by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 5, Saturday 20 August
Waking up is like falling off a razor blade. While I’m asleep, I have to dream. And that sucks. But sometimes the dreams are ok—sometimes they’re of better times, not just of that one night. But dreams are just dreams. You can shake them off, let sunlight stir the chill from them, and chase them with a cup of coffee.
Waking up is worse.
Waking up is realizing that I’m on that razor blade line between a day when I can’t get out of bed, can’t even open my eyes, because if I do, the scream that’s knotted around my lungs will get out, and because everything is too heavy—my head, my hand, so that it’s hard just to draw breath.
Or, on the other side, a day where the light from the window slips into my eyes just right, and memory stays curled up and quiet, and I can push myself out of bed after twenty minutes, stagger in under hot water, and think just once about drowning myself. After that, it’s like pushing a stone down a hill. I keep moving, whether I want to or not. Social conditioning, and all that.
No hot water today; I had showered the night before, and the thought of hot water on my legs made me cringe. I managed to get out of bed, though, surprised I had slept at all the way my heart was pounding. Wash face. Brush teeth. T-shirt. Shorts. Rummage through cabinets for aloe. Apply to shins. Cool relief.
The click of the type-writer, screaming an aubade, met me. Through the great room’s windows, I saw my mom, entombed in a bed of iris and peony. It was later than I had realized; the microwave clock read 11:30am. Against my better judgment, I ate a bowl of super-sweet marshmallow cereal and flipped channels on the TV. I didn’t really like cold cereal, especially not the sugary kind, but Isaac celebrated Saturdays with two big bowls of the marshmallow crap. I could only manage one; mark that up as another failure.
By 12:30pm, still no sign of the parents acknowledging me, so I headed to the garage. I hesitated between car and bike, the key hot and heavy in my pocket. I left the garage on foot; I wasn’t going far today, and the downtown streets weren’t really made for bikes. All those bricks; it made my butt hurt just to think about.
I followed Lilburn Street down the hill from Lion House, back toward the old downtown, with its present-hidden-in-the-past brick buildings and brick road. West Marshall is one of those lovely Midwestern towns built along a river. It has a string of dilapidated old buildings along the waterfront, the original downtown, mostly bars and warehouses that have long since fallen into disrepair. In spite of community revival efforts, I might add. Then, a second downtown, also old. This one much more respectable, and established when the people of West Marshall realized that they weren’t a river town, but a farming town.
The second downtown has its heart where Lilburn Street, which runs roughly north-south, meets Main Street. Kind of what you’d expect. A few tourist-y shops, you know, chocolate and fudge and candy that nobody liked a hundred years ago, let alone today; or crafts, all on the uncool side of kitsch; cafés that beg you to order a homemade apple turnover that they secretly order en masse from one of those warehouse chains. And then some more practical buildings as well. Post office. Town hall. The convenience store. And smaller, specialty stores.
The kind that one of those big box stores would put out of business in a matter of months, if they ever had one built near here. There was a camera store, a bookstore, garden supply store. All of them run down, the metal-edged glass that ultra-thin, almost-yellowed glass from the 70s. West Marshall was not a thriving town.
Did I mention it was hot? Almost 1pm and that Midwestern sun, magnified through the invisible town sweater of humidity, and I was soaked by the time I reached downtown. People filled the sidewalks, although there was little car traffic. And everywhere I went, I felt that prickly, too tight feeling across my shoulders of being watched. I was new, and in West Marshall, new is never good. They probably killed the first person who tried to introduce bagels.
I worked my way down one side of Lilburn, past a candle-dipping shop, the chocolate shop, and several government buildings. I popped into each of these, grateful for the cold, dry breath of air conditioning, but saw no help wanted signs. Nothing. In the government buildings, I even asked, and I was met with blank looks. By the end of the street, I would have taken a job dipping candles. How else was I ever going to get enough money to buy a car, let alone get out of this hell-hole?
Cross Lilburn Street, working my way up that side, my face hotter than the sun as the rejections grew. I didn’t want to be in this stupid town; I didn’t want to have a job; and I most certainly didn’t want to have to ask. But I wanted a car, and I wanted to be responsible, and I wanted to be like Isaac. So I even went into the convenience store, shuddered at the neon-green uniform, and asked. Nothing.
And then I saw it. Manna from heaven. As rare as a clean public bathroom in New York. A help wanted sign.
Briar Cameras. I didn’t really understand the name, but I went up to the door. The help wanted sign, even through that yellowed glass, looked fresh. Heaven help me, it seemed too good to be true. I pulled on the door.
Someone inside pushed at the same time, and the heavy metal door struck my shin. I gave a yelp and darted back, and then felt embarrassment scorch my face.
Hand to her mouth, hipster bangs all in order, the girl with the camera stood in front of me. The one from the lunchroom. The one who had been taking pictures of me. And I stood there, grabbing my leg with one hand, a swear word on my lips, and all I could do was follow the curve of her hips, the outline of her legs, under dark-stained jeans. I forced myself to look at her eyes. Hazel. Something warm loosened and expanded in my chest, and I realized I was smiling up at her. Play it cool, I told myself, but it was a lost cause by then.
Because I realized that I liked this girl. Liked liked.
