Forty-Fifth Paradox Writing

The operating room was nestled in a corner of a bedroom. Teddy was brought in by the only operating staff, the surgeon. This surgeon doubled as a chauffeur, a coach, a nurse, a chef, a chaperon, and of course, a surgeon. She laid Teddy on the tiny operating table, next to a sewing machine. Pulling out her implements, a pair of sewing scissors, a  needle, and a spool of green thread, the surgeon got to work.

It was a routine surgery, but it still required utmost patience in preparation.  The surgeon wired the thread through the needle in the sewing machine, and inserted the spool at the top. She checked to make sure the machine was plugged in, and switched on the built-in light. Pressing her foot on the peddle, she moved Teddy’s broken arm underneath the needle.

The machine growled to life, and the needle went up and down and up and down until Teddy had sixteen stitches. Fortunately, Teddy wouldn’t need any physical therapy, but his best friend Kyle would have to be careful with his right arm. It wouldn’t take much to ruin the sixteen stitches in green fur.

When you look at me
all you see is a
slow, suffering, gray, stooped-shouldered
woman who can barely walk,
is short of breath,
and moves every step slowly one at a time.
_________
Remember who I was before,
laughing, running,
butterfly-chasing child who
danced in the sunshine for the pure joy of it,
through the daises,
measures each step for strength,
and found each day unable to contain
the energy that spashed.
_________
Now you see me no more
but remember me. I am once again
picking flowers,
laughing, running, chasing
butterflies, unable to contain
the pure joy and energy splashing
through me as I dance
in eternity’s life with my
creator and savior of my life.

Lucy stared at the barrel of the gun while I watched. Her eyes widened in horror and mine did too. Move, I screamed at her, but she didn’t seem to hear me.  Both her and I stood frozen, as Brian shouted mutely. His hand shook even as he held the gun, frantic. I couldn’t remember what had led to this. Brian and I had always been best friends, never more than that. Occasionally I’d give him money when he needed help paying his rent, or buying his groceries.

Then I lost my job. Brian kept coming over for money, which I didn’t have. I told him.

“You don’t understand. I need that money.” He told me on the third day of no money.

“I  told you I don’t have any. I have bills to pay too, you know.” Lucy told him.

“Please, Lucy. I don’t want to do this.”

I noticed for the first time that his eyes were bloodshot, and retreating into his skull. Dark circles hung from his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept since the last time I gave him any money. “Do what?” Honestly, I didn’t want to hear his answer. I knew it wouldn’t be good.

His hand reached behind his back, and I heard the friction the fabric made as a heavy object was pulled out of the back of his pants. The sun caught the steel barrel and flashed right into my eyes. I blinked. Then I opened my eyes and saw into the depths of the gun. Somewhere in that inky black rested a bullet just waiting for a quick escape. “I really don’t want to do this.”

Lucy searched his eyes frantically, searching for a bit of Brian that had waned over the past few months. I thought he had started to resemble more and more the mug shots on tv rather than her best friend. “Then why are you holding the gun?” She asked him.

“I have to get the money, Lucy.” He told me, his eyes wavering.

“I told you I don’t have it. I don’t have a job either. Though, unlike you, I’m actually looking for one.” I knew better to question the lifestyle of a guy with a gun in his hand.

Brian swallowed, and Lucy mirrored him. A lone bead of sweat slid down his right temple. “I’m sorry.” The safety clicked off.

“My answer’s still no.” I saw his life before my eyes, everything from getting sick from his sixth birthday cake to the day when Lucy first saw circles under his eyes.

His slick finger had trouble gripping the trigger. Finally, Brian found the hold he wanted, and he pulled the trigger back.

Susan Wheeler died on the 21st of June. The warm breeze gave her away to the first passerby, a seventeen year-old man (or a boy, if one talked to his mother) named Brad Pinkerton. He passed her body, not yet cooled (as if anything could cool on the sidewalks of Pasadena), and he was reported saying “She smelled like last weeks garbage.”

The autopsy report confirmed that the body was only a few hours old.  Both parents confirmed that the nineteen year old had gone missing earlier that day, just after lunch, when the sun cooked eggs on the concrete. Later they identified Wheeler’s dark tresses and the mole on her left cheek. Her parents couldn’t recognize much else.

Police investigated the case, calling the case a homicide. Five years later and no murderer had been found. Every third Friday a twenty-four year old woman visits the lawn, though the police have long since removed the yellow tape. She runs her hand along the blazing concrete and smirks, before she walks off, the sun catching the wave in her dark curls.

“Any idea why we’re having this dinner?” Tom complained as he sat down. The plastic red-checkered table cloth beamed up at him. He glanced back at it with disgust.

“No. Not even sure why we had to have it here of all places.” Susan sighed tiredly fiddling with her menu. Smokin’ Hogs Diner filled the top half of the menu cover in gaudy patriotic colors. None of the menu items had low fat or reduced cholesterol. She couldn’t even tell if they were organic.

“They’re even fifteen minutes late.” Tom glanced at his watch, holding the menu at arm’s length. His cuff-linked sleeves peeked out from the satin suit coat. He took a moment to adjust the folds of his collar.

“You look over-dressed.” She said with a snicker.

“What about you? The bus boy seems interested in that necklace of yours.”

“He’s probably just staring at my chest.” Susan rolled her eyes. Her eyebrows shot toward the ceiling when she heard a conversation drawing closer behind her.

“Oh look honey! There they are!” A sweet, melancholy voice chimed. Flowery sleeves of a blouse materialized into the candle light a moment later.

Both Tom and Susan fought the urge to sag in disappointment. “Hello mom.”

“What about me?” A lower voice came from the shadows.

“Hello dad.”

Their parents sat down and opened their menus, humming tunes discordant with one another. Each gave their orders to the waitress.

“I’ll have the shrimp—“ Their father began.

“You sure honey? The shrimp will give you—“ Their mother interrupted.

“Ahem! I’ll have the shrimp gumbo, with or without gas.”

Both Tom and Susan gave their orders without event. The waiter evaporated into the shadows, carrying the menus with him.

Their mother was the first to speak. “So…you’re probably wondering why we’re eating together again.”

Her grown children nodded. She glanced at the man she married with somewhat sad eyes.

He spoke up next. “We’re getting a divorce.”

“Finally.”

Note: Yes, I know this contains references to a certain filmed owned by a mouse with big, round ears. Tell him he can consider it free advertising, like he needs any. The film you ask? Pirates of the Caribbean, of course.

All your life you did as

your pain, your family, your friends

commanded you, the sickness too.

Death regularly visited

your bedside like an unrepentant

suitor, but you turned him away

with your pistol.

He left in a longboat,

but he always turned his head back

with a smirk. He knew.

One day he’d come back for the heart you took

and kept safe inside your chest.

He knew you’d rather stab the heart than give it back;

he knew you needed it more, but he wanted the heart.

That day he sent a monster to do his bidding,

a poison that slowly killed you from the inside out,

until it oozed out your pores and swelled

the whites in your eyes.

Then you knew.

You knew it was time to evacuate your torn and battered ship,

and say your goodbyes.

I watched you face that beastie with tears in both our eyes,

but you laid there proud and courageous as you always had,

this time with a sword in hand instead of a pistol.

Others have left this world not knowing the face of Death,

because they were too afraid to turn their head,

but you did.

I still miss you, and I think I will until

I board the Flying Dutchman myself,

but know this,

know this:

I would sail past the end of the earth and end of the seas,

if I could bring you back.

I know it would be for naught,

for I know you’ve found your peace.

Note: Words in quotes are  said either by the members of Flatfoot 56, Project 86, or the fans at a recent concert in Portland, OR. Words in italics are my thoughts. Fifty percent of them should be read with sarcasm.  

One of these days I’m gonna raise a kid just like this guy did, and take her to Project 86 concerts. She’s guaranteed to have amazing taste in music and serious angst by age six. No worries though, I’ll frolic with her to Flatfoot 56 to balance everything out.

“If you don’t leave here with bruises, bloodied bodies, and a piece of your skull on the concert floor, something’s wrong.”  

Circle pit!?

“Put your arm around the person next to you, and girls, if a guy tries to cop a feel, deck him in the face.”

Not only does he play bagpipes, but he gets bonus points for wearing a kilt.

“Ninth reason why we love our fans: some of them love songs off our first album even though we never play them.”

Oo…fog machines.

“We love you!” “Run!”

Somebody should name their band To Be Announced, or TBA for short. Really.

“We regularly post on Facebook and other evil social-networking sites.”  

Is that flowers he has tattooed on his arm? Does that say: ‘I’m sensitive’? Must be, I think he’s married.

“Hopah!”

“Hey Dad?” She bobbed on her heels, the curls in her pigtails bouncing. Her small pink hands grasped onto the corner of his armchair as she leaned towards him.

“Yes Princess? He glanced down through the narrow passage between the newspaper and his face.

“Would you pray for me?”

The newspaper sank a little, crackling slightly as it wrinkled in his hands. “What’s wrong?”

Princess beamed, her curls bouncing a second time. “Oh, nothing’s wrong Daddy.”

“Oh?”

“Mommy says that when two or more people pray, God’s with ‘em.”

“Mm-hm.” One of his eyebrows stretched to the ceiling knowingly. “And what are you praying for?”

“A pony.”

“A pony? But Princess….”

“Would you please pray for me? Pretty please?”

“Of course. But don’t get mad at me if God says to wait.”

Dear Camelback High School Librarian,

Enclosed in this package is two long overdue books. Hopefully those poor bird-watchers didn’t miss them. It’s too bad that I packed them away before I could use them for my report. To this day, I’m still not sure if my teacher noticed or not when I gave my presentation in class.

I’m pretty sure though, if she’s still around, that Ms. Whatever-Her-Name-Was has an exact count of how many days of my two cents that I owe. Hopefully this check covers it all (knowing her, the rates may have changed.) May that likely retired librarian sleep peacefully at night from now on. If she hasn’t retired, allow me to apologize to any students under her jurisdiction.

Yours Truly,

A student from the class of ’58

“I opened my eyes and looked up at the rain

And it dripped into my head,

And flowed into my brain.”

Shel Silverstein

Every step sounds like a waterfall.

Every stop a crashing shoreline.

I feel like I need a towel

every time I nod,

and a bucket every time I shake my head.

So, don’t ask me another yes or no question,

or end this twenty question game.

Truth or Dare, then?

I’ll tell you the truth,

I’ll never look up at the rain again.