Anyway, here's the first of the batch. I started to write a series of stories about a character named Roy. I've only found three of them so far, although I do believe a few more exist. Hopefully they will turn up someday. So, in no particular order, here is the first installment.)
Found Not Looking
I'm not too thrilled about it, but I'm going to spend the weekend in Wisconsin with my mother. It was either that, or spend it under the watchful eye of Gladys, the seventy year old widow across the hall. If her wrinkles and smell don't kill you, it's that stuff she shoves down your throat she dares to call food that will. Why I can't take care of myself for two days is a huge mystery to me - I mean, come on, I'm sixteen, not five. It's not like I'm going to fry meat next to an old pile of papers, or play in the tub with a clock radio, or anything. And why is it okay for me to be alone at night when she works at the bar, but not now? I don't know. You treat a kid like a kid for too long and they develop complexes. That's what I think.
Anyway, don't get me wrong, I think Wisconsin's a great place. I've been there about a thousand and twenty times, but all those were on vacations, or something like a vacation, and believe me, this is not a vacation. My Aunt Bridget went off the deep end again. We found out last night and I swear, my mom hasn't stopped crying since. Even here in the car. I've been trying not to bug her 'cause I know she's upset, so I haven't said anything the whole trip, and, I even let her listen to her own radio station the entire way without one complaint, but I don't know, seems like every time we see a sign on the road just telling us how much further we have to go, she immediately busts up. Five miles outside of Chicago Ridge, I gave up on constantly reopening the glove compartment and just pulled out the box of Kleenex and dropped it in the seat between us.
I said, "went off the deep end again", because she has a long history of going off the deep end. She's like the Olympic diving champ of crazy. A lot of the earlier stuff I don't know about, probably because of that age discrimination thing again, but in the past few years I've listened in on enough conversations to think I'm pretty well informed. I don't have the time to go into everything, that is, unless you don't mind me me going gray and having grandkids before I'm finished, but I will tell you about the last episode before this.
It was about a couple weeks ago, July third to be exact. I know that for a fact because my mom had to make a similar trip up there the very next day, leaving me unable to watch any fireworks 'cause I was stuck inside Gladys' all day, eating three meals of this crummy mush that tasted like greasy bread and liver. I was sick for two days. Anyway, my loony Aunt Bridget picked July third to announce to all of her neighbors that she was suddenly psychic, which is odd enough, but apparently, she could only perform her powers when totally naked. And that's how she spent that day informing everyone. I don't know all the details, but I got this picture in my mind of Aunt Bridget, who's really not too bad looking for a woman in her upper thirties, completely nude, skipping up and down the streets in broad daylight screaming, "I'm psychic! I'm psychic!", and pointing at people sitting on their front porches or looking out their windows, "Your favorite color is blue!" "You wish you were a car mechanic!" "You have trouble doing long division!" I'd love to know what really happened, and, why she thought she could only be psychic when she was naked, but my mom is crying all over the place. It's gotten to the point where hotels signs are making her weep. And excuse me, but that's one thing I can't deal with - when people try telling you stories while they're crying. Gasping for air in between words, stopping all the time to blow their nose...if there's any humor at all in the story, that's certainly gonna wreck it.
The only thing that's keeping me going is the fact that when we get there, I don't have to hang around. I already asked a couple times, so everything's settled with that at least. Aunt Bridget's house is only a block or so from the woods, so I'm gonna go in there and meditate. I've never done it before, but I've been reading "The Dharma Bums" by Jack Kerouac, and as far as I can tell, the two things the characters really like to do are meditate, and play yabyum. Yabyum is some sex position, I guess, where the man and the woman sit facing each other and don't move for something like ten hours. Obviously, between those two choices, I'm limited to meditating. Which is fine with me, 'cause I've wanted to do it ever since I read about it early on in the book. That's not to say I never wanted to try yabyum, but given the circumstances, meditation seems like the easiest one for me to get involved in.
Plus, who's got ten hours to do something like that? I guess my question is, even if you did have the time, what do you do for the ten hours? Do you talk? And if you do, what do you say? I don't think I'm being insensitive when I say that ten hours with anyone is a lot of conversation time to kill. I just can't imagine being locked in the same sex position with a naked woman and getting to the stage where you're talking about what chances the Cubs have next season. You know what I mean? I really think you can only say "I love you", "Wow, this feels good", and "You've got a great body", for so many hours before it gets boring. I really have to finish this book and see what they're trying to accomplish. I'd get into it now, but reading in a moving car gets me supremely nauseous, and I already don't feel so hot as it is. Long car rides in general get me sick. I could never be an Indy driver - I'd fall asleep after the twentieth lap and kill everyone. I would. I know it.
"Wake up, Pumpkin. We're almost there."
See? I fell asleep. It just hits me and BOOM, I'd swerve and take out all the other drivers. I really wish she hadn't woken me up until we pulled in front, though. We're still about three blocks away. If there's one thing I hate, it's being woken up from a nap while the car is still moving. When I wake up like that, I usually feel worse than I did before I fell asleep, and I like to end that feeling immediately by stepping out. This only makes me feel cruddier. But I can't tell that to her. Not now. She'd start bawling again, then when we did get to the house she'd never stop. I know her with these crying jags. She's incredible. I think I'll put a character like her in one of the novels I'm gonna write. A woman who never stops crying. Winning the lottery would be no different than misplacing your keys to her, she'd just be a crying and sniffling wreck. My mom's not that bad, but characters in novels are always exaggerations of people you know. I read that somewhere.
It wasn't as bizarre as I thought when we walked in. Since I'd never been to one of these deals before, I kinda half-expected to find Aunt Bridget in a straightjacket and chained to the wall, all wild-eyed struggling to break free while these big orderly guys stood by with whips and clubs wait for her to get good and loony. But it wasn't like that at all, which is good, 'cause I don't think I could have handled that. What happened was this nice old man in short sleeves and gray pants answered the door and introduced himself as Dr. Miller. He's Bridget's psychiatrist. I know that from eavesdropping. "Dr. Miller this", and "Dr. Miller that", is all you ever hear my mom say. It's half her conversation. I'm not kidding.
He patted my mom on her shoulder, giving her the whole whispery, "Jenny, I'm so sorry" routine, then shaking my hand like we were long time business associates, or something. That's better than the old guy rubbing your head and calling you Junior. I just want to scream when they do that. Or, recite every four and five syllable word I know along with their definitions to prove I'm not a little kid.
My mom squeezed my hand and I squeezed back. I was one of those communications like, "Well, this is it. I hope I can do it," followed by, "You can. Just be brave." Sometimes, those tacit moments that only you can understand are pretty cool. Tacit, in case you don't know, means "unspoken". It's a word I came across last week. Maybe I'll use that one if anybody ever calls me Junior. Or maybe, I'll just stare at them, real tacit-like.
There were about ten people there, most of them I knew, but it was still kinda strange because it was more like a small party that what it really was - people getting together to decide if Bridget needed to be put away for good. They were all standing around in small groups talking, breaking away for a minute to say hi to me and mom, then going back to what they were doing before like it was all no big deal. To top it off, Dr. Miller's wife laid out this buffet table, right there in Bridget's living room, with sandwiches, salads, and a bunch of desserts. It was too much. I wanted to comment on how inappropriate it seemed, but Mom was on the other side of the room already, and I was, after all, pretty hungry, so I didn't say anything more than hello, and ain't it a shame, to a couple people who tried to talk, and made a beeline to the table and dug right in.
About twenty minutes later I felt fed enough, and secure enough, to leave the house and go out to the woods. I mean, Aunt Bridget was in her bedroom asleep, I guess, and my mom was busy doing the group console thing with everybody, which left me with nothing to do anyway. She just told me to be back for dinner, which, when I think about it, was never given a specific time. What time do people visiting a crazy woman in Wisconsin eat dinner? I'm guessing six-thirty, seven.
But, like I said, that's just a guess.
While I was looking for a good tree to meditate under, I started thinking about Aunt Bridget and how much fun she used to be. It was eleven years ago this summer that her and Uncle Rick moved up here from Chicago. I don't remember too much about being five years old other than coming up here for a few weeks at a time and goofing off. I'd just get out of the car and start laughing and running. Step out of the front or back of the house, and start laughing and running. Never really knew where I was running to, only I knew I wanted to, and when I'd gone too far, someone would call me back. Kids are amazing. All they ever want to do is run. Now here I am, in the same place I was when I was a kid, and I'm looking for the perfect tree to sit under so I can meditate.
Getting old is a real strange deal sometime.
I don't know anything about Wisconsin trees really, other than some have leaves, and some have needles. I chose a big old leafy one so I wouldn't get a butt full of needles. I figured it would be hard enough to clear your mind without all if that going on, too.
Just in general, it's not easy to clear your mind. You know, make it a total blank. It's near impossible. One of the characters in the book said that you're supposed to relax and empty your mind of thought, or something like that, but I can't. I mean, it works for a little while, then goofy things start popping into my head. Things like Aunt Bridget with that long crazy black hair of hers, chasing me around the yard, then running out of breath and her falling on me,wheezing and laughing like some mad woman. And then four months later going to Uncle Rick's funeral and seeing her with those big dark sunglasses on, crying and wiping her cheeks every ten seconds. Then coming back up here the next couple summers after that and wanting her to chase me, but winding up just running in circles by myself and falling down like some aired-out balloon.
I opened my eyes as wide as I could until I heard a stretching sound inside my head, and then shut them again. For about five whole minutes, it was working just fine, until I started thinking about breasts. I don't know why, but it's this odd subconscious kick I've been on lately. Whenever I'm not thinking of anything important, and my mind starts wandering, I suddenly start thinking of breasts. Nobody's in particular, just random female breasts. In fact, as gruesome as it sounds, there's never a head attached. Not that I'm imagining decapitated women, or anything like that. It's just that I never see the head to know who's they are. I only picture the breasts, and part of the stomach. Sick, huh?
I'd like to say that it's not my fault, but it is my mind, so I guess I have to take some responsibility. The strange part of it is I've only seen breasts once in my life, last year at the community pool. I was kinda dating this girl named Cindy Bowers, for only about three months, and the whole time never got more than a kiss or two. Then, one day we go to the pool, and she flashes me! Right outta the blue! Which, really, is no big deal, if you knew Cindy. I mean, she's a nice girl and all, but she was only fifteen at time time, and they were nothing to marvel at, so believe me when I say, these breasts I'm seeing in my head are not, nor ever were, Cindy Bowers'. I can't say who's they are, 'cause like I said, there's no head. I never told anybody this because I'm afraid they'd start analyzing me and figure out I should be put away with Aunt Bridget.
I'm hoping it's just a phase.
I decided to give up on the lotus position, which is the way they say to do it in the book. My legs aren't that stretchy. I'm able to fold them how they should be and all, but forget about trying to hold them like that for any length of time. I don't know how people can clear their minds and sit like that 'cause all I can think about is "How long do I have to sit like this?", which kinda interferes with the whole clear-your-mind business. I'm figuring it's like the whole Ten-and-Two thing. They teach you in Driver's Ed. to think of the steering wheel like a clock, and to drive with your hands set on the ten and the two. We all do it during the lessons, 'cause otherwise they won't give you your stupid license, but in the real world, nobody does it. My mom, for instance, keeps her right hand on the six, and her left hand in her lap. I noticed that today. And we didn't get in some fiery crash. So, I figure, as long as you get to your destination, who the hell cares where your hands are? Or your legs, for that matter?
I have to say, it is kinda relaxing, sitting cross-legged with your back real straight, thinking about nothing and just taking in all the sounds and smells. Wisconsin has this great smell around August like nothing I've ever smelled back in Illinois. It's like there's this contest where every tree and plant is trying to outdo each other. Kinda like walking past the saleswomen at the perfume counters of a department store: "Hello, would you like to try some Oak today?" "May I interest you in Bunches of Purple Flowers?", and stuff like that. Only the trees don't pretend to be twenty years younger than they really are, and wear eight pounds of makeup.
It occurred to me after a few minutes that the harder you try not to think about things, the harder it is to not think. That made no sense. Okay, how's this - ? The moment you say, "I'm not going to think anymore", you get flooded with all this nonsense. But then, no matter how relaxed you seem to get, there's just no way, I'm sorry, that you can't be thinking of something. So I'm wondering if that's part of this whole meditation thing - that you get as relaxed as possible, and whatever's the most important to you at that given time is what you wind up thinking about.
My Aunt Bridget and disembodied breasts. What the hell does that mean?
"Are you okay?"
I can't tell you how far that made me jump. I whacked the back of my head into the tree. I hate, absolutely hate, unexpected voices from nowhere. I wish there was some international law where everyone who was going to unexpectedly sneak up on someone else had to say "Psst" first, or they went to jail.
I opened my eyes, and there was this skinny blonde girl with ripped blue jeans and a Badgers shirt standing about ten feet in front of me. I don't know how the hell I didn't hear her feet crunching the grass. I must be starting to master this meditating stuff.
"Ow."
She said "ow." Can you believe that?
"Hi," is all I said. I couldn't really yell at her for scaring me. I mean, how did she know? And besides, she was pretty good looking.
"What were you doing? If you don't mind me asking."
"Meditating."
"Oh."
She had a look in her eyes, so I thought I should be nice and save her the embarrassment. "It's a thing people do to relax. Buddhists do it."
"You're not Buddhist."
"I might be."
She lightly shook her head. "You're Roy Fleming, aren't you?"
"Yeah. How'd you know that?"
"I'm psychic...what's so funny?"
I'm sorry, but I had to smile. I really wanted to ask her how she could read my mind with her clothes on, but I'm chicken, and just smiled.
"Nothing. You're just supposed to smile after you meditate. It's like a ritual. So, how do you know me?"
"You used to go out with Cindy Bowers. I'm in her homeroom."
Now I wondered if I had some weird religious experience. I sit by a tree to meditate; think about Aunt Bridget who claimed she was a psychic; and think about breasts, even though the only pair, if you could call them that, were Cindy Bowers'. Then I meet someone who in one minute ties it all together. How supremely strange.
"I'm Amy Branden. I sat behind her, you know, Bowers, Branden. I used to hear her talk about you. I saw you in the hall last week of school. Your hair was shorter."
"She talked about me? What did she say?" I was curious as hell. I really needed to know because it always struck me as odd why a girl would break-up with you just two weeks after flashing you. I wondered if it was some experiment gone awry.
"Just stuff. Nothing major."
"But, like what?"
"I don't know, ahh, stuff you did, where you were going. That kinda thing."
"Anything in particular stick in your head?"
She took a little while to think about it, which I kinda liked, because some people wouldn't even bother to give it a second thought. She brushed back her hair and puckered her lips, like she was trying to force herself into remembering, but in the end, she shook her head. "No..." I figured admitting to your classmates that you flashed a guy maybe wasn't a big topic among girls.
"Oh, there is one thing I remember. She said you kissed better than Art Sanders."
"What the hell? She kissed Art Sanders?"
"I guess she musta."
"Yuck. That's not too depressing. I'm gonna have to make a point of finding out more about a girl's past before I go out with her."
"Still, you should take that as a compliment."
"I guess, but isn't it kinda the same as saying pizza tastes better than bird crap?"
"I wouldn't know. I never kissed Art Sanders."
"And you should take that as a compliment."
She laughed. She had a funny laugh. Not funny like it was so hideous that it made it funny, but funny because it was a real laugh, and it made you want to laugh along with her. Only I didn't, because it would have seemed like I was laughing at my own joke, and I hate people like that, so I just smiled. Suddenly, I'd become King Smiles. I must have looked like I had a lobotomy, or something.
So, you go to Bailey?" Boy, what an insight. I'm such a master of conversation. "I've never seen you before." Like I'm some spy, and I know everyone.
"I don't know. This'll be my third year there. Maybe you just weren't looking."
She laughed again. Not uproariously, or anything. Just a little one. Like a little bubble in a pop bottle. Geez, listen to me.
"You guys aren't going out anymore, are you?"
"Who? Cindy and me? No. We broke up like a year ago."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I was kinda hoping you would."
"We weren't really friends. I just knew her from class."
"Oh." I looked around, because at that moment, I didn't really know what else to do. It was one of those awkward moments where you really want to say something, but you can't think of anything worthwhile. I kinda caught her looking at me while I was staring off. I know because as soon as I saw her, she shifted her eyes back to the ground real sneaky-like, then smiled and licked the bottom of her lip.
Times like this, guys could start getting poetic and not realize it until it's too late.
"Can I try it?"
I had no clue. None. The only thing I could think of was that maybe Cindy did tell her, and now she wanted to flash me, too. Kinda like how everyone going to Ireland has to kiss the Blarney Stone - every time you're with Roy Fleming, 'ya gotta flash him.
I must have given her a dirty look, because she seemed a little bent out of shape.
"What? Can you only do it alone?"
Now I was really confused. "Do what?"
"Meditate. What'd 'ya think?'
"Nothing. I knew what you were talking about. I was just thinking. No, come on. So, what are you doing up here? You up for the weekend, or the summer? Here. Just sit down and cross your legs."
She dropped to her butt like it had a hundred pounds of padding, which it didn't, believe me, and crossed her legs like I said.
"My parents went on a cruise for a couple weeks, and then they're staying in San Diego for another week or so, and I got stuck up here with my grandparents. It's sooooo boring. About the only excitement's been some woman who freaked out and ran through town totally naked. Honest. I heard she flipped out again yesterday." She looked kind of embarrassed about saying it out loud, then made an X over her heart and raised her hand in the air like she was taking an oath in court. "What about you? The weekend?"
"Yeah. My mom and I came up to make sure my aunt kept her clothes on."
I can't tell you how many colors she turned, but I bet the trees were taking notes for next season.
"Oh, god! I'm so so sorry! That's your aunt?"
"Yeah, but don't worry about it. She's been messed up for a while."
She didn't say anything for what seemed like a year. Seriously. Calendar pages were flying past her face.
"I better go."
"If it's about my aunt and what you said, don't worry. You didn't know."
"No, it's not that."
"She's just my aunt. My clothes are staying on. It's not genetic, or anything."
She laughed again, which I took as a good sign.
"No, I have to go anyway. If I'm not back in time for dinner, my grandma gets all huffy."
"Is it dinner for just your grandparents, or does the whole area eat now? 'Cause that's when I'm supposed to be back, too."
"The whole area. They voted on it last year."
Even I had to laugh at that one. "I don't know how long we're staying, so just in case, I guess I'll see you back in school next month."
"Well, I'm gonna be stuck here until a week from Tuesday. Are you gonna be coming back up before then?"
"Have no idea, but if I do, I'll look for you."
"You have to finish teaching me how to meditate. I'm staying about two blocks from here just past the church. They're the Sawyer's."
"I know them. I've been coming up here since I was five. I wonder why I never saw you before?"
"I was here. Guess you just weren't looking."
I walked with her to the street. She went right and I headed left. "See 'ya."
"Hope so."
****************
"How's Aunt Bridget?"
The living room looked like a team of maids came in and worked for hours: the food was all gone, and everything else was put back into place, dusted, polished and scrubbed. The only people left that I could see were Dr. Miller, Bridget's sister-in-law Kathy, a woman who I never cared for, and my mom, who was sprawled out on the couch with her shoes off and her feet propped up on a freshly dusted table. Just looking at her answered my question. Not only did she look wiped out, but she was drinking a whiskey and water. She's strictly a wine woman. Whiskey and water was for serious occasions only.
"Not too good, Pumpkin...I'm sorry."
"That's okay. You can call me Pumpkin. You had a hard day. But tomorrow, it's gotta stop."
She hummed out a tiny laugh, which was all she could do with a mouthful of whiskey and water, and then patted next to her on the couch. "Sit down."
When I did, she set her glass on the table and hugged me. Real hard. I felt uncomfortable. Not because I was hugging my mom in semi-public, but because I didn't like the circumstances that it was happening.
"Dr. Miller wants to observe her for a while, but, but he thinks it may be necessary to...have her go somewhere. For treatment. Where she could be...taken care of better. I feel so useless, Roy."
"Come on, Mom. What could you do?"
"I feel bad because I wasn't there for her."
"What are you talking about? When? When she was running around town?"
She took a healthy swig from her glass and swallowed real loud. "When Rick died. She couldn't handle the day-to-day crap. I should have known better."
"How come you didn't freak out? Dad died a year before Uncle Rick did."
She tugged at her lip like she was trying to stop was she was about to say, but the words came out anyway. "Because I had you. You helped me. You made things normal. She was all alone."
Then she sniffed, and I knew immediately what was about to follow. I looked around the room for Kleenex, but there wasn't a box to be found. Whoever cleaned did a damn good job. Luckily, she managed to keep herself together and didn't need any.
"Do you think we have to come up again next weekend?"
"I'm afraid so. I'd like to just stay, but I don't think I can get all my shifts covered in time. Don't worry, you don't have to come with. You can stay by yourself. I trust you."
Great. Now she trusts me. "No, that's okay. I'll come up with you. I, ahh, I found someone up here who goes to Bailey, if you can believe it. Besides, you shouldn't be alone. Fumblin' around for the Kleenex while you're driving and everything'll get you in an accident, and I don't want to have Gladys cooking for me the whole time you're in the hospital."
She gave a little laugh, and then the damn broke. Tears were squirting out all over. It looked more like she was sweating than crying.
"I love you, Pumpkin."
"I love you, too. And remember, tomorrow, no more Pumpkin."
I'd love to know where she got this Pumpkin thing. I don't look anything like a pumpkin. If I was any less secure about myself, I might go loony.
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