Short Story #1

     This is a short story I've been slowly ironing out for a while, now.  It's probably my most personal story, and I hope the writing and tone shows.  Again, any constructive criticism is appreciated, and thanks in advance for taking the time to read over my dribble, ;).

Only Mothballs

Tick.  Tick.  Tick.  Tick.

                I can’t seem to remember another time where I wished death on an inanimate object more than that cheap Walmart analog wall clock.

Fuck.You.Fuck fuck fuck fuck…

                My face contorts itself into a tight lipped, spiteful stare down with those monotonous hands slothing around the clock’s opaque face, all the while my surroundings flow along as my teacher’s throaty voice weaves its tendrils through my classmates perked up ears.  Topic of discussion for today?  Harry Goddamn Potter.  At this point in our curriculum, I’ve already concluded that the reading level everyone else is stuck at doesn’t warrant my undivided attention, so I flip the switch back to my preferred state of bubbling anticipation, sprinkled with shavings of anxiety as the seconds tick before that fire truck red bell rings. 

Just.Fucking.End.

                At this point the tick in my dominant foot has made a sizeable dent in the linoleum floor, and I’m fairly confident my right digits have fused quite successfully with the laminated pale wood top of my prison cell, crafted lovingly around my chunky frame and cutting off blood flow to my lower extremities.  Luckily, I’ve acclimated to my second home fairly decently, yet nothing could have prepped me for that insatiable ticking. 

                Realizing my sentence is far from fully served, I chew my tongue and flex my eyes across the classroom.  It’s in your typical disarray of scattered backpacks and strewn school books, tastefully accented by the ungodly amount of inspirational posters with bold font gems like “Perseverance”, “Determination”, and, my personal favorite, a ridiculously photogenic tiger with “Respect” plastered over its head.  If I hadn’t known better, I swear I was in a suicide prevention self help group, determined to stop me from jumping out of this third story windowed classroom just so I can avoid anymore mind numbing debate over some perceived symbolism regarding three headed dogs and magic  potions, written by a British hack.

                However, personal gripes aside, it’s actually my least despised classroom.  This is due in part to my sick glee in watching my teacher work her smoker’s lung charm across my classmates, who were more or less petrified by the gaping hole in her larynx.  As far as we knew, she was one step away from being a full blown Sith Lord, so rambunctiousness was kept to a minimum on our own accord.  But besides her nightmarish impairment, she had developed an insatiable taste for making us twelve year olds feel like morons; taking every chance she could to chastise us for our limited literary intellect and finding miniscule things to ship us off to the principal’s dungeon.  Hell, I’ve already been subjected to multiple sit-downs due to my daydreaming and desktop acoustics with whatever I could find to tap with.  So, when I felt the familiar vibrations of her raspy voice form the shape of my name through my mind haze, I begrudgingly stick my head out of my shell and acknowledge her cackling. 

                “Yes, Ms. Kruger?”

She locks on to my signal, an almost merciless grimace painted over her jowls. 

“You’re being called down to the office.  You can get your bag and pick up today’s assignment from someone, tomorrow.”

I shift slightly in my seat, my mind still processing the incoming order.

                “Wait, So I can leave?”  My befuddlement is understandable; there are still twenty minutes revolutions on my sentence.  Yet, even after saying that, my incredulousness goes unheeded as she continues talking to the black board, and my classmates glare murderously at my get out of jail free card, gyrating above my head like a golden Mario token.  Without further hesitation, I shimmy out of my chair, stumbling across my bag at my feet before I sweep it in one arm, cradling my lunch box in the other.  And, like an apparition with supposed hidden symbolism, I vapor out of the room to my parole hearing. 

                My squawking sneakers echo along the halls as I make multiple sharp angle turns, my impatience suffocating my thoughts as I navigate this well worn rat maze. 

Whatever it is I’m in trouble for, at least I cut a chunk out of my day.  Oh shit, I have Gamecube at home!

                With that sudden realization, my pace is quickened as I practically gallop towards my destination.  Rounding the last corner and down the final stairway, I land at the base of the exits where the office window sits along side the doors.  What I glance next out of the corner of my eye actually procures a lump in my throat.

…Shit

                It’s the glint off of his glasses that catches my unusually unwavering eye.  Any more proof is unnecessary, but my mind predictably betrays me as my blank face scans the rest of my father’s exterior shell.  Standing tall with his 5’5” frame, my father is sporting his usual knitted vest and well worn dress shirt tucked underneath the top layer.  But I’m not fooled.  I can literally taste the boxed wine radiating off of his off white collar and stained grey trousers, coating the back of my throat.  I repulse myself for missing that stench of cheap liquor and mothballs.  Strangely enough, it’s the latter that churns my stomach more. 

                And, yet, I notice a splash of impromptu disheveled tucking, especially around his stickly waistline.  To anyone else, he looks like a typical father of three, who is stuck in Korean accountant family man attire.  In my eyes, though, he appears distraught, and it actually colors me curious.  We make eye contact, and my spine snaps straight as an arrow. 

Suddenly all too tactile memories of multiplication table home school sessions gestate in my mind as I reminisce the vivid days of head smacking and sneering from those coffee stained fangs, and I disgust myself as I relish those memories.  I can still taste his Colgate coated, acid tainted breath permeating my sinuses, almost subconsciously making me second guess what eight multiplied by eight really was.  Yes, this is a man who bathes in the waters of my and my sibling’s tormented tears, and I accept it with a leashed disdain that makes the man in me tremble with rage at my defeated posture; my shoulders slumped with fear of the near future.

                I snap back.  Luckily, I haven’t broken eye contact.  He would have chastised me in his own demented way for my fault in saving face.  No, stone cold Steve Austin, I muse in my racing head.  Coolly, I trail off my gaze to the back of the receptionist’s head, followed by my intense focus of the door knob as I round the corner and stretch out my clammy palm towards the knob.  I don’t recollect turning the knob, nor the breaths that led up to the turning point.  I honestly can only recall the welcoming stench of printer paper and stale pepper mints from the counter of her desk.  For once, I resist the temptation to stuff my greedy face with a fistful of these distracting confections, and I once again meet my father’s battered and stubborn gaze.  I miss his smile.  His twisted revolting smile.  At least it was an inviting form of trickery. 

“You have your homework, with you?” he recites, going through the motions; the steps to our little jig.  I predictably nod with not even a peep, and my feet switch the weight distribution to convey my half hearted annoyance aimed at his cookie cutter questionnaire.  I dare not push it further, though.  I don’t much feel like relishing in his cheek stinging “reminders”, tonight. 

“I’ll be in the car.  Sign out and meet me at the front.”

What a lovely grimace, on his part.  I wonder what the occasion is?

 He exits and I take up my post at the counter.  The secretary, in exemplary fashion, feigns interest, with me responding in kind by slopping off a half hearted smile form my twitching facial muscles. 

She fucking knows.

                One chicken scratching of a signature later and I find myself dragging my stumps across the dirt choked carpet out past the fingertip stained glass double doors and onto the curb.  There, like an apparition brooding atop his cold, metallic grey steed, is my father in his twice wrecked BMW.  Cue the beckoning gesture laced with annoyance.  Cue my dejected shuffle towards the passenger seat.  Commence the suffocating and torturous silence, save for the clicking of my seat belt and the gear change of our stallion that careens off into the distance, leaving behind a place I suddenly embrace as a sanctuary, given the circumstances. 

                The entrance to the highway rears its reflective head as we round the curved entrance to its maw, and we continue on at break neck speed to our still undisclosed destination.  Passing a roughly nailed together cross marking Sparky’s final resting place on the side of the highway, I peel my gaze away from the attractions rushing past my vision and soak in my father’s stoic visage behind the wheel.  An irritated acceptance, I gawk.  Sensing this, he shifts his gaze form the hypnotic yellow lines gobbledup by the car’s grill and rests his high beams onto me, scanning my unspoken questions.  I give in and my attention is quickly taken by the absorbing detail on the exterior of the dash board.  Deafening silence engulfs our burgeoning dialogue.

                A lifetime careens past my jittery senses before we arrive at the exit.  The tempo of our turning signal harkens our arrival into the downtown area of our hometown.  It’s a quaint location, its landmarks most notably being the towering golden arches of McDonalds, partnered at the hip to the sickly sea green tinge of the mermaid mascot of America’s favorite coffee chain.  Apart from them, however, I mentally check off the plethora of vintage second hand clothing stores and pottery work shops that lazily scrawl their reflections across my passenger side window, further illuminated by the droplets of that morning’s dew on the outer surface.  An elderly woman with an odd fixation for plaid waits patiently for the little green man to grant her safe passage across the clogged downtown street, while at the other end a business man can be seen scrubbing furiously at his tie to rid of a mysterious business lunch stain.  My attention teeters back towards the steady turning radius of my father’s hands as we park outside the entrance of an inviting Subway restaurant, cozying up to a very lovely, if overpriced pizza restaurant with insane pesto pie confections. 

Squeak of brakes. 

Grinding of emergency brake. 

Snap of receding seat belts. 

And just like that, I find myself straddling the corralling pens that lead up to the dejected cashier.  My father’s attention is stagnant as I decide whether or not to pick my customary meatball sub, in all its sodium dripping glory.  Transition to us occupying the window seats that overlook the bustling downtown scene.  Even though I’m still reveling in this odd moment with my father, I tune him out as I claw the protective wrapping away from my sandwich, all the while he fingers some loose change in his pants pocket; the jangling melting into the cluttered sounds of scraping chairs and overhead ceiling fans.  A few bites in, however, and his patented brooding overtakes my curiosity as I peek up from the herb and cheese bun and ask him that unspoken question with my halted mastication.  I spot his clenched jaw right before he lays out, “ Haraboji had an accident about an hour ago.  We’ll be heading over in a bit to see him.”

Still computing. 

I finish the bite in my mouth and swallow. 

This next bite will be delicious.

 He cocks his head ever so slightly at my lack of an auditory exclamation.

 “Your mom says he must’ve slipped and hit the sink.  It’s happened before.”

               

The next bite is appropriately glossed with concern.  Perhaps even a little hind sighted annoyance with my grandfather’s carless nature.

 He might not be so lucky next ti-…

                A marinara drenched meatball slips from my grip, my hand reduced to jelly.  My toes curl into tightly compacted balls in my light up Sketchers.  Honestly, this is new to me.  Not sure which mask to don to emphasize my unsettled emotions.  I mock stunned silence, which I suppose is the right reaction since my father seems satisfied with it.  I am a blank slate, closing my mouth and framing the windows in my vision.  My father proceeds to pluck the meatball from my plate, “ Your sisters and Mom are already over there, to say goodbye.  Finish up, soon.” 

                I can feel his gaze smothering me.  The afternoon sun penetrates the window panes, casting columns of warm rays into the restaurant, coupled with the wretched and sterile overhead fluorescent lighting.  Innumerable flecks of dust particles and microscopic debris roll and tumble in the blades of light; a sort of larger than life lava lamp showcase.  I forget to swallow my previous bite.  I tell myself to do so before it falls out of my mouth the next time I speak. 

God, what a bitter taste.

“Myles.”  No trace of concern.  Laced with impatience

                I shift my weight, noticing the creaks in the Irish green upholstery echoing in the restaurant.  I spot the condiment stained man across the street; I wait patiently with a contemplative gaze as he fumbles with his keys, bookstore shopping bag and jacket draped over his arm.  I can feel the greasy flecks of salt on my grubby fingers, and my appetite is no where in sight. 

“Myles, they need to take him away, soon.  Finish up, now.”  Not a request.  Never is.

               

My palm absentmindedly nudges the tray away as I scoot out into the dining area.  My father creeps out of his corner, deftly sweeping the tray up and tumbling the trash into the bin, finally taking his place behind me as he ushers me out into the cold mist of the afternoon. 

Still can’t pick a mask to wear.

 I interchange my emotions as we drive off towards our next stop,

               

Haraboji.

It really does roll off the tongue better than “grandpa”.

                I remember him being aromatic, my grandfather.  A combination of Asian fish stew and mothballs always bombarded my sense every time that door swung open invitingly.  A faint sheen of peppermint mouthwash topping off the scents.  I always looked forward to that embrace; it was unwarranted and intoxicating.  It didn’t even matter that he didn’t speak a shred of English, despite his migration from Seoul a score of decades ago.  No, I could translate anything he said with a grin like that.  So warm.  So excruciatingly warm.

                My family made mandatory dinner visits to my grandparents little suburban hut on the other side of town.  I especially looked forward to these excursions simply due to the fact that my father could vent on someone else for a change; the food didn’t hurt, either.  In typical Korean fashion, my grandmother would lay out countless side dishes composed of spiced and pickled vegetables, each one more pungent than the next.  And then the superstar of the hour arrived at the table: a spicy, fermented fish stew that created perspiration on the overhanging lamp shade as the steam engulfed the table. 

                This was my grandfather’s specialty, and I made sure to take an extra bowl to show my appreciation for his masterpiece.  Delightful to discover my admiration for his cooking, he took it upon himself to introduce me to his own personal vegetable garden behind his house, bordered by the choking construction of other affordable accommodations for elderly retirees.  A considerable chunk of his time he devoted to aiding me in keeping his garden at peak condition, and I was wholeheartedly hooked. 

That dirt caking the underside of my fingernails,

The bitter aftershave of vegetable greens and herbs,

The aroma of spiced cabbage wafting from the open window in the kitchen,

Reminding me of the tasty resolution to our endeavors on our dirt stained knees. 

And, of course, that beaming grin of his.  Unquenchable in its plea to reassure me very time I saw it.  I was addicted to it.  Now that I think about it, I can’t recollect if he ever didn’t beam like an idiot.  He loved me unabashedly, and I worshipped him unconditionally.

My eyes lazily slit as I feel the car downshift.  Blood rushes back to my numb right arm as I cease crushing it between my head and the car window.  Rolling my gaze, I spot the turn into the residential area where a flashing white hearse embroidered in blue and red lighted bulbs marks the lawn of my grandparents house.  A couple ninety degree turns later, and the car mutters to a halt behind my mother’s magenta minivan and a par of scooters parked alongside the mailbox of the house. My father motions to unclip himself.

“ Ok, let’s go.”  Too cold, I gestate. 

Why so sterile? 

Calculated? 

Too cold for Haraboji.

                In a fitting state of reluctance I scrape myself off of the beige leather and push the car door shut, shuffling across the uncut grass and ascending the granite steps to the open doorway.  I spot his feet lying atop the oriental rug of the living room before I even step past the threshold.  Better late than never as a jolt pulses from behind my eyes to my jaw line.  My brow scrunches in a self defensive posture.

No more.  Just no.

                Too late.  I find myself being suffocated between my mother’s rotund figure and the claustrophobic tears of my sisters as I stand erect over his wrinkled visage, laying there prone on that god awful rug.  You’ll find my father in the corner with the bookcase, shooting the breeze with the paramedic.  Someone urges me to give Haraboji a kiss. 

“It’s ok; go ahead,” I’m assured tearfully. 

Of course it’s OK, you condescending fucks.

Stop it.

                I chew my tongue to shake my blossoming frustration.  It seems wrong, regardless of their reassurance.  I shoot a look at my father.  He has beaten me to the punch, already drilling a hole into the back of my eye sockets. 

Please smile.

                I curse my self in my plea.  I know what to expect from him.  And, yet, I can’t seem to prepare myself for what I see next as I peel off and rest my blurring focus on my grandfather’s battered mug.  No, not in all those slivers of sprightly tranquility with my grandfather in his garden, or hovered over the black stone pot with our hands plopping in vegetables into a steaming pot of mouth watering goodness. 

That smile.

I can’t find it.

                Where is it?

Help me find it.

                Of God, please help me find it.

Nothing.  A blank slate with no discernible love laced in its creases.   

                …My face burns poker hot.

 I can only smell the mothballs, today.