Borderlines

      It was a warm morning; it was a hazy, humid morning. The dewy drops still clung to all that they could,  seeking refuge from a scornful sun. It had been a warm night, although they were beginning to get colder-- the first signs of an early autumn. It was a loud morning. The birds could be heard singing loudly, the insects could be heard chirping incessantly, the humans could be heard rushing to work in their cars-- their tires ever so slightly pressing the condensation into the road and sucking it out, creating a tearing noise and a thin mist that followed closely behind.

        There could be heard a faint screeching from outside the window of a small room of the old white house. The white paint was beginning to crack here and there, turning the house gradually gray. The windows were old and jammed occasionally when pushed open, making it difficult and even frustrating to close them-- they were mostly left half open for this reason. The screeching persisted. Rhythmically, piercing, unrelenting.  Then without warning, a button was pressed and there was silence.

        A young boy, in his teenage years, could be seen rubbing sleep from his eyes and pulling it out from his muscles as he stretched. He checked his watch, and hurriedly went to his shower. He had everything timed perfectly, designed so that he would get the maximum sleep and still not be left behind by an impatient bus driver, making her rounds and picking up kids in the same routine every day. She wouldn’t allow anyone to sabotage her routine. If you weren’t there, ready to scurry on the second she paused, you were left behind. He could lie in bed for exactly fifteen minutes, drifting in and out of sleep. Then he would shower for no more than eleven minutes, after which he had exactly ten minutes to throw some clothes on and run out the door. But not before picking out a book from his bookshelves, which spanned an entire three walls of his room-- with books strewn on his floor.

        “Who shall I be today?” He asked himself aloud. He stood in his towel, dripping, as he gazed intently around his room. “Edmond Dantes? No…Maybe, Tom Joad…nah.” He had his hands on his hips, pondering and occasionally rubbing the whiskers on his chin in thought. “Decisions, decisions…” He finally exclaimed “Dean Moriarty!” as he picked up his tattered copy of On the Road, laid it on his bed, and started dressing. He threw on a worn grey buttoned shirt and stuffed the excesses into his jeans, which he pulled up and fastened with a belt. He looked at himself in the mirror. “This looks beat enough.” He smirked at his reflection. He half-closed his eyes and pointed at the reflection. “What’s your road, man?--guppy road, madman road. It’s an anywhere road for anybody anyhow. Where body how?” as he recited from memory in a raspy, wasted voice. “Perfect. That’s crazy man, crazy! Yass, yass!” As he laughed at his impression.

        He then realized that he’d missed the bus as he heard the momentary shriek of brake pads, then her angry acceleration at having lost a miserable tenth of a second. “Ah hell, man.” He said as he picked up his backpack and held the book under his arm.

        This was not the first time he had missed the bus. As a nameless Poe character, he had gone into a deep melancholy and wanted nothing more than magnificent, all encompassing silence to sort his dreary thoughts. As Bradbury’s Captain Williams, he walked spellbound through the Martian town, drinking in the fine Martian air, watching amazed as Martian men and women walked by and spoke English. “You speak English!” He would say in disbelief. Then they would say something like “I speak what I speak.” to stay true to the story. Of course, they never really did respond in such a way, but he imagined they had, to stay true to the story. He even once, as Thoreau, had questioned the folly of compulsory education and decided that the day was best spent in the woods behind his house.

        Some would say he was crazy, most would say he was looking for attention, many would play along, few could understand him. He loved his books-- so much so that he lived by them, quite literally. He reasoned that as long as he could be someone else and enjoy their lives, he wouldn’t have to deal with his own doldrum life. Wake up, go to school, go home, eat, shower, go to sleep. But he wouldn’t go to sleep, not right away. He would read in small spurts throughout the day, but this was his time to read. He read, well into midnight and sometimes two in the morning.

more to come...