken. The larger roach follows suit.

Over the course of the following night, more roaches and then flies join the feast. The man does not return to the kitchen until the early afternoon of the next day. Nearly all of the chicken is gone by now after a night of insects devouring it. The man staggers back at the number of new guests. The chicken carcass is teeming with roaches and a few others are gathered around the diminishing spots of dried ice cream. A light cloud of flies circles over the top of the garbage.

The original roach, eating crumbs from an old baking pan on the stove, watches the man. Several minutes pass as the man looks on at his lively kitchen. A few spiders have moved in around the window frame on the wall above the garbage can. The man speaks a few slow wondering words. He kneels to get a closer look at the menagerie. When hunger whines again, he turns to the fridge and removes a can of soda and a packet of lunchmeat. He attempts to stand up but decides to sit where he is and watch his new company.

He opens the vegetable drawer and removes an orange. He rolls it toward the unrecognizable chicken. Roaches scatter from the plate as the orange bumps into it. The roach on the baking pan dashes toward the edge, looking as the others scatter. The man laughs, sitting in the cool breeze from the refrigerator. A half an hour later, the man has finished off two packets of bologna, half a block of cheddar and three sodas.

He finally climbs to his feet. The empty bags and cans remain where he sat. Watching from the counter, the roach preens its antennae. This is all unusual. The smaller roach, biting into the fatty pieces of old chicken strip breading, doesn't notice.

During the next few days, the man spends more time in the kitchen. The refrigerator is looking sparser as he rarely leaves the house anymore. The pantry next to the fridge is another source of food for the man's guests. The bag of sugar will likely never be used for any cooking. He leaves trails of it around the floor and counter, inviting the ants to march in the random designs. And old bag of cinnamon serves the same purpose. Four oranges are half devoured and several roaches inhabit two browned onions. The window frame is almost completely coated in webbing. Some nights the man sleeps on the kitchen floor. The first roach remains wary, never straying too far from the now busy crack in the wall.

The fluorescent lights do not scare the insects away anymore. The man bids a greeting to his friends and cheerfully makes a breakfast of raw spaghetti and Taco Bell hot sauce packets. He speaks freely now to his only friends: calling them by name, asking questions and telling jokes. The roach never warms to this reception. The flies stay close to him, though. They can avoid danger a lot easier than the roach. It feeds on the various old pieces of food he leaves out for the other bugs, but steadfastly avoids the man.

The newly added small television to the kitchen during one of the man's few excursions from his home becomes the focus of the day's activity. He flips to a news channel featuring a talk show among rival politicians and engages a spider in discussion of foreign affairs. In the middle of a three-point response, a roach crawls over the man's foot and he squeals in surprise. He laughs, staggering back and catches himself on the counter crushing a line of ants. The rest of the chain scatters in confusion. He gasps. He looks at his hand. The roach watches him. He knows that it knows. He turns on the sink to wash away the evidence, but there's no water. Cursing the bills, he grabs the towel hanging in the refrigerator's door handle. As he wipes the bloody and dismembered bodies of the ants away, he glances over to the roach. He tries to apologize. A few of the ant segments move in reflex on his hand. He stamps his hand on the towel and wipes it hurriedly. None of the other insects seem to notice. The ant line he rent asunder is slowly materializing again. His hands are relatively clean. A faint shade of maroon still lingers on his palm. The man leaves the refrigerator and a freezer door wide open in apology and does not return to the kitchen for the rest of the day. After an hour or so, the roach relaxes and concentrates more on eating.

The man spends the whole day and night out of the kitchen. To make up for his atrocity, the man lays out several thawed fillets of chicken from the freezer the next day. It is a feast. Not only are slabs of chicken on the menu, but the last of the rotten potatoes, the last can of tuna fish, and half a box of fish sticks. He nibbles one of the fillets along with a raw hot dog. He hasn't cooked in months. During the feast, the man even offers a bit of tuna specifically to the roach on the counter. He has named it Bob after his old boss. It only runs back to the crack in the wall. Other insects immediately bite into it, however.

At 3:30 in the afternoon, the man is laughing over cops and criminals on television with a few roaches on his lap, collecting crumbs. He absently scratches the top of his head. In unison, the fridge light, the fluorescents and the television die. Just then his stomach turns. It turns and knots in a way he's never felt before. He rolls to his back and groans. He writhes and moans for quite a while. The roach watches again, only from the floor. These new sounds draw it back in. The zoo around him continues as it has, only the creatures therein avoid the flailing man. During the thrashing, the man kicked a rotted orange rind toward the roach and it scurried away again to the crack in the wall. The roach moves on from this house. The smaller one goes with it.

The man holds his stomach tight. Before too long he is still again, perfectly still. The man remains there, not moving for days. Only the sounds of the insects and the more and more occasional phone ring disturb the stale silence.

Fate spares the roach and its companion from the massacre at the house. Other humans show up to take the man away and return the kitchen to an ancient former glory. First physical attacks and then poisons clear the entire kitchen of its inhabitants. Men and women come in to scrub and disinfect after the initial cleaning of the bugs and rotted food. The two roaches never return, never witness the slaughter, the cleaning. They move on to another nearby home where a dog's food dish presents a daunting target for the man's old friends.

Making History

White fog wafted about the floor of an expanse as far as the eye could see. The fog was barely discernable from the rest of the whiteness about. The light was bland. There was no smell or sound. Only the floor had any sort of texture, like standing on a magnetic force. The complete silence broke. Into this space appeared a machine hovering ten feet from the ambiguous surface enveloped by a wavering blue bubble. The young adolescent boy piloting the machine looked about in confusion. He checked the time indicator on the third screen, but it was blank. Clearly this was a problem. He looked to the cloudy surface and carefully piloted his vehicle downward. The brass covering most of the machine would have glinted had there been any direct light. The boy powered the machine down and the bubble vanished.

"Hey!" He shouted into the ether. It was all the same all around. "What is this place? I can't even tell when I am, bloody machine." He hopped in the seat again and scrutinized the screens. He tried entering his own time again, but a message came across that he was already there. "Argh, this makes no sense." As the boy contemplated flying about this bizarre place, a voice came from the foggy floor.

"Who's shouting?" He leapt off the machine. His eyes darted about.

"Yes? Who's there?"

"Nobody.  Just let us be."  It was an older, gravelly voice.

"Tell me what's going on and I'll get out of here!" The man sat up. The boy could make out white hair, a white shirt, suspenders, and what looked like brown pants.

"My name's Gene." He groaned as he stood. "Welcome to Hell."

"What?" Other people began to rise from the fog. They were of all races and time periods. Some appeared to be from as far back as the early 1900's. A few wore fashions he guessed could only have come from several years from his own time. The boy jumped back against the machine, glancing wildly about. "Who are you people?" Gene tried to calm him down but didn't seem too sincere.

"Jus' calm yo'self, son, and tell us who you killed," the black man from probably the 70's, said.

Someone from farther back quietly said, "Not a kid. That ain't right."

"But I didn't – "

"Must have been someone, or you wouldn't be here, squid." A young woman in a leather flared skirt said. The clothing was obviously from different times, but it all appeared to be aged.

"I's cool, chico, jus' relax." A Mexican from . . . he couldn't tell, approached him. "Look, eet does not matter who you keeled. They was in yo' bloodline. An ancestor, comprendes?" The boy backed away, shaking his head. "I tried to stop a family feud. Mi family and another fought for generations. I thought I could stop it, but . . ." He trailed off.

"Female slavery in Asia." The young woman from the apparent future said. "About the 2070's, white female slavery blasted through the top, squid. So, I carefully went back and dusted the four early traders. I suspected something like this might happen. I made my choice and I wouldn't take it back." She stood looking about the emptiness.

"I feel a bit bad about it, but I had to stop my own people." The black man spoke up. "I love my country, but the people got too hungry for power." Ren's head cocked in total confusion. "They shouldn't o' made that bomb."

"You're screwed, kid." Gene said. "You went back. Tried to do something good. Killed someone. Wound up here. Enjoy the rest of eternity."

The kid couldn't accept it just like that. The flight function of the machine still worked and he flew it all over his strange new home. There was no sun and no moon. Time must have passed, but he couldn't feel it. Ren desperately pushed his machine as high, as far, and as fast as he could, but to no avail. There was no undoing what was done. After giving up that route he tracked down his original landing point by the same people still standing and talking. Heads turned up and watched him descend. Gene's voice came up from the fog.

"Have a good trip?" The woman from the future gave him a dirty look.

"Mute it, Gene."

"Como te llamas?" The kid shook his head. A look of panic crept up to his face.

"Whas yo name, son?" The older black gentleman asked.

"Oh . . . uh, Ren. I go by Ren." He started calming.

"Have a seat." The black man smiled a disarming smile.

Ren sat down in the fog. The others joined him.

"My name's Joseph. This is Vail and Jorge." Ren nodded, his face still a melting pot of confused expressions. The three with Ren exchanged glances, both worried and sad.

"So tell us your story, squid. We've all got one." Ren opened his mouth before Gene cut him off.

"What does it matter? Not like there's any way out." The men tried to ignore him, but the young woman couldn't.

"He's just a kid, Gene. This isn't gonna be easy for him. Besides, most of us are always ready for another story . . . when it's all you've got left." Joseph touched her arm. "I'm sorry." She made a motion as if to speak again, but buried her head in her hands.

"Is cool, chico. Go ahead."

"I never really thought I could change the world, but I had to go back." Ren shook his head. "I don't even know where to start." Gene spoke up again.

"You could start with your time machine that woke me up from a sound eternity."

"Oh . . . sorry. Well, my dad made it when I was a kid. I was six when he told me about it."

* * * * * *

"Now Warren," Ren's father told him, "never touch the machine unless I've given you express permission," with much emphasis on 'express'.

"But Dad," he replied, eyeing the switches, buttons, dials, tubes and screens, "this is amazing." He, an adult in a six-year-old body, put his hands on his hips, cocked his head and looked at his father. "Does it really go through time?" The corners of his father's lips drew back in a wide fatherly smile, exposing teeth a little yellow from neglect, sleepless nights in the shop. Rather than answer the question, he withdrew a coin from his shirt pocket. A slightly greasy rough hand tossed it to Ren. He turned it over in his small hands. "I don't get it."

"Look closer." Ren sounded out the Latin on the silver coin.

"That's Washington, right, Dad?" His father nodded. Ren examined the back of the coin. Despite hours and dollars spent on video games, he never really looked at one before. The back was too confusing, too detailed. He turned it face forward again and noticed the date. "It says," he read aloud, "2045." Ren's eyebrows narrowed and he looked inquisitively. "Does that really mean the year 2045?"

"That's right, son." Ren looked back to the coin.

"Wow. So that's," Ren's eyes absently looked to the corner of the shop's ceiling. They looked down to the dust-covered floor with bits of wire and metal strewn about. Ren held a hand open and curled his fingers one at a time. His lips pronounced quietly the numbers. "Forty . . . forty-two years from now?"

"Very good." Ren's father patted him on the shoulder. "Just remember. Never touch the," then he stopped, paused, and started over, "never come into the shop without my permission, okay?" Ren, meanwhile was looking over the time machine again. A quarter moon in the crossbar window sent a glint of light off a brass handle.

"But Dad, this is way too cool." His father whipped a dirty rag from the back of his belt and began rubbing the round lenses of his glasses.

"Well, some day," his wrinkled eyes looked up from under his eyebrows to his son, "when it's time, and after I've experimented enough with it," he sighed and put the Ben Franklin glasses back on, "I'll teach you how to use it." Ren looked at the coin, at the machine, then to his father.

"Okay." He nodded.

* * * * * *

"And now for the holy quest." Gene spoke from the fog.

"Don't make me shut your mouth for you, Gene." Vail was ready to kick Gene across the ether. Jorge tried to turn the conversation back on Ren.

"Your father must have been a smart guy, chico, to build a time machine by himself like that." Ren looked over at the machine. He never quite appreciated the genius of it before.

"And I blew it. He spent so much time on his machine and I get lost somewhere outside time. I couldn't even change anything." Ren started sobbing into his hands. They had all been there: Gene, Vail, Joseph, Jorge, the others who eventually lay back into the fog. Some still cried. Those who had been there long, like Gene, hardened into bitterness and quiet desperation. Ren was only fourteen, though. He broke their hearts, a kid stuck in this place with no hope. Jorge tried to think of something to turn Ren's mind back to the story. He noticed something protruding from the machine next to the seat.

"Chico, what's that next to the seat on your machine?" Ren sniffed and looked where Jorge pointed.

"Oh, that's a dagger from Rome. My dad found it for me for my birthday." The others nodded. Vail stood and took the dagger from the machine. She turned it over in her hands and wielded it well.

"Before my plan that led me here, I collected period weapons." She pulled a throwing star from her sock. She tossed it to Ren. "Check this out, squid. It's a real Chinese throwing star from before China opened its doors to the world. I still have a Native American hatchet around here somewhere, but . . . I guess I forgot about it." Ren looked from her to the star.

"Dad used to find me all kinds of stuff."

* * * * * *

For Ren's tenth birthday, his father gave him a real crossbow from the Victorian era. For his eleventh birthday, Ren received a pirate flag from Spain. When Ren turned twelve, his father managed to bring back a wheel from a Model T Ford. Ren's interest in the time machine may have faded if his father simply never let him see it again, but these gifts and others, like an ancient Egyptian tapestry for Ren's mother on their anniversary fueled Ren's interest at a strong blaze. The catalyst for Ren's breaking with the rule would not come until his freshman year in high school, the time when ethics, morals, vanity, haste, and impetuousness run high.

He arrived home at about three o'clock in the afternoon, his Fridays being short days. "Hey, I'm home!" Ren called as he entered the house. He tossed his backpack on a loveseat and collapsed next to it.

"Turn on the news, would you?" His mother called from the kitchen.

"Yeah, sure. I'm your slave." Ren smiled and grabbed the clicker off the coffee table. She walked in as Ren turned the television on and sat in one of the large plush armchairs. "I forgot you had the day off today."

"You're just like your dad. He said the same thing this morning." A few commercials passed as they talked. "How was school?" Ren sighed.

"Eh, it was all right." His mother smiled.

"Okay, what happened." Ren suddenly stood up and walked toward the kitchen.

"Can I make a sandwich? I didn't eat much for lunch today." His mother half frowned. She said he could.

"There ought to be some shaved ham yet." She called after him. "So what happened?" Ren opened the fridge and started removing items for a ham sandwich.

"Well." Ren paused, holding a jar of mayonnaise. "A kid in my class used the phrase 'white guilt' today." Ren's mother leaned against the doorway and laughed lightly.

"What class was this?"

"Oh, my honors English class." She nodded knowingly. Since she was the literature guru as opposed to her husband the history buff/scientist, she recognized that white teenage angst one acquires upon first readings of To Kill a Mockingbird, Huckleberry Finn, and Invisible Man. "We just started Ellison's Invisible Man." Again she smiled to herself. Ren fought a bit with a twist-tie and reached behind a heel of bread for two good slices.

"Turns out he's not actually invisible, eh?" His mother quipped.

"No, he's just humiliated and brutalized all his life by ignorant southern bastards." In Ren's mind, Ellison's nameless narrator swallowed blood to the point of sickness as he attempted to deliver his "social responsibility" graduation speech to a group of ignorant, chatty white men. His mother sighed a motherly concerned sigh.

"That's a part of life, son."

"Well it shouldn't be!" His mother couldn't answer. The ladder on the ceiling of the hallway swung down to the floor and the trap door opened.

"What's all the shouting down there?" Ren's father climbed down the ladder. "You weren't planning on letting Ren have any of that chicken, were you, dear?"  Ren's mother rolled her eyes and smiled.

"You always say it's the best chicken west of Georgia." His father smiled, wiping his hands on his rag. Ren swallowed and cleared his voice.

"I was shouting about us." Ren's father tucked his rag back in his back pocket and straightened his glasses.

"About us?" Ren's mother turned to him.

"About . . ." He searched for words, about the floor then to his parents' faces. "Well, race, I mean." He gave up, not finding the right way to speak. "I don't know if people will ever get along. But it's not just that." Ren's brows furrowed again. "It's like there's this dark ugly veil between me and every colored person, you know?"

"A veil, eh?" His mother smiled.

"Oh you know what I mean." Ren took a bite from his sandwich and sat at the small kitchen table.

* * * * * *

Gene started laughing and sat up. "Slavery? You were going to go back and stop slavery? By how? Suggesting the thirteenth amendment to Jefferson and his personal harem?" Ren looked ashamed on top of his other emotions.

"I figured they'd be reasonable. I was gonna fly to Massachusetts and go back in time to 1776. I knew I couldn't stop it around the world myself." He added with a hint of bitterness. "But my dad surprised me when I left. I put in the wrong date and ended up later than I expected." Joseph smiled, feeling a similar connection to Ren for wanting to redirect his people's history. Vail only sat silent and jittered slightly, anger washing over her stolid face.

"So what? You went back and decided to just knock off a plantation owner?" Gene laughed again.

"It wasn't like that!" Ren jumped to his feet. "I've never killed anyone before! I just couldn't stand to see them in the fields. Then there were the men with whips. The owner was going through his fields when I got there and . . . I was so angry!" Jorge patted Ren's shoulder and tried to calm him down.

"You didn't know your house was where a plantation used to be?" Ren shook his head and sniffed deep. A few other people lying about sat up and groaned at the shouting. Gene rolled back and laughed again.

"So you freak out, kill a plantation owner who happens to be your great great great great great granddaddy, run back to your machine, and pop up here?" He laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. Vail couldn't take any more.

"Well I have killed before and I could do it again." She spoke through clenched teeth and pulled the star from her sock. Gene jumped to his feet as did Vail right after.

"Do it!" He yelled. "Come on! Get it over with!" Gene jutted his chin forward, exposing his neck. "Finish it! I'm tired of waiting to die!" Vail gripped the star in her fist and reached back, ready to slice his neck open.

"Stop!" Ren yelled, then covered his ears, rocking back and forth. "I don't want to see any more blood!" Gene and Vail stood for a moment, breathing heavy and staring at each other.

"Relax. Everybody, just calm ya selves down and relax." Joseph's deep voice reverberated off their hearts. Gene sat down again.

"So what if she kills me? I'd finally be able to rest." He sighed and looked away. Vail was still standing. Her fist lowered.

"The kid shouldn't see any more fightin' now. Besides, you don't want your life on Vail's head for her eternity, do you?" Gene looked sidelong up to her and smirked. She rolled her eyes and sat down again.

"Sorry, squid."

"It's okay."

A long silence followed. Gene lay back down in the fog followed by Jorge then Joseph. In that space, Ren figured out a few things. No amount of thinking or figuring would get him back home. Rewriting one's own bloodline concretely alters time. He made a mental note of the silence. "If I take this space of time and multiply them infinitely, I'll know what life is like now." Realization washed over him. He lay down, staring into the bland white light from under the fog.

"Gene?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"You've been here a long time, haven't you?"

"Yeah, kid."

"Were you my age?"

"Yeah, kid."

"Maybe we should tell more stories. Talk with the other people around here. They're probably pretty interesting." Nobody said anything. "Maybe ride around on my machine."

"Yeah, maybe." Gene said. Joseph sat up. He paused before speaking.

"Show me your machine, son. I want to see it." Vail smiled and swallowed hard. She sat up.

"Me too, squid."

The Word Hole

As the cops are on their way to haul off mom and an ambulance is coming to haul dad away, and Alex is tied to the banister and Janie’s got a string of condom packages hanging out of her back pocket I can’t help thinking that Salvador Dali started all of this. Granted, I can’t blame this on the artist directly but if he wasn’t such an interesting painter, and dad didn’t like him so much, then he wouldn’t have bought Dali’s “Metamorphosis”, and the hole would have never formed. “A hole?” you ask. It’s a Word Hole, as we came to call it. I’m sorry to begin en media res like this, but you really have to see this to know where I’m coming from. Besides, I want you to know up front what opening a Word Hole can do. Let me tell you the whole story. Excuse me a moment. Janie! Button your shirt back up! The police are almost here! This isn’t going to be easy. Anyway, it was my first day back from school, summer vacation, when dad showed me his newly acquired “Metamorphosis of Narcissus”. “I just love the haunting pair of hands and the complete parallelism from bright to dark,” dad said, holding his beautifully framed print to his chest. It’s a good thing mom could appreciate Dali. She knew the kids hated that surreal style and so forced dad to confine his passions to his office and the bedroom, so to speak. You have to love “Persistence of Memory”, though, with all the melting clocks. “I’ll nail it up after dinner.” “Oh!” Mom yelped and ran to the kitchen. Dad walked back to his office as mom opened the oven, smoke escaping into the house. The fire alarm blared. “Alex! Take a towel and wave the smoke away from the alarm!” “But mooom, you’re gonna make me die!” “Do it!” He reluctantly did so. Janie cackled as she pummeled his video game character’s still body. Alex whined as he waved the smoke away and the alarm stopped. In retrospect, at least the alarm was one consistent note. Mom brought out the well-done steaks. “Sorry, Peter, I think the fat caught fire.” “Oh, here, let me take something.” “No no, just go tell your father that was the dinner bell. And Janie, put the game up. It’s time to eat.” I headed through the living room and knocked on dad’s office door under the stairs. “Dinner’s ready, dad.” “Okay, I’ll be right out. I’m just hanging this painting. I couldn’t wait.” “Ha, all right dad.” I headed back to the dining room, stepping over Janie along the way. I kicked her side lightly. “Come on, kid, food’s on. If you don’t move Alex and I’ll eat all the steak, right Alex?” “Yup yup!” he called. “Is your father – ” before she could finish the hammering started. “I can’t believe it. You’re gone ten months and on your first day back he’s in his office hanging his pictures.” She poured the three glasses of milk and two of ice water. “Oh, I understand how much he loves his Dolly,” emphasizing the pun for my siblings who giggled madly, “besides, I’ll be here for the next three months straight.” The hammering stopped and mom finished setting out the food: steak, rice, corn on the cob, and green beans. “You really should have come down for Christmas, Pete.” “Mom, you know I couldn’t afford it and neither could you guys.” “Mary, let the boy alone. It’s his first meal home,” dad said over my shoulder. Exasperated, mom sat at the table. We all smiled at her. She looked about us all and tried to hold back a smile. “Oh just sit down and let’s eat.” We all laughed and sat down and I ate my first home cooked meal since I left home. See? Things started off well, as they tend to do. Dad told me about his promotion and mom said she could finally stay home and paint because of dad’s extra money. I teased Janie about being such a beautiful young woman at fifteen years old and Alex couldn’t stop talking about his new Nintendo Gamecube. Then about halfway through a bowl of strawberry ice cream there was a crash from Dad’s office. He rushed there to find his new picture on the floor smashed and broken. All members of the house were present and accounted for so we knew it wasn’t any of us. Mom was the first to think to clean things up. Dad was beside himself but took the dustpan and brush from mom and started gathering it all up. Janie brought a trash bag. “Dad?” “Yeah, Pete?” He asked with a sigh. This is the part I wish I hadn’t noticed. “The nail came out, too.” “What?” “The picture fell but the nail also came out of the hole.” “So what?” “So, how often do you put a nail into a wall only to have it slip out? You could have nailed it nearly straight up into the wall and it still should have held.” “It’s not so uncommon that nails come out like that.” “But where is it?” I walked over to his desk and looked around. Alex followed me and moved the chair. The nail rolled off the chair when Alex moved it. “How often does a nail fly that far?” “You’re right.” He was momentarily distracted from his grief and the others noticed as well. “Dude, that’s weird,” Alex observed. Mom and Janie concurred. Dad took the nail from me and pushed it back into the hole. It stayed put and we watched it. After a few moments we stopped watching and continued cleaning up. Dad talked of getting the picture reframed and said that he didn’t like the first one to begin with. He said it was too gauche for Dali. Otherwise, things went on as I figured they would. I was caught up to speed on the social lives of my siblings and the business dealings and vacation plans of my parents. I got all the dirt on their friends: who was backed up on credit card bills, who was suing someone for an accident, who was getting divorced, etc. The next morning, dad was the last to the table for breakfast. “The nail came out again. And I think I feel air now.” All at the table gave confused groggy looks. “You know, the painting last night? It crashed and you were all impressed that Pete here noticed the nail somehow flew out?” Remembrance flashed across our faces. “Yes, well, it fell out again. I put my hand up to the hole and felt a very slight stream of air.” We were all quite curious and so proceeded from the table to the office. That was the second time that bloody hole interrupted a meal of ours. Sure enough, the nail was out of the hole and we each took turns feeling the warm stream of air coming from it. “You didn’t hit some sort of pipeline, did you, Harold?” “No, sweetheart, I didn’t hit a pipeline. No pipes have air running through them in a house.” “Well is it a part of the ventilation then, Harold?” “No, I thought of that and I know there’s no vent behind here.” “So what’s going on?” “Well I don’t know.” All this time, Alex, Janie, and myself were taking turns feeling the air. Alex of course had to stick his finger in the hole as well. “Oh Alex, that’s dirty. Don’t do that,” mom chided. He pulled back and took a little more of the wall with him. Both mom and dad were about to scold him when we all noticed that more air came out along with a very slight but noticeable whining sound. Dad put his ear up to the hole as mom said, “Well, you need to get off to school, Janie, and your dad needs to get going as well. He doesn’t have any summer vacation.” That seemed to break our curiosity and we drifted from the office. Janie finished getting ready and as she opened the door mom asked, “Do you have all your books and pens and such?” “Yes mom” “And your lunch?” “Yes mom, I gotta go.” “Okay, sweetie, have a good day.” Janie exited the house in a hurry and dad soon followed suit. That left Alex, mom, and myself. That day, the first day, was fairly uneventful. I played several video games with Alex while mom spent much of the time working on her painting. She tended to steer from Dali, as she wouldn’t contribute to what she already had to put up with, and preferred the more placid tones of Monet and Van Gough. In the early afternoon, I offered to take Alex to see Star Wars: Episode I. Mom was happy to comply. Now as I understand it, mom was the first to explore the hole alone. The important thing to note about that first time was that she was the one to discover that the whine wasn’t a constant sound but resembled Alex’s complaining, except even less discernible. Dad, never one to leave a hole in a wall no matter what was coming out of it, had to cover it. Our curiosity wasn’t peeked enough for the Word Hole to take hold. It was when the hole reappeared through dad’s plaster and paint. What’s more, the hole got bigger in blasting through the seal. “So tell me, Peter, what exactly came out of the hole?” The detective asks. “Words, detective, words. I’d show you, but then you’d likely try to kill me, or something of the like. As I was saying, mom really was interested first so I’ll tell you how it affected her. But to preface, over the next several weeks, our desire to hear more from the hole drove us to open it to the size of a soccer ball.” “To hear more, son? You’re not making sense.” “It’s not important that there’s a talking hole in our house, but what it says.” Mom was so happy to be home again and chasing her passion unabated by burdens of money and heavy family responsibility as the kids could take care of themselves within the house. She was brave enough in college to get her BA in art and fortunate enough to marry a business minded man who could support them both while she painted. The kids caused a slow down in that dream. The Hole stuck in her mind first and out of sheer curiosity she went down to the office to really study it. I was out with Alex at the time. I found out later that when she examined it that time she could just faintly discern a few words, oddly enough, from the hole. As we all found out, it spat out words that meant something to each of us, but if we were all together it got muddled. This was after the initial shock of a talking hole-in-the-wall. When the hole was about the size of a dry erase marker, it whispered things into mom’s ear about her painting. That was when it was small. She told us that it told her that it was good that she was spending more time on what she loved to do for a change. The hole was clever like that. It flattered when it was small. It said that she put off her own personal work for long enough after taking care of a house, kids, and a husband. She said this with a laugh and we all tended to agree. In the days following, we noticed that she was spending a lot more time in concentrated study of her painting, and more was being produced, from one every week to one every twelve hours or so. It also told her that we should help out with the housework so she could work more. By the second month, I had to or nothing would have gotten done. July, the second month, the hole was about the size of a softball. It got suspicious by the second month. We had all spent time picking at it and chipping away to hear more and more clearly what the hole was saying and nobody really noticed that it got bigger, not by the second month. So mom was working away diligently on her painting. Meanwhile, the rest of us were taking turns, secretly, listening to the hole. In that first month, dad got an earful of flattery from the hole as he already spent much time in his office. In the first month we had sense enough left to tell each other what the hole was saying before we became so conspiratorial. He said that it told him his new job was to be his number one priority and we all agreed, as he was then the sole breadwinner. So he spent even more time in his office listening to the hole and working diligently at his computer. In June, that first month, he tended to go to bed every night. By the second month, he didn’t. But that first month meant another raise with the promotion so we were all supportive and appreciated the hole’s encouragement. By that time we all solemnly swore to not tell a soul about the hole. Otherwise, everybody would want to listen. Trust me, they would. The kids were affected slower but in quite unfortunate ways. Alex didn’t seem to change. Nobody was really interested in what it told him, but from what I can tell and what I’ve deduced, it told him simply to play more videogames, eat more candy, and generally have a good time. I thank God he’s not older. You can see what happened to Janie clear as day. Girls her age look for love and have no idea what it is. She was always very secretive about what the hole told her. At first I think it was telling her how attractive she’d become and what a true lady she’d turned out to be, in the hole’s opinion. She held her head high those first few weeks. She was, is, very pretty, but I didn’t think she’d be the kind to flaunt it so . . . much less get to the point she’s at now. But that came in the second month. And me? I was curious like the rest, but I guess I didn’t give in quite as much. It told me that I’m a brilliant musician and should focus on that in school. I was considering that, which is how I started deducing things about the hole. It also told me that I should seriously pursue an interest I had back in school, that she would fall in love with me. I remember it specifically telling me, “imagine her long blond hair flowing about your fingers and her amazing eyes which you’ve looked into so many times filled with love and tenderness for you her love and her desire and her body as you’ve stayed from picturing close to yours and willing and” You get the idea. That’s how the voice speaks. It’s an endless string of words that flow into each other like music really. Thinking about it makes me want to open it up again. “Tell me about the second month,” the detective asks, scribing more in his notebook. “The second month saw conceit and suspicion between my parents, rage from Alex, and a bizarre turn around for Janie. I stopped listening to the hole. You must see like I do that the hole taps into your desires, delusions, and suppositions.” July, the second month, saw my parents turning in on themselves. Not only did the hole tell my mom that she was good, but that her work was profitable, as it turned out to be. I praised her, but Alex was slowly going mad and Janie and Dad weren’t really home any more. Somehow I remained the sane one. All of my desires pointed back to school. Where could I go to feed into the hole’s delusional whispering if I wasn’t anywhere near there? So I managed to stay away, especially after witnessing my family become addicts. The hole, I believe, suggested to mom that dad was jealous of her success outside of business and so was banging his pretty secretary. His secretary was an older gentleman named Jonathan. The hole told dad that while he was away, mom was doing the mailman, the UPS man, her agent, and every gallery owner. The hole was subtle, but this was what I gathered from hearing the fighting. You know what the ironic thing is? As much as they argued about who was doing whom, they didn’t notice that Janie was on the internet quite a lot lately looking for other guys her age and older in town. In the second month, the hole started telling her that if she wanted guys to love her then she would have to put her exquisite body to use. That’s what enraged me the most about the hole. Can you imagine having thirty-year-old guys showing up to your door asking to see your fifteen-year-old sister? You police didn’t hear about any of my fights because what man wants to hear he’d been beat up by a high school sophomore’s big brother? Dad’s work started slipping along with mom since they were so concerned with each other. Alex’s tantrums broke up the fighting most of the time sending mom and dad into the bedroom turned studio and office respectively. “I’m afraid to ask what happened in August. Things hadn’t gotten physical yet I can see.” “You’re right on that account, detective. Today is August 13th. If I hadn’t put in such a concentrated effort to seal the hole, I don’t know what state we’d all be in now.” August, the third month, was a sad one. Depression was my cup of coffee. Keeping my little brother from destroying the house and doing the laundry, dishes, and dinner kept me busy, though. I almost wish I would have given in and lulled myself to sleep on the Word Hole. The others became as bad as the Hole, too. Mom would yammer to me about how my father was a ridiculous workaholic finding his pleasure in fellow employees’ beds. She said the private detectives only noticed bizarre behavior but no women. She didn’t believe them and accused them of being paid off by dad, my father. Dad, when he was home, told me my own mother was a slut, wretched word, and probably painted erotica of her and various lovers. I wish I could have kept track of Janie. I pray she doesn’t have any diseases or a child. I tried to keep her in the house, but she was so anxious to get out and get used. I think at that point the hole was telling her that the sex was really positive and didn’t it feel so good? She was old enough for it to feel good, right? “Son, calm down.” “Janie! Put your shirt back on and get upstairs or so help me I’ll slap all that make up off your face in one blow!” The argument that resulted in the first scene started in the office, of course. Dad was in there working on his computer as usual. Mom marched downstairs as Alex was sitting on the kitchen floor, in his underwear, scooping out what was left of the ice cream and ice cubes. Janie was walking out the door with that package of condoms hanging out of her too tight jeans, braless, halter-top too small, wanton. I threw her back into the house and started yelling. I’d become another Hole trying to keep everyone together. “You want a piece of this, big brother? Incest is best. That’s what the Hole tells me.” I didn’t know whether to cry or vomit when she touched my chest like I imagined Valerie doing when the Hole told me about her. You imagine what the Hole tells you and it sounds so good. It’s such a clear picture in your mind that you can just taste it. I bet you could find my sister on the Internet in several sites and downloadable movies. Anyway, mom stormed into dad’s office accusing him of being a bad father and poor provider and adulterer and whatever else horrible a father and husband can be. I was busy trying to keep Janie in her room so she wouldn’t escape into malevolent hands. Alex of course had to start screaming for more food and a new game system since his sticky fingers damaged the controllers. Mom and dad were screaming at each other and the hole was feeding them both. I didn’t see it happen, but as far as I can tell, mom used some of the glass from dad’s broken “Metamorphosis” to stab him. “I heard the scream from upstairs and ran to a phone to call you all. The first thing I did after that was to stuff Alex’s old soccer ball into the Hole. It spit it back out while I tried to control Mom. Dad came back at her, but doubled over bleeding in pain. I tossed mom out of the office and into the arms of one of your men. When I realized you all had things in hand I stuffed the soccer ball back into the hole.” “So that brings us up to speed. What happens now?” “Well, I figure we’ll all spend lots of time together away from the hole and in some good counseling.” “But now, what about now? You can’t stand guarding that soccer ball forever, son. Now just give me the gun and we can work this all out downtown.” “I don’t think you believe me much less understand. If I move, the hole will open again. I think Alex wants to try to crawl inside and waste away into oblivion. This hole has to remain covered and sealed or the same thing will happen to the next family.” I think I know how the hole came about now. I did some research over the summer during the first and second month and found a way. I can’t tell you, though. The curiosity would drive you to do it then the Hole would drive you mad. I fear I’m gone, despite having so little contact with the hole. I can’t tell you how to make one, I won’t. it’s easy to do really all you have to do is tell them how to make the hole that’s all that you have to do i swear it will be of great benefit to you if you make the hole the hole is good and quite a pleasant attraction to any household and makes for a marvelous conversation piece if only you would tell them peter please tell them i know you can do it i know that valerie would love you if you would because you are a helpful sort like that and doesn’t that revolver feel so pliant in your sturdy hand peter so very comfortable and cool and doesn’t that barrel need to be looked at oh yes indeedy do it does peter it does it

It was a dark and stormy night

It was a dark and stormy night. A twenty-three year old small beautiful blond anxiously raps on the heavy oak door of a large Victorian home on a hill. She pulls her tight sweater tighter around her in the rain and quickly knocks again. An angry wind whips ‘round her, freezing her legs. A lightning flash reveals a silhouette approaching the door. It opens. She rushes inside and another gust blows the door shut behind her. An older man, well built with full dark hair hugs her close. He holds the candlestick out to the side. “Oh Tiffany I’m so glad you made it okay.” He helps her get out of the wet sweater. “Oh Ron, will we ever be able to meet without having to avoid your parents like the plague?” She asks desperately. “It shouldn’t be much longer, my love. As soon as my ship comes in we’ll be able to marry no matter what my father tries.” A breeze whips in through a crack in the window and the candle, the only light in the house, goes out. “Blast this infernal storm!” Ron cries. He spins around back in the direction of the kitchen to look for more matchsticks. Lightning flashes and Tiffany catches his arm. “Don’t go! I can’t see a thing.” She says. She shakes her wet hair out a little. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He says. In another lightning flash, the silhouette of a man holds the silhouette of a woman. She lays her head against his chest. “I love you, Ron.” She says. “I love you too, Tiffany.” He says. He pulls her close and presses his lips against hers. Thunder strikes and she jumps, pulling tight around him. He laughs a little and she play hits his chest. “You jumped, too.” She says. “Did not.” He says. “Are you gonna stand there and argue or offer to take my wet clothes off?” She asks. “Oh. I guess I – “ “Shh.” She says. She touches his lips and then kisses them. He touches her cheek. “You’re wonderful, love.” He says. “So are you, sweetheart, so are you.” She replies. “This is ridiculous.” She says. “I know, but you know how my dad – “ “No, I mean all of this.” “What?” “This dark and stormy night, come on. And so what, did I come over here just for sex? Nobody even knows what your parents’ problem is with me yet. And what’s with the ‘Oh Ron, I love you soooo much.’ It’s sickening.” “Um, I don’t think we can talk like that.” “Oh, I suppose you were ready to just take me to the mat, huh?” “A woman would jump to that conclusion. I think this is a trite as you do.” “Well, I’m sorry then. It’s just frustrating, you know?” “Hey, I was about to forward the ‘he whore’ stereotype. But I really don’t think we should be - ” “There’s got to be somebody we can talk to.” “Be careful, this dangerous talk here.” “Oh settle down. Hey.” “What?” “No, not you. Hey!” She shouts to no one in particular. “No I’m not shouting, but I will if I don’t get some attention here.” . . . “Oh, ellipses, very clever.” Ron wondered whom she was talking to. He began questioning the whole evening’s plans. “Hey, don’t get me in on this. She started it.” “Oh, thanks for the back-up.” “Well, he . . . you know, you just can’t do this. Tiffany, my love, won’t you join me upstairs.” “Okay, you need to stop talking like that.” “Look, let’s just cooperate.” “No! This is stupid!” Do what he says. “Oh, he speaks.” Tiffany begins unbuttoning her sheer white blouse. “No I’m not.” Just cooperate, will you? “Okay, I’m quitting, too. This is just in poor taste.” “It’s bad writing is what it is.” Look, both of you just do what I say. “No, she’s right. I’m not taking part in this hack work anymore.” Fine. If you two think you can do any better, go right ahead. I’m going to bed. I’ve got an early day tomorrow. “Um . . . is he gone?” “It sorta looks that way.” “Can you think of a way to check?” “Well, I don’t see any more ‘he said’s or ‘she said’s.” “Good point. So now what?” “I don’t know . . . I guess that’s up to us.” “You’re kidding.” “Well, do you have any ideas?” “Lots, but you know, I’m worried he’ll come back then write something drastic.” “Well, I don’t think he’s coming back, at least not for a while.” “So now what?” “Well . . . I guess that’s up to us, really.” “Wow. I was just pissed about the melodrama. I didn’t expect this.” “Yeah, but I get a good feeling from it. It’s like when you graduate from high school and you feel like you can do anything or nothing.” “I can see that, yeah. Boy, Ron, we really do have the world open before us.” “So what should we do then?” “Everything.” I, the “beautiful blond” reply.

Last Time Jogging

A man in an expensive looking orange jogging suit paused from his morning ritual to sit on a bench and have a drink. This was his escape, his place of solitude. On the blacktop in the cool of the morning he didn’t hear the jabber and complaining of the Employee. The Corporation wasn’t breathing down his neck about the impossible things he had to accomplish. And here the Family would leave him be, no questions of “when will you be home tonight?” and “why don’t we ever see you any more?” There on the empty road he was alone with his thoughts and contemplated this while he turned the plastic thermos in his hand. A nostalgic smile crossed his lips as he looked at the different images of Superman battling evil around his thermos. He swished the apple juice around before removing the lid for a drink. “Not everyone has to know that.” He carried that thermos to remind himself to remember his youth and those innocent good times. “Hey, I’m talking to you, the little punk with the bad handwriting announcing to anyone that I have a children’s thermos with apple juice in it.” He began to feel the old familiar urge to rant come on. “You’re darn tootin’! Hey, don’t edit me. I’ve worked long and hard to become as wealthy and successful as I am today. Bla bla blada bla bla bla! Stop that! I didn’t say that. Look, I don’t need some juvenile college boy spilling my dirty secrets to the world.” Dirty secrets? I haven’t gotten to any dirty secrets yet. “Listen, boy. I can play this game, too. You’ve invited me, nay, forced me in your head.” And? “And I know for example about the time you and that girl in the park-“ Just then a college softball team jogged by and he lost his train of thought. “You can’t distract me. Your little classmates will hear every juicy . . . heavy breathing . . . blond bobbing . . . hey, don’t write that either! If my wife ever read this-“ Or mistress. The last jogger slowed and blew him a kiss. “That’s not fair! I’ll sue you for slander after all this!” Suddenly, a hand struck up from the earth, in the middle of the dirt path. Then another. They hoisted out the decayed corpse of the exec’s long dead father. “Give us a kiss, son,” it said. As the man ran away in surprised fright, the corpse said, “Your readers won’t like this ridiculous abrupt ending.” Well I need something for class. “Yes, and that other one wasn’t very good, but I bet you’ll be eager to read both.” Shut up, you’re dead.

Epidemic

A hunkered-down lioness slowly pawed through the tall yellow grass of an African plain. She unwittingly crouched exactly in the middle of a gun sight. Her tail whipped back and forth lightly and her hips wiggled twice just before pouncing. Teeth and claws sprang out of the grass and an empty “thunk” sound sent them to the earth just as fast. A panting man put the barrel of his rifle to the ground and leaned on the stock. “I can’t possibly be getting too old for this.” He panted out. A black man passed him on his left and slapped his back. “I wouldn’t think of it, my friend. Excellent shot.” The black man kneeled next to the lioness and pulled the dart from the sleeping predator and replaced it with a tag. “But the next one is mine.” “But of course, Monsieur Louise.” A younger black man took a picture of the two of them with the cat. “Merci, Lavon. Would you like a shot with her?” Louise asked. “Oui, papa!” Lavon answered. The white man took the camera from Lavon as he passed. He snapped a shot of the two. Long ago, Daniel Archer decided that there was a difference between hunting and killing. His father was a big game hunter in the woods of Montana, but Daniel never liked all the death: the heads in the house, the pelts everywhere, all the blood and smell of flesh in cleaning the animals. But he still loved to shoot. His father told him on his nineteenth birthday that he could probably outshoot an experienced Army sniper. The EPA was Daniel’s natural decision. Track big game in Africa and tag them. Shooting actually would help increase the population of endangered big cats and therefore keep those predators’ game from over-populating. Forty years on the trail was wearing thin, though. He knew retirement would come soon and decided he wouldn’t argue when it did. Men who hunted past their prime often wound up lining a cub’s belly. Daniel removed his safari hat and wiped his aged and tanned brow. His leather skin glistened of perspiration in the sun. “You okay, Daniel?” Louise asked in his adult Cote d’Ivoire accent. Lavon drove the two of them back to their village. “Yeah, but I think I’m about done with this game, Louise.” Louise patted his shoulder. “They say a man who knows when he is done is a man who knows himself well.” Daniel smiled and scratched a mosquito bite under his dusty khaki shorts. He thought of his daughter Lil and wondered if a career in social services would truly fulfill her, like his career has. That night in Daniel’s hut, when he decided his career had come to an honorable and dignified end, something else began. He woke up to the same mosquito bite on his thigh. This was much more irritating than any other he’d received. Mentally he ran through his vaccinations and knew his shots were up to date. You don’t forget a thing like that being in Africa off and on for thirty-five years. He scratched furiously. This was ridiculous. The light inside the mosquito netting flicked on and he pulled his shorts above the bite. A pure white spot shone. This was new. As he scratched some more, the irritation died down steadily. The spot grew. Not only did his skin turn a pure white color, but all the hair over the spot fell off. Pores even filled in. In a panic, he tangled himself in the mosquito netting trying to get to Louise’s room. Finally he burst through the door. “Louise!” “What is it, man? Ugh, I’m bloody tired.” Louise rolled over and as his eyes adjusted he sprang to his feet. Daniel was fifty percent covered now. “Look!” Louise quickly put his glasses on and peered at Daniel’s skin. Whiteness spread slowly over Daniel’s face. Over the eye, all was white: the iris, the lashes, and the red corners. All white. After turning white, the lashes and eyebrows fell off, like the rest of his hair. Had he not been bald already, that too would have fallen off. Over the course of the night, Daniel helplessly watched his body turn a pure white color, from his tongue to the bottoms of his feet. Louise had called the doctors and furiously spoke in French. Daniel had a working knowledge of the language but his current situation ruined his usually sharp mind. “They tell me the hospital is swamped with such cases, Daniel. Daniel, look at me. Do you hear me? They say the hospitals are swamped, but everyone is healthy, my friend.” Daniel, barely recognizable turned to his friend. “Do I look healthy?” Louise grabbed his shoulders. A doctor leaned over the two. “You’re breathing normally. Your heart is beating properly. The blood of everyone we checked has come back clean, Monsieur Archer, although you’re the first non-businessman to come down with this bizarre disease.” “What are you talking about?” Daniel asked, calmed a bit now. “It is a strange thing. All of the men who came into the hospital were white businessmen, but they rambled so about their clothes. We at first figured a whole convention had caught some strange new disease, but that seems not the case now.” After much discussion, Daniel decided to go back home. He assured the doctors that if the others were okay, then he would be just fine staying where he was until he could catch a flight. Louise assured him he would follow, to check up on him as soon as the government would give him some time off. The next morning, Daniel awoke, ready to dress, pack, and go home. He opened the close door and stepped back startled. They were gone, his set of varied khaki, green, and brown clothes were gone. But clothing was in the closet, however. There was hanger upon hanger of longed sleeved shirts, black pants, and a black jacket. Louise entered his room with a somber face. “Come with me, my friend.” He led Daniel to the jeep and they drove to a general store. It had a television turned to CNN. There was a special report. A white female journalist with long red hair and wearing a blue dress suit spoke with grave professionalism. “If you’re just joining us, this is the latest on the bizarre epidemic that is baffling the medical community and the world at large. White men around the world are waking up to lost hair, a bone white complexion, and pure white eyes and strangest of all, their clothes have been mysteriously altered, apparently over night. Experts suggest a sort of rapidly contagious albinism, but how to explain the bizarre clothing switch? There is one relief; all appear healthy. But it seems that every white man around the world today has been painted white by some unknown force and clothing changed to black suits with white shirts. Stay with us on this world epidemic for the latest reports.” Daniel took two steps back. He swallowed hard and turned off the television. The whiteness coating his face could not hide its terror.

---

Wouldn't you love some cool refreshing lemonade about now? Wait! Okay now.

When You Gotta Go

I’ve always hated using the library bathrooms. They’re not exactly well kempt, and standing outside the bathroom door I try to figure out if I need to go bad enough to risk it (whatever "it" I might be risking), or if I can casually make my way to another building. If I stand here too long, I’ll look retarded or perverted, not that I generally care what people think, but still. The door is a normal oak color with a picture of a little generic man in a square. There’s the ventilation screen and that odd metal plate along the bottom. What’s that for? Is that to protect the door from all those people who kick their way in? Okay, I’ll take my chances. There’s nobody in here. That’s good, or at least better. By now I think I’m over my discomfort of being in a bathroom with other people. I think everybody goes through that for a while. A friend of mine had the unpleasant experience of having the bathroom door yanked open by a bully on several occasions in the middle of class. Sure, a bathroom connected to a classroom would be convenient, but little did they know they’d be creating the perfect environment for future mental scarring, eh? Well, there’s only one stall. Here we go. I drop my bag on the relatively clean floor and pull the door closed. Oh, this isn’t right. The lock is missing. It’s actually not here, in the door. If it had been a maintenance person, they would have replaced it immediately, right? I pull the door closed, let it go, and it slowly swings open again. Marvelous. Who would steal the lock on a door? This isn’t the first door I’ve found like this, either. There were always damaged and missing locks in high school. Nobody seemed to notice. I wonder now if I was crazy, if I was just imagining missing door locks out of some repressed paranoia, as if most teenagers are not paranoid about something. And now the lock gremlin has followed me here whose goal is to annoy and humiliate at all costs. I used to have urges to write this problem down, to create a story about a kid who tracks down the bathroom door lock gnome or gremlin or whatever it is. Ferret, I don’t know. He’d find a network of tunnels just behind the bathroom walls where these creatures ran their bathroom lock black market and expose the whole operation to the world at large. Maybe they also stole that one missing sock. Maybe somebody would call Orkin, and then the locks could be replaced. But this isn’t a story. I’m standing here, now five minutes later, staring at the broken lock inside this stall. Forget it. I gotta go. I just hand my bag on the hook and . . . there’s a hook? There’s a fancy clothing hook inside the door, but not a lock. Whatever. As I open the stall door, somebody walks in the bathroom. We avoid making eye contact and I turn to the sink as he goes into the stall. I begin washing my hands and casually look forward. There’s no mirror. I’m taken aback. There’s no mirror? I stare at the wall that’s not looking back at me and wonder. Missing locks I’ve experienced. They’re just annoying, but a missing bathroom mirror. This is just weird. It’s funny how you expect certain things in life, certain menial meaningless things like bathroom door locks and bathroom mirrors, but then they go missing and suddenly you’re out of step with the world. I can’t help staring at the non-image of myself. It’s almost like I’m invisible, or a vampire. I've become so used to seeing myself that when I don’t, I feel like a part of me is missing. Then I realize how self-centered (unconsciously even) I am. I used to also consider writing a story where a kid’s reflection turns evil and torments the kid every time he sees him. Then the reflection would either pull him through to some anti-verse where things look the same but are wholly different, or the reflection gets out and runs amok with the kid’s life. Never did I picture the reflection simply not being there. I dry my hands and look back again at wall tile. The guy in the stall apparently doesn’t care about bathroom gremlins. The door is open about an inch or two. Wait ‘till he finds out he’s invisible. Maybe he won’t care about that either. Maybe most people don’t care that they’re invisible. I shoulder my leather bag and try to kick the door open by the metal panel along its bottom. Ow. Ah, this door only opens in one direction. I look back to my reflection for reassurance and to get a sympathetic laugh. Oh yeah, I’m not there. I close the bathroom door and look back at the generic, faceless, white man in the square. Maybe that’s a proper reflection.

---

Thirsty for some cool country lemonade? Come visit my lemonade stand.