Practically Safe

Practically Safe

    Blue.  It was a blue ball; one of those small, rubber, bouncy balls that bounce for about five minutes after you've thrown it on the kitchen floor.  That blue ball changed Paul's life.  Each bounce leading him to another life.

    Everyone in English Class had their attention focused on Brian Portal, because he had just been caught chewing gum.  The girls laughed and enjoyed looking his way.  Allison's giggle, Allison was the pretty girl who sat in front of Paul, went up a whole octave when Brian glanced her way.  Brian was slightly taller than most of the boys in the class.  The collar of his Izod polo shirt, up and touching the back of his blonde feathered hair, signified his acceptance as king of the seventh grade.  It was 1981, and Nike tennis shoes, skin tight Jordache jeans, and a Swatch wrist watch verified Brian's wealthy parents gave him every advantage.  Brian was always chewing gum, and blowing bubbles, and smiling after he popped them.
 
    Paul, in contrast, was slightly smaller than most of the other boys in his class.  He was very thin; almost to the point of looking ill and malnourished.  His high water jeans showed a full four inches of white socks above his no name tennis shoes.  Paul's dark brown hair hung limp and untidily across his eyes, but it was his eyes that everyone took notice of, if they noticed him at all.  His mahogany eyes; big, brownish/reddish, intelligent eyes, glanced towards Brian.  Paul couldn't help getting caught up in the excitement, but didn't dare make eye contact with Brian.  He didn't know why it was so hard to look people in the eye.  His mom made him promise her he would start being more assertive.

    "When you're passing someone in the hall or on the street, I want you to look them in the eye, smile, and say, "Hello!"  Nice and loud, with a smile, Paul.  Okay?  Will you promise me, Paul?"  His mother asked pleadingly.

    "Yes Mom."  Paul had promised, but every day and every opportunity for redemption compounded his failure; making it harder and harder for him to look even her in the eye.  And now, in every social situation,Paul felt like a thief.  Paul didn't feel he deserved the right to join in with the group.  He hadn't paid his dues.  If he couldn't say hello, what gave him the right to laugh when everyone else did?
    "Spit it out, Brian!" Mrs. Graves said crossly, while smiling as she turned.
     
    The classroom looked more likely to house bureaucrats than children.  The faux marble floor, white square tiles corrupted by the faintest of grey streaked lines, lay framed by genuine oak baseboards.  The same dark oak created a door frame and uniform trim throughout the classroom, and a matching wall-long rectangle frame holding in the huge black slate, which demanded every child's unwilling attention.  The blackness cut by the white scrapings of chalk from Mrs. Graves' dusty hand, and the empty darkness of the blackboard fractured with the light of knowledge.

    The windows were open, and a lazy breeze of cool air, scented by the decay of fallen leaves, gently pushed on the partially opened blinds.  One set of blinds would occasionally tap the black pot of a dying and withered plant that Mrs. Graves had ceased nursing back to health.  The sounds of the small town surrounding the school eked through the windows of the third floor as Mrs. Graves was making her way through the isle:  A car horn, a dog barking in the distance, and the sob and moan of a train as it slouched off and away from society.
 
    The sounds and smells of a dying summer, and a long school year ahead would never leave Paul.  They would haunt him, because that was the moment when everything changed.  That was the memory Paul would dwell on, because that was when the ball fell out of Paul's pocket.

    Paul watched it fall.  Knowing that now everyone would be looking at him;Paul was horror struck.  That tiny blue ball took about four decent bounces before it rolled right into the path of Mrs. Graves.  Having just collected Brian's gum, and being in the process of walking to the chalkboard, she stepped on the ball.  Her left foot went flying out from under her, towards the right, across the front of her body. As her hips and head achieved a level plane, she seemed to hang there like one of those cartoons on Saturday mornings.  Then, she fell like a stone, flat on her back, with an 'oomph', knocking the wind right out of her.  If it hadn't been Paul's fault he would have laughed.

    And there was laughter; a riot of laughter.  Everyone was hysterical, and had their attention directed at Mrs. Graves.  Just as Paul felt relief at not being noticed as the ball dropper, the laughter suddenly stopped.  It was like someone pressed the mute button.  During her fall, that blue rubber ball had been flung into the air, ricocheting off the blackboard, and landing, like a hole in one, in Kelly Akers' mouth.  Kelly stood immediately, grabbed her throat, and turned red.  She then turned purple, and within a minute she had hit the floor with everyone in the room surrounding her.  The desks screeched, being pushed aside.  There was a lot of screaming from the kids as well as Mrs. Graves.  Paul was screaming too, but didn't realize it.  The ambulance arrived, there was a flurry of activity, the black boots of an EMT, and the ambulance screaming as it departed.  Everyone watched from under the blinds through the window as the ambulance slowed about a mile away and turned it's lights off.  Silently it vanished from view.

    Paul would no longer take anything for granted.  Innocence died.  The second hand ticked.  Everything was concrete.  He was only eleven.

    Paul assumed he rode the bus home, but maybe the school called his Mom, and she picked him up.  He didn't know.  But, here he stood in front of the house with his mother at his side, not knowing how he got there.  It had become much colder than when he had left for school that morning.  Dark, angry grey clouds drifted above, and thunder announced the storm rolling in.  The air became forceful and rude.  And the swaying of the trees and the crying of the wind displayed a consensus in grief at the loss of Kelly Akers.
 
    As Paul stepped onto the dusty worn step of the porch, the clouds teared up.  And, once he was inside the small rented home the sky let loose in a tirade.  Water streamed down the windows.  And Paul wondered why he couldn't cry like that.

    He had to do something!  Guilt squeezed and tore at his heart.  Once in his bedroom, he threw his pants off and onto the bed.  Grabbing a needle and thread, he sewed the offending pocket shut.  The icy grip on his heart was unrelenting.  Then, Paul thought, what if something happens, and someone's life is dependent upon him being able to put something in his pocket.  Paul tore the stitches and began sewing both pockets partially shut.  This would keep things from falling out of his pockets, but still allow him to store necessities.  That was the key.  It needed to be practical.  Finally, he felt a slight ease in the pressure around his heart.  Why didn't the manufacturers of his pants think to sew the pockets so things wouldn't fall out of them when a person is sitting down?!  The family of Kelly Akers should sue the manufacturer of Paul's pants.  It was their fault!  They were negligent.

    Paul slept in his Mom's bed that night.  Paul was unsure why he felt he needed to sleep in her arms.  Only an open doorway separated their rooms, and their beds were only about five feet apart.  It was a small house.  A living room, kitchen, two small bedrooms, and a bathroom that was only accessible by crossing through both bedrooms.  They lived in the poor section of a small town.   

    "Paul!"  The whisper of a girls voice.  So sudden and so very faint; Paul wasn't sure he had heard anything at all.  Then louder, not much, but enough to echo in his mind.  "Thunder maybe?"  Paul hoped.  Paul stopped breathing and waited.  It was raining and the storm had cooled the night air.  He quickly pulled his blankets over his head.  Still listening, he could hear something just above the rain gurgling on the roof.  The blanket useless against the cold wet air.  "Crying?"  Again, terror stopped his breathing.  He could hear a girl crying.  Now, his breath raced.  His heart beat louder.  He knew hiding under the blanket would leave him exposed if she could hear him.  His blanket felt damp, like covering w/ a bed of moss in November.  Thump!  Thump!  Thump...thump, thump, thump, thump.  "Paul..."  She was in the room!  He knew his body had betrayed him.  He tried again to hold his breath; to be a stone.  Something grasped the blanket, and was pulling it off his head.  He screamed and grabbed for the blanket.  "Paul!" 

    "Are you okay?"  his Mother asked.
 
    Everyone in Paul's class was given a week off and a visit from the School Counselor, Mr. McDonough.  He assessed to see if anyone would need any further 'help,' but Paul's guard was up.  He couldn't let anyone know that he had been the one who had killed Kelly.
Paul, were you and Kelly close friends?  How well did you know her?  How does Kelly's accident make you feel?  Since Kelly's accident what type of things have you been doing to cope with her loss?  Ms. Tabor, has Paul been displaying any changes in behavior since'?"  Question after question trying to get Paul to talk about Kelly's 'accident,' and that "it's okay to cry.  It's okay to miss her."
 
    Paul didn't really know Kelly that well, but that's not why he couldn't cry for her.  He wanted to cry, because it was his fault that she was dead, but he couldn't make the tears come.  He actually sat and tried to cry, but nothing.  He wondered what was wrong with him.

    Paul wasn't allowed to go to the funeral, and he never confessed to anyone about his role in the loss of Kelly Akers.  As the days passed, he would become more and more obsessed with being in control of every situation.  No one else seemed to care or grasp that any little thing we do or don't do may have dire consequences.  And, no matter who may become the victim of his actions or in-actions, Paul would be the one who would have to live wondering what he could have done differently.

    That next week however, drove Paul's Mother to the brink of insanity.

    'Paul!  Where are you?'

    'I'm in the kitchen, Mom.'

    'What are you doing?'  His Mom asked.  Paul had been up since 7 am.  Despite having showered (do you know how dangerous taking a shower can be?  The numerous fall risks, and if lightning strikes'), dressed, and re-packed his lunch, he was running late.  And still he needed to check his book bag one more time.

    'I had your lunch packed already!'  Paul's Mom said exasperated, seeing his repacked lunch on the counter.
 
    'I don't want to use straws.'  Paul mumbled.  'Someone might get poked in the eye.  I put my milk in a thermos, see?'  He came to think of straws as 'blinding sticks'.  His Mom just stared at him.  If she had learned it took him 20 minutes to pack his book bag (no silly toys would go with him anywhere), 15 minutes to get dressed (because he put his belt on and off three times, tied his shoes in double knots, and made sure the clothes he was wearing didn't pose any danger to himself or others), she would have taken him to the hospital right then and there.  The belt stayed on.  He figured it was possible that not wearing a belt would lead to his pants falling down, and someone would then laugh uncontrollably while they were eating.  And then, the ambulance would be turning out the lights on them.  Besides the thermos modification, Paul also removed the Jell-O and banana.  If he accidentally dropped his Jell-O or, Heaven forbid, dropped the infamous banana peel, then someone could get hurt.  Paul cringed at the very thought.
 
    Paul's meticulous analysis of everything made him late for school and his Mom late for work.  'Mom, slow down you could have an accident,' Paul said.
 
    'Well, if you hadn't taken so long acting silly this morning I wouldn't have to go so fast,' she said.

    There it was again.  Paul's thoughtlessness could have killed him, his Mother, and who knows how many innocent bystanders.  He would have to be more efficient and thoughtful.  He would have to get up earlier and plan ahead.  Paul would have to be more responsible.

        Thump!  Thump!  Thump...thump, thump, thump.  The sounds woke Paul and chilled his blood.  As he put his feet on the floor, he could hear the ball rolling on the wood floor in the living room getting closer.  He had stood; ready to run, but he was frozen in place.  Rolling on the other side of the wall it came to a stop.  His eyes fixed on the doorway, straining in the dark to see the unknown.  He tried to call for his Mother, but no sound would escape.  Then he heard a rasping sound; breaths getting louder, and he saw the opaque blue dead eye staring at him from the floor of his doorway. 

    His screams woke his Mother, and she woke him.

    The alarm sounded at five every morning, and, Paul's clothes waited, neatly folded and carefully laid out the night before, to protect him from the cool morning air.  Quietly and carefully, Paul's feet searched the cold hardwood floor for a silent place to land, carving a path to the bathroom, so as to not wake his Mother's slumber.  This was very tricky, since he had to slip by her bed to get to the bathroom.  She needed her sleep, and Paul didn't want her fatigue to cause an accident setting off a chain of misfortune.
 
    Diminishing Paul's anxiety about bathing, a non-slip surface had been grudgingly applied to the bottom of the tub by his Mother.  He had stubbornly refused to bathe until she placed the sticky rough flower power flowers on the bottom of the tub.  Paul would carefully place the soap in the soap dish so that it wouldn't slip and become a fall hazard.  He would do a check on his shoe strings, pack a safe lunch, make a well balanced breakfast for his Mother and himself, check and recheck to make sure the toaster was unplugged after he was done using it, make sure his Mother was up promptly and on schedule, chew every bite at least 20 times, feed and water the cat, wash his hands, check the weather, and make sure both his Mother and himself were appropriately equipped for the day.  Caution couldn't stop at home.

    Paul was a back seat driver to the extreme.  He realized he needed to be more responsible.  He paid attention in class, did his homework, and studied hard.  He was berated by a scared and frustrated Mother, and made fun of by his peers.  But at least they were safe.

    Paul was like a beggar.  Only he kept coming back for knowledge instead of food.  Scratch that.  To Paul, knowledge was food.  He read constantly, checked his facts, and wouldn't just read one book on any subject.  He read many.  He asked questions of his teachers, and many of them, though at first very amazed and happy with Paul's increased interest, now came to dread his questions.  He couldn't figure out why they hadn't learned everything about their chosen subject.
 
    'Paul, quit showing off,' the teacher would say.
 
    He wasn't showing off.  But, he just kept his mouth shut, knowing he would need to find this information out on his own.  Paul became a fixture in the library, and knew everyone there on a first name basis.  Straight A's in every subject helped with his mother and teachers, but not his class mates.  Paul spent his recess telling class mates to abide by the rules of the slide and monkey bars, to slow down, and watch where they were going.

    'No Paul.  You watch where you're going, Dork!' And then, Paul saw stars.
 
    Paul's first punch to the nose left his eyes watery and his nose felt like it would be permanently flat.  Pain from the impact, pressure from the blood which rushed back into his nose, and surprise were secondary to the wound his pride suffered.  He made a mental note:  Bulk up, because physical prowess could prevent injury (both physical and emotional).  And, as Paul was discovering, it was the emotional wounds that cut the deepest and left the ugliest scars.  Scars that would haunt him and never would fade until the day he died.
     
    One morning, at school, Paul drifted off during class, and awoke to the sound of sirens.  He jumped up, unable to breathe.  His chest pounding, as he stumbled into the next row of desks.  It had been a deep sleep with a vivid dream...
 
    Paul was once again sitting in class as Mrs. Graves was finishing up her lesson about 'The Stone Boy,' when Eric Portal blurted out 'Gross!'  Paul looked over.  In front of Eric, he saw a girl paying attention to Mrs. Graves.  Suddenly, the reason Eric had expressed his disgust was very apparent to Paul.  The girl's skin was leaking all over her desk and onto the floor.  Through her clothes and off her chair the body fluids dripped into puddles all around her desk.  As the blood rushed to Paul's heart, his limbs went cold.  Everything had slowed.  It seemed to take minutes for the drops to descend into the puddle.  Each greasy drop magnified and amplified like bombs going off as they hit the surface, creating rings of waves in the puddles.  Just as Paul had realized whose puddles were on the floor, he looked up and saw Kelly Akers' lip-less face staring back at him in horror.  A silent scream!  The smell of rotten meat and Death hit him like a punch to the gut.  Instant waves of nausea rushed to explode like the pounding of surf forced into a seaside cave.  Paul's lunch was held down only by a tourniquet of icy cold fingers wrapped around his throat.  Now, dizzy with terror, his ears filled by the buzzing sound of an entire legion of flies.  Paul awoke as she was reaching a skeletal finger into her mouth to remove a dirty, bluish ball.  Her screams finally reached his ears' 

...as the sirens came to Paul from the distance.  Now awake, he couldn't catch his breath at first.  Paul was choking, but, as he righted himself on the nearest desk, he was finally able to breathe.
 
    Paul didn't sleep that night.  And in truth, all his nights were be filled with nightmares.  Even in his sleep there would be no escape; no rest.  He couldn't flee the reality of what had happened.  Paul couldn't evade the truth.  And, as Twain, Poe, and many others have noted, 'Truth is stranger than fiction...'