Him and the boy

m and Another Bubble One

 

Blurs and reflections,

Stares and silence,

A short battle of wills and ignorance.

 

At the wrench.

How much buzzing could a human being take? How much was he willing to take until he thought his parents had enough? Were they even feeling it? Was anybody feeling it? Someone had to. It couldn’t have been just him. He saw everything but he could make out nothing. The world was a watercolor painting yet to dry. The green of the ground was smearing into the brown and gray of the tree trunks. The brown and green of the limbs were smearing into the gray clouds of the sky.

He didn’t even see the wrench. He didn’t see himself.

He just heard the quake. That was how he knew he had a hold of the wrench. He didn’t even know if he was still pushing on it. Didn’t know if it was pointed in the direction he wanted it. How did he know if he had pushed it far enough to where he didn’t have to push it anymore? That it was stuck in a position that fed the signal to the quake without him having to do anything?

Anything at all.

He didn’t have to do anything. There was nothing. That’s what his mind was saying as he just existed in the moment, seeing blurs as if the world was being erased. That’s right. Being erased. If it was all gone, that would make it easier, right? Not just for him, but for everyone. For his parents.

No more hours away at an office. No more coming home to a boy who wanted to tell them about what he was reading in school. No more having to sigh and tell him they were too tired. No more the clatter of keys on the counter in the kitchen, the shuffling of jackets being shrugged off and tossed on the back of the chair, the fast clacking of dress shoes or high heels on the linoleum floor. That was the worst, because that’s all he really heard. It accented the business.

Even at home they were busy, moving too fast, not resting, never finding solace until they locked themselves in their room and went to sleep, or sat down on the couch in the living room, curled up at one end watching T.V. alone, because the other worked at night. The T.V. was the other worst part. It was so loud, so distracting. Obnoxious voices talking about things that didn’t matter while he was trying to show his mom or dad the book he had been reading.

They’d give it one tired look, nod and say, “Uh huh,” and then turn their eyes back to the T.V., pressing their hand against their brow to stave off the work related headache.

He imaged they weren’t even seeing what was on the T.V. That their headache made everything a blur. They didn’t even see his book, which was why they dismissed it the way they did. Yet, the noises from the T.V. helped them. For all he knew, they were seeing and hearing static. A shuffle of colors.

A shuffle, yeah. That’s what he called what he was looking at now. And the static was the sound of the quake.

In a game of cards, once you played a round, someone shuffled them and dealt them out again. They were rearranged. The same things but in a different order. He knew he couldn’t ask for something totally different, but if he could shuffle his life around, maybe the next round would be better. But to make sure what he got was totally different than this one he was living, he wanted to shuffle the cards for a long time.

He wondered, as he stared off into the shuffle, if the static his parents saw was like a medicine. Maybe they felt better afterward. At what point, though, did they start to feel the headache go away? Was it at the point where there wasn’t a separation of couch and T.V., that the static had bled into them?

He felt the world bleeding into him now. He wasn’t just a boy making this happen. The trees were no longer trees. The ground was no longer the ground. The wrench was no longer the wrench. It all moved together. Maybe even the air as well. It was all mixed together. That’s why it was called a shuffle. Not one individual thing existed now. It was a soup.

And it felt good.

The bliss of rebirth. A new beginning. A clean slate. It had to be working!

Then, a spice was added to the mix, pouring from above down into this bowl. A dark spice. He stared at it, wanting it to come into focus, but remembered that wasn’t going to happen, not with everything being shuffled. However, even though he wasn’t trying, that spice wasn’t blending very well. It stayed right in the spot where it had been poured, and it was facing him.

He felt something tighten, the first sign of something solid within this blurred shuffle, and he was reminded that he had a heart. But it was too early, wasn’t it? Was this a good thing? Was it time?

The spice remained right where it was, its edges fuzzy but its substance intact.

He needed to know something. He needed to know if his fingers were still wrapped around the wrench. But if he couldn’t feel his fingers, how could he find out? Was the shuffle supposed to stop itself? Had he set the quake to run its own programmed course?

The spice spread. No, not spread, grew. He thought its edges started to seep into the rest of the soup, but that wasn’t what was happening at all. It was coming closer. Again, he felt the tightening somewhere in his shuffled chest. The spice of any dish was supposed to be what brought out the taste. The spice was at work now, but as he watched, it moved much like it had a mind of its own, not like a simple sprinkle of salt or pepper that went with the flow. What was he really seeing?

It was approaching, and he could do nothing about it. Why would he have to do anything at all? That was his original hope, but this thing showed up and wiped away his delusion and showed him it was just that, a delusion. Or was he jumping to conclusions?

Was he really seeing something foreign or was this the spawning point of his new life? He had no idea what the beginning would look like, but it was supposed to feel spectacular, right? Maybe even a bit scary. Yeah, scary. That’s what this was. But he had hoped for this, right? So there was no reason to be scared.

As much as instinct dictated otherwise, he forced himself to smile. Well, he willed himself to do so, but he couldn’t feel it happening. He wasn’t supposed to feel. In fact, he was supposed to go into this with nothing, right? But hope came with grins. He knew he wanted to grin. He probably was grinning. He just had to believe that he was.

So, okay, he was smiling at this approaching spice. Let it come. He was nothing but a thought, anyway. Thoughts couldn’t be ruined. Not physically. No, no, don’t think negatively. This thing wasn’t here to hurt. This was the new beginning. See? It was reaching for him now. There, sprouting from the right side of it, like an arm, it was extending downward. Down? Why down?

Ah! The wrench!

There was a connection, right? Had to be! The wrench was the trigger. The trigger instigated the process. The process was the new beginning. The new beginning was the only thing that was left in this shuffled world of abstract ideas. It was all there was, so it had to tell the process when it was time to stop. Then, everything would settle into its new place.

This was so exciting. The new beginning was touching something to make it solid again. For this first time in what felt like forever, the boy felt something other than the reminder that he had a heart. He felt warmth. A connection of sorts. A bit of pressure. Something solid but not quite secure. Not yet, but it was happening. The boy’s heart leapt.

Ah! There it is! He was settling back in place! His new self! Was he the first thing to find itself before the rest of the world? Would he see everything when they started? He would be like a man of great knowledge. Seeing everything settle into place and understand what they were before anyone else. He could teach others what they were! That would be his purpose. He had left a world where he was neglected and now he would be a leader!

He knew he had to be smiling now. He thought he could feel the curl in his lips, the air against his teeth. He wondered, before he could feel his hand and his arm, if expressions in this new world would look the same. Then he chuckled to himself, and that was more evidence that, yes, expressions would remain the same. He remembered that the world was only being shuffled. That’s all. A little bit of the light in his spirit dwindled at that idea. So he probably wouldn’t be a leader. Oh well. At least he had a new beginning.

He was starting to see that this new beginning had an expression as well. A familiar expression. One of calmness. This was an expression. It had eyes. Golden eyes. No, wait. Glowing eyes! Fixed into a face of tanned skin.

The boy gasped, and he felt his smile disappear.

The rumble in his ears was marching off into the distance. With its departure came focus. Other things settled into place: the trees, the ground, the gray clouds. When the rumble left all together, the shuffled world was dealt back to him, and with a sickening feeling, it looked much like the same hand that was dealt last time.

With one exception.

There was a man kneeling before him, staring him in the eyes. The man had tanned skin and was wearing raggy looking clothes. There was something lying along his back, but the boy paid that no attention right now. He was seeing the glow in the man’s eyes.

The boy had to look away, and his eyes followed the sensation below. He found his hand, but it wasn’t gripping the wrench. The wrench was there in front of him, and it was still pointed toward him, toward the middle of town behind him. His hand was resting a few inches away from it. His wrist was in the tanned man’s grip.

He looked up into those glowing eyes again. The tanned man just stared back without a word, yet he reached up with his other hand and gripped the rectangular-shaped thing propped on his back. He slid the object upward and tugged it forward. The tanned man bowed his bald head and tugged the object over him. The other end of the object lifted up, and the tanned man brought the end in his grip down in front of him.

The boy saw the gray clouds quivering right there in front of him, and it didn’t take long for him to figure out that this was a mirror. The tanned man sat the mirror on the ground, and the boy saw the trees behind him. He saw himself. He saw the wrench. He saw the tanned man’s hand gripping his wrist.

He saw everything the way it had been before the quake.

He himself was the same. No big surprise there, but why did he feel like there was no change whatsoever? He stared at his reflection and knew the frown he saw for what it meant. Was this what the tanned man was for? To show him the results of the new beginning? Or was he supposed to see what he thought he got rid of, to face it, the truth?

For a moment, the tanned man held the boy there, forcing him to see. Then, he let go of the boy’s wrist. The boy remained there before the mirror, the wrench between it and him. The tanned man gripped the mirror in both hands and tilted it to the side where he could look at the boy. His expression was the same, a calm detached look.

The boy probed the guy for anything but got nothing. Just an eerie serenity. “So,” he said to the man, “is that why you’re here? To show me everything’s the same?”

The tanned man shifted the mirror back in front of him and then lifted it over his head. He placed it on his back and then brought his hands forward, resting his left forearm on his raised knee while anchoring his right fist upon the ground. He kept staring at the boy and spoke, “Vos operor ignoro quis is est operor vos?”

The boy looked at him with a slack jaw, “What?”

The tanned man nodded down at the wrench, “Is plagiarius est verto per an consensio of is quod foris. Ut est unus of consensio campester. Non futurus pulsatus. Non videor.”

Whatever the tanned man said, the boy took note of him shaking his head with the last two sentences. “Um, I’m sorry. I, uh, don’t understand your language.”

“Is est optimus ut vos licentia hic.” The tanned man said and rose from his kneeling position.

The boy hurried to his feet and started to say something, but the tanned man spoke again.

“Vos insisto in periculosus hortus. Vestri factum tempero vestri pello.” He reached back and tapped the side of the mirror on his back when he spoke the second sentence.

The boy shook his head and turned his palms up, “I-I’m sorry. I don’t…”

The tanned man turned away from the boy and faced down the clearing the way the boy had meant to go before he found the wrench. Then, he started to walk that way, dragging the mirror behind him. The boy remained where he was, arching an eyebrow as the tanned man left. “Wa….wait! Who are you? Why did you…?”

He looked down at the wrench. Again, he was reminded that it hadn’t moved. Not even after all that. So much buzzing. A complete shuffle and nothing was new. He looked up at the tanned man, seeing the gray clouds quivering along his back, the bottom of the mirror dragging on that uneven grassy ground. He took a step toward him, “What is this thing, really?”

But the tanned man said nothing, the scuffing sound of the mirror’s metal seal in the grass being the only sound he made.

First the guy with the space ship and the weird haircut. Now a guy in rags carrying a mirror. Neither one of them explained anything to him, only that he should leave the wrench alone. Well, he didn’t know if this tanned guy said exactly that, but from the way the tanned man spoke, he gathered it was another warning.

“Hey!” the boy called, but the tanned man didn’t turn. “Why won’t you answer me?”

Still nothing.

The boy started after the tanned man. The tanned man paused and gripped the mirror in both hands. He went into a shallow squat and then jumped. The boy stopped in his tracks and gazed skyward, watching the tanned man clear the wall of trees. With wide eyes and a slack jaw, he followed the tanned man’s trajectory to the northeast in a graceful and silent arc. When the tanned man started to descend, he disappeared over the wall of trees, and the boy heard nothing else. No breaking of branches, no landing hard on the ground, no shattering glass. Just silence.

“Kind of like the other guy.” the boy whispered to himself. “Who are they?” He turned to look back at the wrench. “What is this thing?”

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Next Chapter: Sleep