Forget Freeport
Copyright ©2018 Ryan P. Standley - All rights reserved.
Chapter 1: Fattie And Hairy
I just want to sleep but this stupid bird won’t stop chirping and waking me up. Just one minute longer, please? Okay fine, damn it, I’m up. I’m awake now. Hooray. Wonderful. The perfect day so far.
Where exactly am I anyway? A basement, duh. I’m staring up at a white ceiling tile, speckled with hundreds of little black dots. The dots are small as glitter and of course they remind me of the fire. Millions of tiny orange sparks flew miles into the sky that night. Dad and I just stood there shocked, and watched our house burn.
A raging house fire almost sounds like a waterfall. It’s unbelievably loud, and the heat of it, my god. We dripped sweat just watching. Huge fiery claws reached, punched, grabbed and tore down the walls. I’d never seen unstoppable power. Amazing. And so depressing.
My favorite stuff was burnt into ashes. Baseball cards, my mitt, my bike, my Bulls jersey. All toast. I had a cool keychain collection too, and a few video games. All gone.
My guy Dilly was cremated. He’s a stuffed animal and I am 15, but that little yellow duck saw it all. I stopped snuggling him years ago, but he still sat in the corner of my room just watching. Sometimes I glanced at him and smiled. Especially on the bad days.
I’ve always been the fat kid. For years. Since I can remember. I don’t know why. Low metabolism maybe? Bad genes? And lots of pizza and ice cream too, I guess.
Kids love picking on fatties. Easiest target ever. Dismiss me with one simple word. One mundane observation. Some kids got creative. Called me the Pillsbury Doughboy, that fat little cartoon chef on the commercials. Kids literally poked my belly until I imitated the chef’s cute little giggly laugh. I hate the Pillsbury Doughboy. And I hate those kids more than anything. But I just took it. All the teasing. So humiliating. And the girls. The pretty girls. They saw it all. But they never said a word.
Summer break started last month, I played basketball every night by myself. I didn’t eat any ice cream, and lost some weight. I felt better. Not so sweaty and out of breath. Then the fire hit, and we’ve lived on fast food and cable TV ever since.
Dad and I rented a cheap hotel. Then we ran out of money. We were basically homeless. Dad was calling every phone number he knew. Then last night we left Iowa, drove a few hours, and ended up here.
The Garcia House. Freeport, Illinois. I do remember this basement now. It’s been forever, like ten years. Our old friends offered up their place and even gave Dad a job. Dad left for work early, and I’m still laying here. Time to get up.
Nate and I had sleepovers here once. We ate caramel corn, drank pop, and watched movies on these old couches. We snooped around in the workshop. That’s still down here, filled with even more junk. And here’s a bathroom, and a new pool table. There’s a backroom I don’t remember from before. It’s empty and dark like a cave.
And here’s the classic Garcia bar. I remember when Dad helped build this beauty. The peach marble on top still looks smooth and shiny. I can imagine a room full of old people partying down here. Mom and Dad drinking with Manny and Patti. Sucking down beers and laughing so hard.
Wait, was Mom here then? Was she still around? Yes, she was. That was a long time ago. Nate’s probably the one drinking down here by now. Or maybe not. I have no clue.
“Eric Daniels! It’s way past noon. Are you sleeping still?” That must be Nate. His voice got deep, but that’s him for sure.
“Yeah, I’m up,” I yell back.
Nate Garcia clamors down the stairs. The basement door swings open, and he stands there, next to the pool table. He got tall. I guess I did too. We were so little last time I saw him.
Nate’s hair is buzzed short except for an odd looking half-inch-wide bang that dangles past his chin. His yellow t-shirt says, ‘Bite Me’ in bold black letters. His orange plaid shorts clash with his green canvas sneakers. His legs are covered with thick gobs of dark hair, and he has a ton of stubble for a 15-year-old.
“You’re not as fat as I remember,” Nate says, “That’s good.”
“Thanks.” I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess.
Nate sucks on his long bang, and then tucks it behind his ear. There’s a long quiet moment. The space between us feels uneasy. Do we shake hands? Hug? Nope. Neither.
“You like donuts, don’t you?” Nate says. “Come on up.”
Nate leads me up the steps and into the kitchen. Three large windows fill the room with sunlight. The linoleum floor looks like shiny yellow bricks. There’s black cupboards, white countertops, and the wooden kitchen table sits on wobbly chrome legs.
Nate hands me a white cardboard box stamped with ‘Donuts Plus’ in blue ink. There are only a couple sinkers left. I skip the jelly, and stuff a chocolate long-john in my mouth. Then I follow Nate outside onto the back porch.
The wooden porch stands five feet above the ground. The floorboards form a crescent at the edge. There used to be an above-ground swimming pool here. I kind of remember it. We played Marco Polo, and I got an ear infection.
Someone nearby fires up a lawnmower. I smell the fresh trimmings in the humid afternoon sun. Nate’s yard could use a mow. The grass is so long that the blades bend over. The hedges need a trim too. A large wooden tool shed stands at the rear of his yard beside two crabapple trees. There’s been plenty of rain here. There’s a tiny swamp in the shade between the crabapples. That puddle surely breeds mosquitos.
I smack a bug off of my ankle and notice Nate staring at me.
“Fire sucks, huh?” he says, “So how long you staying for? All summer?”
I shrug.
“Well shit,” Nate says, “I know something that’ll cheer you up. Come on.”
Nate leads me around the house to the front yard. We walk to the top of Greenfield Street, and then down the hill on the other side. The street ends in a cul-de-sac with much larger homes and manicured landscaping. I’m not used to all these beautiful lawns. My neighborhood in Iowa was mostly cement.
Nate points to a powder blue house with enormous trees and a black BMW in the driveway. This is a really nice home. Big money here. Even the mailbox on the curb looks new and expensive.
The hot sun is suffocating. Birds chatter and dogs bark in the distance. A truck engine barrels down a freeway somewhere. I smell dirty water evaporating off the asphalt.
“Shh,” Nate listens. “You hear that?”
He grins. There’s a wide gap between his front teeth, and his eyebrows bob up and down. “It’s them.”
Of course I hear them. It’s an unmistakable sound. One that makes me very nervous.
After countless rewrites and revisions, that's my latest version of the first chapter. If you don't like it I will punch you in the face. Jk
No comments:
Post a Comment