Death At My Fingertips (Chapter 1)

Chapter 1

Prospero: Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

William Shakespeare, The Tempest Act4: Scene 1, 148-158

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The world seems so beautiful when you are only staring up; stars glittering, the moon full and bright and the darkness, blotting out every bit of what is painful in the world. It's just like when a movie fades to black, letting you know that you have reached the conclusion and now are given a chance to mull over the story that unfolded before your eyes while, the credits role on in meaninglessness. That is what is great about the night. We are offered a chance to stop and give in to the blissful unconscious of dreaming or just to lie awake and stare at the stars with no purpose at all. Sometimes, no, all the time, I wish that the darkness would just stay so that I would never have to encounter the tasks that the day hands to me and just contemplate the infinite sky above.

I take another drag on the nearly consumed joint, letting the smoke seep out of my mouth like great gray snakes slithering into the black oblivion. I wonder if they will find me out here and throw me into jail for violating their ridiculously conservative grasp on the country. Always trying to control us, those Jesus worshiping, hooker obsessed, Caucasian political fat cats. Bunch of hypocrites. They probably go get high behind the White House everyday. They must. How else do they survive the idiocy of this administration? Man, I would go get high with them. Yeah, I would tell them all my ideas about the world and how the government can get on them. Change them. Change. Yeah. What does that even mean? I don't think anyone knows anymore. We have been so overwhelmed by stagnancy. The same. Everyday the same. Even the stars. They are different, but as I am lying here, they are the same. The same glittering bits that fall away in the sun. Fuck. What if the sun comes and I can't move? Shit. They are going to find me. Maybe if I hide behind that tree? Wait, that is way too much work. You are in fucking middle of nowhere. No one is going to find you. Stop being a fucking pot head. Jesus, the paranoia. I should be over that shit. Whatever. It just feels so good not to feel at all. When can I stop this? Stop it all and fall into the night. Fall. Fall. Falling.

A face I know lingers in my head as my eyes slowly creep open in response to the blaring light burning through the thin blinds of my eyelids. The stars have faded away and have been replaced with the sickening bright blueness of a sunny, clear August day. It's one of those days where everyone walks out the door and stands on their front porch for a moment and relishes in the joy that the day has poured down on them in the glory of nice weather. I hate these kinds of days. The sun makes my eyes hurt and is another reminder of how depressing my meager life is.

I flex my fingers, feeling the chilling wetness of dew tickling against them. My leg starts vibrating and I wrestle my hand into my pocket to retrieve the phone that is causing all of the commotion. My alarm, reminding me that I had better get my ass in gear for work. I roll myself into an upright position and begin smoothing down my wild black hair with the dew coating my fingers. Now talk about an economical hair product. For a moment, I feel disoriented and then begin to recall bits of the evening spent away from reality. I snap out of it and begin running across the field like a soldier coming home from war, running to greet the love he left behind. Unfortunately, the romanticism stops there as the shape of my beat-up, maroon Ford Escort comes into view. Not exactly "the love of my life." Though, it does touch my heart, for it looks so forlorn hanging halfway between the road and the ditch. I pull my keys out of my pocket and wrangle the door open. After a few labored turns of the key, she comes back to life.

"There you go, honey."

I look to the seat next to my own, buried in notebooks, textbooks and pencils, maybe a granola bar wrapper here or there. Last time I had been out in this nowhere, the seat was filled with more of a human form. In fact, it had been filled with two human forms. I snicker a bit to myself, as I pat my own ego with the memories of the craftiness I tapped into to produce the entire ridiculously awesome scenario. All I know, is that my notebooks were never quite the same, so ripped and torn into paper confetti oblivion that I couldn't even explain to my professors what had happened to them without laughing.

I wonder how she had liked it? She seemed pretty into it. She made some comment about feeling like a school girl getting done by a professor on his desk. I guess I never really asked her. There wasn't really a lot of talking to begin with. It's easier that way. I don't know. It was just a night. She was just a night. It's been a long time since it wasn't just a night. Sometimes I wonder if I am missing something by not taking girls to that relationship...or even the dating levels, but my mind is full of memories and knows the answer to that before I even pose the question. Of course, everyone knows there was that cliched "one that got away," but talking about her is pointless and thinking about her is even more so. Why get caught up something that is so dead in the past that it will never be revived in the future? My head has no time for that. It barely has time for my current existence, let alone, the contemplation of a past one.

As I tear down the dirt road, kicking up a rooster tail of dust behind me, I pull a button-up striped shirt from the back seat, precariously steering the car with the combined effort of my knees, causing it to swerve from one side of the road to the other. Thank god there are no others cars on the road, or else I would be fucked. I guess it is not too surprising that there is no one on the road at eight in the morning on a summer Saturday. Probably all sleeping in and soaking up the warmth creeping in through their open windows. Jerks. I don't even know what eight hours of sleep looks like.

Finally, I reach a stop sign and some remnants of civilization start to produce themselves on the horizon. Glancing behind me, I see a billowing cloud of coming towards my car. I quickly swap out my badly worn "Marten High School Scholar Athlete 2004" shirt for the slightly wrinkled button-up. Just as I snap the last button into place, a roar of obnoxious honking rises up behind me, sounding like a fleet of Road Runners chirping as they try to outrun the Coyote. Honestly, this truck and I have to be the only two people awake out here and we just happen to end up on the same dirt road in all of the roads in Rock Harbor. I slowly make a right turn, just to make him shake his fists a little longer, and jolt towards the skyline rising from the road ahead.



Rock Harbor isn't a big city by any means. Detroit or Chicago could easily chew it up and spit it out multiple times over. Yet, Rock Harbor has an air about it that separates it from most other Midwestern towns. Most Midwestern towns pride themselves on their "down-home" Conservative values, whereas Rock Harbor kicks that image in the face. Placed smack dab in the heart on the Midwest in the good ol' state of Indiana, Rock Harbor totes itself as "misplaced" East Coast city, and presents itself as such. When I look at Rock Harbor, I see San Francisco with a little Boston mixed in. Truly a West meets East hybrid, as some cheesy travel channel would say.

The people of Rock Harbor let their eclectic behavior fly wild in liberal undertones, emulating the West Coast flavor. For the most part, they are pretty laid back and enjoy indulging in all that an alternative lifestyle has to offer through their obsessions with Farmer's Markets, Co-Ops, hybrid vehicles, and a continuous need for coffee shops, where they plan for their never-ending stream of protests, which keep Rock Harbor at the forefront of cultural change.

The East Coast is reflected in the layout of the city. The ancient brick laid streets mixed with the twentieth century contribution of asphalt; all arranged in bizarre angles and surrounded by a smattering of buildings, each fashioned with those old-style facades, straight from the earlier part of the last hundred years, boasting classy lofts above an eccentric mix businesses, from trendy boutiques to posh coffee houses and trashy college bars.

Honestly, I love Rock Harbor in all of its pretentiousness and I know that part of me will forever be tied to its singular attitudes, but sometimes it is just a little too much for me to handle. That's when I applaud the Midwest. For beyond every city, there is lake, a forest, a field within my reach to escape the overwhelming urban environment from closing in on me.



I turn down one of the novel brick roads, cringing as my car clicks and clangs over every brick. Wow, what a rush, I think to myself as I focus on the seemingly infinite sidewalks of free meters laid before me. I pull up to a meter in front of Bowl o' Noodles. I climb out of my car, and check my hair in the reflection on my window. Then I attempt to smooth out the nagging wrinkles in my shirt, but it is a losing battle. I walk in front of the empty restaurant and peer into the dim room, barely lit by the bits of sunshine creeping through the front window, casting narrow shadows of the pristine silver stools against the sun-struck floor. I always find it strange to see a place, that is usually over run with chattering college kids munching on their pesto linguine and souped-up macaroni and cheese, completely shut down. For some reason, I love the feeling of the affect of the contrast between the two environments: socially driven chaos versus silently motivated chill. It gives me hope that maybe someday our world will realize that maybe we should stop a little more often than once a day. I may love the night, but at the same time, it does mask so much of what the day has to offer. If it was up to me right now, I would still be lying in that field, dreaming of another story for The New Yorker or at least for my creative writing class. Yes, I see it now. A tragedy, the best. A girl. A dream achieved. Yet, a death. Always a death. It is the most tragic turn there is. The Greeks had it right with all that catharsis. People like to purge emotions. It makes sense. We aren't really allowed to have a lot of emotions in the "professional" real world so we let ourselves go with the pure fantasies we are allowed in plays and movies and books. That's all I want. To write a novel, a story that gets to people. It's so personally gratifying to know that what you wrote penetrated their souls.

"Byron. what in the devil are you doing? Please don't tell me you are off finding poetry in a few stools. Sometimes, I worry about you," says Laney as she walks up next to me, her chunky white sandals smacking against the ground with each step. "I hope you do get famous someday because, I swear, it's only the famous ones that get away with being weird. Out here, people like you are going to get pointed at."

"Hey, I think I am doing just fine with managing my life. And, yes, I was exercising my intellectual curiosity through the romaticism of a dark room." I glance at my reflection in the window and realize that I have missed a button on my shirt.

"Oh Jesus, you always have to pull all that psycho babble out, don't you? Why don't you just talk like a normal person?" Laney begins fluffing her obnoxiously large mass of orange-red hair, as if it needs more than the five inches of lift that it already has, while I re-button my shirt ad attempt to smooth the wrinkles out again.

"Laney, does it really matter? If I piss people off, I piss people off. I don't have time to worry about how I speak. Anyways, you do understand that I go over-the-top just for you."

"You are so, ahh, frustrating! Whatever happened to respecting your elders?"

"I grew up."

"Excuse me, honey, but I am still twenty years your senior." I smile and Laney realizes that I got her again. "Byron, I don't what I am going to do with you...lord, that shirt is a mess. Don't tell me you were out corralling those little tramps again. You need to be getting yourself a real woman. Oh, and your hair." Laney licks her index finger, the end capped with a fake nail so long that she kind of resembles Edward Scissor-Hands. She leans towards me with the dripping weapon extended out.

"Whoa, Laney. You do remember that I am twenty-one, not five. I think I can handle my own hair." I begin patting down a chunk of hair that has decided to protrude out of the side of my head. "And besides that, what is wrong with those women? I am a young man and I am allowed to indulge myself, while it is still socially acceptable, with real women of a different context."

"Byron, you realize that you are a lot better of a kid than that. You should be hitting up some of those nice girls at the university."

"These are university girls."

"Why don't you pick up girls in your biology classes and not at those frat parties. I know those kind of girls. I used to be one of those girls back in the day." Laney begins to stare off into space. I wonder what past experience she is slipping into? I keep trying to place Laney at some party in the eighties, but all I can see is her as Molly Ringwald with that same awful hair.

"Wait, you went to college?"

"Don't act so surprised, Einstein," Laney snaps back as she starts strutting away, shaking her ass in defiance. I am completely stunned by her ability to make jeans cling to her body like cellophane. I wonder if she has to clip them off with scissors at night and then stitch them back up in the morning? I run up next to her, falling in step with her smacking feet.

"You're not the only bright one here."

"Sorry, I am just confused why you are still in this hell hole. I mean, this is not a hell hole, so to speak, but complete mediocrity for someone with a college degree." We stop in front of our storefront and Laney suddenly turns to me with piercing green eyes, rimmed in black clumps of mascara and wayward blue eye shadow.

"Byron, sometimes life just isn't that easy and some of us get thrown nasty curve balls. My poppa used to say that you gotta swing hard and pray to God that you don't strike out. The thing is, he never told me that some of us do strike out. Remember that Mr. High and Mighty. Life doesn't hand out too many home runs." Laney turns away and knocks on the front door of Mooch's Pooches. Our boss, Molly, AKA "Mooch," stumbles over some neon pink doggy dishes as she clamors for the front door. I look over at Laney and still feel really confused over something that has no purpose in my life, per usual.

I slip my hands in my pockets, realizing that I left my stash in my pants. Shit. Suddenly, I imagined the scenario. Three German Shepherds come in through the door and start sticking their noses up my crotch and then, of course, it just so happens that their owners are a pair of cops, who would love nothing more than to bust some pot-smoking delinquent. Yeah, Rock Harbor may be liberal enough to only have a fine for getting caught smoking, but there is no reason for me to be getting caught up in that crap. How ironic would it be if I had to use my weed money to pay the fine for being in possession of weed? That is a situation that the word "trippy" could accurately be applied to.

"I'll be right back, Laney. I gotta grab something from my car." I dig my keys out of my pocket and start walking back toward my car.

"While you're there, you had better grab yourself some more cologne or at least a new shirt. You smell like a seventies swinger party."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I yell as I turn back around and start walking backwards.

"You smell like pot...potting soil." Mooch swings the door open, causing Laney to stop mid-breath.

"Good morning. Potting soil, huh? I didn't know you were into horticulture, Byron," says Mooch as she waves towards me, her massive clump of bracelets jingling with each swing of her hand.

"Yeah, it's a new hobby for me. I heard it relieves stress." Laney rolls her eyes.

"What a great boy. He has really changed my view of college kids," says Mooch to Laney.

"That he is," said Laney with a hint of irony in her voice.



I stumbled upon Mooch's Pooches after my freshman year at Rock Harbor State University. My parents had been adamant about me coming home for the summer and I was equally adamant to stay in Rock Harbor. Once I went to college, the last place I wanted to be was home. So I whipped up a resume and a cover letter and began applying at every place with a "now hiring" sign in the window. After all of my hard work, Mooch's Pooches was the only place that called me back.

At first, I was a little hesitant to call back as thought about my male ego being crushed by the frilly doggie sweaters and gourmet puppy food. But the idea of suffering through another summer of splitting my time between coaching a little league baseball team and working at the local pharmacy was a far more torturous endeavor. So I bit the bullet and went in for an interview.

When I walked into the store, a sudden silence fell over the room and I found myself looking behind me for the apparent monster that must have walked in the door behind me. After a few seconds, I realized that everyone was staring at me and I began to look myself up and down for something that was out of place; an open fly, some spilled coffee, missing buttons, but I found nothing. That's when I realized that I must be the one out of place.

"Well hello there, are you Byron?" asked an waif of woman in a patchwork jumper with long silver hair tied back with a yellow scrunchie. She extended her tiny hand to me.

"Yes. Am I in the right place?" I shook her hand gently as I canvassed the room of middle-aged women.

"Of course! There is nowhere else like Mooch's in this town. Oh, by the way, I am Molly Masterson, otherwise known as Mooch. It is a pleasure to meet." Mooch smiled a genial smile and I started to feel a little less agitated.

"Pleasure is all mine."

"So welcome to Mooch's Pooches! There is no need for an interview. My sixth sense for people is always spot on and I can tell that you are a good kid. So let's get you trained." Mooch chuckles to herself. "Training you in a dog store. I just crack myself up sometimes." I awkwardly laugh a bit, too, and Mooch pats my shoulder. "Laney, come over here."

"What?" yells back a forty-something woman with wild red-orange hair styled in exactly the same way that my mother styles her hair; those horrible eighties bangs somehow blown dry to puff up and backwards laying over an Aqua Net mess of layered and fluffed hair.

"Come and meet our new employee."

"Him, really? We are hiring a college kid?" The woman struts over and I notice that you can see right through her light blue shirt. I try to divert my attention by focusing on a display of glow-in-the-dark dog leashes, but I can't get the picture of her black, lacy bra out of my head.

"We sure are. He applied here himself."

"Well, it is nice to meet you..."

"Byron."

"...Byron."

"Okay, now that we are all acquainted, let's move on to the training."



I quickly unlock my door, which, of course, has decided that it doesn't want to open without me wrestling it open like a defiant puppy refusing to let go of stick. Fricken' door. It finally flings open, sending me toppling backwards into the street. A loud roar rises up behind me, sending my heart halfway up my throat. I curl up in a ball, naturally all I can think of is the most infantile response as possible. A whoosh of air bowls over me and I imagine my flesh being mashed into the bricks beneath me, leaving limbs awkwardly bent up in unnatural positions. After a few minutes, I uncurl and realize that the car is long passed by. I look up and a man is stopped and blatantly staring at me, while his hyped up Jack Russell Terrier wraps its leash around his legs.

"Are you okay, son?" says the man as he strains to unwind the yippy dog from around his leg. He smiles, as if the smile makes the situation at hand nonexistent.

"Sorry, I am fine. Just a sticky door." Wow, I am an idiot. I just love my own fucking humility.

"Okay, I just wanted to make sure. You seemed pretty freaked out. You know, I used to do the same thing all the time when I got out of Nam. Every loud noise sent me into a ball like that. You one of those Iraqi war vets? Cause it's okay, man. I understand and support you." He offered me a hand and pulled me up. "Here, give me one." Then he pulled me close into a vice grip of a bear hug as if he was trying to squeeze something out of me. He released me and gave me a "buddy" pat on the shoulder and went on his way. I would have told him the truth, but judging by his glassy eyes, I knew that really the hug was more for him than me. Kind of breaks my heart, knowing that I am a complete jackass that doesn't deserve such affection. Yet, it did feel nice.

I brush the gravel off my pants and climb into my car. I fumble for the glove box and shove the bag in it, covering it up with a half dozen Wendy's napkins and a mismatched pair of cotton gloves. Discreetly, I take a whiff of my shirt and realize that Laney was right. I wonder if I still have Dan's clothes in my trunk? I close the door and wander back to the trunk. Thankfully, my brother, Dan's, duffle bag is still in there and I dig out a yellow polo shirt. I slide off the button-up and slip the polo on, feeling a bit like a frat boy. I close the trunk and begin to walk across the street.

"Byron!"



===End Chapter 1===