Monsters of the Classes

Monsters of the Classes

Smell of burnt wood. My only guiding force in this darkness. Having wandered away from my entourage to seek a few moments solace rendered me completely lost. I pray for light, of any kind. Be it from large lantern or a mere match, for the impending daylight seems indefinitely delayed in this dark abyss.

My mind plays tricks on me, convincing me that monsters, thirsty for my blood lurk behind every tree trunk. Unfamiliar noises blend together in my paranoid state, heightening my already irrational fear of the night. I order my brain to calm itself. Neither goblins nor ghosts made of imaginary ectoplasm may harm me. Only human criminals made of flesh and blood. Oddly, that thought does not comfort me in the least.

Funny how a walk in an unfamiliar spot is a hundredfold more terrifying in the black of the deep night. The fear of the unknown. Such a fear does exist. Crippling the mind into delirium, causing it to behold monsters that simply do not exist.

We’ve all seen monsters throughout our lifetimes. I speak not of horrible beasts concocted of superstition, tales of phantom creatures used to frighten blue blooded ladies and their precocious children into submission. I speak of the monstrosities that lie within, excusing people to behave more viciously than any mythical brute humankind has ever conjured.

The finger pointing of their origin is just as complicated as their nature.

‘The common evil of the common.’ replies the velvety smooth voice of the aristocrat. He views the poverty of the lower classes as a direct symptom of their lesser moral character. ‘The bourgeoisie are the bane of the populace’ he muses to his equally wealthy friends. Raising their fine china cups as a toast to one another, their soft, blister-free fingers tap the air in rhythm with the string quartet they hired to play at their exclusive fete. Sipping a fine tea imported from an exotic country, they purr over its sublime flavors; meticulously blended from leaves gathered by poor workers dripping their blood upon brass scales, desperately hoping to have filled their quota to earn meager food ration.

‘It’s the decadence of the rich and powerful.’ wails the destitute. From birth onward they have learn of extreme hardship creating desperate means of survival. Clutching to crumbs tossed carelessly by the more fortunate, they live from moment to moment. Tattered clothing, disheveled hair, and empty stomachs walk among those slowly dying in the street from starvation and disease. Begging for scraps of food, water, anything to live another day. If one pays attention, one hears them silently begging for mercy from having to sell every last shred of dignity to those who can afford it. 

Witnessing the confines of their station leads some to become fiercely violent against their own. To others they cease to feel anything at all, for all that enters into the heart is hopelessness.

Pointing fingers at each other, the classes are thoroughly convinced at the monster originating from the station opposite them.

Crafty as they are, the monsters’ methods are in truth, very simple. For all they require is a crevice in a charred recess of a twisted heart.

I’m thinking too much again. It accelerates my already frantic breathing. Like a massive bronze gong, my heart pounds my chest cavity until I am forced to lie down upon the damp earth. The last traces of breath in my lungs flee, as my eyelids close like morning glories that wait patiently for daylight. My memories are flashing around me like multiple lines of lit gunpowder. I’d like to think I am just fainting from exhaustion, yet there is a good chance that one of those monsters devoured me……

-------------------

….. I smell spices. Embalming spices. Pungent. Permeating. Used to slow the decomposing of a lifeless corpse .Glints of various metal tools line several trays. Common tools for the skilled mortician. The corpse lying on the slab awaits its preparation.

It’s business as usual , so there’s no emotional toll or despair to bury.

Yet that day was different. Those lucky men had the honor of dressing the most precious body in the entire world. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, slowly wilting like gardenias beset by autumn. Her delicate face will be painted only once more, for the world to pay their final respects. 

Good-bye forever Mother. Why must you leave? You don’t deserve an end. You’ve always been the epitome of a well behaved woman, no matter what they said. Pieces of my heart crumble in despair at realizing life shall never sparkle ever again.

“Stop crying!”Snaps my aunt. She detests all forms of sentimentality, a trait that is my worst weakness.

In fear of her reprisal, I calm myself long enough to hold my tears.

Grumbling over the extra cost of wardrobe preparations, she confronts the startled mortician.

“She is dead!! Why bother to dress up a body that will be eaten by worms in a few days!”She shrieks at him.

Such a deeply sickening thought, my body spasms as though stabbed by an invisible knife. Unable to bear hearing such disturbing rants, I storm out. As was before, my tears stain the sides of my cheekbones once.

Blame it on the loss. Blame it on the grief. In my aunt’s case however, I can blame it on her. It was no secret that she harbored a deep jealously toward her sister. Identical twins with nothing in common except, for their appearance. Even that is not true anymore.

She was always too eager to worm her way back into our lives, feeling she was entitled to my Fathers wealth. Not two hours ago, she became embroiled in another dispute over who shall inherit the fine linens. My mother has not even been laid to ground and already the squabbling has started.

I have never known that my heart could feel such deep contempt toward those I once called family. We may share bloodlines, but we no longer share any relation of spirit. I was not raised to hate, so this bitter venom bubbling within is a foreign taste indeed. It rages in me, causing me to imagine one of my greedy relatives lying on the morticians’ slab in place of my dear mother. Just when I think I would revel in the thought of their death, I am reminded that could be a real possibility. They too could depart suddenly like my mother.

So begins the cycle of sadness so deep that it frightens me. Soon will come the numbness.

The door of the mortician’s office slams as my aunt stomps in fury, grabbing me by arm and forcing me into the carriage. The horses have been completely outfitted in black. Their wreathes, their riders capes, carriage curtains, cushions, my veil, my dress and gloves all died to match. It’s an overwhelming truth. The world is black without you Mother….

--------

….I heard the words, but understood nothing. All remarked that Colonel Wellington gave a beautiful eulogy. I glanced at Father to see if he agreed, yet I don’t think Father understood either. His gray eyes stared vacantly in the distance as his long, gaunt hands twitched as if he was being charred by invisible embers. It was a wise choice that only Mother wore eye makeup today. Tears ran so heavily down my face, that my cheeks would’ve been as black as the funerals color palette.

 “Lovely service.” “Was it not Mrs. Collins?”Asks Mrs. Wellington, calmly swirling her tea with a delicate silver spoon, careful not to scratch the inside of the delicate tea cup. Her black lace-trimmed gloves sway in controlled motions before returning demurely to her lap. Living a strict code of etiquette befitting a woman of her title, her garb is refined and fashionable. Her words are appropriate, polite and rehearsed. Much like the gilded ice box on a bar shelf. Elegantly adorned while never straying from its purpose. Staying forever cold.

 

Mrs. Collins, also a lady of wealth chatters along with her friend. Though none would dare admit to her face, she is living proof that money and breeding cannot buy taste.

Ignorant of current events and oblivious to anything outside the golden cocoon she has lived in her entire life, she gossips incessantly about the social faux pas of the lesser classes.

Having not moved a muscle in all this time, I have all but blended into the draperies. Mrs. Collins continues to gad about in her trademark affected voice. The subject of my mother has finally come up.

“My my, one would have thought the woman died a Queen and not merely...” she begins.

 “A commoner?” I interject. I hold back my disdain as best I can, but a few bullets manage to slip through.

“A commoner that dared to marry out of her station?”My voice has become an acidic crescendo. The mourners in the room have all turned their attention toward me, visibly surprised at my boldness.

“Exactly, You read my mind...”Interpreting  my bitter remarks as approval for her words, Mrs. 

Collins turns around, expecting to see a young lady of breeding who will agree wholeheartedly with the snobbery she has drank her entire pampered life.

Upon seeing me, her jaw drops. The corners of her eyelids twitch rapidly, searching desperately for the right words to slide her out of this trap.

She is shocked, clearly. However, for what reason? Is it because she insulted a grieving daughter whose fathers’ social standing towers above her own?  Or is it because a commoner’s daughter acted so boldly in her anger toward a lady of such class?

My sadness has boiled into anger, engulfing me in an ache that squeezes my soul from my broken veins. Lost in my own pain, it is only an hour later that I realize I have fled the parlor. Here I am, on the outskirts of our expansive courtyard, running at breakneck speed. With my mourning veil and all.

An aristocrat. A commoner .It seems I am neither one. Class monsters don’t like that. When you belong to neither, the monsters don’t know where to banish you.

I can feel their sneers as they try to catch me in their misery. Their taunts of my mother’s lowliness pound into my head until I can take it no longer. The night has fallen and my vision in useless. A strong scent of charred wood is in the air, draws me in close. In my disorientation, I stumble over a small rock .Yet it does little to curb my speed.

My foot is about to take another quick step when it tumbles once more. The ground has given way beneath me and my entire body falls for what seems an eternity. But, then gravity cruelly greets me and I feel a sharp pain on my back from the impact.

The air is escaping from my head; memories are rushing back at whirlwind speed. My lungs do not permit me to breathe, my limbs fallen like iron bars.

I have fallen and fainted, having no idea where I am.

--------

Struggling to raise myself up, I frantically extend my arms out wide, trying to learn my surroundings. My fingers touch walls of dirt, digging in until they grab hold of strong roots I can use to hoist myself up. I am in a weakened state, terrified of the dark, trying to make sense of where I am. I believe I am in a very deep hole, lined with some sort of solid surface that prevents me from sinking.

There’s that smell again. Freshly charred wood. It becomes stronger when I lay closer to the bottom of the hole. Knocking against it, splinters cut through my glove and it is apparent that it is in fact made of oak. What on earth could this be? Now standing, I taking a few steps, measuring the object with my feet.

My footsteps echo off of the wood panels, like a toy drum set little boys play with when pretending to be in a grand marching band.

The puzzle pieces now come together, and it hits me. I am standing above a casket. A small casket, no bigger than an adolescent. My hands touch upon some odd carvings at the top; my fingertips trace what feels like letters.

T-H-O-M-A-S. A small little boy, named Thomas is buried beneath me.

People with humble means bury their dead in plain oak caskets, devoid of any decorations, save for a burnt inscription of the name of the deceased on the top. The strength of the burned scent indicates that he was also buried this afternoon.

I rest my hand against his name, believing that maybe I am above his tiny heart, comforting him in the dark.

What were you like, Thomas? There was no announcement of his death in the papers or the community bulletin. Perhaps his family couldn’t afford to pay the advertisement cost, poor as they were. More likely a scenario is that people preferred to attend the death of my mother, rich as she was in the hope of establishing new contacts or weaving oneself into the family fortune.

Tears drip from my eyes corners once more. Why are some deaths made into social events and others forgotten entirely?

It matters not that I never knew you Thomas, but I’ll mourn for you.  You didn’t deserve to die, what crimes could you have possible committed to merit this end? Your mother shall be asking that question for the rest of her now grieving life.

Come, let me sing you lullaby, one sung my mother when I was a child.

If they find me tomorrow, I’ll tend to your family, making sure they escape poverty for good.

If not, well, I’ll just keep on singing until I lie in my very own coffin buried next to yours.

Mother, the graveyard won’t be so lonely anymore. You now have company, a sweet little boy named Thomas.

Mother, despite this horrid day, my heart feels lighter and my lips curl into a small smile. For I have a secret to share with you….

You are safe now. The monsters cannot torment you both any longer.

After the Rain - Short Story

After the Rain

Something about rain has always fascinated me. As I played among the wildflowers as a child under the rays of the yellow sun, I remember thinking that only one thing was missing to make it perfect day. Rain. A sudden stream not too heavy, neither too light. Sometimes to quizzical glances of bystanders I would even remove my shoes. With my feet now clad in pristine white socks, I would wade in the small puddles like a baby duck. Unlike the other mothers who would immediately scurry their children inside, my mother understood. She would be outside with me, playing among the puddles, our mouths open wide tasting the falling droplets.

Today, underneath the growling thunders rumble, it falls heavily, bathing the sprawling metropolis below. Rushing past me are the disgruntled faces of my fellow citizens. I catch a few bitter words of complaint that the rain dared to interfere with their day. I thank the rain for the interruption, it would have been another drudging, depressing day. Why rainy days are associated with melancholy has always been lost on me.

Water washes away the grime of regret. It washes away the blood of deep cuts, the blows inflicted by a harsh word. Tears bottle the sadness of our hearts, allowing them to drip from our soul’s windows until they evaporate into thin air. Unable to weigh us down no longer.

So the rain washes our collective misery, wiping the slate clean of past longings, mistakes and worries. ‘I’ll give you that second chance you so desperately need.’ it says gently. Stand outside for just a few moments. The rushing drops cause discomfort for only a few seconds, as it is a new sensation to the body. But, don’t give up. Close your eyes, breathe deeply, block out the world’s distractions. The shower of water is now upon you, let the inner turmoil osmosis out of your system.

This mental rinse reminds me of the important engagement I have scheduled for the day. The thick wool socks wiggle in my boots as I bring up my scarf to cover my chilled neck. The flits of warmth send a pleasant shiver down my entire body. Strange, how you can feel warmer inside when the temperature drops outside.

I walk on the cracked concrete sidewalks, right parallel to the hodgepodge of shops where I glance at their pretty wares from underneath my umbrella. My stride is slow; I am in no hurry, for my appointment won’t mind waiting. The sounds of the thin heels of my ankle boots are delicate high-hats in contrast to the loud crashes of the agitated eager to get away.

The weather has caused long traffic lines, loud honking and the occasional passenger rant can be heard, mixing in with police sirens announcing the drivers to clear their way. Up ahead, I see a few parked cars hovered around a local coffee shop. There’s nothing like sipping a hot beverage on a rainy day. It’s a calm happiness that can’t be bought. Metaphorically speaking of course.  I buy a large cup of piping hot chai tea and a few sweet confections for about $8.95. My date is going to be so happy that I remembered. It’s always been a secret tradition we shared.

I can’t resist taking a nibble of a dainty lemon macaroon. I remind myself that I need to continue walking if I want to have enough time. Where I’m going has visiting hours, although it is a strange place to impose that sort of thing.

Splashing in the shallow puddles puts a smile on my face, the tiny rivers sloshing upon the concrete run near my shoes. The tarnish of the city is no match for the determined sheets of water unleashed by the clouds. A tall metal gate stands before me. Reaching towards it, I place my hands in the middle of its’ intricately welded design. Pushing it forward it creaks loudly as if questioning whether I am emotionally capable of handling what lies behind its gilded doors.

For some, it’s too painful a memory. The indisputable proof that their loved one is no longer with them. Graveyards.  Places shown to house vampires, zombies and all forms of malevolent dead. No, none of those reside in any crack of the many mausoleums. Save perhaps the boogie man of our fear of dying.

In the daytime, the City Municipal Graveyard looks like a lush public park. Complete with a few hanging willows and modest perennials lining the pathways. Ignore the head stones and you could imagine yourself in the fancy botanical garden that just opened.

To me, this is a resting place for my loss. A place to escape from the suffocating clutches of the city and take a moment to realize what is really important. Before it’s too late.

I count the marble fountains and statuettes, third from the left from the sixth row. It would be more pleasant to count raindrops. Here we are.

Here lies Katalina Richardson. 1964 – 2012.

Hello Mom. I’m not late am I? Here, I brought us tea and goodies. Let’s enjoy the rain like we used too. Before you were taken away. Rain is fleetingly precious. After the rain, the sadness builds up again.

No Dark Sarcasm in the Classroom - Short Story

No Dark Sarcasm in the Classroom

“Please, Please, let me just survive the day.”  She clutches her shaking palms, trying to prevent her uneasiness from being so visible. The pit of her stomach turns with worry, as her lungs begin to tighten. Beads of sweat are quickly wiped away from the edge of her brow, while the throbbing of a swollen vein hammers into her head.

“Breathe, Maxine. Breathe.” she commands herself over and over again. Taking long breaths seem to counteract the build of anxiety. Stepping forward, she knows that the moment has come.

Placing her thick rimmed glasses on her sallow skin, she turns around to look at her reflection. The final judgment, if you will. Tilting her head to the left, she pouts her lips. It’s an attempt to mimic the hipster- hottie look so vehemently denounced yet widely emulated. Not amused, the mirror responds with a blunt criticism. You are a loser. A plain, pathetic, friendless loser.

Sighing, she grabs her backpack and locks the dingy door of the squalid apartment her family lives in. So begins the journey to a far away building where one goes to be scarred for life.

She may as well be walking toward the gallows. At least, her misery would end swiftly.

No such luck. It was the first day of school. None shall escape from its punishment.

“High school is hell. It manages to hike up the temperature of its flames with every passing year.” she thought woefully to herself.

*********************

The first day. Crucial to making the first impression of the year. Strewn across the bed were various articles of the seasons hippest clothing. Yet, the perfect ensemble continued to elude her.

She had picked her clothes the night before after much deliberation. Yet, this morning she had been obliged to revise her decision. She was forced to change at least a dozen times. Each outfit had problems.

Too fat. Too skinny. Too revealing. Not revealing enough. Sigh. It won’t be good enough. For them.

Frustrated with her naturally curly hair, she rummages through her vanity set for her flat iron. Sleek, straight hair is en vogue. They won’t be kind to her if she’s not on fashion point. Time is of the essence, so she quickly coordinates her makeup color palate. According the dozens of beauty articles she’s diligently read over the previous weeks, corals are in.

With her lipstick in midair she briefly questions herself. Why is she putting so much effort in this? It’s just another day right?

In the one last check in the mirror, she ignores the beautiful reflection before her. A small blemish at the right side of her jaw confirms her unfounded feelings of homeliness. A loud honk outside her window distracts her temporarily.

She pokes her head out, looking upon the vast courtyard of her family’s beach house. A convertible car filled with yapping, trendy girls of her age motion her to join them. Groaning, she can feel the nervousness creeping in steadily. Hoping that she will get the groups approval, she gives the widest smile as possible.

“So what do you think?” she asks, trying to look unaffected but, her earnest eyes betray her desire for acceptance.

 “Seriously, Kaylee that is what you’re wearing?” says a haughty high-pitched voice. The scoffs betray what she already knew. She failed in her choices. Again.

Keeping her composure, she bites her tongue in anticipation of the cutting remarks the group is going to lay into her the entire way to school.

‘It hasn’t changed. Why did I expect this year to be different?’

Beauty is painful. And ruthless.

***************************************************

To the untrained eye, or the blissfully unaware parent, the front entrance to the school seems a harmless place. 

Just before entering, the girl with the thick rimmed glasses adopts a look of disinterest in the hope that it hides the seeping feeling of desperation.

Desperate to belong. To something. Anything. I will tend to the wounds inflicted later.

She eyes a group of chatty girls, who are dressed in latest trends, laughing among themselves as if no one else could possibly exist.

I wish I had that. Beauty. Money. Friends. Popularity.  Friends.

If only high school could be as cute as it is in all those movies. Where even the bullying is lighthearted and tolerable because the geeky heroine will turn into the beautiful swan in the end. And then there will be trendy music playing in the background as she rides into the sunset with the handsome boy that magically falls for her.

As she makes her way to class, she steals a glance at a beautiful straight-haired girl who must have it all. With her eyes downcast she curses herself at her inferior life.

“Enjoy the loneliness, Maxine”, she tells herself in resignation. “There’s no way you’ll amount to anything.”

*******

Kaylee’s teeth began to hurt from the fake smiling she had done while her so-called friends mercilessly teased her. Her teeth were too big, her stomach too flabby and her cheeks too wide. They went on and on.  

It’s all in good fun, she repeated over and over in her head.

Yet inside, she felt ugly and unlovable, like the wretched trolls of fairy tales she loved reading as a kid. Some comments became so cruel that she quickly looked away, hoping to focus her attention on something else for fear she’d burst into tears.

A skinny, hunched figure with coke-bottle glasses stood in the middle of the hallway. Ignored by the other students who walked past her as if she were transparent, she seemed unafraid of their rudeness.

Rather, the figure simply stood, staring back with eyes that looked straight through Kaylee. Her thick rimmed glasses added an air of intellectual indifference to her being.

She seemed solitary, a lone wolf. Unapologetic . Unafraid.  

‘I am such a coward’ thought Kaylee. ‘I wish I was more like her.’

The bell rang, so Kaylee made her way to first period, biting her lip as she cried softly.

The Cost of a Fish -- Short Story

The Cost of a Fish

It was a much simpler time. It was during a time when good folk dreamed of white picket fences and freshly made pies cooling on the window sill. Life had its small responsibilities, yet, they never got in the way of treasuring its happy moments.

On a street lined with medium sized houses and golden retrievers, lived two best friends. A curly-haired boy named Max and his best friend, the amber-eyed Rob. Inseparable since birth, each had done their share of mischievous plots common to boys their age. Despite the childish antics, an unbreakable bond of trust had formed between the two.

Although being only eight years old, the unwavering confidence placed into each other was remarkable. Max knew that no matter how dire the situation, Rob would be there for him. Equally so, Rob knew to count on Max in his time of need.

For example, should Max declare that he wanted to go biking; Rob would quickly grab his helmet and meet him in the park. Similarly, if Rob said that he wanted to play marbles, Max would draw a wide circle in the sand. It was not a question of whether or not either enjoyed the activities. Being a good friend meant hanging out together, even if you weren’t fond of biking or marbles.

This system had worked fairly well, until one day; Max decided that he liked fish. In fact, he liked fish so much he was going to buy one as a pet. Becoming quite knowledgeable about the different species, Max shared all what he learned with Rob. Rob was grateful for the tidbits of info on fish, yet was largely indifferent to them. Still, as long as his friend was happy, so was he. The problem was, however, that neither had enough money to buy one. That is when their  troubles began.

To help pay for the fish, Rob agreed to help Max save their dimes. It was to originally be a long day spent at the batting cages. Instead, the two friends spent a long day scouring for spare change in their homes.

After several hours of rummaging through old coats and sofa cushions, they took a break. Finding one hundred pennies, two quarters and a handful of nickels, or about $1.65, was the reward for their grueling five hour effort.

Max, ever the optimist, announced; “Now we only need $9.35 more to go!” Smiling from ear to ear, he looked ready to go another round. But, their mothers were calling them for dinner. Rob was less enthusiastic over their efforts. He would’ve rather gone outside to play instead of being cooped up looking for money. Still, he was glad to have helped. Besides, as long as his friend was smiling he wasn’t about to complain.

Their little block awoke to a picturesque summers day morning, complete with a perfect breeze. It was prime weather for climbing trees. A particularly old oak tree, warned by adults as being dangerous to climb would be the perfect candidate for such a day. Rob, excited as could be, sprinted across the street to invite Max.

To his surprise, Max was nowhere to be found. Worried, Rob asked Max’s mother where he could be.

“Mrs. O’Connell, where is Max? Is he sick?” he Rob. That could be the only logical reason why Max wasn’t home.

Max’s mother assured him that he was fine. In fact, Max had left for Main St. to shine shoes for the gentlemen entering the county courthouse. Shoe shiners could earn a pretty penny if they were quick enough. Those wages would go towards buying his pet fish.

Rob slightly disappointed, debated his next move. The warm breeze was enticing, a perfect day to spend climbing all the trees he desired. But, Max wouldn’t be there. And everyone knows it’s no fun to climb alone.

No, the choice was clear. Max needed him. Thanking Mrs. O’Connell, Rob hurriedly grabbed a shoebox, a brush and some polish and then ran towards Main St. Racing past the fire station, the park gazebo and the general store Rob was on a mission. He was coming to his friend’s financial rescue. 

Finally, he reached the courthouse, out of breathe and slightly sore.

There was Max. Clad in overalls, bent down at the footsteps of city hall. Covered head to toe in brownish-black shoe polish. A long line of well dressed gentlemen stood by, impatient for their turn. It was clear that Max would not be able to handle all rush hour customers by himself. Max looked up and was amazed to see Rob there to help him, shoe-shining supplies in hand. With a beaming smile, he waved him through the crowd, grateful for the extra help.  Immediately, Rob set up shop and attended to the overflow of customers. 

The earnings weren’t bad that day, a combined total of $4.50.Max took all the earnings, which was fine with Rob. Rob just hoped that soon they’d get to do something more fun than shining shoes.

Counting on his fingers, Rob calculated that they had $4.85 more to go. Hmmm...$10 was mighty expensive for a measly fish. After all, you could get a little goldfish at the carnival for a quarter. Was Max going to buy a fleet of goldfishes? That seemed extreme, even for Max. ‘No, that can’t be it, wondered Rob, ‘He probably wants a real exotic one.’ Max never did like the cheap stuff.

As the two made their way back to their little houses, the two friends talked at length. Max thanked Rob for his help; he was thrilled with the progress they made that day. ‘What other ways could they make more money?’ said Max. Rob was gracious, and didn’t mind helping. In the back of his mind, he had a strange feeling that his best friend was changing.

Max kept speaking on and on about strange things. Things like, inventions he’d make and sell. Imaginary businesses, high return investments and such. Rob was taken aback at how detailed his plans were. When Rob spoke, he was usually pretending to be a pirate. Or sometimes he was a cowboy. Once, he was a circus conductor in his imaginary big top taming lions who breathed fire. Rob wondered if he’d ever spend time with Max like the ‘good old days’.

The next few days were unbearable to Rob. Secretly he hoped Max had forgotten all about fish and money. He wanted to play and have fun, like they had done in the summers before. Sadly, it was not to be. Max had not forgotten about the fish. No, in fact, he had devised more ways to earn money. Rob’s eyes widened when Max said they must ‘increase their revenues.’  Rob didn’t know what revenue meant. He got the impression though, that it meant a decrease in his playtime.

Max was carrying a large stack of newspapers, of which he divided in half. One stack went to Rob who was to sell them on the west side of the street corner. While Max, would sell his half on the east side of the street corner.

 “That way, “Max explained,” we will reach both incoming and outgoing potential customers.”

Limping walking to his assigned corner, Rob wished that Max hadn’t put them so far away from each other.  If they sold right next to each other they could at least play catch among their paper piles. That idea was quickly tossed aside as Max said they wouldn’t make good money that way. Yet again, another perfectly decent play day was ruined.

Passerby’s noticed the two strange newspaper boys at opposite ends of the street. At the east end, was a very gregarious and charismatic little boy. He’d stare at onlookers square in the eye, confidently announcing the paper’s headlines. In contrast, the little boy at the west end was a very quiet one. His eyes quizzically observed his surroundings, while he folded lots of paper airplanes. Sometimes to the customer’s astonishment, the newspaper they had purchased was folded into 10 separate paper planes.

The entire week was spent working on various odd jobs booked by Max. There was the fence painting, the lemonade stand, and then helping Mr. Grundy with his fruit stand. It was endless! Max could do the work on his own, but to really succeed he needed Rob as an extra pair of hands. Rob was beginning to grow tired of this. Hadn’t they already earned enough money to buy that stupid fish? Finally, after wasting weeks that should’ve been spent playing, things could go back to normal.

Resentment was starting to brew in their tiny child hearts. To top it off, Rob was really beginning to dislike fish. Especially, since Max hadn’t actually bought one yet, although having the funds to do so. ‘Apparently the more exotic and pricier fishes sold at the pet store aren’t good enough for him,’ grumbled Rob.

Summer days were becoming few as the new school year approached. Rob dreaded the idea of being chained to a classroom for hours. Feeling out of place among his classmates was his biggest gripe about school.  Max though, couldn’t wait for school to begin. Being very extroverted, he looked forward to meeting new peers. Maybe they could become potential customers.

One hot August day, the two friends decided to go out by the pond and skip rocks. With the return to school looming over them, many of their days were overshadowed by school preparations. Much to their annoyance, their mothers had insisted on buying them new uniforms, so they spend hours trying on stuffy sweater vests. Not a fun way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

“Look I skipped 4 times, ha I beat you!” Max was feeling particular competitive. Rob, normally good natured, felt a little slighted by Max’s taunt. Max was normally very sporting. Yet, there was no ignoring the budding arrogance rising in his voice.

Rob ignored his comment. However, Max didn’t get the hint.

“You lose! You lose! You’re a Loser!” He repeated over and over.

Angered, Rob lashed back . “Fine, I’m a loser.” “Now, you’re one too. ‘Cause we’re not friends anymore.”

 “Aw, don’t be sore Rob. Here I’ll buy us some milkshakes.” Taking out a small wallet, he grabbed a few bills from a thickly stack. Waving the crisp bills in Rob’s face in the ultimate condescension, Rob was shocked at how haughty his best friend had become.

Seeing that stack of unspent bills was a low blow. Rob had voluntarily given up his free time to earn money for Max’s fish. It was to be a means to an end. Instead of the end being a pet fish, their friendship had ended. Max had become greedy, mean and a bully of a boy. Rob added money to his list of hated things, it topped fish by several spaces.

“Why haven’t you bought your pet fish yet?” Rob’s voice was getting loud.

Nonchalantly, he replied. “Because, I’m holding out for a better one. I’ll take on some more jobs and then I’ll buy one that’s really expensive and special.”

“It won’t be good enough for you. You’ll keep on working and it still won’t be good enough. You’re not happy now, you’re never going to be. No matter how many dollar bills you stuff into that wallet.” 

Rob’s voice was flat and even, but, there was not denying the hurt in his voice.

Max was startled at Rob’s words. Why was Rob being so unsupportive of his new career?

“Wake up Rob, the world is changing. Whoever earns the most amount of money gets respect. That’s just how it is. Don’t get mad at me for that, Rob.” he was insistent.

“Rich men have no friends! Rich men don’t smile because they know they are loved for their money not for who they are!”Rob was screaming.

Rob took a shiny quarter from the pocket of his jeans, it was his weekly allowance. Staring at it with a look of disgust, disappointment and sadness in his eyes, he then handed it over to Max.

“Here take it. That’s all you wanted me for anyway, right?  That way you can be closer to getting your dreams.”

Speechless Max held the coin in his hands, watching as his once best friend walked slowly back home with his head held low. Max no longer had a best friend anymore. It was just him. And his dollar bills.

School started the next day, both boys rose, dressed and ate before heading out the door. As they walked out from their porches, they could see each other from across the street. Max’s face was hopeful upon seeing Rob, but Rob cast his eyes downward and ignored him.

As luck would have it, their desks were assigned right next to each other. That didn’t encourage conversation between the two boys. When a math pop quiz was suddenly announced, Rob groaned. In the previous years, Max would spend hours tutoring Rob on his worst subject. Needless to say, Rob failed the test.

Art period came and Rob brightened up. He was very skilled at subtly blending colors together to create artwork that was on par with older students. At times, teachers would request his work to give to others. He received a perfect grade that day. Max had always struggled with art, and without Rob to remind him to plan his palate, his project was a muddy colored mess.

As the school day progressed, Max eagerly sought the company of his fellow students. They were nice enough kids, he played catch with a few more boys his age. Rob stood in the corner with his sketchbook casually capturing a few doodles of the school yard. The solitude allowed him progress farther in his skills.

Although still ignoring each other, the void left behind started to make itself known. Max convinced a few boys to help him with some new ventures. Some would help him now and then, but, they’d leave as soon as they were paid their wages. Swell enough to be around, yet did not understand him the way his ex best friend did.

Rob began to miss showing his artwork and poetry to Max. Showing it to the milkman, the mailman and his mother didn’t produce the same admiration than that of Max.

One Saturday morning, Rob was tasked with hanging up the wet linen sheets by his mother. As he attached clothespins to the first sheet, a dark shadow appeared behind the whiteness.  It was Max.

His arms were behind him, carrying some strange object. He hobbled forward, his face unsure, his foot twitching with nervousness.

“Hi, Rob. Say… I don’t see you ‘round anymore.”

“Hey Max. No, guess not.”

After a few moments of awkward silence, Max suddenly blurted out.

“I bought the fish today. You remember, the one I had been talking about?”

“You mean the one you ruined our friendship for?” replied Rob bluntly.

“Yes, that’s the one.” His voice was sheepish. His eyes cast down wards, still grappling the object behind him he took a strong step forward. Kneeling down, he placed the object gently on the ground near the feet of Rob.

It was a round glass bowl, inside was a bright blue fish swimming around in circles. 

“I get the point, now. Living for what you can buy won’t take me far. So, with that being said,

I want you to have Ronnie.” pointing to the happy guppy in the bowl.

Rob’s face had softened. Apologizing for his outburst earlier, he complimented his friends money making abilities. He admitted that he was never good with change but, he’s seen now that the future is always changing.

It was a beautiful autumn day, rife with chirping grasshoppers. The two friends spent the afternoon trying to catch them in jars, enjoying the company. A new maturity had emerged from the two. A new holiday was formed from that day, where each would purchase a guppy fish for the other. The small reminder of what is really important in life.

As they grew up, the world around them changed dramatically. Segregation was declared immoral. Then came a space program, soon after, a cold war. Economic booms and depressions. Values both changed and eroded.

Yet despite the chaos, Rob and Max kept a very level head through their senior years. As they gently lost touch to form their own families, they never forgot about the cost of a fish.