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Thread: Mirth, part 1

  1. #1
    the eagle
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    Default Mirth, part 1

    Fuck


    The drive to the airport was one of the longest of my seventeen year old existance. My dad sat complacently in the driver’s seat, humming a song to the radio, tapping out the beat with his fingers, a rat-at-at-rat-at-at. I sighed and looked out the window, the sun shining down, but the AC in the car keeping me cool.

    “Come on, Dad, lemme crack a window or something.”

    “No point in that, Beau. We’re almost at the airport.”

    I had been living in sunny So-Cal for most of my life with my father, Dietrich Grace. My parents split when I was young, and I used to fly out for two weeks every year during the summer to spend time with my mother, who lived all the way across the country. Ever since I was fourteen, she had been flying out on her vacations, thinking that she was taking me away from my friends. As if someone like me could have friends.

    I looked at myself in the mirror. Crooked nose bridge on which my too-big-for-my-face glasses sat, lenses dirty. Dull, brown eyes hidden behind clumped eyelashes – but as a guy, I wasn’t allowed to care about things like that. My hair fell plainly to my ears, before swooping up in the back at the base of my neck.

    It was considerate of Claire to fly all the way out, but in reality, the only reason I didn’t contest her visits was my extreme loathing of her housing location. I was thankful that I hadn’t had to fly out there in some time, but things change. People get new jobs.

    Dietrich had been toiling away, training for years hoping to get signed to a new team after the dissolution of the So-Cal Spinners, a minor league baseball endeavor. He finally got the call from a scout that had seen him playing in a community game, all the way from Georgia. Penny, my step-mother, was all the more encouraging. Dietrich Grace, on the meteoric rise to fame, going to play in the hot south with the boys from Atlanta.

    Of course, he told me he wouldn’t move down there if I didn’t want him to. The job would require a lot of traveling, and he didn’t want a nomad lifestyle to effect me. But this was his dream. Who was I, Beauregard Grace, to stand in the way of something he had strived so hard to achieve?

    When he laid the options out on the table – either allow his dream to wither and keep his desk job selling pencils in bulk to schools – or move with Claire to the east coast, the frigid, God awful state of Maine, I was most displeased. It was as if the Almighty Himself were casting a shadow over the rainy town of Spoons, Maine, known in the almanac for having the most annual precipitation in the east. Hiding beneath the cover of looming, gray clouds.

    I stared at the sun. I think I would miss it.

    I turned, and looked at my father, somewhat envious. I had inherited none of his looks. He was a regular Adonis, the mere thought of glasses on his face causing uproarious laughter deep inside me, his lush, brown hair seemingly able to bend to his will.

    Penny sat in the back, staring vacantly at her hands. I wondered if the would be all right without me to keep after them, to serve as the mediator between their frequent, insignificant fights, or if their world would fall apart.

    Dietrich was a wounded dog after my mother left. It was all I could do to keep him together.

    Things, they fall apart.

    I said my goodbyes to Dietrich and Penny as I walked through the airport, security features prohibiting them from walking me directly to the gate of the flight. They left me at the baggage check. I reminded them courteously that my phone was always on, that they always had a direct line.

    Penny, never the best at giving hugs, tried admirably. They both knew the sacrifice I was making, how much I dreaded Spoons, but like me, they were incapable of showing the proper gratitude. That’s one thing I inherited from Dietrich, I suppose. I never liked showing my emotion.

    Quiet.

    Introspective.

    My red hoodie was my carry on.

    The flight was uneventful, a boring, torrid 8 hour ordeal, during which the entire flight watched a saga of vampire films revolving around undying love or some other such nonsense that I didn’t quite believe in. The stewardess, despite repeated requests, had failed to bring me a set of head phones. From what I could tell, the actors were constipated most of the time, and very much lusting after each other.

    I tried to picture how my mother would look, hoping that she didn’t pick me up in an ambulance, but knowing that she was probably on the tail end of a long shift and lacking proper transportation.

    Spoons was such a small town, with a population of a little over 2,500. I hadn’t set foot in Spoons in a long time, but Claire loved it so much. My father, he couldn’t stand it. From the stories he used to tell, about how there was nothing to do, nothing to see, a whopping total of two diners, that he was glad when Claire decided to get her own place.

    I could always see the hurt in his eyes. Even if he didn’t love Spoons, he did love her.

    Dietrich had never been back. I can’t blame him.

    The plane landed, and I could see the ambulance from my window seat, the faded reds on the white paint matching the color of my faded sweat-shirt.

    If anyone had been more terrible at giving satisfactory hugs, it was Claire. She awkwardly moved up to greet me, wrapping her chicken-bone arms around me, trying to pull me close. I relented. She smelled of cigarettes and blood.

    “How you doing, Beau? Oh, it’s good to see you.”

    “You too, Cla – Mom.” I wasn’t allowed to call her ‘Claire’ unless I was around Dad.

    “I hope you don’t mind riding in the ol’ blood mobile. My car is in the shop and I just finished a shift. You won’t believe the things I’ve seen this year alone.”

    She paused and noted my disinterest. With her car in the shop, the chances of me getting my own vehicle were slim to none. Mounting debts are not something the Grace’s handled with ease.

    “And your father, you must be proud.”

    I could see in her eyes that this was only a formality, the mentioning of him. Her eyes were my eyes. Her hair was my hair. I had never pictured my mother as extraordinarily ugly until I thought of myself the same way, and who I had inherited my looks from.

    I sat with my suitcase on my lap, not wanting to throw it back on the stretcher. Ambulance 2 pulled its way onto the long, winding road that lead up the mountain. I sighed deeply as we passed the sign –

    “Now entering Spoons.”

    The car ride was an exercise in precision silence. Every time I went to speak, Claire went to speak. Every time Claire went to speak, I was getting ready to talk. Eventually, I just closed my eyes, and thought about getting a job at one of the two diners in town so I could eventually have my own car. Not that there was anything to do on the roads in Spoons. The woods were nice enough, but... Maybe it would be a better idea if I bought a better jacket first, so I could go walking in the woods without hypothermia stabbing me in the back.

    “My ex-boyfriend, you remember Dane, right?”

    I shook my head. Another in a long line of male suitors.

    “Well, he left in a hurry, left some of his clothes, and he’s just your size. Left a pretty good jacket, too, which is good, because the kind of jacket you need up here isn’t the kind of jacket that fits in that tiny suitcase.” Claire lit a cigarette and cracked the window. “So you can have it, if you want.”

    It bothered me, the thought of putting on something that someone who had been intimate with my mother had worn.

    “And I went ahead and got you a car.”

    I blinked. Twice. It was a moment where blinking twice was completely acceptable.

    “What? Why?”

    “Well, I can’t cart you to school every day, especially in this thing. What will the other kids say?”

    “What kind of car is it?”

    “A station wagon. A stick shift.”

    “Wow... Thank you. What year?”

    “No idea, hun. It was probably new in the 1800’s, though. But you know, small town, someone worked on the engine. I think it was one of the Whites.”

    The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t match any faces.

    “You didn’t have to. I was going to get a job and buy my own.”

    “Oh, please. You wouldn’t be able to save up enough money in a few years to buy your own car working at a grease joint. Besides... It’s a thank you. I know how much you dislike Spoons.”

    Dislike is too impotent a word. I loathed Spoons like I loathed looking at myself in the mirror.

    “And would you stop brooding? It’s ugly on you.”

    I sighed. If only she knew, brooding was my thing, the one thing I could do well. I brood excellently, especially given the right lighting.

    I fully expected to hate the car, but to my disappointment, I found myself enamored of it. It was an old brick, as red as my coat, with paint flecking off the sides. It was the kind of car that you could wrap around a tree, have the tree fall over, and then drive off safely – possibly on said tree, into the distance. Claire had bought me a tank with a paint job to match my power color.

    “I love it,” I said, surprised at the ‘L’ word coming out of my mouth.

    “There’s no need to be a smartass,” she said, dropping the cigarette and stomping it.

    “No, I really do like it.”

    Claire smiled, revealing a row of off-white teeth, partially stained by constant smoking.

    “Come on, lemme show you your room.”

  2. #2
    the eagle
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    Claire’s house looked almost exactly like a pile of mud would look, had the mud been made of wood, after a dangerous rock-slide. Pieces were vicariously stacked on pieces, the front entry way having not a single non-crooked stair up the entire seven steps. The front door had somehow managed to be put on straight.

    When I stepped inside, the first thing I noted was how little everything had changed in the three years since I last stayed. The front hallway had three entryways, with a sitting room to my right, the stairs and kitchen directly ahead, and the dining room to my left. On the kitchen counter was an ashtray. On the armrest of the sofa was an ashtray. On the dining room table as an ashtray. All full of ashes an the butts of dead soldiers.

    The stove, I noticed as I walked in to the kitchen, was almost coated in dust. The fridge was covered in takeout and delivery menus from the various places that dotted town. There weren’t that many – Claire just never took down the old menus when new menus would come from the same restaurant. I opened the fridge and poked around, but there was nothing but beer, a few bottles of unopened water, and various takeout containers. The boxes all reeked of death.

    “You look like you’re doing well for yourself, Mom. When’s the last time you had a home cooked meal?”

    She rolled her eyes. “I eat just fine.”

    “When?”

    “Well... Last summer, when I came out to visit. You always cooked for me in those cramped little hotel kitchens. I don’t expect that of you here. You’re my guest now, so I’ll provide, you know.”

    I motioned to the stove. “What, dust pâté? I’ll pass. I can cook.”

    “Oh, don’t even think about it, Beau. You’ll be out with your friends most nights anyway.”

    “Yeah, well... On the off chance I’m not. I’ll make a grocery list. Do I need to go to the store for you?”

    “I’m not an invalid, Beau. I’m perfectly capable of handling my own affairs. They wouldn’t have made me chief paramedic if they didn’t trust me.”

    Yeah, I thought to myself, you clearly can hold your own.

    “What about your room!” she cried out, suddenly remembering. “Lets get you unpacked, shall we?”

    I grabbed my one bag – a lot of unpacking that would be – and moved back to the main hall, up the stairs.

    “Bathroom is right ahead, but you know that. I moved my womanly items to under the sink.”

    “Thanks.”

    “And your room is just over here, on the right.”

    She opened the door, but I was too busy staring at the green shag carpeting to notice at first. There was a small, twin sized bed with a blue bedspread and two pillows in the corner, and a small dresser in the other corner, on top of which sat a bookshelf, which had a few novels, I assume left over from Dane or something Claire thought I would like.

    The walls were freshly painted.

    “Red. Your favorite color, Beau.”

    I nodded. “It’s... great,” I said, setting my bag down and moving over to the dresser. To my right was a window, giving me a spectacular view of one tree, which had grown rather close to the house. Beyond, I could see a few other trees, but none that were within touching distance. Behind me was a closet, made from what looked like antique window shutters with the paint chipping.

    “We ran out of the red stuff before we got to the closet, but I can fix that as soon as I get paid again, don’t worry. And we can put a loveseat over there,” she motioned to the one part of empty floorspace I had left, “so when your friends come over, you all can hang out. Maybe get a little TV to go on your dresser. The books are left over from Dane, and I bought a few vampire things. You used to be in to those so much when you were little, I just thought –“

    “Thanks,” I mumbled, staring at her in the doorway, trying to force her out with my mind.

    She eventually got the hint, and gave me a wavering smile, before stepping aside and closing the door behind her.

    I moved to the bed, and laid down flat on my back, to the sound of the bed springs crying out in seeming agony. It was a relic. This house was a relic, my closet doors, a relic, my car... They probably used it to shuffle the Ark of the Covenant from place to place.

    I had the rest of the day to unpack, and prepare myself mentally for school. The getting acclimated to a new environment. New people. New faces. Faces that would look down on me, on me and my clothes, my hair, my glasses. Just like in So-Cal. Things change by staying the same.

    I felt alienated even as I laid in bed that night, trying to drift off to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I would see haunting, pale blue irises staring at me in the darkness of my mind. They were beautiful, shining like diamonds in the depths of hell. These are what I fell asleep to.

    --

    I drove the heap, which I had affectionately named The Sherman, to school the next morning, trying to remember the order in which to shift gears, release the clutch, and hit the gas. I was proud to only have stalled out three times on the way in, parking haphazardly in the front row, a row I assumed was for upper classman, but I didn’t quite care.

    I grabbed my bag from the back of my car, and looked at the building. All across the front quad were people hanging out, enjoying each others company. The interloper was about to do what he did best – interlope, I suppose, and brood. My job was to keep my head down, remain unnoticed. I only had two years to go before I was free to... Free to subject myself to four more years and then enter the real world as some kind of account management specialist or monkey mind reader.

    Much to my vexation, when I stepped through the front door, I was greeted by a tiny woman, who was beaming up at me.

    “Well, hello there, cutie. How are you? What’s your name? Oh, you must be the new guy. I’m Meghan. I help the AV club, we do this weekly video, kind of like a news program, on the new goings on around here, and guess what, my friend? You’re new, you’re the new goings on around here, so if you’ll sit tight, I can just grab my camera and ask you a few questions and pretty soon everyone will want to be your friend.” She reached down and gingerly touched my fingers. “Be your friend, or hold your hand. I just have that power,” she smiled. No, not smiled. She beamed.

    Don’t get me wrong. Meghan was not bad looking by any means. She had deep, brown eyes, and her hair shone like wheat in the fluorescents, which was a task in and of itself. I wasn’t used to this level of attention.

    “Could we not, uh... Do that thing that you just talked about for five minutes straight? Whatever it was? What was it?”

    “The news thing? The Spoons Weekly Presentation? I think it would really help your reputation a lot, you know, mister...”

    “Oh, uh, I’m sorry, how rude of me. Grace. Beauregard Grace. But people just call me, uh, Beau.”

    “That’s French for ‘Beautiful’.”

    I tried not to point out the irony in me, of all people, being named beautiful. “My parents had a funny sense of humor, I guess.”

    “So, Beautiful Grace,” she smiled, yet again, “What brings you to our sleepy, dreary town?”

    “My Dad got signed with some Atlanta minor league travel team and he was afraid that I would get restless traveling, so I moved here.”

    “Grace... Wait a second, is your mother Claire?”

    I nodded.

    “She gives the drunk driving lecture every year. Oh, she’s so funny. It has to be a blast living with her!”

    A blast of nicotine to the lungs.

    “She’s pretty... great, I guess. So a lot of people know I’m new, then.”

    “A school this small... Heck, a town this small, the news travels fast. We probably knew you were moving here before you knew you were moving here.”

    Before I could point out the impossibility of that statement, the bell rang. I reached in to my bag, and pulled out my schedule, which had been hidden behind the various menus on the fridge. I would not have found it had Claire not left me a sloppily written note next to the Cheerios.

    “You’re in... Oh, lucky day, Beau, you’re with me first period. English!”

    “That’s... great, Meghan.”

    “Come on, I’ll walk you there.”

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