The Pillow Fort

The monster shouldn't have done that. Of course the castle walls weren't strong enough to stop such a big monster, but it didn't need to prove it. And, come on, rebuilding isn't going to make this any better.

He'll get over it. He always does. For now, he throws the pillow walls around the room, which scares the cat, but there's no need to scold him because he's right about this one.

"Monsters don't think first," says the monster in a monster voice. But the monster has already transformed; the voice is false and out of place.

A snack helps, sort of. It's hard for him to swallow the chunks of granola bar while he's still sniveling.

Thomas and Puzzles

            Thomas liked doing puzzles and the other kids thought this was weird so they were little shits and made fun of him and called him names. Riddle me this, they said and Thomas told them riddles and puzzles were different, but they didn’t listen or didn’t care. A boy named Connor was kinda tough, so he took a marker from his backpack, one of those permanent markers that kids weren’t supposed to have in second grade, and drew big X’s all over Thomas’ book of puzzles. It was only one of those cheap puzzle books printed on recycled newspaper they sell at the grocery checkout, but Thomas got real mad and grabbed the marker and started scribbling all over the Connor’s polo shirt.

            The polo cost a lot of money and Connor’s parents made Thomas’ parents pay for it. Thomas’ parents bought a few more puzzle books too, which was good because he didn’t have many friends the rest of the year. Sometimes one of the kids would act like he was friends with Thomas but they’d just want him to do their math homework or something. Or they’d been dared to go eat lunch with The Riddler. But a dare wasn’t enough to get a kid to sit with Thomas, so they’d be paid with Oreos.

            When the carnival came to town Thomas didn’t want to go because he didn’t want his parents to hear the other kids call him The Riddler. But they made him, like, pulled him from his room and stuffed him in the car. They were starting to worry that he did too many puzzles and couldn’t have fun like a regular kid. He didn’t want to go on any rides and his parents didn’t want him to make a scene so they just walked around all night. His dad won a stuffed frog when he threw a dart at a balloon and the balloon popped and there was a piece of paper underneath that said stuffed frog.

            Thomas hugged the frog while they looked at cotton candy being gathered on a paper tube. His parents stood in line and waited for the guy to make some more and Thomas wandered to another game. It was the one where you could shoot a little target with a BB gun. He didn’t look at the prizes or anything; he just wanted to play.

            There was a little slot for coins to go in and Thomas put down the frog and found a few quarters in his pocket. He took a few practice shots and then turned to Connor who was playing the same game and hadn’t noticed Thomas. The gun didn’t work right when he tried to shoot him in the face, but Connor still flinched and pissed in his pants a little bit. A few people saw but no one said anything.

            Thomas went back over to his parents who were still standing by the cotton candy. They were talking kinda quiet considering it was such a loud carnival, and they hadn’t noticed he’d been gone. He said he wanted to go on a few rides now.

The Amusement Park

We thought it was abandoned. That's why we went. A place to be alone. We were more worried about someone busting us for trespassing or underage drinking. But it would've been better if some authority figure had been around.

Stan got drunk real quick. I think he was scared; he wanted to feel numb. Then the alcohol gave him courage. He rolled up his pantcuffs to the knee and waded to the inside of the big fish. He shouted back to us and said it was beautiful. A mural or something. I didn't want to get wet, so I stayed on the shore. We couldn't see him once he got all the way in.

We didn't see who got Stan. There was a a loud commotion and splashing, but we still couldn't see inside the big fish. Instead of going after him, we ran to look for help.

Under the rusted Tilt-a-Whirl we saw a sleeping bag rolled out on top of some cardboard. Whoever got him must've had a stiff back.   

Piglet

His name was Piglet. Like, right there on his birth certificate.

No one teased him, though. He was tough before he even knew what being tough meant.

I chipped my tooth the first time I hung out with Piglet. Even now, I still say it was my fault. Piglet made that clear.

A month ago, I tracked him down. He wasn't hard to find on Facebook with that name. From what I could tell, he was normal, so I sent him a friend request. I thought that would be the end of it.

I got a message from him the next day. He said we should meet sometime since we lived in the same city and all. I didn't want to, but I didn't want to say no either, so I agreed.

We met on a Thursday afternoon at a bar he knew. The place had cable news on their tv's with the sound low, but you could hear it if you paid attention. I was half-watching a report about cancer and alcohol when I felt a firm slap on my back shoulder. Piglet kept his hand there and with the other he shook my hand enthusiastically. I found myself smiling.

"You want one?" I gestured to my beer.

"Naw. Thanks. Don't drink." He ordered a Shirley Temple like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"You know, I'm going to get one of those next time I'm in a bar," I said. I meant it.

"Delicious, right?"

He made friendly eye contact the whole time we talked, which normally would have made me uncomfortable. He laughed a lot at his own jokes, but they were funny so I found it endearing. We started crying with laughter once when he told a story about a guy we knew back in the day who had traded him a pack of cigarettes for his meatball sub. The guy put on, like, a hundred pounds in the last decade and, he swore, it all started back to that sandwich.

"Jokes on me though. I'm still smoking." I could tell from his voice.

I kind of wanted another beer, but didn't think it'd be proper etiquette when he was on a soft drink.

"Let's do this again sometime," he suggested.

I smiled as I agreed.

Piglet walked out with me. He was in the middle of another anecdote as I came up to my car, or, I should say, where my car had been. "... and so Tommy's got this sister, right, and she's—" he interrupted himself when he saw my expression. "What? What's wrong?"

"My car," I looked up and down the street as I felt my heart palpitate. "It's not here. I parked right here."

Piglet did a good job acting. I was convinced for awhile. The whole time he was talking about police reports and how the world is bullshit and all that. I was sold.

He lit a cigarette while we waited for the police. "And it was brand new, right?"

"How'd you know?"

He took a drag of the cigarette and made the same friendly eye contact he'd made before, "What do you mean, how'd I know?" he paused. "Facebook."

Arthur and the Banjo

            When Arthur Spector picked up the banjo he knew he’d be good right away. He’d thought the same thing when he’d picked up the mandolin, the melodica and even the Didgeridoo. He was half-decent at guitar, yes, but he compulsively collected these others.

            Saturdays he strolled to the Folk Music Center to see if they’d marked down anything new. If anything was below $100, he bought it. The banjo was a mainstream purchase; he was willing to pay a bit more than his usual $100 because he knew the investment would contract his commitment.

            He was self-taught.

            The music room was a mishmash of instruments, tapestries and tribal artifacts. The floor was bare, awaiting a replacement rug. The previous one had been plundered from a dumpster and spread lice around his apartment. To be safe, there was no longer any tufted-fabric on the floor: no carpet, no rugs, not even a bathmat. He still got tiny, itchy welts on his feet sometimes.

              Periodically, Arthur sold the instruments on Craigslist, adding a disclaimer like, “Slight defect in the accordion reeds. Produces weird sound.” The buyer didn’t share the same concerns.

            He downloaded Free Apps to make multi-track recordings, but the interface was limiting and he sure wasn’t going to pay $7.99 for the Premium Apps. Especially when he didn’t own a quality microphone.

            On Arthur’s desk sat sheet music affixed with Post-It notes. They were color-coded. Blue for compositions in progress. Green for finished. Pink for ideas he was playing around with. He slapped a pink one on a piece of staff paper that had gathered a coffee ring.

            The stationary shop stopped carrying the neon Post-It’s he liked. He didn’t create a new sorting system.

            Lyrics came from a rhyming dictionary he coordinated with a dartboard. Three darts. #1 — Red or black: End rhyme or internal rhyme. #2 — Syllable Count. #3 — Page number from the dictionary, which was a serendipitous 60-pages long.

            Of course, this was only a starting point. Arthur filled in the rest with stream of consciousness.

        Lucifer stagnates with a belly-full rum

       Corduroy t-shirt rubbing my body to numb

This one had a blue Post-It.

Johnny

Johnny brought Hostess snacks. The whole line of 'em — Hoho's and CupCakes and Snowballs and Twinkies and even Zingers. Even better, he always shared. A real gentlemen.

She ate it and they talked and he'd hold her hand. A real gentlemen. 

Other guys tried to pull it off, but they didn't have Johnny's charm. And it looked like they were trying to copy Johnny.

He wasn't the smartest kid or the funniest or the best at sports but he was the undoubtedly the coolest. He was invited to everyone's birthday party. Parents always said something afterward like, "That Johnny is such a nice young man." They were right. He was a real gentlemen.

Parties became less formal in middle school. The cool kids would meet up at someone's house after a dance or whatever and some people would make out and other people would talk about it later. Parents might have been home, but they were hip parents who kept out of the way, so making out was no problem.

Johnny got to second base sooner than anyone else I knew. Most people hadn't even had a peck on the cheek yet, but Johnny was feeling up an eighth grader, like, in front of everyone.

They'd been talking and flirting and he was a real gentlemen. He put his arm around her and she smiled. He was the coolest guy there and even though she knew her friend had a crush on Johnny, she let him keep it there.

He started talking about his hard-on before anyone else could. It was funny and we all laughed because, sure enough, he was pitching a tent in his pants. "Hey, it's not my fault," he said as he gave a little squeeze to the girl on his arm. She laughed and turned a bit red. He kissed her on the neck first and people made a whoa-oh cheering sound. Then he squeezed her breast in a playful way and people said, "Oh, Johnny!" Then she kind of let him kiss her on the mouth; he felt her body like he wanted to and people started to look away. Other boys hid their hard-ons and the girls didn't really know what to do. A pop song came on and everyone said, "Whooooo!" The girls started dancing and the boys wandered around. Johnny hi-fived a few of his friends and then they started snacking at a bowl of pretzels.

... happen to you.

This wasn't supposed to happen to you. You've done everything right. You've been loving and supportive and charming and wonderful and blah blah. This doesn't feel like your life. You never thought this would happen to you. 

Terrible thoughts plague you—him with her and her with him and (even worse) the drone of I'm right and you're wrong. You win the arguments in your head. You're articulate and thoughtful and introspective as shit. But when you actually speak, it's horrible.

You're thinking about what you'll say when you next speak.

The train pulls up, the doors open, you shuffle to an empty seat. You put on your headphones but you're not listening to anything. You just don't want anyone to bother you.

Someone left a bag on the seat behind you. Normally, you'd attend to it, take it off at the stop with you and find a lost and found or whatever, but today, that's someone else's problem.

You know what you're going to say. And you kind of want her to cry, or, maybe not, but you want to feel better and saying this will make you feel something. Or maybe it'll just prolong this whole fucking thing, but you don't care, you're mind is made up and you've got some things you have to say.

The bag next to you starts to beep like there's a phone inside, like a really old, outdated phone.

She'll cry, you decide. 

There's smoke and destruction, but you don't see it. You don't see anything. The bag was too close to you.

This doesn't feel like your life.  This wasn't supposed to happen to you.

The Graveyard

We were at an age when we realized we could get away with things. We weren't supposed to eat chocolate in the morning or ride our bikes without a helmet, but if no one caught us, we wouldn't get in trouble. At first, we broke rules we thought were stupid or unfair; then, we pushed boundaries just for the sake of it.

Hopping the cemetery fence was enough of a thrill for me, but Franklin had other ideas. He kicked a flower pot and hurt his foot, so he swore and smashed it with his heel.

"Come on," he instructed and I followed.

He made fun of names on gravestones. "Thaddeus," he snorted.

I snickered.

"Keep a lookout, okay?" He squatted over one of the graves—Arthur something, Beloved Husband— and then pulled down his pants. "Gross man, look away."

I kept a vigilant lookout while Franklin defecated onto Arthur Something, Beloved Husband.

On the walk home, I didn't say much. I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that he hadn't even wiped himself. Whenever I meet someone named Arthur, I still feel the need to apologize.

Sleuthing

            He’d found his first clue and it was a dandy. A footprint from a big old shoe. And a shoe. And a white ankle sock. And a footprint from an actual foot. No foot, though. The wet cement had given him a lot, but it hadn’t given him a foot.

            The robber was a big guy or at least he had big feet. Size 13. The shoe was a Black Hightop Converse, you know, Chuckies. It shouldn’t have been a great clue. So many of those shoes around. But most of them don’t lace up with those neon laces that were popular in the nineties, the special ones you don’t have to tie because they are coiled up with elastic or something. Well, this shoe had neon pink and green laces.

            For the next few days, he kept watching people’s feet. He usually looked down when he walked, but now he could do it with purpose. No one had springy neon laces anymore, though. They had white, or brown, or sometimes red, but they didn’t have neon, and they definitely didn’t have the springy sort. Nobody really had shoes with pumps or the kind that light up in the heel when you step either.

            There was no other method to find the neon lace man. He couldn’t access a database of shoelace sales or a list of dudes with big feet. His dandy clue wasn’t as dandy as he’d first thought.

            Then he saw a poster for 90’s night.

            He danced and looked at shoes and danced. A lot of Converse on the dance floor. Like, more than a dozen. But none as big as a size thirteen. No size thirteen in any shoe for that matter. He needed a break from dancing and looking at feet, so he played pinball. Twilight Zone pinball that had a few touches from episodes of the show like Rod Serling and the black and white optical illusion spinner and a red gumball machine, which must’ve been from an episode he couldn’t remember. He locked two of the balls in a little trap in the game and it triggered Multi-Ball. It was chaos; he had to focus so much that he didn’t see a mismatched pair of Converse with neon laces walk past him. After the third ball plunged down the center of the game in that cheap way where you can’t do anything about it, he decided he’d had enough of 90’s night and it was a dumb idea anyway. Some people cheered as “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls came on.

            He didn’t feel like much of a detective. His tan canvas trenchcoat was starting to feel foolish. He wasn’t even much of a gumshoe. He hucked his magnifying glass at the dumpster and it didn’t break, but he wanted it to, so he picked it up and tried to smash it but it didn’t smash, it only cracked a bit.

            This job starts to wear on you, he said to himself. There was steam rising from the sewers and the sound of vintage music echoed down the alley. He questioned if Alanis Morissette made good dance music.

I'm ready when you are

He keeps taking photos. One after another. What is he even going to do with all those? He's probably going to post them on Instagram and throw a bunch of hashtags on then and let me know every time someone likes them. Or they'll just sit on his phone and he won't ever look at them again. Or he'll show someone sometime and they'll glance and smile politely and say, oh beautiful, and he'll keep scrolling through to find some more.

We should probably get more ice because those beers have been sitting all day. There's gotta be somewhere with ice around here. Though I don't mind it warm, too. They probably aren't too bad. And then we wouldn't have to hassle with driving around looking for ice. Or I could just open one of the warm ones and have it while we drive, I mean, no one's on these roads and it's just one anyhow, so it's not really a big deal.

I move to the car and grab one and open it. He's still taking pictures. I drink half of it while he's still looking out at the water. When he turns back, I ask if he wants one and he shakes his head. I can tell he'll still be awhile so I finish it off next time he turns around. He might be able to hear the next can open, but with the waves I think not so I open another and cough awkwardly, but he doesn't turn around or say anything so I don't think he noticed.

I don't wanna litter, but there's no garbage cans around so I dig a little hole with my foot and squat down like I'm tying my shoe, even though I'm not wearing shoes, as I stick the can in the hole. I kick a bit of sand over it. 

The sunset is almost done so I walk over, but before I do I take a big gulp, because I don't want it to spill. He shows me some of the photos he took. They are nice, but I don't say anything because I'm holding my breath; I feel a burp coming on. I manage to keep it away. I take another swig and now it comes, but he doesn't seem to notice. I'm ready when you are, I say.