Inspiration 7.0

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Erica - I thought that was really touching and well written.

Morrigoon - so glad you are joining us. I can't read your piece yet as I'm still working on mine but I will as soon as I'm finished.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Jude watched his sneakers. The sidewalk slid around them as he made his way steadily up the road. Each time he moved his left foot, it rotated slightly, pitching forward and yawing right, so he could see the outlines of the filthy Reebok logo on the side. Straight foot, Reebok, straight foot, Reebok. Jude knew he didn’t want to think about why his left ankle didn’t work too well, but he couldn’t help but watch his feet everywhere he went.

“It’s easier to see the sidewalk jiggle with my feet jiggling instead of the world jiggling,” he said loudly to himself.

He had almost passed the doorway when he came to a halt. No one watching would have figured this was his goal, but one instant he was moving full speed, the next, he was so stationary it was hard to believe he could move at all. After a few beats, he shuffled in a circle and wedged himself into the shallow doorway.

Jude raised his eyes from his shoes.

The cement was absolute gray, looking soft and almost spongy, rippling in their own time. A bricklayer’s comb marks were deep and irregular, the seams between cement sheets apparent and showing painful weakness. Old damage had been repaired with more goopy cement, platelets trying to congeal in wounds. Jude did not want to touch it, for fear of a wet or yielding skin, though he knew he had put a hand on this wall before.

He could see the prints plainly, in the stark white of a perfect past, of a blinding breath in time, of easily leaning on the wall and chatting, of seeing her eyes and shoulders and the way her hair curled. He’d ring the bell and she’d come down, not wanting to bring him up to the small flat with it’s tired furniture and spare dishes. They’d had the odd tradition of inspired small talk in the small doorway before strutting out to dining and music.

The only plate he could read said STUART. STUART. STUART. Jude read it again and again, nowhere else to rest his eyes except the phantom handprints and the undulating wall. He remember the odd ring the knobs made and wished to hear it again, so he reached out a cold hand.

RRRRRRRRRRR. RRRRRRRRR. The twist completed a circuit and he could hear the buzz coming form her 3rd floor apartment window. He read STUART again and twisted the knob. RRRRRRRRRR.

He could hear bare feet stomp the stairs just inside the doorway, and then the door was open a few inches, a chain restraining any real view of the inside.

“Who’s there?” Her voice cracked, not of fear but just of being unused today. Must be Wednesday, thought Jude. She paints at home on Wednesday. Wednesday.

“Me,” he responded. He had reflexed to look at his Reeboks again, but when she leaned forward, a blond wisp of hair flashed through the door, and he saw that, alright.

The woman behind the door sighed heavily.

“Jude. You remember what we talked about before?”

He made these sounds: “Yeah, I know.”

“I tried, I tried to help, but I couldn’t. You wouldn’t let me help. You wouldn’t help yourself.”

“I know.”

“You have to go.”

“It says STUART. Where the bell is. That’s all.” Seemed the right thing to say, the truth.

“That’s right, Jude.”

“Ok.” There was finality there.

“Ok.” She closed the door abruptly. She knew that any conversation, even a goodbye, was only encouragement.

Jude was motionless. Cars stuttered by. A stiff breeze ran along the side of the building. He waited over 2 minutes, motionless, for a goal to materialize.

“Gotta go to the park.” Before the sentence was completely out of his mouth, Jude was already out of the alcove and a few sidewalk squares away, watching his feet take him to his favorite drinking fountain.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Morrigoon - nice! Great snapshot of two completely different urban lives, within one person. Can't mojo you.

[Morrigoon]

I like yours too!

[blueerica]

The day before he moved was warm and the beginnings of summer humidity were creeping into every moment of the day. Jon suggested we head down to the warehouses just to talk about things. I know that warehouses don’t seem very romantic, but they always seemed that way to me, and I think Jon felt the same way. The rippling waves of a sunset walk on the beach are always pretty, but the stark lines and features of the warehouse district were beautiful, and in them we were rebellious, dangerous. We were grey.

We knew Jon’s family was planning on moving when we first met. They move all the time – going from state to state, city to city, neighborhood to neighborhood. His family buys new homes, fixes them over the course of a school year, flips them and moves on to the next place. I’d never met anyone like him before, so cool, so detached. He was 17 and spoke of philosophers like Nietzsche and Heidegger. Oh, and he smoked. With brown hair hanging in his eyes he was a little on the greasy side and the hoodie under his denim jacket proved it. Mom and Dad never met him, and that’s fine by me. They probably just figured I was at a friend’s house – oh the blessings of trusting parents, at 16 I could go just about wherever I wanted, which probably makes it as much a surprise that I hadn’t tried to sneak out before I met Jon.

School is out and we had all the time in the world to spend with one another – but, he was leaving. I would fixate on that, sending myself headlong into a depressive landslide. I hadn’t ever wanted anyone so badly. What if he was the true love of my life? And he was leaving?

Once we got down to the warehouses we climbed up to the top of #374. From there we could see the river and the green of the empty lands just beyond it. It was getting late and we could see commuters hopping onto the freeway. He never said a word and I didn’t dare – I didn’t know if tears would come or just verbal vomit. I wanted to be strong, so that I wouldn’t be remembered as the blithering crybaby I knew lived inside me.

He reached into his front pocket and grabbed some smokes. With the flick of a thumb came the flame from his lighter and with one puff the dimming skies only illuminated the cherry embers at the tip of the cig. People were walking below us, but no one seemed to mind. He offered his pack to me. Now, normally I’d just turn them down since I usually end up choking on the first puff, but this time I went for it. He lit it and with my first breath came the coughing and hacking that was to be expected. Tears formed in the corners of my eyes and I just wiped them away.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

More silence.

I couldn’t believe over two hours have gone by – it went by like mere minutes. I still didn’t know what to say.

The sun went down and the lights came on. Jon was the first to say anything.

“I’m really gonna miss you.”

“Me too.”

Then the floodgates opened. He held me tight and I said I had to go home. I didn’t, but I couldn’t stand to be there any longer. The warehouses, with him, the sunset – it was all overwhelming. My insides felt as though they were melting from the intensity of my emotions.

As we climbed down the metal steps, he began to reminisce. I began to feel sick. We saw wet paint spilled just outside one of the warehouse doors and he turned to me.


“Let’s make this moment last forever. Give me your left hand.”

He dipped my hand into the white paint and placed it on the wall. He dipped his in and placed it next to mine. I took my hand down and so did he, and he grabbed both of my hands, smearing paint on both of them as well as his own hands.

“I’ll keep this moment with me forever.”

I bet he says that to all the girls.

[Motorboat Cruiser]

If he just had time to reach for the bell, things might have turned out differently. James and I might be sitting in my living room right now, drinking a jug full of rum and cokes. I miss those nights and I miss my friend. I miss his candor and his humor. I miss his war stories that he would repeat each time he drank a few too many. I miss pretending that I didn’t know how they were all going to end.

I never see him in my dreams. I only hear the frantic pressing of a doorbell that never had a chance to ring when it mattered the most. In my dreams, the ringing wakes me, I run for the front door and all that is on the other side are two white handprints on the old gray wall next to my front door. In the distance, I hear him scream and there is nothing I can do to help. I’ve had this dream more times than I care to count.

His candor and humor that I so adored were likely what killed him, I believe. He just didn’t understand the hatred that still lurked in these parts, perhaps to this very day. He was out of his element - thinking that, as a decorated veteran, he had the respect of his new neighbors in this backwater town that he had relocated to. After a few drinks at the local watering hole, he probably told a joke that was misinterpreted, or made a remark about a girl that was someone’s sister, or made some other innocuous statement that wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow in the big city where he was raised. But those medals on his chest didn’t mean a thing to the people around here who were just waiting for an excuse. They likely never took time enough to even notice them, what with all that ebony colored skin that proved to be so distracting. Of course, nobody interviewed that had been at the bar that night had any recollection whatsoever of him being there. Imagine that. I know he was there though. I dropped him off at the front door and watched him walk in and that’s what I told the police. Unfortunately, my information didn’t seem to interest them much.

According to the only witnesses who ever came forth, James was running for his life down Elm Street at approximately 1:40 in the morning, pursued on foot by four to six men whose faces were covered in white hoods. His body was still dripping with the new complexion they had forcibly applied to his skin but he had somehow apparently managed to free himself from their capture – at least for a few terrifying minutes. He made it all the way to my doorstep, almost five blocks away, but they apparently caught up and pulled him away from the door before he could ring the bell. His body, painted a ghostly white, was found a few days later in the local swamp.

If I had known he was out there, I would have fought alongside my friend to the bitter end against those bastards. I never got that chance though, separated from James by a gray wall that wouldn’t allow his screams to penetrate. And today, all I have to remember him by is the last grasp of a dying man, desperate to be saved from those he served to defend only a few years earlier. I stare at those prints every day and try not to imagine what he must have been thinking at that moment – so close to help and yet, yanked away at the last moment.

Those handprints have been on the wall for almost 50 years now and I still refuse to paint over them. Supposedly things have changed since then and something like that could never occur again in this quaint little town. It has even been suggested that we might see our first black President next year, proving how far we have come as a nation.

I cannot, however, share in any of that optimism. The fact is, those men were never caught. And each time I pass another man on the street, of a similar age as myself, I can’t help but wonder if he is one of the still-free men that felt some hideous need to dip my friend in paint before he killed him. I wonder how well he has taught his children. His grandchildren.

All I know is that, while the men that committed this atrocity might actually still walk the streets, I’ll be damned if they aren’t going to have to stare at those white handprints every time they choose to travel past my home. I hope they haunt them every day just like they continue to haunt me every day. This is our shared history in this piece of **** town and I refuse to let them forget, until the moment they begin their slow rot in hell.

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Morrigoon - Wow, that was wonderful. The line that especially caught my attention was "Perhaps it’s a blessing that I wasn’t old enough to learn how to apply “bitter” or “desperate” to situations in my life. I think I was happier for it." - I could really relate to this.

CP - What an interesting take on that picture. I couldn't help but ponder the words "“I tried, I tried to help, but I couldn’t. You wouldn’t let me help. You wouldn’t help yourself.” for quite some time, trying to fill in the blanks. - I really liked this.

Erica - Another completely unique take that was a pleasure to read, although also quite sad as I couldn't help but reminisce about those I had said goodbye to over the years after reading it. Really well done.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Erica - I was totally transported to being 16 again. Evocative.

MBC - the anger in there is so strong, very powerful.

[LSPoorEeyorick]

Collectively,
UR in my thread
rockin' my socks

Morri, so glad you're joining us this time 'round! I loved the reference to tourism in one's own city (it's been something I've been thinking about a lot lately.) "People mistake me for a tourist the way I’m looking all around me." - the image really struck me.

Jen, I've already told you, but I just loved this. I'm so fond of the way that a few sentences can allow a reader's brain to play, to mix up and put together the facts the way they want to. I have a pretty specific idea of what this is about, but I would bet it differs from the next person's, or the next... the way that we all look at a photo and see it differently, we can look at your story and read it differently. This was particularly illustrated here: "“It says STUART. Where the bell is. That’s all.” Seemed the right thing to say, the truth."

Erica, what a lovely sense-memory-- "he grabbed both of my hands, smearing paint on both of them as well as his own hands. " Pain of youth vivid among this. Definitely brought to mind an experience that was similar, particularly with the "blithering crybaby I knew lived inside me."

And Eric... oh, Eric. This is maybe my favorite short-story piece of yours that I've ever read. You took this is a direction that was so ragged. So painful. And it really rings with the image-- and it rings on its own. Mojo, mojo, mojo to you.

[blueerica]

I loved everyone's, for the reasons stated in all the above posts. So evocative, so unique. I think that's what I love best about this thread; it's an exercise in imagination that brings us to the bedrooms and living rooms, street corners and classrooms of our past.

On that note, I want to say that MBC's story nearly moved me to tears. Thank you, it was beautiful...