Stolen Breakfast

You can't be surprised if something stolen doesn't work. Or you can be surprised, but you cannot be upset. You have no rights in this scenario. I took the milk off the neighbor's front steps and cursed her name when it was spoiled. It ruined my coffee, ruined my cereal.

I wasn't supposed to steal the milk. She was supposed to be there. I was supposed to be caught in the act. This is how conversations are started. If I could only make her laugh.

But I saw that car parked out front and knew her morning schedule would be off. I wasn't going to be caught doing anything. Except throwing out my breakfast.

To Make Her Stay

"You'll be sorry," she told him. "You are. You are sorry."

He bowed his head to her. "I know," he said. "I know I am. I know I always will be."

She was in the doorway. "Do you?"

His head lifted. "Yes," he told her. "Of course."

It was enough to make her stay.

Sharper Still

I'd like to write the Great American Something, doesn't have to be a novel, doesn't have to be particularly long, but I'm afraid that the only thing I'll produce in the end is a bloodied sheet of paper because I cannot stop sharpening my pencil.

Grenko

Grenko, my old friend, took bottle after bottle of the bad liquor, one under his arm and one in each hand.

"Why must we have the bad liquor?" I asked Grenko. "We can afford something better, can't we?"

"It's tradition," was all he said.

It was, but still it made little sense to me. Tradition is the hurdle of common sense. "But Grenko," I said, "remember how unpleasant it is? The burn, the taste? Why must we make things more unpleasant than they need to be, if we have the power to do otherwise?"

He looked at me with such fact that I was a boy again. "It's tradition," he said, and we left.

No Signs of Life

It looked the way I thought an art studio would look. Big layout, big light, splotches of paint and dust leavings everywhere. Small kitchen area, small bed area, small living area. And where I presumed a dining would went, or should go, there was my stool and the sculptor's pole.

"Have a seat right over there," he told me. I'd answered his ad only the day before. He was looking for models, anyone, male, female, young, old, it didn't matter. No pay, but we got to keep the bust. I figured it would be something different.

I sat down and he got to work. He cut slabs of clay from a giant block and started slapping them on. It was fairly impressive, being able to see a head start to form after just a few large pieces of clay. But there it was, there was I. Several feet behind the sculptor was a mirror, much taller than floor length, that rested against the wall, and every now and then I caught a glimpse of his masterful fingers. With just a push, a pull, a smudge, a smear, he brought to life the curve of my nose, the dent of my ear, the troublesome smirk I try to hide.

He worked with alacrity and precision that it was strange to see him suddenly stop, perplexed, gazing first at me and then upon my clay visage, back and forth. He continued his work.

"Are you from Nebraska?" he asked me.

"No..." I replied. What an odd question. "Why do you ask?"

"Ah. It's just that I know a couple people from Nebraska, and you all have the same dead look behind your eyes."

I wasn't sure what to say. He didn't seem to be making a joke. He was, in fact, quite serious, the most serious he was all afternoon. But he kept working, found other imperfections over which he could exercise some control I suppose.

A few more pieces stripped away with various tools, another couple of hair slabs added and coiffed, and he stopped again. I let some time go by. He was staring at the head, but didn't seem to be looking at it.

"Is that it?" He didn't answer me. "Are you done?"

"Yes," he said. "I'm done. I'm... I'm sorry."

Strange, that he should be apologizing to me. "For what?"

"It's not exactly complete. But it's as complete as I can do. But I'm afraid I can't let you take it away."

"Oh," I said. The fact that I could take the bust away with me was what prompted me to answer the ad in the first place. "Well, may I look at it?" He took a breath in, and then nodded, solemnly it seemed to me, and walked away.

I saw the reflection of my clay face there in the mirror. I dismounted the stool to get a closer look. And then I saw. That he had put the small clay pieces for my eyeballs, but gave them no retinas, no pupils, no signs of life. Just small, grey, smooth almonds. I looked to the sculptor. His lip was quivering. He was lost somewhere. I looked back to the bust, taking in myself, the curves, the dents. My smirk and my empty eyes, making me look like something not of this world.

Time Flies

His father smiled.

"What?" the son asked.

"You look good with that cigar in your mouth. A little too good."

"Oh." He tried to hide his smile but couldn't.

"No, it's OK, it's OK," his father told him, "it's good. Just don't tell your mother." He promised not to. "And don't make a habit out of it." He promised that, too.

There was something that had been on his mind for years.

"Do you remember," he asked his father, "when I was nine, and we were up north. We were at the end of the dock, and you asked if I wanted to try it?"

His father chuckled. "No. Sounds like something I'd do though."

"I wanted to, but I was so nervous that you asked me, so I just said, 'No,' and ran back to the cabin." They shared a laugh. His father closed his smiling mouth tightly.

"Time flies."

He watched his son try again to blow a smoke ring. The boy was getting better.

"It sure does."

The Old World

The old man had a yearly book sale open to the public, so there was no reason for the boys to break in. But they figured they wouldn't be allowed into any part of the house, only the library (which they heard was on the first floor right by the side entrance) and maybe a couple of hallways. So, really, they had no choice.

He was a recluse, the old man, whatever his name was. A boogeyman, shut up in his giant yellow brick home, set amongst overgrown brush and tall, thinning trees. Stories about him circulated through the monkey bars: "I heard he murdered his family and they're in the basement." "I heard he murdered his family and he ate them." "I heard he murdered his family and skinned them and then used the skin to cover all his old books, and that's why he has those book sales. He's getting rid of the evidence!" "I heard he built the house with his own two hands." "I heard he's over a hundred!" "I heard his house used to be an insane asylum and then when they shut it down he refused to leave."

Indeed, it did look something of an insane asylum, or a least a fifth grader's idea of one. It was not homey in the slightest, certainly didn't look like any other home in the otherwise upper-middle class neighborhood. The yellow brick was faded and stained, and the structure was rectangular so that it resembled a brick itself. What few windows there were were tall and thin, not much more than six inches across. There were three pipes, hardly chimneys, that let out a constant stream of faint, pale smoke. A narrow gravel road led to all of this, and it could let one car go one way, or one the other. No cars seemed to go either way, however, and the only automobile in sight of the place was a rusted out Oldsmobile. No one ever saw anyone coming or going, save the annual book sale. Which is why our boys planned their intrusion.

It was the last day of school. The report stated that Mitchell, the slightly older of the two, had convinced his friend, Robbie, that the break-in should happen and that it should happen that night. Robbie's house was only a few blocks away, so Mitchell told his parents he was sleeping over, and after several Coca-Colas and the sound of the parents' door closing the two boys sneaked out. They dressed all in black and brought one small blag with two flashlights and various tools they thought they might need. And, of course, a camera.

Mitchell said Robbie picked the lock, and Robbie said Mitchell picked it. Each described the other as the picking artist, but they both took turns trying to open the door as it was quite stuck even when unlocked. But after much picking and prying and pulling the boys ended up inside, just as they wanted to. Their flashlights revealed that the library was in fact right next to the side entrance, and it was filled to bursting with books. Novels, tomes, dictionaries, encyclopedias, stacks of old newspapers and National Geographics, political biographies and architectural manuals. Books about frigates, fly-fishing, gerrymandering, Japanese landscaping, the Cold War, all the wars the boys had learned about from school and their fathers plus many more of which they had never heard. Maps, atlases, made from a time when people thought the world was something else. Framed photographs of semi-nude beauties, black and white. There was even a globe that revealed bottles of liquor resting in the Southern Hemisphere. The boys had to hand it to the old man. It was impressive.

It was all they had time to explore. Mitchell said Robbie lit the match, Robbie said it was Mitchell. None of their parents or friends smoked and neither boy had ever been seen smoking, and if they had no one stepped forward to say so. But there was a match, and a cigarette, and carelessness around a map of the old world. Each boy suffered burns on his hands trying to put out the flames. If only either of them had thought to knock the fire to the floor and stamp it out. But that thought never occurred to them, and it only spread. Those crisp and tender parchments, the dry and bound leather, it all lights up rather quickly, each book handed off the flame to another. And before they knew it the smoke was multiplying and they couldn't breathe, were coughing, were light-headed, were out the door, slamming it behind them, were running with unknown terror back to the temporary safety of Robbie's home.

No one has rebuilt in the lot where the yellowed sanitarium stood. The overgrowth has continued to grow and grow, making the neighborhood a bit more wild. Some residents remember, but the newer ones drive and walk by without much knowledge or recognition. The children, though, their stories still continue to make their rounds: "I heard they were getting back at the old man for touching them." "I heard it was a dare!" "I heard they didn't think anybody would miss him." "I heard the guy set the fire himself! He just wanted someone else to take the blame. He was a crazy old man."