Fiction: Precious Memories

By Ryan Mahokey

Working at an office supply shop is nothing to brag about. Working in the printing department of an office supply shop is even less to brag about. If I got paid commission on my work, there’s a good chance I’d be a millionaire. I get so many grannies not knowing how to print their grandson’s graduation picture or an annoyed, middle-aged man having to print documents to sign for his “bitch of an ex-wife.” Some only come once, others become almost like friends. 

Ms. Tisdale is one of my favorites. She comes in every Friday to print her custom bingo cards for girls’ night. She turns seventy-eight next month. She never got married or had kids. 

Vp Vp. Vp Vp Vp Vvvvvvp. Click. 

She worked as a secretary for a lawyer for twenty-five years. “We’re still really good friends,” she tells me with a big smile, showing me the multiple fillings in her weathered teeth. She has three cats of which I’ve seen many pictures. She would’ve been a great grandma, I think. Maybe she can be mine. 

Vp Vp Vp Vp. Click. 

She always gives me a crumpled-up dollar bill as a tip and tells me to have a great week before drifting off with her cane and six bingo cards with funny sayings. I’m not even allowed to take tips, but I will never break her heart like others have. 

The eight hours a day I spend on my little island covered in dead trees and filled with beeps and vibrations have become my space for contemplation. The customers give me little hints of their own stories—leaving me to piece together the rest in my head. I’ll give you a good one from last week: this guy comes in wearing a blue plaid suit—very expensive-looking—and a matching scally cap. He looked like a true Irish mobster or a Bostonian ruffian who cleaned up his act and got into finance. He handed me a thumb drive and asked me to print everything on it. Each document was of the same genre but with its own unique spin. From quick glances, I could see that they were all letters—not just letters, apology letters.

“Dear Amy, I apologize for my exploits the other night…” 

Mm-vp Mm-vp. Click. 

“Chuck, I know I’ve messed up badly. I just want to say sorry.” 

Vp Vp Vp. Click. 

“I’ve had a problem for years. I’ve never wanted to admit it, but it’s the truth.” 

Vp Vp Vp Vp. Click. 

I kept stealing glances while he nervously looked around the store, praying that the job would be done quickly. There’s always a mystery to be solved; the clock ticks forward as the print job counts down. Sometimes I catch myself shaking—hoping that I’ll be able to know the small part of a customer’s story that they’ve unwittingly given to me before I have to hand over all my clues. 

Just as the last page printed, I realized the answer was right in front of me: he’s a drunk! He’s a professional who gets invited to a lot of professional parties that involve professional cocktail-swilling. The only problem is that he has a few too many and tries hooking up with a client’s wife or engaging in a pissing contest with a higher-ranking executive at his corporation. Then, he must set out to write his confessions. He can’t write them on a work computer: that would be a direct waste of company time. He surely can’t write them at home with the wife always looking over his shoulder. So, he goes to the library with a thumb drive, types the reputation-saving scrolls there, and comes to me as the second-to-last step in his voyage. 

There is a problem, though: I’ve worked here for a year and I’d never seen him. Did he come to our store because it’s farther away from his house? Was he sober for years and recently fell off the wagon? Why is the scally-capped alky here now? Questions like these make shifts fly by like my dad when he would be late for work. He’d walk by, covered in sweat, in that wrinkled, stupid suit and give a “see ya later” before bursting out of the door. It’s always the people that don’t care about you who get mad that you don’t care about them. I missed his last four Thanksgivings and three Christmases. He never told me how bad the cancer was getting because “if he doesn’t call me then why should I call him?” My sister got to see him as a skinny, bald, corpse. That’s her last memory. I, at least, get to remember him as the brown-haired, suit-wearing accountant that once slammed my head against a wall for not eating my broccoli. I don’t know which is worse, but I’ll take what I have. 

The gentleman left after saying thank you and I misspoke so it sounded like I said, “Ha a guh one.” I hope he comes back; I need to know more. 

I find that getting to know people, naturally, is really tough. It always has been for me. Even in school, I’d sit at the lunch table alone and play with my food. Even one of my teachers noticed it, Mr. Shenley. Shy, little kid me with my Batman lunchbox and my stupid curly hair would just sit there and cry like a little wimp. Mr. Shenley was the only one who took notice and didn’t make fun. One day, he came over and sat with me. NO teachers ever did that. Ever. Never ever. 

“What did your folks pack for you today, champ?” 

He always called me champ. 

“Mom was busy so she just made a sandwich and chopped a apple.” 

I was so dumb as a kid. 

“That’s pretty good for a busy mom.”

I told him I really didn’t like bologna. He laughed. 

For a man in his forties, he spoke with the calm reassurance of someone much older. His grayish-brown hair also betrayed his age to me, a kid who thought gray hair was the step before fossilization. “I’ll tell you what. Mrs. Shenley always makes too much food. I don’t want to get big and fat. I’ll bring you some in tomorrow. Tell your mom to take the day off.” It was funnier to hear Mr. Shenley talk like that, since he was the slimmest teacher there by far. His facial features were all so pronounced they reminded me of the skull in the science room. 

Mom was so relieved to hear that. I still remember how she looked while she stood in the kitchen doing dishes. She was a waitress at this diner: Parkville Diner. She would always come home so stressed and never really wanted to talk to me or my sister. I’d be sitting in my room coloring and hear the front door open and shut; half of the time I wouldn’t even go out to say “Hi, mom!” because I knew the next door to shut would be to my parents’ bedroom. 

There was always so much screaming coming out of that damn bedroom. It took me so long to figure out why we never had any money, why my mom always had these weird bruises all over her, why my dad’s breath always smelled like some cheap hand sanitizer. God, that smell was awful. 

***

Another day, another friend. Today, my first customer was an eager, middle-aged couple preparing for their son’s graduation party. It was the father’s job to pull up the poster image on his phone and email it to me.

“This damn thing. This DAMN THING!” 

I stifled my laughter and tried helping him. The mother saw my amusement and let out a squeaky chuckle and covered her mouth. “He’s a trip. I’ve been dealing with it for twenty-two years.”

I laughed and said, “Oh, it’s no problem, these new phones are such a hassle.” You never make the customer feel incompetent. Ever. 

Finally, he pulled it up. It was such a nice poster. It was red with a picture of their son, Charlie, in the center. He had a nice suit on, and the picture had obviously been airbrushed to hide his teenage acne. “CONGRATULATIONS CHARLIE!” was written in golden, cursive lettering below the image of the smiling young lad. 

“While you’re printing this, could we send you the invitations? We’re going to need for—no, fifty printed…if that works,” the mother said with a smile. 

Sure thing. 

24x36. 

Foamboard. 

Glossy finish. 

I’m the master of this printer and I just learned how to use it a week ago. Worktopia is always five steps behind of their competitors. I should’ve expected that when I applied to a place called Worktopia. Brian pulled me aside last week and gave me a five-minute rundown of how the new poster printers worked. He said every team member would be trained on it, too. Luckily, I’m the only one that works my station except for Fridays when someone else will help; it's usually Martha--dumb, dumb Martha. 

They love it, of course. Another day made better for my older friends. 

I printed the invitations and saw they chose MossgrovePark for the party. Beautiful place with tons of shady sections. “Help us Celebrate Charlie S____’s High School Graduation!” Pavilion 4, June 24^th, 2:00-5:00. They even had one of his baby pictures on the invitations. How thoughtful. Charlie will have a great time—I think as they keep looking at the poster and admiring the portrait of their boy who’s all grown up. 

Vvp. Vvp. Vvp. Vvp…

“I hope the party is a fantastic time! Please come back if there is anything else we can help you with, folks!”

They each shook my hand and praised the job I did. I only pressed a few buttons, but that didn’t matter—not as their wide eyes were still settled on the poster as they walked out of my little island. 

***

I’ve never had a note slid under my door that has brought good news. Admittedly, it hasn’t happened much—only here. I’m late on the rent again and I’m sure Kyle hates me. I don’t blame him. My apartment is little more than an eclectic storeroom. My twin bed is tucked in the corner, begging for no attention. It’s never made and, when it is, it’s done with the rushed, minimal effort of a bratty child after their mom screams at them to clean their room. Books litter the place. I promise I’m not that smart; I just need a way out. My favorite, The Count of Monte Cristo, sits on the middle of my desk. My clothes have no organization and are often unfolded, lying on the floor, my chair, and in my bed. 

This building is no real treat to live in, so maybe Kyle should lay off the notes. He should be happy that he can show potential renters that some of his ratty apartments are occupied. A month ago, my neighbor killed himself. He overdosed on his prescription benzodiazepines. He was 32—just two years older than me. He wasn’t found for two weeks and, with the spring weather at its epoch and the AC being nonexistent, he wasn’t much more than sludge by that point. His sister, Jamie or Marsha or something, knocked on my door and asked if I’d talked to him before he did what he did. I felt bad telling her that in places like this, nobody really talks. It’s even an inconvenience to walk past a fellow tenant in the hall and exchange the quick smile and glance that acknowledges our shared humanity—whatever that even means anymore. 

It’s odd to think that maybe I could’ve saved him. If he would have come to my station asking to print his suicide note, I could’ve intervened. We could’ve shared our stories andchuckled at the fact that we lived right next door to each other. Small world. I could’ve told him that life is worth living. I could’ve said my life sucks too and my dad’s dead and my mom killed herself with pills before he died from liver cancer. He doesn’t want to be a copycat, does he? Maybe I would have been like Mr. Shenley to him. I could’ve cooked a meal and taken it over, called him champ, gave him a pat on the back, and said I’d see him again. 

I never found out what happened to Mr. Shenley after I moved on to middle school. There was a period where we’d sit over his wife’s lasagna, ham loaf and scallop potatoes, her veal cutlets, or her breaded chicken breasts and I’d learn so much more about the beloved teacher. He’d ask me if I ever learned how to play the piano. I’d put my head down and say no. My mom said lessons cost too much money and I wouldn’t be good anyway. Mr. Shenley was an expert at piano; he was gracious enough to offer me free lessons right after school every Tuesday. I remember being so sad to tell him that both of my parents would be at work until long after I got done with school. 

“Well, I’m not teaching them piano, am I?” He said with a smile. 

After all those days of being bullied for my hair, my awkwardness, or my shortness, I felt like the most popular kid in school. I mean, who else had a teacher taking a personal interest in their success? Our taxes don’t pay for that level of care. 

My neighbor surely never had a teacher offer him free piano lessons. Instead, his sludge was cremated and Janice or Martha or whoever had to ask a complete stranger if he had any fond memories of her beloved brother. Of course, I lost contact with Mr. Shenley after the whole incident happened. I had to go back to the same distant teachers and more-distant parents. I don’t know which is worse, but I’ll take what I have. 

***

“Look, I cannot get this goddamn PDF to print on my home computer.” 

This makes no sense.

“Is there any way I can help if I email it to you?” 

“Sure thing, sir. The email address is on the card right there on the counter.” I say with a big smile. 

This new pal was agitated when he walked in and I’m afraid he’ll start yelling if I don’t print his files rapidly enough. He’s wearing paint-stained jeans and a gray t-shirt that reads “Pat’s Paintjobs.” Some of my friends make it easy to find out what they do. The question is: what else is there to know?

I open the PDF and see that it’s a legal form.“Protection…” 

“Any luck with that thing? I need to get this in the mail by the end of my lunch.” 

“Yep. Just the one copy?” 

“Yeah.” 

He’s fidgeting and grinding his teeth. Must be important.

Vp. Vp. Vp Vp. Vp. Vp. Vvvvvp.

A lot of text for one page. I feel clammy. 

“Final Hearing Notice.”

“Wendy P___” 

“Defendant” 

Oh my god. 

“Threaten, abuse…” 

“Okay, sir. You’re all good here. Have a great day,” I say without the mandated smile.

He grabs the paper and walks away without another word. My stomach is hot and the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. He wasn’t my friend at all. I wish every customer I had was just a happy, middle-aged couple printing Charlie’s graduation party poster.

 

***

The last time I was on a date, it didn’t go super well. Well, that’s arguable. Her name was Susie and she worked in marketing. Of course, I lied and said my printing job was just to help pay for med school. We met on this app called “MeetCute,” which was guaranteed to make you delete it because you will never need it again after meeting the partner of your dreams. For weeks, I swiped and swiped on potential lovers until I matched with dear Susie who seemed so genuine and nice. Her pictures were all of her at different places around the world—quite the traveler. She had shoulder-length brown hair and the nicest blue eyes I had ever seen. In person, her smile captivated me even more than the pictures ever did. 

We went out for a nice seafood dinner; she wasn’t even averse to splitting the bill. We agreed to go back to my place and, of course, that’s when things got shifty. She walked in and saw the mess of clothes, the old television, the scattered books, and the unmade bed and her face contorted in a way that I hadn’t seen the entire evening. It was like when my mom would open Christmas gifts from me. She’d see the stupid handmade mug I crafted in art class or the pathetic card I drew and she’d say, “Oh, thanks. I’ll have to find space for this.” Sometimes she’d smile, other times she wouldn’t bother. This time, Susie just said, “Oh, this is—this is nice.” 

I know I’m not the best guy. I’ve had many experiences to make that fact very clear. It’s just that, from her face, I could tell that this wasn’t going anywhere. Susie was never going to take my last name and give birth to our children. We would never take vacations together and laugh at the days when I was a poor retail worker living in a hovel. That date, right there, would be the last time I would see her. So, I figured it would be best to capitalize on it. 

I asked her if she’d be interested in watching something. “Sorry that I don’t have a couch. Maybe you could sit on the bedand I’ll take the chair.” She hesitantly agreed and I grabbed one of the only two items I’d salvaged from my parents’ apartment after dad died. My sister was closer to them anyway, she deserved everything. So, I went over and took the tape and my grandpa’s old revolver that he always used to let me hold as a kid. 

“When you’re old enough, this’ll be yours to keep. Just remember, you always gotta be careful with these things,” he’d say. The tape I just took because, well, who else would want it? 

I popped in the tape and sat back with my hands resting behind my head. I looked at Susie intermittently to see how long it would take her to put things together. You see, it’s not too obvious what’s going on at first. There aren’t any copyright notices or studio brand cards; that was hint number one. Precious Susie didn’t even say anything about it. 

The “film” shows a woman with her legs in stirrups. A woman is in the middle of a loud scream as the tape starts rolling—meaning the movie started at an odd point—jarring the viewer out of the typical knowledge frame of a storyline. Susie’s demeanor tightened and her eyes widened with concern as an off-camera voice can be heard saying, “That’s it, keep pushing! 1, 2, 3!” Susie was such a smart girl. There’s no way she didn’t know what she was seeing by that point. 

Eventually, as the plot thickens and the intensity grows, the woman’s crotch becomes a shapeshifting, uncanny version of its former, static self. It’s growth and movement makes me, to this day, rub my eyes as it seems to be an optical illusion. When you get a deep cut on your thumb, you can pull it open and see how the knife cut through the epidermis, then the dermis, and, if you’re unlucky enough, the hypodermis. We know that these layers exist, we know that a knife can cut through them, but it still never ceased to amaze me that something as simple as my pathetic thumb had that type of complexity to it. It’s like all ofour bodies were meant to accomplish Olympic tasks—run through fire, sprint faster than predators, throw javelins into the heavens—and instead we use them to press buttons so that Tommy can have nice birthday invitations. Anyways, that’s what the woman’s crotch reminded me of as it convulsed and she squirmed under her immense, inescapable pain. 

Susie grabbed her thighs and looked up at the ceiling. I caught her mouthing numbers as she counted the ceiling tiles. This is a really fun fact: when people have panic attacks, psychologists believe that they must be diverted away from the panic in some way for the attack to cease. The patient has to be present in their surroundings to escape the war happening in their mind. Susie didn’t seem to be having a panic attack, but she looked damn close. I couldn’t help but start laughing when a bloody head popped out of the woman’s uncanny crotch and the nurse yelled, “Here he comes!” The film’s low budget becomes apparent when the good stuff is blocked by a man and a woman in scrubs. You can hear muffled screams followed by a hearty celebration near the end. The last words before the film cuts off are a calm, yet joyous: “Here’s your beautiful baby boy!” Susie had started crying slightly before this point. I’m not sure if it was the beauty of a new life joining its human compatriots or the fear that I’d murder her in my filthy apartment. She probably imagined her severed limbs being placed in garbage bags and distributed in three equidistant, wooded areas.

I grabbed her hand and she pulled it away to wipe the tears from her eyes. “You see that baby? That’s me. The last time that anything made sense.” I started laughing and continued through her nervously spoken “I have to go,” and her hurried gestures to grab her belongings and flee from her possible demise. For me, it was a good night. 

 

***

Today at work was unlike the other ones. I was unable to be present or zen or whatever someone might call it. I had no desire to make new friends or catch sly glances at legal documents. I moved through the day robotically—not searching for the answer to any grand question. No. Today I was on a deserted path. I kept envisioning the trees surrounding it—so thick that no other route would ever be accessible. The sun could barely creep through the canopy and only the songs of the birds let me know that I was not the sole being inhabiting this small universe. 

I walked on the path and, eventually, the walk turned into a run. I watched as the trees flowed past me and the clearing up ahead bounced in my vision. My little path in my little world, however, was not incorruptible. Of course, my messed-up mind had to imagine a downside in my utopia. I imagined a vine lurching from the woods and catching my ankle. I imagined trying to free myself from it only to see that the more I struggled, the more the vine would pull me backwards. I don’t know why I would ever dream up a sentient vine, but it really pissed me off. I can’t even have a nice fantasy world. 

“Hey, look buddy, I’m in a rush here. Now, I need a copy of this pronto.” What scumbag talks like that? Well, it made sense when I awoke from my trance and saw the paint guy in a different set of paint-covered clothes. “I need this saved as a PDF so I can mail it back. I need a copy printed and a copy emailed to my lawyer. Can you do that for me or is that too rough? Looks like you were sleepin.’” 

Surprised you’re not tuckered out from beating your wife. 

“Yeah, sure thing sir.” No smile needed, here. 

“I, David P___, acknowledge my receipt of…” 

Oh my god. Things have finally come full circle with my non-friend. After I printed the copy, he made me sign into his email and began dictating one to send to his lawyer. Of course, me informing him that I’m not supposed to send emails for people didn’t go well. As I typed, I couldn’t handle being an accomplice to this scumbag’s peaceful compromise. 

“I have signed the form. Please let my ex-wife’s attorney know that I do not wish to pursue any further legal actions against her.” 

No way. The nice thing about not listening to someone is that I can type whatever I want while he spews his dumb nonsense, thinking I’m eagerly awaiting the words of God. 

The flourish I added to the email really corresponded well with the dictates being vomited at me: “Do not take my signing of this form as an admission of guilt. I now plan on taking matters into my own hands. You have failed me…” my customer takes a breath and I need to make sure my typing stops when he does. 

“…and if my ex thinks she can get away with this, I will show her that there is no protection.” 

“Thank you for your help in these matters. I hope that this is the end of my legal disputes.” He gives me a second to catch up. 

“I have purchased an automatic rifle and plenty of ammunition. I plan on making this all right tonight. Do not call the police, or you will also be in danger.” 

I pressed send and gave him the widest smile I could physically manage: “You’re all good. Is there anything else I can do for you today, sir?” 

“Nuthanks,” he snatched his copy and left. I haven’t laughed that hard in so long. I imagined police surrounding his house as a helicopter hovered overhead. A SWAT team repelling from the roof like news clips from a siege on an extremist compound. He’s so confused and disoriented that he goes for his shotgun. The fight doesn’t last long and he’s soon riddled with bullets as investigators search the property. At least that’s how I pictured it in my head. 

 

***

This is all to get you to the point that I got to experience. Some of you will never get this. Some of you will continue working, going on dates, drinking, having crazy sex, harassing people online, buying those shoes you’ve always wanted or that new microwave that everyone keeps talking about, and you’ll never get to this moment. You’ll never get to make things right. 

My life has been spent on a canyon overlooking a vast civilization. My perch is desolate and arid. I am not a ruler or a god over these people. They don’t see me or know I exist, but I see them. I’ve watched them group together and have celebrations of youth and life. I’ve watched as they mourn the dead and shed genuine tears—hoping their loved ones know the pain their demise has caused. I’ve watched them invent tools and marvel at the beauty of their intelligence and ingenuity. It never made sense to me how any of it worked, but I was happy to watch. My greatest fear was that one day, they would see me. They would pull me in amongst themselves and try to make me one of them. Their efforts would be gleeful at first, but once they were able to truly peer into my soul and see what separated me from them, they’d curse me. My original perch—once a natural home—would become my place of exile. I would be involuntarily secure in my own spot for the rest of eternity as that happy little society continued doing their dances and laughing at those desolate creatures like me,

Susie was a part of that sacred community. My mom and dad were, too. My dead neighbor’s sister—Jessica or Maurice or whoever—seemed like a thriving member. Maybe that’s why, deep down, I can’t stand to think of any of them. 

 

***

“Why the hell wouldn’t you tell us about this? What were you thinking? Don’t just—just stand there you moron! Oh yeah, that’s it, cry! That’ll do a lot of good!” My dad really knew how to yell when he wanted to. 

“Stop it! Stop it! He’s just making things—” my mom cries to the point of hyperventilating. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about! Just leave him alone!” 

The kids in school hadn’t talked to me in weeks when they saw how weird I was acting. They laughed so hard when they saw me sucking my thumb. They got free material for a week when they watched me get hauled out of the cafeteria by the principal himself for having a meltdown. I still don’t know why I did that—I knew not to. I was way too old to act like a little kid again. 

It wasn’t until the fateful day that I had to tell my parents. The day I couldn’t stop sobbing and shaking for long enough to get my clothes on for school. They had seen me walking funny and “acting weird,” but they hadn’t demanded an answer until I was in danger of missing the bus. 

“It’s—It’s—Mister—I can’t—I can’t go! I just can’t! Don’t make me!” 

“Well then open your goddamn mouth! Why can’t you go to school? Everyone else can go to school! What makes you special? Huh?” 

When I told my angry dad standing in his stupid, wrinkled suit what made me so special, I saw a look in his eyes that I had never seen before nor since. Maybe it was the same look he got when his doctor told him his cancer had already spread. It could have resembled the look he cast over my mother’s corpse when he found her, unresponsive and foaming at the mouth, on their bed. 

“How long has this been going on?” 

“Why are you just saying this now?”

“Talk! Now!”

My tears quickly dried as I numbly floated above the moment and laughed at the shell I left behind. 

Say what you want, but I never got bullied at school again. None of my teachers ever threatened to send me to the principal’s office and the lunch ladies were always more than happy to give me an extra portion of the daily gruel. I became a sort of unspoken celebrity. Keeping me happy meant that, eventually, the school would go back to getting no attention from the general public. They could just go back to multiplication tables and maps of the United States without having to run to their cars at the end of the day and shooingaway reporters.

No one talks about what happens after. After the smoke clears and things are supposed to just go back to normal, they never really do. I made it to the fifth grade with all of the other students looking at the ground while they walked past me. The teachers would scan the classroom, looking to call on someone for a tough answer, and I would watch as their eyes lifted just over my head. I don’t know if I was a celebrity or a ghost. I guess there isn’t much of a difference; either way, nobody knows the real you, and nobody really wants to.

 

***

I hate how your own issues can let you lose sight of those around you. I dealt with so many perfect little people trying to print their own little perfect representations of their perfect lives this past week and yet, I just wanted to see it all ruined. I wanted young Cody to choke on his birthday cake and turn purple before anyone noticed his convulsions. I wanted John to have a massive heart attack on the day of his retirement party—making his career mean nothing more than the life insurance payout his family will receive. Parents screaming and widows begging would sound better to me than the work of any orchestra. The painter’s house, to my knowledge, hadn’t yet been raided. I considered this a huge failure and a blow to my confidence. 

During all of my fretting and imprecatory wishes, I realized that I hadn’t seen Ms. Tisdale for three weeks. There is no chance in hell that girls’ night had been cancelled for three solid weeks. The nice thing about loyal customers is that they are almost always members of our rewards program. The system we use for it is about as secure as a prison run by mannequins. A simple four-digit code written on a piece of notebook paper taped to the computer gains me access to the phone numbers, email addresses, and home addresses of every member. 

Three calls to Ms. Tisdale’s landline and three more to her cellphone get me nowhere. Did the girls try reaching her? Did they get sick of bingo? She put so much thought into making those cards—to giving her girlfriends some memories, even in their old age. I felt like, in some small way, I played a part in those fun times. 

Too often, we make assumptions that we then, almost immediately, convince ourselves are ridiculous. We question our own logical faculties and may even giggle at how silly we are. That sigh of reassurance comes after stomping down the probability that our assumptions are correct. 

Sweet Ms. Tisdale’s door was made of cheap, cracked wood. The lock was penetrable with my membership card to the local bookstore. Before I could even close the door behind me, I was met by two jarring sensations: three cats rubbing against my legs and a smell that I had never experienced. It reminded me of a dumpster outside of a fast-food restaurant in the summer. The only difference being that this smell resembled that dumpster if it had been filled and abandoned for months: all of the rotting chicken and beef, moldy cheese and bread, expired milk, etc. just fermenting in a hotbed of its own filth. 

It took me wading through the sea of hungry, crying cats to realize that the congealed ball of filth was my dear Ms. Tisdale. Except, she wasn’t walking around, smiling, and handing me a crumpled-up dollar bill. I traced the odor all the way up the stairs to her bedroom door. I opened it slowly, like I was scared to walk in on my parents having sex. Instead, I saw Ms. Tisdale lying on her back. Her mouth was wide open, and maggots crawled over discolored face. The heat was appalling, leading her body to be stuck to the bed—a sort of slime collecting around her. I refused to believe that, despite its look, that was her. Conservation of mass or something like that. I never realized she wore a wig until I saw her bald head resting on her muck-covered pillow. 

Something about seeing the avid bingo-player in that state made the smell appear less potent as I gazed on the melting ice cream cone version of the kind old lady that used to be my favorite customer. I felt my throat getting tight and eventually my face started to crinkle up as tears formed in my eyes. Before I could stop myself, they were dripping down my cheeks and falling on the floor for the cats to lick up. I whimpered, gasping for the stench-filled, rotten air surrounding my dear friend. I didn’t cry when my sister called telling me that our father had died alone in the hospital. All I could muster was an “Oh my god,” coated in the numbness that years of physical distance and a lifetime of emotional distance had caused. 

Through my blurred vision I was able to see the pill bottles littering the dresser beside her bed. Aside from the Zoloft, I see Carboplatin-Taxol, Oxycontin, and prescription-strength ibuprofen. Reading the labels reminded me of my dad complaining to my sister. “All I do all day is take these goddam pills!” Some of them were meant to help him get closer to remission, but most were just to help with the immense pain he felt moment by moment.

I decided the best maneuver was to let myself out of the front door and call 911 from a blocked number. I wasn’t a significant person in Ms. Tisdale’s life; then wasn’t the time to start being one. I sat down the street and watched as the ambulance parked and EMTs raced in to discover the life they were weeks too late to save. 

The tears didn’t stop until I realized what day it was. 

 

***

My apartment looked more beautiful that day than it ever had. Maybe it was the angle of the sun’s rays being cast through the window. I always robbed myself of this view by working or sleeping. I took a long look at the little, pathetic life I’ve made for myself over the past few years and took off my work uniform. 

For some reason, I put on the only suit I owned. It was a moth-eaten black suit I got for my high school graduation. I put on my wrinkled white shirt, haphazardly tied my black tie, grabbed my gift, and left my cozy apartment for the last time. 

I won’t lie and say I felt sure of how to move on with my life or that I had considered any day past that day when I locked my door and left my keys on the doormat. I just knew that some part of me, even if it was just some small recess of my brain that my consciousness rarely gave any attention to, was free. 

 

***

The park was just as beautiful as I remembered. Children laughed and played in the mulched playground next to the pavilions—each one giving off a steady cloud of smoke like a row of huts in a colony during a harsh winter. The smell of hot dogs and hamburgers hit me immediately and I remembered the excitement I felt being invited to one of these parties after I graduated. It was Derrick Malone’s party. He was the kind of guy that was nice to everyone, regardless of how weird they were. I went and his parents begged me to take as much food as I wanted. I sat off at a picnic table in the corner and ate my hot dogs and potato salad, watching the other graduates laughing and telling stories. The parents, uncles, aunts, grandparents, cousins, and the like sat huddled off, talking about how time flies. As weird as I must have looked, it was one of the most fun times I had in my teenage years. My perch felt just close enough to bask in the warmth of people who knew how to be humans properly. 

I didn’t have to check the pavilion number to know I had found the right place. The poster sat proudly on a stand facing the sidewalk. The golden, fancy lettering shone in the sunlight, just as the young graduate’s parents had intended. I walked up and greeted the kind-faced parents with a smile. “Do you remember me? From the print shop?” Charlie’s mother didn’t let her smile droop, but her eyes tightened as she began to stutter: “Um…um…sure. Wha—what are you d-do…” The father just stood there, mouth ajar, waiting for an explanation that he didn’t prompt. 

“It’s great to see you folks! Here’s a card for Charlie! Thank you so much for having me! Sorry I don’t have a nicer suit!” I brushed past the wonderful couple waded through the sea of awkward teenagers until I found Charlie’s family tree—all huddled together performing the graduation party ritual. 

“Yeah, Johnny’s back in school. He just needed a bigger college, I think.” 

“Cindy is great! The baby is about to be two! Can you believe it?” 

“Ha, you remember when Charlie was as big as my hand?Look at him now. He could probably beat me up!” 

I stood a table away from the congregation until I saw a man that couldn’t have weighed much more than Ms. Tisdale did when I found her. Every hair on his head was gray and he wore jeans with a “Proud Grandfather of the Graduate!” t-shirt tucked into them. I walked up to him as he sat perpendicular to me at the picnic table, next to his wife. 

“Mr. Shenley! Remember me? It’s Champ!” The old, startled man darted his head toward me and scanned my face with his stupid squinty eyes like he had to look through a microscope. 

“Uh…I don’t believe so, I’m sorry. Who--” 

Grandpa’s revolver was so heavy in the breast pocket of my old coat. Before he could awkwardly ask for my name, the muzzle was nearly touching his nose. His wife gasped in horror and froze. I pushed the muzzle against his forehead until I knew it would leave a perfect, circular mark right in the center. I pulled the heavy trigger for what felt like my entire life as the double-action hammer slowly descended. I felt a sudden heat around my ears and my stomach got lighter and lighter until I heard the satisfying click and watched as the old man started to whimper and beg. I dropped grandpa’s revolver from his head and bent down to his level. 

“You see all of this? You see what you took from me? This could have been my mom and my dad! I could have had all of this! I could be happy! My face could be on a goddamn poster in a goddamn park and people could be celebrating me! Look what you did! You bastard! This is me! Look at me! Look! At! Me!” 

Through the blubbering and crying all he could say was, “Wh—who—are---you? Na-Nathan?” 

I turned away as everyone was too scared to move. It didn’t take me long to find Charlie, dressed in his casual golf attire, frozen in place. When enough rage and anxiety build inside of you, your body can function like a robot. First, the marble handle of my grandpa’s revolver crashed into the side of his head. Next, I was on top of him whaling away until my knuckles were numb and our blood blended together. As I punched, I felt like I was digging a hole in his face. The more his hot blooddrained from his mouth and nose, the more afraid I was of him never getting up. The adrenaline quickly gave way to exhaustion, and I got up after all Charlie could muster was a deep groan and a slight gurgle as blood dripped down his throat. 

I grabbed a paper plate and made myself a cheeseburger with a double helping of potato salad on the side. I can’t pinpoint what was so special about it, but I have to say that was the best meal I’ve ever had. Mom and dad really know how to cook. That’s one of the many reasons I love them so much.

Ryan Mahokey is a Ph.D. student in literature who focuses on the transgressive, macabre, and absurd aspects of postmodern fiction. As a writer, he enjoys delving into the innately true—yet often unspoken—elements of humanity.