Post Merge: March 10, 2011, 01:12:57 AM
The creek – or crick, as we said it in those days – trickled like a refreshing drink into a large cup. Two sets of tennis-shoes splashed through the thin water as we walked, with brown work boots going first and dirty white sneakers coming second. It was Sunday evening and a dread of elementary school classrooms, boring worksheets and confining desks hung heavy in our minds. We walked in silence, shielding our eyes from stray sun rays coming in through the treetops and swatting at the occasional shrub with grimy sticks.
The first person was Leonard, my best friend since preschool. He was coonhound loyal, quick to temper and sported ruddy blond hair. Then there was me, Darwin. Little me, before I wore glasses and orthotics, when I still dreaded little league games and sported the “angel haircut” my parents adored so much.
“I don’t wanna go to school tomorrow,” I sighed.
“Yeah, really,” Leonard said, “I still have homework.”
“At least you don’t have to deal with Mrs. Beelze,” I said.
“Why’s the doctor’s office secretary teaching your class?” Leonard asked.
“Not that one,” I said, “The bad one.”
Leonard sat on a stump, took out his pocket knife and began to sharpen his stick, “Wasn’t she the one who yelled at you for not doing division problems?”
I swung my stick at a tree in slow-motion ninja moves, “I didn’t even know how. She said she was going to teach me.”
“But you’re in fifth grade,” Leonard said.
“When I moved, I missed most of fourth grade. She says I’m behind, so now I have to be in special ed.”
“Oh.”
A high-pitched squeal echoed through the woods. Leonard’s little brother was calling us back to the house for the evening. We looked at each other with wide eyes, newly learned curses whispering on our lips, and we tiptoed into the forest to avoid him.
As Leonard and I got ready for our sleep over – which consisted of changing into pajamas and holding the lockless door closed against his brother – the sunset had tints of dark in it. It was as if smoke was obscuring the sunset, growing bit by bit until it became night and ate the sun.
The morning saw Leonard and I at his dad’s home repair garage. His dad looked at us and rolled his eyes, giving us a gruff grunt when we said good morning. Leonard had began to tinker with a broken-beyond-repair engine when his dad told us somebody had moved in down the road and told us to go say hi. I was about to say we should stay home and play videogames, but Leonard insisted we greet the neighbors.
“C’mon, Darwin, it’ll be cool,” Leonard said. “Let me get my bike.”
We traveled down the long muddy common road while watching obscure men walk around the moving trucks. Birds twittered in the cool morning air and squirrels knocked dew from the grass. The quiet was disturbed only by the roar of cars on the distant highway. Leonard set his bike against a tree and we walked up the gravel driveway and watched the sweaty movers unload the truck. We smiled at them but none of them smiled back. We asked where the family was and a mover said “inside.” As we were about to walk in the house, a glum-faced seventeen-year-old with black hair stepped into the doorway. He was wearing a t-shirt with an eagle circling a mountain on it.
“Yeah?” he asked.
Leonard said “We heard you were in the neighborhood, and we wanted to say hi.”
The seventeen-year-old said, “‘K. I’ll get my parents.” He turned his head and shouted into the house, “Dad!”
A man with a receding hairline stepped into view and looked between his son and the doorway. “What’cha need?” he asked.
“These kids said they wanted to say hi, or something.”
His dad turned to us and shook our hands. “I’m sorry boys, but the missus and I are a bit too busy to meet your parents right now. But I’m sure Mike will show you around.” After that, he walked back into the house.
Mike sighed and said, “Follow me. Oh, take your shoes off so you don’t get the carpet all muddy.”
The house was out of a Gene Shepherd story. Some boxes had already been unpacked and the walls were sparsely hung with handmade knick-knacks and various family pictures. The light shown a golden warm and our stocking feet felt like they were being massaged by the dark, chocolate-brown carpet. The house already smelled lived-in by Leonard’s new neighbors, a smell of fresh cookies and savory cooking spices. At the end of a long hallway was a downwards staircase, and as we followed Mike down, it felt like we were entering sacred, forbidden catacombs beneath the Vatican. He led us to a dark oak door and opened it.
“This is my room,” Mike said, and we entered.
The room contained a bed, a cluttered desk and dozens of sketches, paintings and prints tacked everywhere on the walls. All were of anthropomorphic animals, drawn in a variety of genres from casual sunny days to elaborate sci-fi/fantasy vistas to portraits of supernatural beasts. Leonard and I stared at the pictures, a weight on our shoulders like that of admiring titanic stained-glass saints touching the ceiling of a giant cathedral. Michael was the Pope, watching over us as we walked in that place of happy wonder.
“Wow…did you draw all of these?” I asked.
A faint smile grew on his lips. “Yeah. What do you think?”
“This is awesome!” I said.
Leonard frantically waved me over with a grin on his face. “C’mere and look at this, c’mere c’mere!”
Leonard was pointing at a painting based on our favorite videogame, Galaxy Dog. We stood looking at the collage of memorable scenes from the game with open mouths and sparkling eyes.
“You like it?” Mike asked. This time he was unabashedly smiling.
“Yeah, yeah,” we repeated, and continued stare at the picture. Then Leonard asked the question in both of our heads.
“Can we have it? We’ll pay you for it.”
Mike chuckled, took the painting off the wall and slid it out of the frame. “Even better,” he said, “I’ll give it to you for free.” He scribbled his name on the back and returned it to the frame. Leonard and I both held it.
“Just make sure you don’t touch the glass,” Mike said, “You’ll smudge it up.”
Back at the house we stared at the painting as it hung on Leonard’s bedroom wall. The light showed the sticky fingerprints on the glass from our walk to Leonard’s house. Every time we looked at the painting, we found some detail to remind us of the best moments the videogame had inspired.
“Wasn’t Mike kind of weird?” asked Leonard.
I said, “No…not really. He’s just quiet, is all.”
“I guess. Wonder why he is, though.”
“I don’t know. If I could draw like him, I’d tell everyone.”
The next day I went to dinner at Mike’s house where the Mr. and Mrs. introduced themselves as the Smiths. The warmth and homey smells, combined with the Smith’s enthusiastic greeting, calmed Leonard’s family (which was surprising, because they fought constantly). When we sat at the oak dining table, a pleasant murmur filled the room along with the clink, clatter and splat of mashed potatoes and roast beef filling empty plates. Everyone was smiling. The conversation turned from the Smith’s charity at their old church to Mike’s volunteering for the high school’s elementary school tutoring program and then to Mike’s art. Mike’s smile died.
“No, mom, don’t. They don’t want to hear about that,” Mike said.
His mom said, “Don’t be silly. You need to be proud of your work.” She turned to Leonard’s parents. “He’s incredibly talented. He’s won dozens of awards and he’s even had some stuff auctioned off!” Leonard’s parents nodded and said they saw the painting he gave Leonard. They said it looked like was painted by a professional.
“I know, doesn’t it?” his mom continued, “In fact, everyone who saw his booth at Anthrocon -”
Mike shot up from his chair and shouted “Mom!” She excused herself as she ran after him. Leonard’s parents went outside for a smoke and his little brother went to the bathroom. Leonard and I sat in the silent dining room with his dad.
After awhile Leonard asked, “Is Mike okay?”
Mr. Smith ran a hand through his thinning hair and said, “Yeah. Yeah, he’ll be fine after awhile. He’s just afraid to tell people about his art.”
I asked, “Why?”
He sighed and said, “Leonard, Darwin…some people aren’t as nice or respectful as they should be. They make fun of things that are different. Things that are strange, but not always bad.”
Leonard and I looked at each other with furrowed eyebrows, and Mr. Smith continued. “Mike participates in a sort of…let’s see…fan club. This fan club likes anthropomorphic animals, like what Mike draws. And as such, this group is known as the furry fandom. But, as with any large group, a few people in this club like to do bad things.”
“What kind of bad things?” Leonard interrupted.
“You know those websites your mom and dad tell you not to visit?”
“…yes.”
“Those bad things.”
“Oh….”
Mr. Smith told us about the furry fandom’s relative obscurity and how the bad facets were sensationalized until they almost burned away the good ones. He spoke of the press overlooking everything else for the scandalous aspects. He explained how the fandom was trapped in the unknown by a menacing inferno.
“In short, boys,” Mr. Smith said, “People hate what they don’t know. And the worst thing about it is, they like hating it. They like to see people hurt and pushed down in the mud. It makes them feel better about themselves and the empty lives they live. I just wish Mike would ignore those people. He needs to learn that those aren’t the people that count. He’s too talented to let these kinds of things hold him back. He’s got too much of a future to play along with them.” He sighed. “Hate’s a stupid game, boys. Everyone who plays it loses.”
Leonard and I stared at our plates. The room was filled with the silence which comes with news of a family member entering the emergency room. Eventually the evening resumed, albeit without Mike or the previous atmosphere. Everyone finished their meals in relative silence and then went home. Tuesday was coming, and so was Mrs. Beelze’s class.
Mrs. Beelze, my elementary school’s sole special ed. teacher, was the worst instructor I’d ever seen and a living incarnation of everything wrong with the public school system. If a kid wanted to read during the extra time after an assignment, she’d rip the book from his hands, and if a kid forgot his textbook, he’d get an F for the day. She’d act nice at class’s beginning (or when the principal stopped by) and when you thought it was safe, she’d nail you with all prejudice. Once, during lunch detention, I saw a kid spill milk on Mrs. Beelze’s lap. She screamed at him and locked him in a cupboard. The only reason she wasn’t fired was - in the eyes of our political principal - a teacher’s voice with a Union behind it was more believable than those of little kids.
Topic: "Ashes in the Wind" (Read 1274 times)