Time Off

(For a newer draft of this story, click here.)

A finch squeezes a sunflower seed with its beak. The black shell cracks open and a dark tongue pushes the kernel. The shell splits and falls away. The bird’s eyes are glassy black and gazing off into the trees. It seems to be chewing absentmindedly. Its movements are jittery. It punches its head into the feeder’s hole and spherical tan seeds spill to the ground below like sparks. It extracts another sunflower seed and deftly sets about splitting it, too. The claws are thin and boney, yet they suffice for balancing. Its head cocks robotically. Spooked, it darts away in a smear of yellow. A blue jay swoops in and lands weightily on the perch. The jay pecks frenziedly and wastes a great deal of feed. I squint up at the sky through the stationary tree branches overhead. It is cloudless.

We’ve been sitting on the porch since three. It is as early as four or as late as five. My drink is sweating but I am not. An irregularly shaped puddle accumulates around it on the crackled glass tabletop. I heard the high should be 73° today.

“Something on your mind?” She’s looking up from her magazine, which is now tilted in her lap. The lighting is such that I can see one eye tinted behind a sunglass lens and the other is hidden.

Yes. Where did that finch go? “No. Nothing.”

She angles the borrowed magazine back to a reading position. Her legs are crossed at the ankle atop a wicker ottoman with a maroon cushion. The tops of her bare feet glow in the early autumn light. Her toenails glisten red with chipped edges. Little white nets of dried skin frost the side of her big toe.

The blue jay is gone. The feeder sways gently from its departure.

Faintly on the air is the sound of children. One of them is either excited or upset. Genders can’t be established. A family lives up the street judging from the toys strewn about the front lawn. They don’t fret about theft. Who would do such a thing?

I rub the outside of my ear by the opening, which feels oily. I can take another bath tonight. I’ll submerge into the warmth and melt. I’ll leave my nose exposed, pinch my ears shut, and hear the stethoscopic sounds of respiration. I’ll feel the strange heft of my body as the water recedes down the drain.

Watchless, I pat my pocket in search of my phone. There’s nothing to retrieve. I remember my phone is dead in our room. How am I to know when to get moving? Hunger or boredom will have to do. It’s okay. We have no reservations. We are going to try the seafood place tonight. She’ll order a shrimp dish. We will dress up and walk holding hands. It’s not too far.

This town is not so much sleepy as it is antique. Design is neither showy nor neglected. Ornamentation does not announce itself but patiently awaits its audience. Lights do not flash at night; the iron street lamps shine steadily. Billboards do not obstruct; sandwich boards splay below eye level. The architecture whispers. The buildings of the town square are mostly made of weathered brick. They will stand tomorrow, monumental and undiminished. They are like a grandfather to a toddler, tall but not imposing. Corbels like fiddleheads coil underneath ledges trimmed with repeating patterns. Each storefront abuts the next with its own color and texture, unity out of diversity. Skinny plate glass windows reveal high ceilings edged with molding and lined with tin. Doors are topped with transoms. The palate of the surrounding houses contains unabashed pastels. Wood shingles armor the roofs. The sidewalks are rumpled by sweet gum and sugar maple roots. The lawns are supple and edged to perpendicular perfection. Weeds are not allowed.

It feels wholesome. People are more courteous. The church bells keep time. The drug store serves ice cream by the scoop. Take your seat on a chromed bar stool. It’s a tourist attraction, but I don’t mind. Locals patronize it, too. I imagine semi-annual parades with lazily flapping American flags. How can you be nostalgic for an era you never knew?

The children and birds have departed. We are alone. I shift my weight. This is nice, not doing anything. I feel empty but am fully here. It is so quiet now I can hear the ginger ale fizzing as I pour more over the ice. The translucent cluster rises and bobs near the surface. The carbonation makes a fountain above the rim. I haven’t had ginger ale in ages. It was complimentary. The innkeepers know what they’re doing.

The thought of this ending makes me complexly sad. A fluttering heart and a dingy lifeless color are where the feeling starts. It stops in paralysis. Checkout is a looming storm over the lake. There is no stopping it. I wait for times like these and can never keep them. Even memories will be forgotten. We have one more full day, though. Don’t ruin what's left. Do not think about work. Stop thinking altogether.

The spice tickles my nose and I try to suppress a cough unsuccessfully.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

The soda gently sloshes in the glass as I set it down with a soft clank. I look at her. She is staring serenely into the magazine. The stillness like a photograph. What is on her mind? She never seems as bothered as me. She is simpler.

I wipe my fingers on my pants and leave a damp trail of three fat, merging lines. A turning page is all that interrupts the breezeless afternoon. The ginger’s heat lingers in my mouth.

My book lies split open out of the spreading puddle’s range. I am not halfway to halfway. It is a lost cause. A lone and spartan black ant is wandering futilely nearby the novel. Its antennae twitch in syncopation. There’s nothing for it there, no crumb to cart away. How will it get back down? Maybe a bird will snatch it.

Something small and hard under my shoe scrapes the ground as I readjust. The patio is made of irregular white stone peppered with dirt or maybe mold. Emerald tufts of stubbly moss frame a few pieces. Everything is newer back home but not nicer. Everything here is used but no worse for the wear. Age is not to be feared. Preservation is a virtue. These people are investors who don't seek profit. They are a part of their town.They maintain instead of replace. 

I slouch, clasp my hands on my stomach, and close my eyes. I should be reading, but I can’t bring myself to. I’d rather idle. I planned on finishing two books. That would be something to talk about, a clear answer to post-trip inquiries. I should be taking advantage of the freedom. This was what I had been anticipating for months. It’s what we worked for, scrimping four hours off for every eighty worked, and it’s almost over. What have I done? I have not done enough. My inactivity is shameful. Wasting time feels felonious. I am a time killer. I plead guilty. Lock me up.

A part of me is uncomfortable with happiness. There is no earning it, no taming it. It just comes and goes on its own. I would rather strive. You can always strive.

Why am I classifying this as a waste? The rules do not apply here. We are outside all jurisdictions. We are unknown and unknowing. We have immunity. It is okay to rest.

We are different now, children again. Alarms go unset. We walk without clear destinations. There are no dishes to clean and towels are left wadded on the ground. Meals are the only items on the list of things to do. We drift, floating on our backs to nowhere in particular. We are disconnected. There are no headlines to process and e-mails are left unread in inboxes. I cannot remember being so uninformed and out of touch. We are out of touch, though. Our relationships have no tactile element. At home, physical distance has been traded for digital proximity. These people shake hands, hold doors, and slap shoulders. I long to be one of them.

Like a child, I don’t want to go. I want to stay here and now forever.

I warn myself against listening to the Sirens. This place is unreal. It is not your home. Your home is with her. This trip is make-believe. There is more than leisure and loafing. We must toil. The living truth of here is buried a foot deep in snow. The smiling citizens with their cable-knit sweaters, topsiders, and half-moon reading glasses must fight the cold. The freeze and thaw cycle, the road salt, and the tire chains disintegrate this place annually. Transience is inescapable. Remember the grass does not stay greener. My back aches at the thought of hefting a shovel.

“Hey, I’m gonna go get ready for dinner, okay?” She closes her magazine and puts her feet down.

“Yeah okay. I’ll be in in a minute.”

She rises from her seat and smooths the wrinkles in her shirt. As she passes, she strokes my shoulder. I follow her with my eyes. A ballpoint pen poked through her hair keeps her bun together. The spiral of brunette arcs is galactic. As she walks away, I notice her neck. Her vertebrae slightly protrude, making a peapod shape. I feel the back of mine. My fingers rise and fall over the bumps. 

The feeder remains unoccupied and will increasingly be so. What can migrate will. The leaves are starting to turn. Yellow and orange are seeping into the green. The edges are going dormant despite its lively appearance. Soon the trees will be stripped bare. Emaciated winter with its skeletal limbs is closing in. The chill will clutch those who remain.

I can and cannot move. Moving is dreadful. Sloth is hypnotic. I hate time. I sigh emphatically.

An oak leaf flutters downward. In its twirling, it is balletic. It falls with dignity but lands without hope.

Get up. It is time to go. 

Deserting Deserts

(For a newer draft of this story, click here.)

Big-box stores flanked Jacob and Francis as they walked to rent a movie they had not yet determined. While waiting for cars to pull through the driveways they crossed, the sun warmed their exposed skin. Upon resuming their stroll, the brisk early spring wind infiltrated their cotton clothes. Their tennis shoes slapped softly on the worn asphalt, establishing a syncopated rhythm to the music of passing cars.

"The other day I was reading Kant for a class. He said something interesting I wanted to float by you."

"Uh huh."

"Well, I don't remember the whole discussion exactly. The point of the whole thing was that our--people's--purpose is not to be happy, but to be the sort of beings that deserve happiness."

"Mmhm."

"That's it. That's what I wanted to float by."

"Oh. Um. No. No, that's a load of shit."

"I figured you'd disagree. Now tell me why."

Francis exhaled loudly, as though explanation was a strain. "Ever since you started going to college, it's like you're a...a thought mercenary vigilantly guarding this fair city against errors." Francis gestured towards the street with a sweep of his arm. "I just want to rent a movie Jacob. That's what we left the house for."

"Calm down. I'm just curious. You know that about me."

"Curiosity doesn't involve an agenda beyond learning the facts, you know. You open that door in the attic, take a peek in, and shut the door knowing it has a bunch of cobwebs and old lamps and posters in it. This has more of an agenda to it. You're a moralist and you've come back to make moralists out of all of us."

"Oh, get off it. We've used to have these kinds of conversations."

"Well, while you were off at college filling your head with dusty thoughts I've been here handing douche bags coffee they're disappointed in and mopping up old man piss in the men's room. I'm more tired than I was in high school and a helluva lot less curious. I've seen more of the world than you have, and it's not so great. We're not so great. I was hoping to have a little easy-going fun with an old friend."

"Why'd you call me then? I've never been much of a fun lover."

"Because I was bored and heard you were in town and figured I'd have to call you to snatch you away from your books. I knew you wouldn't come on your own."

"And you were bored because everyone else was busy with their what?...jobs and drinks and the forced gatherings that pass for parties now?"

"Something like that. Neither one of us fit that scene. I thought we could both use the company to pass the time."

"And we are. We're talking."

"We're not passing time. You're trying to take us outside of time or something...to the world of ideas. But that doesn't work the same way. Time flies when you're having fun because you aren't thinking about yourself. Nothing is more tedious, more arduous than introspection. You philosophical types need to figure that out and lighten up a bit. Honestly, I don't know how you do it."

Bunches of windblown hair settled out of place on the friends' heads as they entered the vestibule of the store. Past a bank of carts and through another set of sliding doors, they were greeted by a faint smell of spices. The brown tile featured a diminution of footprints from dirty parking lot water that had been tracked inside. The lights overhead cast an unnatural sterility onto the various goods.

"It's over here." Francis pointed to a box tucked in between a green coin-counting machine and a row of automated miniature rockets, jeeps, and ponies. The two approached the automated kiosk and Francis began tapping upon the screen.

"I don't want to watch a movie."

"What? Why not?"

"It's too nice of a day outside."

"The sun's going down soon enough."

"Let's just take a walk."

"And when we get tired?"

"We'll sit down."

Francis turned to face Jacob. "Okay, fine. Deserts, rights, whatever you want to call them--they're all make-believe fabrications of politicians and people who have to find things to theorize about for a living. None of us deserve anything. The only obligations I can think of are legal, and we all agree those are made-up. The only reason why anyone obeys those obligations is because it's so damned expensive to violate them if you're caught. That or the person is scared. Either way, the choice what's-his-name gave you was between happiness and nothing. That old coot chose nothing and you're well on your way to choosing the same. For my part, I'll try to scratch out a bit of happiness whether I should have it coming to me or not. There. Now I've indulged you. Indulge me and watch a movie and drink a few beers and help me forget about this town for a while."

"Well thank you, but I'd rather continue this line of thinking. Nothing says we can't tip a few back in the process. Or later on."

A tinny voice squawked above about a sale on paper towels.

"Ugh. Why'd you say you'd watch a movie then?"

"Because I knew you'd give in to persuasion. You like talking too much not to."

A shopping cart rattled nearby. The man pushing it was wearing black sweatpants and walking on the sides of his tattered sneakers. His large abdomen poured over the elastic waistband like a leavened dough over the rim of a mixing bowl. The pink hue of skin lightly contrasted against the heather grey of his t-shirt. "'Scuse me boys. I wanna get a movie."

The two moved back and walked out one after the other. The sun was at such an angle and orientation that its rays lodged into their eyes upon exiting. They squinted reflexively and sought shelter underneath an awning that covered a cache of gardening equipment. They passed a series of smaller storefronts with fading posters and cracked paint exclaiming discounts.

"Right. So, make-believe you say. Hmmm. I don't think Kant was figuring for that. Coincidence and accident bear heavily on happiness, though, right?"

"Completely."

"And that's not fair."

"No. That's not not fair. Fair has nothing to do with it. There is no fair. Some people catch the breaks and some people are broken. It is what it is."

"And that doesn't upset you?"

"Sure it upsets me, but there's nothing I can do about it. It's not up to me."

"What's not?"

"Meting out justice."

A bell jangled nearby. A mother and her young daughter exited a cheap salon. Jacob heard the mother ask what the girl wanted for dinner as they walked past. "McDonald's," he heard behind him.

"Not in a grand way, no. But in other ways you do. You give people back exact change."

"Because I don't want to get fired."

"And because you don't want to take some poor schlub's money."

"Not many poor schlub's come in where I work. Mostly businesspeople."

"You sure are difficult. You could use some lightening up."

"That's what the movie was for."

"Well, walks are nice too. Aren't you glad for spring?"

"Sure, sure."

"I think the greater point is that we ought not invest ourselves in something so transitory as happiness."

"As if nothing is more permanent than something."

Francis pulled the tab up on his zipper to close his jacket. His chest began the process of warming. "Why do you insist on calling deserts nothing? You really think a person never earns anything?"

"Oh, I suppose people earn all the time. We're all earning paychecks, earning wrinkles, earning grey hairs, and ulcers. I don't think there's an earn beyond what we agree to or what nature gives us, though--some earn with a capital 'e'."

"Is that because you've not gotten what you think you should have, so you've ditched the notion of should altogether--called it nonsense?"

"Maybe."

"And if I were to tell you it was a shitty hand you were dealt and I think you deserved better, what would you say?"

"I'd say it is what it is and I don't care."

"Because you can't stand to care anymore."

Francis stopped. "Come again?!"

"You're just as guilty of imagining as you think Kant and all the politicians and the professional thinkers are. Rather than admit life currently sucks through no fault of your own and reserve some dignity for yourself by asserting that you deserve better, you'd rather deny the possibility and make light of the situation--which it is not. The situation is not light. Sticking your head in the sand in order not to see does not stop the predator from attacking. It just keeps you from feeling anxious and maybe becoming scared into doing something about it."

Francis looked into Jacob's eyes. The setting sun ducked behind a signpost for a shopping center. A passing car honked at the two of them, but neither were distracted from their gazes. "And what exactly do you expect me to do about it, Jake? I'm flat broke. I can't so much as afford brand-name cereal."

"Money's got nothing to do with this. Well, it hasn't much to do with this. If you can't buy generic cereal...Anyway, I'm talking about having a little righteous pride and thumbing your nose at injustice. I'm expecting you to do what you can--which is still a great deal. You're too thoughtful to play dumb. You can't just loaf around here. It's not in you."

Francis started walking in the direction they had been headed previously. "Come on."
Jacob took his place aside his friend, who started to speak without looking at him. "Conversations with you still get blurry. Have you managed to make new, smart friends with that quirk of yours?"

"A few."

"A few more than me then. I'm woefully bored. I feel like I'm shriveling up."

"What've you been up to?"

"I don't know. Work. Watching my roommates watch television. I think I stare a lot."

"Hung it up already, huh? What're you...eighteen?"

"Nearly nineteen. Same as you."

"Besides recognition, what is it that you can get in college that you can't get here?"

Prompted by the throbbing of his fingertips, Francis stuck his hands in his pockets to escape the air. "Vegetarian entrees?"

Both of the boys snickered.

"Seriously, though..."

"Recognition would be good for starters."

"Plenty of people are recognized that shouldn't be. You ought to know whether or not you've done something well without others patting you on the back for it."

"What am I going to do well out here? Latte art?" Francis smirked.

"Well, I wouldn't make that the only thing you try to do well, but sure...latte art can be beautiful and it would be a good thing to brighten another person's day with a nice leaf or some such."

"Yeah, yeah."

"See? You really need to pay attention to Kant's point. It's better to pursue the desert of recognition from one who is qualified to give it than to be recognized by those who may or may not be."

"Uh-huh."

"Want to go swing on some swings?"

"Mmhm."

The two friends turned the corner and headed up the street to a local park with a patch of grass and four scrawny trees. Furry buds had begun poking their way out of branches.

Gauntlet

If a writer wishes to set before himself a great task, he needs to try writing the story of a genuinely happy person. The great preponderance of literature, film, or anything else that takes a human as its narrative subject, that manages to tell the story of a happy person manages only to portray her happiness as accidental. She is a mirror, a responsive medium. The circumstances shine upon her and she thereafter shines back. A boyfriend catches a flight, a long-lost brother dies and leaves his estate to her, she becomes the unlikely winner of a contest--all of these scenarios are easily pleasing. They refrain, however, from speaking to genuine happiness. If the flight departs without him, if the brother lives to see another ten years, or if the wheel spins slightly further--what then? Can we picture our protagonist happy? No; she continues to reside in the tepidness that was her state before the possibility of circumstantial salvation.

Why does the author, the director, or the other artist so often concern himself with only the accidental? Could it be because it is the simpler route? Could it be that a change in situation is all the imagination the ordinary audience can muster?

There is something maniacal about the implications of the preponderance of human stories that portray happiness. It suggests that all that is necessary to make a man unhappy is to give him a raggedy wardrobe and that to make him happy all one needs to do is give him a closet full of Italian suits. Is this the way the humanity works? Are we really just balloons adrift in the weather systems of the world?

Not all of us are, at least. There are some who we may consider genuinely one way or another. These people are essentially weatherproof. They have transcended to the utmost humanly possible the influences of accident. Unlike a mirror that returns what it receives, they are flames. They give something distinct from what they consume. They are transformative.

What makes it so difficult to capture genuine happiness? Since one is not born genuinely happy, one must become so. But, the chain of events cannot appear crucial. If they are, then we are back to mirror-life. The process is similar to making a marble statue. The great sculptors have explained the creation of their works as consequences of an unexpected process. The layman supposes the sculptors see themselves as forming the rock to the image. There is a slab or marble, the sculptor chips away, and makes the image appear that had been envisioned previously. The greats, though, claim the inverse. They form the image to the rock. There is a form trapped within the marble. Upon study of their material, they see it and release it. The creation does not return what it receives. Though raw, the material emanates a refined form. This is the mode of development of a genuinely happy person. They contain within them the principles for happiness--they need only be released. It is much easier for an accident to be put in rather than an essence to be taken out. A man can be made to appear happy, but a happy man is so whether he is seen or not.