Oil Stain - 1

Jonathan opened his eyes on the first day of spring in 2092 as a seventeen year old to bright lights and dark blurry figures. He searched out the tubes in his arms. His eyes barely able to focus on the blinking lights off to the side of the bed. 

"Wow, he looks so good. When will we be able to take him home?" he heard a foreign voice say as the blackness took over him.
______________________________________________

Uploading... ... ... 536Mb

The suns fingers crept up the floor grabbing each speck of dust in its beams as if to show each photons activity. The must of the living room was intensified by the dark wood paneled walls and the rusty orange colored sofa. Looking up into his mothers face he saw the eyes of a geisha framed by the pixie cut of a girl right out of the twenties. He felt a tickle behind his ear and by his mothers magic a wooden Mutual of Omaha nickel appeared. Her fingers traced his tiny palm as she placed the wooden piece in his hand. He turned it over and over in amazement wondering how something so large was behind his ear and he never felt it.

Uploading... ... ... 638Mb

A bellow escaped his throat and buried within the deep wail was one syllable, "Mom!". His vision blurred, he licked his lips and tasted the salt in his tears. He looked down and his knuckles went from pink to white. Stuck, he whispered, "mom, help".

There was no answer, no slamming of the back door followed by running feet and the voice of his hero screaming, "I'm coming son!".

Hugging the tree his tears carved age into his cheeks. Time slowed and turned infinite, minutes rose and set with the sun. He lowered his foot on the branch toward the abyss below him. White turned back to pink as his feet touched the crunchy leaves scattered at the base of the tree.

Uploading... ... ... 359Mb

The sun shone bright in his eyes as he focused on the pitcher, crouching at home plate all he saw was a silhouette winding up. The white ball with the red stitching stretched across the brilliant white sky and he lost it. His eyes were drawn to the sun as it glinted from behind the brim of the pitchers hat. He shifted his weight from his left to his right foot and tucked the sun back behind the pitchers head and with the instant shadow he saw the ball fill his vision. 

He awoke to his coach patting him on his cheek saying, "Oh, Jesus, his mother is going to kill me. Son, hey son, wake up, you're alright son. No harm done. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Ta...Ta...Two," Jonathan said.

"Alright! Hop on up and let's work on catching that curve ball some more," the coach bellowed.
______________________________________________ 

Jonathan opened his eyes to the voices in his head. His eyes flooded with light as his pupils adjusted to the flourescent glow from over his bed. 

"Jonathan, dear, it's your mother. Over here," she said with a wave. He looked but did not recognize the face. "Do you know me yet?" she asked.

Another voice said, "Ma'am, we are still loading. We're at age seven. For a proper recovery we must strictly adhere to the timeline." 

"Well, how much longer until he is fully functional?" the mother asked.

"Just two more weeks ma'am." the other voice responded. It sounded like it was emitting from every wall, every direction.

He closed his eyes and the sounds faded to a dull static and he was asleep again.

Bus Ride

Lee walked onto the bus and ran his hand along the brown vinyl seats until he found one halfway to the back. He was in ninth grade and had graduated to the middle seats leaving the front for the seventh and eighth graders. He sat down and chose the hard steel under the window as his backrest instead of the August heated vinyl. Adjusting his books and feet to take up as much of the seat as possible he hoped no one would want to sit with him.

He saw his best friend Winston as he strutted passed and sat in the seat behind him. Lee inhaled heat, sweat and exhaust which the faint breeze barely circulated through the opened windows. He glanced at the juniors and seniors in the back seats and watched as the underclassmen broke out their books and began their homework.

Then she walked on the bus. Her backpack was slung over her shoulder without a care, her hair in loose pig tails which fell onto her shoulders, and the stick of a BlowPop danced between her lips. Gena sat in the seat directly across from him and slid all the way to the window with her green JanSport taking up the seat next to her. Lee stared. He looked away. He stared, his eyes were drawn back to her lips curving around the candy on the end of the white paper stick. She tucked the lollipop in her cheek, spun it and slowly pulled it out pursing her lips over the red, shiney candy. Lee was fascinated by her movements and couldn't understand the warmth growing from inside him.

There was a rumble of the engine and a Tarzan yell poured from the speakers overhead followed by the local pop stations call sign. They were on their way home from the first day of high school.

"Can you feel it, see it, hear it today," came quick from the speakers as Faith No More's 'Epic' jumped through the airwaves. Gena tossed her book bag onto the floor and slid to the aisle-side edge of her seat pulling herself with the heels of her Converse.

"I hate these jeans," she said pushing down the zipper bump that formed on her crotch, "they make me look like I have a penis." Lee and Winston looked at her with mouths opened while Aaron poked his head over the back of her seat laughing and looking at the now smooth zipper between her legs. This was how Gena spoke most of the time, with no filter. Laughter ensued as the bus bumped down the street. They started talking about which teachers they liked and who they thought would be the hardest this year.

Aaron bent over and someone commented on his boxers poking out from his jeans and laughed. Aaron turned and with no response blushed a little. Gena turned, squared her shoulders and said, "Dude, boxers are sexy. You're a real man when you where boxers." She turned to Winston and asked bluntly, "Do you wear boxers or briefs?"

Winston blushed and responded, "Briefs."

"You?" Gena asked turning to Lee.

Lee blushed turned his head and started looking out the window for an answer. He rode the rest of the way home looking through his new books hoping the answer was between those pages.

At home Lee was watching a cartoon of a caped crusader who during the day was a rich philanthropist. He heard the garage door open and his mother walk in.

"Mom?"

"Well, hello. How was your first day?"

"I need to go shopping for some," he paused, "for some new clothes. When's dad coming home?"

R.E.M.

      Drumming the steering wheel and belting out, "That's great, it starts with an earthquake, birds and snakes, an aeroplane, Lenny Bruce is not afraid. Eye of hurricane, listen...churn...world....needs...nanana...na..na." He trailed off as most people do to that song and just started bobbing his head. Reaching up he adjusted his rearview.

       "Damn dude, turn off your brights," he said aloud.

      The night had a chill in the air so he had his windows down but his heat on to equalize the temperature. The moist air smelled of marshland reminding him of chasing fiddler crabs when he was a kid and getting covered in mud in the flats of Brunswick, Georgia.  'Bright Lights', as he had dubbed the car, pulled up next to him and he glanced into the darkened vehicle. The passenger window had a faded yellow and pink flowered pillowcase pressed up against it. He assumed there was a head on the other side squishing it flat, but couldn't be sure. His glance into the back seat caught him by surprise, what initially looked like a glowing blue skull staring back at him was transformed into a pre-teen boys face illuminated from underneath by some type of tablet, an iPad probably since the crossover type vehicle was a Mercedes Benz. One day Willie, he thought, one day you'll pull up to the house in one of those and Janice will shit herself with excitement.

      "And then she'll tell you to take it right back to the dealership," he whispered to himself as the Mercedez sped off into the darkness. Willie watched as the red taillights became specks and all that was visible were his cones of light illuminating the highway. He put his left arm out the window and opened his palm to the air and his arm rocketed back and straight up. He did this a few times and felt his eyelids stay closed a little too long when he blinked.

      "Damn dude, turn off your brights," he said aloud.

      The car zipped up beside him and he saw a flowered pillow, and a skull. A blue face with a big smile streaked passed him. He tried to accelerate to be certain of what he saw but his 1980's diesel Volvo of the box variety did not have its get up and go anymore. He sat back beating on the steering wheel to R.E.M.'s album Document of the same decade as his Volvo, holding his drums to match the stretched and worn out tape from which it played. He took his swimming goggles down that swung back and forth from his rearview and suctioned them to his face, with the strap digging into his scalp. Once secure he stuck his head out the window and howled with the wind, letting it fill his cheeks. As he did so some of his saliva was whipped from his mouth and slid down the side of the car leaving a streak among streaks from his previous howls at the moon. Pulling his head in he gave a gaping yawn and was disappointed the rushing wind didn't do its usual job of jolting him awake, for a little while at least. He hung up his goggles and blinked, a little to long again, as he reached to adjust the volume of the radio, and was dreadful when he realized his mind had missed two songs on the album. Had he dozed or had he become hypnotized by the reflective dashed lines pulsing to the beat. There had been many times while he was driving this stretch that his brain shut off and he awoke wondering how he had arrived at point C when he only remembered being at point A, but he felt he actually fell asleep this time. This stretch of highway 17 was nothing more that two lanes carved out of woods and marshland without even the faintest of shoulders. Pulling off the road would mean one of two things, getting stuck in the mud or careened off the road by a passing semi doing well over the speed limit. That thought woke him up a bit, but he struggled, and his eyes got heavy again.
      "Damn dude, turn off your brights," he said aloud.

    The lights had blinded him this time, they were so bright they seemed to eminate from the rear view mirror. The light filtered red and he realized his eyes were shut. He forced them open and to his horror two sucken eyes encased in blue were staring back at him. He screamed as the blue skull's jaw opened to speak, the light went from bright white to grey to black.

      He awoke to Janice holding his hand asleep in the bed next to him wondering how he got home, if he was home, or if he was still asleep, driving.

---What's funny is not until I had read it a few times checking for typos did I see the connection between sleep and the band---ha!

Rain

Soaked he came in from the rain in search of a warm cup of coffee. His soggy shoes left wet puddles trailing behind him like lakes on a topographical globe.

"How's the coffee?" I ask.

"Warm," he says into the cup. Our eyes never meet. He tugs the rim of his Yankees cap down pushing the tops of his ears out and steps back into the rain. Hugging the side of the building he melts into the gray evening.

Intrigued I pull on my yellow slicker and follow him into what looks like a waterfall. My distance is a safe one, not wanting to be noticed I keep him a distant blur. We walk for miles it seems, passing flashing "OPEN" signs that turn dark doors into neon dance parties. The static of the rain is interrupted by the occasional car sending surfable waves onto the sidewalk. He makes a right at the intersection of Pinegrove and Maple and disappears down an alley halfway down the block.

I cross the street and pause under a green and white striped awning. My view of the alley is obscured by a VW bus slowly decaying, fingers of rust creeping up from the wheel wells. Standing there protected from the downpour I debate stepping into the thin black abyss that is that alley.

I hear the creek of a door behind me. Blackness becomes my world as my head is enshrouded with a bag smelling of oil and rain. My heels thud against the threshold and the last thing I hear is the static of the rain stop as the door closes.

Lack of knowledge

It was the first tuxedo I'd ever worn, the shiny black lapels glimmered to compliment the bright red tie and cummerbund. I sat in the back of the church, not knowing what to expect, but a bit nervous. My Uncle Timmy, who is only fifteen years older than me, came up and said, "Don't lock your knees while up onstage. An old navy trick for standing at attention."

What?

I didn't want to ask him what he meant, "okay," I said.

My grandfather came up to me, placed his hand on my shoulder and said, "if you get nervous just look at me I'll be in the front row. And while you're standing up there - don't lock your knees."

"Okay, grandpa. Thanks."

What is this locking your knees business? How do you lock your knees? I didn't know, but was certain that I would not do what ever it was.

The crowd made their way to their seats while shaking hands and giving hugs to friends and family. I was told it was almost time to get started, so I followed the other groomsmen to line up in the narthex. I got ready to walk the aisle with my sister on my arm.

"Don't forget, don't lock your knees," said my soon to be stepfathers cousin Marty.

Alright, alright, I won't do what ever it is you're talking about!

I found my place on the stage and awaited the song signifying my mother would be walking down the aisle. I saw her come through the door with my grandfather. She was beautiful, and my grandfather was perfectly handsome. I hoped to be just like him when I grew up.

When he found his seat next to my grandmother in the front row, he smiled and winked at me. I returned his smile and scanned the crowd.

The next thing I remember I was being carried out of the church and set down on the curb by my grandfather. He leaned over and chuckled, "you locked your knees."

Throughout the reception as color came back into my face I was constantly asked if I was okay and my response with a smile was, "I just fainted so my mom didn't have to."

A Drive

As the door clicked shut behind me all my eyes could see was the minuscule glow from the garage door button, but my heart was calmed as I inhaled the perfect mixture of oil and wood, present in all garages used for projects. I reached up and pushed the button and its glow disappeared as the room was split in two by the morning sun.

Slowly the truck was revealed as if to build the anticipation of my adventure, knobby black tires, bright chrome bumper and the fire truck red of the body. I stood motionless in the comfort of the garage acutely aware of the trial that lay before me. I tightened my fists and felt the well worn key bite my flesh. Looking down I could see the key fob exposing the first few words of a prayer I knew all too well. "God grant me the serenity..."

I had driven before. I had driven this truck before, but not by myself. I approached it with the awe and respect one would approach a trained tiger. My eyes now full of the red body, I wrapped my left hand around chrome and pressed the black button. The door opened with a well worn creak. I had to step up and pull myself in using the steering wheel, sliding onto the woven cloth seats.

The door handle, once rough, now smooth and shiny, felt comfortable beneath my fingers as I closed the door. Centering myself behind the black steering wheel I took a deep breath and years of construction sites filled my nose causing me to close my eyes and revel in the memories.

My eyes flew open, I tossed the key in the air and caught it perfectly positioned to slide it into the ignition. Leaning forward a bit I gripped the steering wheel and pushed the key home. My feet positioned themselves without me thinking about it and I depressed the clutch, put my foot on the brake and turned the key.

The engine roared to life.

My right hand pulled the shiny black knob towards me and pushed it up. I exhaled. I placed my arm on the top of the seat, turned my head to look behind me, and rolled out of the driveway.

A Smoke

Rhys asks the driver to drop him on the corner and he tosses him a twenty leaving him with a healthy tip for the ten block ride. Rhys pulls on his pea coat and wraps up in his scarf as he steps up onto the sidewalk. He sees his dads reflection with his grandfathers farm stained fedora as he walks passed the glass windows of an empty office space.

Reaching into his pocket his fingers wrap around the worn briar wood bowl of his pipe. He tamps down the tobacco and tilts his hat back as he strikes a match. His eyes fill with the red embers as he takes a few deep breaths to keep the pipe flowing. He starts to stroll up the street repositioning his hat with a tug on the brim.

A delivery truck rumbles passed and the smell of diesel and his pipe brings his father to the forefront of his mind and he tells him he loves him. Rhys smirks because he realized that he said it out loud. On his left there is a vertical parking lot, something he's never seen before and he stands and watches as cars pull in and out, drawing methodically on his pipe.

His destination is up the street and he can hear the silence of the venue which gets him moving again knowing he's not late, it is almost ten o'clock. The ironworks on the buildings are not ornate but they still beg to be touched and he runs his hand along metal that has been smoothed by unknown coats of paint.

As he walks up to the door he is expecting to see a pair of eyes peering out asking for a password like they did for the old speakeasy's but he just pulls the door and walks up the stairs, a little disappointed. He can hear the shuffle of feet and chairs positioning as he turns the corner and walks through the door. He sits down in the back as the drummer starts a slow rhythm on the snare with his brushes. He continues to scan the crowd looking for her, watching for the flow of her auburn hair.

He sits back and thinks he must have misread his calendar knowing that he checked more than once that on Halloween she would be singing. He enjoys the build up and the pianist starting in with a few hard notes and he watches the lead vocalist take the stage in her flats, black pants, and white open collared shirt.

The lights are still low and her voice carries well in this intimate setting but he still struggles to gain more detail than her black hair cut in a bob. As she turns to the audience and places her left hand on the mic and raises her right as the first notes are hit, the lights come up and she is in her full element. And Rhys remembers it is Halloween, and she dressed up.

He crosses his legs and gets comfortable in his seat, enjoying the sweet sounds of heaven echoing through the streets of New York, as she looks into the crowd and smiles at an old friend in the back.

--------------

The playlist had songs Rhys has never heard and standards - 'Sweet Hunka Trash', 'Compared to What?', and 'Louisiana Sunday Afternoon.' The band closed with a cover of 'Today' which took his breath away. She went from note to note effortlessly, physically caressing each upturned face with her voice. He anxiously awaited his turn to capture her gaze and to be lost there for eternity or a second. He could swear her eyes smiled only for him, but it was probably a Hollywood illusion.

There were brief introductions of the band and a promise to return in a few minutes and she was instantly bombarded by admirers and short time friends. He sits watching the crowd, enjoying the descriptions of people formulating in his head drawn from body movements, facial expressions, and accents. He had lost her in the crowd and had a moment of panic that she never actually saw him. Then there was a hand on his arm, a warm cheek against his, a whispered hello and she was pulled away again.

Afterwards Rhys found a stoop with a clear view of the exit, he sat and pulled himself into his jacket. With his back against the handrail he flipped up his collar to shield the wind and lit his pipe. It is two in the morning and it sounded as if it was five o'clock in the afternoon. There was a constant rumble of vehicles in the background, with the occasional blare of a horn and the stars were non-existent in the narrow strip of sky above.

She walked out.

The night had cooled significantly and as she pulled her jacket off her arm he captured every movement and nuance. The turn of her foot that caused it to slip out of the back of her shoe, they are black flats mimicking Ms. Wallace perfectly. The cuff of her pants dancing in an unfelt breeze. Raising her arms to swing the jacket around a touch of skin flashes the remnants of a summers tan, a stark contrast between the black pants and white shirt. Her jacket is long and envelopes her as so many of the men wanted to tonight. There is one piece of Mia that is missing, her short black hair has been released of duty. The auburn locks are once again free to decide their color - deep brown, red with a hint of blond or somewhere in between. As she flips up her collar and turns her head to look for him the night air flips and twists a strand of hair as if to capture every scent.

He stands and walks toward her and offers his arm. Taking it and sliding into step with him she rests her head on his shoulder. Rhys thrills at her warmth and tells her again about her beauty as they step into a diner to travel through their conversations and sip on coffee that is only good because of the company.

A City Walk

Matthew's view is from about twenty paces behind her, blocked intermittently by other pedestrians. The glimpses he gets of her are more like snapshots, reflections in windows as she glides down the street. She has an A-line skirt on, pink, brown, and creme plaid or gingham with a flare at the bottom, he can't get close enough to see all the details. The texture looks like wool, but he just can't catch up to her to see for sure. Her blouse is brown, fitted, short sleeves, and her hair is down giving a little sway and bounce as she walks in her heels down the street.

He sees her as if she is walking towards him in a window angled for a doorway and her sunglasses are shading her catlike eyes with all the elegance of Jackie O's. Purse thrown over her shoulder, she walks down the street as if she were the only one there, and the crowd senses it and parts ways for her.

At the crosswalk just before the entrance to the subway she dances on her toes across the street to make the light. He is standing behind a crowd and is able to see her stretch out her hand, grab the handrail and turn to go down the stairs. As she turns, her hair gets caught in the breeze, floats back and he gets a glimpse of the curve of her neck.

Matthew races across the street to dive down the stairs, hoping to have one more image of her to lock away in his memory. He pushes through the turnstiles and squeezes through what feels like an impossible crowd of workers just waiting to get home. The train arrives and frantically he scans the crowd, just one more is all he asks. He hears the sound of the doors starting to close and he sees a ruffle of pink slide through the door. The train is crowded and no one offers a seat, so she reaches up and grabs the bar over her head. He follows the curve of her fingers down the angles of her arm and his gaze is caught. She slides the sunglasses onto her head, taming her hair and framing her face. As the train starts to roll the right corner of her mouth moves up and he gets a knowing grin that says, "I'm glad you enjoyed the walk, I'll see you tomorrow."

Matthew leans against the tiled column locking her image into his brain and watches as the train becomes a blur and disappears. The crowd crams together to start the play all over again.