ADAM S. HUNTINGTON
He was sitting comfortably watching the usual afternoon television garbage. It wasn't a soap opera, but was a sit-com he had gotten comfortable with over the past week or so and was even laughing now and then. From time to time he would reach for a large, plastic A&W cup and take a drink of the ice tea and lemonade from the bent straw inside the cup. Then he would push his glasses back and push his hand through his tangled mass of black-dyed brown hair. He was alone except for the little dachshund beside his chair. Without warning, a knock came from outside. He sat upright and yelled, "Come in!" Whoever was outside made no move to enter, so he sighed and swung the door open. Looking out he noticed it was his friend, who had graduated from high school the year before when he himself had still been a Junior. "Hi Ashley!" he called, and she yelled a similar greeting in return. "Well, come in," Rodney said, gesturing, as he lead her inside. He took a seat at the table. As Ashley entered, the little dachshund ran to her and jumped up on her leg, begging for attention, wanting to be held. "Well, Hello Fritzy," Ashley said, turning from the doors. The first thing she noticed was the darkness of the room. The blinds were shut and when she rested her hand upon the television, which was right next to door, she felt the warmth of it. "Fritzy remembers you," Rodney said. Ashley knew Rodney better than to believe his superficial smile. It was all a show and Rodney was no different from the phonies he despised. "Do you want these doors shut?" Ashley said, after patting the dachshund on the head a couple of times. "Uhm -- no, I don't know -- I don't care," Rodney answered, disjointedly -- never quick to make decisions. It was so dark in the small room that Ashley would have turned on a light, but didn't want to upset Rodney. She sat down and put Fritzy on her lap. She glanced at Rodney, while she rhythmically rubbed the little dog's back. Rodney's face appeared dark and pale, as if he had been caved up in the darkness for a week or more. The smile had faded from his face. He was looking dejectedly at a pile of papers and letters on the table in front of him. Ashley detected Rodney's depression and dread for his existence among a cluttered table. It seemed to be the center of his depression. "How'd you get in?" he asked without looking at her. The house was in a subdivision behind locked gates. Every gate had a lock, which could be opened only with a magnetic key. "Someone let me in," Ashley answered, now looking at Fritzy's head, which rested heavily upon both of her hands. "Someone just let you in?" he asked, spitefully. When Ashley looked up, detecting the malice in his voice, she was startled at the fierceness of his eyes. The doors were open and the sun should have been shining upon his face, but there were only shadows on his face. "Yes," was her simple reply. "How can people just let people get in, when they don't even know who they are? People are making decisions for me, saying who I can see and who I can't." There was only silence. Ashley just sat there, her eyes transfixed on Rodney, as he looked at that pile of papers. |
"What are all those papers for?" Ashley asked, breaking
the silence.
"I don't know," Rodney growled. But then his face lit up to the darkness that still shaded along the lines beside his eyes. He rolled his eyes and, still looking at the clutter, he laughed. "My God, it's enough to drive me insane." "Why don't you clean it?" Ashley asked, seriously. "Because I don't know where any of it belongs. None of it's mine." "It's not yours, so why are you trying to deal with it? Don't you know it's not your burden to carry?" Rodney looked up, realizing she was not talking about the papers on the table. "You don't understand. I must take care of it. No one else will." "But all you're doing is worrying about it." "Yes, but -- well, I can't help it." Rodney's eyes were on the papers again. "The problem exists, but I'm not here to solve it, just to worry about it." "What good does that do?" Ashley asked, setting the little dog on the ground, who darted out the door into the winter sun. "It doesn't do any good!" Rodney said, his voice rising as he spoke and his eyes falling cold upon her. "Can't you find whose problem it is; then find out where it's supposed to belong?" "Yes, but they're never around long enough to ask." The papers his attention again. "Are they never around long enough or are you just reluctant to ask about their problem?" "Maybe," he nodded. "It's just that their problems are so present and easy to understand -- tangible -- yet my problems are not so easy to detect. They linger within my mind like a vice, yet they make me better than anyone else." "So you feel extraordinary, because of your problems?" "How can I be better than anyone else, if all their pain is heaped upon my shoulders, so that I can't even move?" Rodney asked, his eyes no longer able to leave the papers that he was staring at. "Are you suppose to save everyone?" "No, I just feel for everyone," he answered, soberly. "Everyone?" "No, not everyone, just the people who are capable of the same kind of love I am." "What kind of love is that?" "The love that understands true pain, which others inflict without even being aware of it." "You're a profusion of confusion, Rodney," Ashley sighed, bringing his eyes from the papers. She was smiling. "All you must know is yourself. The papers cluttering the table are not yours. There's another table cluttered with papers in your mind, which are your problems and can only be solved by knowing yourself." Rodney's eyes were now upon his hands and he didn't look up even when Ashley hugged his shoulder from behind. He didn't look up, as she opened every blind in the room, so that the light was blinding to someone used to the darkness. And he didn't look up, as she walked down the steps onto the porch and out of the yard. He just sat there, looking at his hands. Finally he stood up and was about to close all the blinds again, when he noticed several objects amongst the clutter on the table: two letters addressed to him, a new magazine, and his keys. He sat back down and opened the letters, smiled and frowned, and threw them out. Looked through the magazine, threw it out. Took his keys and put them into his pocket. Stood up and took up the dog's chain, at the top of the step, and took his dog for a walk. |
ADAM S. HUNTINGTON
"It just doesn't make any sense, that's all!" Rodney said, his voice bubbling with passion. And then just when he thought he could stand on his own feet-hold his ground against anyone -- Derek grabbed his arm and spun him around before he even knew what had happened. "What doesn't make sense?" Derek asked him, pulling him close enough to smell his aftershave. "Tell me!" Derek's eyes had now glazed over and Rodney feared that he was possessed or something. Derek was always passive and Rodney had never seen anyone get a rise out of him, but now that Rodney had, he wished the discomfort he had created would go down with the lump in his throat. Derek was still standing there-his teeth, bright ivory in the darkness and his eyes, cold blue and glistening. "Tell me!" he repeated, after several moments of unbearable silence. "I thought I was the one whose supposed to be pissed off right now," Rodney said softly, straight into his eyes and quickly looked away at the dirt ground, grown moist by the night's air. Derek let go of his arm roughly and shoved him, turning back to the car, whose headlights had passed from dull orange to black as the battery finally died completely. "Come on, we gotta find someone to give us a lift back to town," Derek said, looking at the dull colored red Mustang. "No," Rodney breathed, his voice wavering in the cold air. Normally Derek wouldn't have heard Rodney's silent answer, but away from town in the dead of the night, he heard it and tried his best to ignore it, but the significance of the answer pounded in his brain until he could take it no longer. The truth could no longer be ignored. Derek turned about very slowly, as not to scare Rodney again. He wasn't aware of the fear earlier, but when Rodney said, "No," he could hear the fear and felt frightened himself by it. Derek knew what Rodney had been talking about, knew what was wrong, but he also knew that the only way he could return to it, was to block it out, not face it, but to become part of it and know that he shared something with humanity. They stood there in silence, Rodney wearing a mask of scrutiny and Derek wearing a similar expression, but which broke into a slight smile. "All right Rodney," Derek gestured with his hands outstretched, as if to calm a wild animal, "We're not going anywhere, not until we sort through this. Tell me exactly what doesn't make sense." "Your voice" |
"What?" "It's too calm," Rodney answered flatly. "What's that suppose to mean?" Derek said, his voice rising a bit, betraying his former calmness. "You're about to explode and you're trying to calm yourself. I feel as if you want to kill me, that you don't want to really hear what's wrong and would kill me to prevent me from saying what doesn't make sense." Derek sighed loudly, as if to say, "You don't make any sense." "What?" "You." "What did I do?! I didn't do anything! The only thing I'm going to do, is not go back." "But you have to go back." "Why?" "You just have too." "Not-good-enough," Rodney answered quickly and folded his arms, like a disobedient child. "What's good?" "Certainly nothing back in town." "What about Ashley?" "Ashley's good," Rodney answered softly, hoping Derek wouldn't hear or that he would let it go. He turned, trying to stop himself from being deceived by Derek. "If we started walking now, we might get to town by morning and then we could take her to lunch and the movies, or something." "No, that's no good, that just won't dowhen I don't feel anything." Rodney eyes were now on the moon, which hung on the horizon -- a red moon, looking unrealistic in size. "The moon's magnified." "What?" "The moon's magnified!" Rodney said loudly, pointing to the East. Derek still couldn't see it. "Look!" Rodney said, excitedly. Rodney turned around and grabbed his shoulders. "Stand right here and you'll see," Rodney said, as he positioned Derek. Then looking back to the moon, "you'll understand." "I see!" Derek smiled. "I see it and it's huge! How can the moon be that big?" Derek suddenly realized Rodney wasn't looking at the moon anymore, but was looking straight at him. As soon as Rodney had won Derek's attention, Rodney said, "See, if you were back in town right now, you would have never seen it. Back in town you probably never saw it." Derek had the urge to just strangle Rodney, lovingly and plead, "What the hell are you talking about?!" but he didn't because he knew what he was talking about. "Come on," Rodney said. "We better start walking if we want to make that matinee." |
ADAM S. HUNTINGTON
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The town was busy, when he arrived. When a great cluster of people passed him, in the early morning, he just stopped in one place. A delivery truck had just arrived and the muffler was blowing warm steam in the cold morning air. They opened the back of the truck and the coldness came from the opened the doors. Even in the cold morning air, the coldness of the truck's load came out in steam. The sunshine fell upon the truck's exhaust and the cold meat, being unloaded from the truck, and he thought he saw wings. "Move it, would ja?!" a large bald man said from his shoulder. He just kept standing and looking at the white light. His hands were buried in his black, trench coat pockets and he was thinking, Maybe the white light could float, and he watched to see if it would. The lighted mist would only rise just above the truck and fade into nothingness and he thought, If it were just colder outside the light might rise. But this was late spring, in the midwest, and he would have to wait until winter to see the cold rise. He kept standing there until he suddenly realized that the smoke was no more, the truck was no more, and there wasn't anyone around telling him to leave. He shook his head, straightened his gray burrét, and walked on. There was a movie theater and it was empty. A sign at the ticket booth read: CLOSED. He went over to the billboard and read the movie posters: Gone with the Wind, A Night at the Opera, and Rebel Without a Cause. And he thought, There has to be some meaning, there has to be some connection. Love, comedy, and youth -- what does it all mean? Then there was The Birds -- he hadn't seen that one, but he could imagine birds flying for his vulnerable eyes and pecking them out and he knew then, that he would never see the coldness rise in winter. He was so caught up by the terror in this lady's eyes on the poster, that he was suddenly surprised by the sunshine reflected on the glass, separating him from the movie posters. And the sun, he could see, he could look at it and touch it. The sun was smooth against his fingers and cold. He let out a breath and it misted over the sun on the cold glass. The sun was now dull and he quickly ran his sleeve across it and once again saw the imperfect reflection of the sun. He thought, If I owned this piece of glass, I would own this sun each morning. I could keep this glass really clean so it wouldn't distort the sun in anyway, so it would always be perceived as the same thing, never changing. It would always be there. I would always know it was there. "Hey Son, the movies don't open 'till noon, so you got five hours now," called a booming voice. "Rodney, my only name is Rodney, that's who I am," he answered, without even looking away from his glass. "Whatever Mac, just don't bum around here 'till noon, 'cause I'm going to have to sweep this area." Finally, Rodney acknowledged the man, by looking over at him. The man was short, fat, and bald on the top of the head with short black hair. He wore blue, garage clothes, which hung loosely. In his and were keys to the theater. "What about the windows?" Rodney asked. "Huh?" "The windows," Rodney answered, glancing at the glass. "Well, I guess they'll have to be cleaned too," the man answered. "O.K. Son-" "Rodney, I'm Rodney," he cut in. "Would ya just move on, who ever the hell you are," the man sighed. Rodney went on his way down the main street of his conventional town. It wasn't as he remembered it, but he knew that it had to do something with the early morning and everyone just rising to meet the new sun. He balanced himself along a curb for awhile and finally lost his balance and stumbled into the street. He noticed the park across the street, so he walked out to it and went to the bench he and Ashley used to sit at. There was someone already there. Rodney was just about to mistake the person as a bum, without a home, when he noticed the bright red jacket. "Jamis, is that you?" Rodney asked the figure, whose back was turned to him. No answer. |
Rodney noticed the newspaper over the figure's face and the sun was still low in the sky, so there was no trees of the park to stop its sunshine. He ripped away the newspaper away and saw that it was Jamis and the sunshine fell upon his unshaven face. Finally, the light was too unbearable, along with Rodney chanting, "Jamis, wake up, wake up, Jamis," that the young man's eyes peered open. He coughed and asked, "Who the hell are you, waking me up in the goddamn morning?" "It is I --" "I who?" Jamis asked. "The light's in my eyes, I can't see you and the cold air hides your voice." "Rodney." "Rodney who?" "The only Rodney you know!" Jamis's eyes finally cleared and he sat up. "What the hell are you doing here?" "Came home for the weekend." "Why?" "School's unbearable." "Why?" "No one listens and those who listen are gone like warm air in the coldness rises." "Why?" "Why what?" Rodney asked. "Why doesn't anyone listen or why is everyone gone?" "Both." "Because everyone's a bunch of selfish bastards and nothing good can stay. I take a new friend every year and lose a friend every year, and do you know what that means?" "What?" "It means that every time it's as if I've wasted my breath, my time, my concern. If it were fate to have them and known them for a bit, then they would have served only to give me just a little more understanding about myself. And if that's all that life's about, it's a bunch of bull, because I wanna know others and love others, not reveal myself completely only to lose them." "I'm still here, aren't I?" Jamis asked. "Yes, but where's here?" Rodney glanced around the park with all it's strangling trees, the town. "You're supposed to be at home, taking care of your mother." Jamis looked away, was sort of looking at his hands and at the bottle of booze he had cuddled with last night. "She's got a boyfriend, some guy she knows from college." "Does he listen to her -- I mean everything she says?" Rodney asked. "That depends, has my mother ever said anything worth listening to?" Jamis started to chuckle. "No, I'm dead-serious." Jamis glanced at Rodney to see if her wore the mask he had stated he wore and there it was. "It's not like they say much to each other." "In the morning?" "Never -- they're like zombies." "Evenings?" "All they do is get all giddy, but they never say much," Jamis said, and then looked at the remaining, quarter of an inch of booze left over. "I'm sure they'll love to have not had me around last night." "What'd you do?" "Went to the bar, called Derek -- a no good bastard when he beats me at pool -- then grabbed me a bottle of ol' Jack Daniel's" -- he lifted the bottle, as if he were introducing a new, found friend -- "and talked to him 'till two and finally passed out." He looked down and mumbled a conclusion, "I don't know." There's was just a moment of silence. The kinda of silence one takes to remember someone who has died, so it wasn't awkward, yet it wasn't very comforting. "Say, why don't you come home with me and get cleaned up and then we'll go get some breakfast or something," Rodney suggested. "No," Jamis laid back on the bench again and set the bottle on the ground, "If you want someone to listen and talk to, I'll be here, but if I'm not, you know where to find me." "Long as it's not in the bottom of a bottle," Rodney softly chuckled for the first time, feeling less comfort in his laughter than their moment of silence. "You know that liquid evaporates --" Jamis began with his eyes closed to light, just before Rodney left. "Yes, and rises to return back to the wind."
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