Writing: Something Like Themselves initial draft [novel, PG13]
This is the first story concept for a piece of original fiction, the idea for which was conceived in a high school writing class in 2006. This is likely the only part of the unfinished product that will go online.
(Note to self: consider renaming it to Mostly Fine.)
Something Like Themselves
I grew up in that old house. Spent more than half of my life there. Hell, I was born in it. So I guess that’s why I’m going back there now, after everything that had and hadn’t happened to me in the last twelve years. I’d spent all that time in California, trying to live the good life. Trying to be somebody. After the almost comedic burglary and everything else, like the end of my twenties coming up hard and fast, I needed to be somewhere else real quick.
I’m driving down this road and there’s nothing but fields all around. Nothing to look at. I’ve been on the road for two days and a half and it’s the same everywhere. There’s never anything to look at on long trips like this, and all you have for company is your radio and your head. That’s why I’ve got Randy Travis blasting on the crappy stereo system in my truck and a cigarette dangling in one hand, thinking about what had happened.
* * *
I jogged up the creaking staircase, desperate to get into the shower. Twelve freaking flights of stairs. The elevator was broken again, stuck in the basement. The super probably won’t fix it for another month.
I could see a slit of light at the top of the stairs. The door to my apartment was hanging open. I thought that my roommates probably forgot to lock it when they went out, but then I saw the splintered wood where the lock used to be, and there was a heavy black boot print on the flimsy door. I rushed forward and stepped in a blotch of red substance on the floor. I almost freaked, but when I looked closer, I realized it was just ketchup. I laid my hand on the doorknob and nudged it open. Our place was trashed. The old chequered couch had been turned upside down and the video rack had spilt out. I looked into my room and found that torn through too. I swore under my breath and dialled 911. Then I called my roommates.
* * *
“What was stolen?” The woman in the blue uniform inquired.
“Uh, not much, really. Just a couple of DVDs and a watch I got in the market. It’s not worth anything,” I scratched my head, feeling sheepish. “What about you guys?”
Rob took a slow drag from his cigarette. Thank God he was only smoking a cigarette. “Guy jacked all my condoms. Can you believe it?” Shay ignored Rob, as we often did, and shook his head.
The corner of the cop’s mouth flinched and she didn’t look up from her notepad. “All right, then. Thanks guys, we’ll... hmm, let you know if we get anyone.”
* * *
Shay and I sat on the floor of the living room. The couch was still overturned. Not worth the effort. We leaned back against it and passed a lit joint back and forth. I absently fingered through some scripts lying around on the floor. Bad indie films, mostly.
Shay furrowed his eyebrows and said in that serious, too-old tone of his, “You’re really leaving, then? For good, Kyle?”
I nodded, slowly. My head bobbed up and down. It felt like a balloon. [AN: Interestingly, I wrote this before I had even heard the effects of pot really described]
“Are you sure about this? Do you know what you’re doing?”
I nodded again.
“Running away isn’t the solution to life’s problems, you know,” he pronounced, sounding a little annoyed now. Christ, the kid was really too easily roused. The corner of my mouth quirked up a tiny bit. I nodded once more.
“Damn it, say something,” he demanded and snatched the joint out of my grasp.
“I’m not running away,” I mumbled through a mouthful of smoke.
“What?”
“I said,” I calmly lifted the joint back from him and took a long drag, taking my time to blow some smoke rings, “I’m not running away. I’m running back.”
Shay huffed and threw his hands up.
Seamus had been my roommate for almost five years. His parents kicked him out as soon as he turned eighteen and my buddies and I needed someone else to split rent with. I don’t even know where any of them are anymore. Hell, I don’t even care, but Shay stayed. For all his talk and independence, and acting way older than his twenty-two years, fact is, I really worried about the kid being on his own. Because let’s face it, Rob was a non-presence around there and it’s not as if Shay has anyone else to look out for him in this goddamn city. Seamus is one of those people who’ll have a baby face for the rest of their lives. He looks like a hell of an easy target: short, pale, skinny and carrot hair. I know he can take care of himself if he had to, but you know how these things are. He’s like the little brother I never had. The kid can be vicious though, and you’d never know it from that angel face. Guess that’s why he’s on his way to being a big scary lawyer. He started law school last year and got an excellent internship position at a firm where everyone just loves him. It won’t be up to me to worry about him anymore. If I were honest with myself then, I would’ve admitted that it stopped a long time ago. And I thought, you’ll be fine, Shay, but I guess I said it aloud, because I heard him scoff at me. Brat.
“Of course I’ll be fine, old man,” he teased. “I’m just worried about you.”
“Me? What’s wrong with me? I can take care of myself!” I squawked, all offended-like, but he just laughed some more and shook his head again.
“I have some money saved up,” I offered. It sounded like I was asking for his permission and I didn’t like that. I stopped and tried to start over in a new direction. “That kid from your school called today and said he’d be up for taking my part of the apartment. I think you’ll get along.”
He pursed his lips and I could tell he was biting back a comment, but if he’s not going to say anything then I’m not stupid enough to ask.
“I gotta go. I’m supposed to meet some people. If you leave before I get back… Well, happy birthday, old man, and don’t forget to call us.” He stuffed his keys in his pocket and added, as an afterthought, “If that hick town of yours even has a phone line.”
* * *
This road I’m on, it’s not the freeway, just a little rural road two lanes wide and no cars anywhere to be seen for miles. It was here when I was a kid, but I guess it wasn’t really a proper road then: no one had bothered to pave it. I’m used to the city and the quiet is enough to drive a man mad, but see, the main road would take me through town and in a small town like Newborn, Georgia, everyone would know your business before you could get out to go for a piss.
So I skirt around town to the house and park my beat-up truck on the dead lawn. I take the keys out of the ignition and look up, but I can’t bring myself to get out. I just stare at it, the house, if it can be called a house anymore. No one’s lived in it for years now, and I haven’t been back here since Pop died. It’s run down. There’s a hole in the roof over Jess’ old room and more than a few broken windows. The whitewashed walls are greyish yellow and the sidings are breaking off. A part of the porch’s been torn away, and through the windshield, I spot beer bottles lying around. I can’t be here anymore. I don’t want to be here anymore, but Los Angeles is two thousand miles back west and I’m out of gas so I just suck it up and get out of the damn truck.
The dead grass crunches beneath my boots. I kick away some empty bottles on my way up to the house. The screen door is hanging off the hinges. I tear it off and throw it aside. The old wood door is scratched and rattles. That’ll have to be replaced. Thinking about the repairs I’m going to do calms me down a bit. I did a lot of construction while I was trying to get a job acting like thousands, hell, millions of other struggling idiots in L. A. I’m familiar with this. This, this I can do, even if I can’t do anything else. But now it’s late and I’m dead tired, so I throw my sleeping bag on the newspaper-covered floor and pass out.
Even though I cut away from town, sure enough, the next morning someone’s a-knocking on the front door. I haven’t shaved in three days and had slept in my clothes, but I open the door anyway. This is all they’re going to get for coming around at, what is it now, seven in the morning?
There’s a man standing on the porch, thumbs hooked in his jean pockets and looking like he goes to visit people in run-down houses everyday. His wiry grey hair curls closely to his head and his broad, dark face is lined. He’s wearing a jean shirt and a tool belt almost hidden beneath his potbelly. He startles me by letting out a loud bark of a laugh and exclaims, “Kyle Rogers, how much you’ve grown!”
“Samson?” My eyes widen and I can’t believe how glad I actually am to see someone from town. I laugh and embrace him. “How’d you know I was here?”
“I didn’t,” he half-glares at me. “Annie said she saw a truck by the house last night and I figgered I’d come and see who the delinquent was. Now Kyle, you tell me, what are you doing here? I haven’ seen you since you took off for college.”
I want to grimace, but resist it. I knew that people would have questions and I really don’t want to answer them right now. I’m not even sure I have all the answers.
I shrug. “I don’t know, things just weren’t working out, I guess. But I’m back now. I thought maybe I could fix the house up while I’m here. The place is a dump.”
“Hmm.” He eyes me critically and says in a tone that forbids argument, “Well, I guess yer gonna need some help, then.”
* * *
[Temporary ending to appease the teacher follows here:]
It’s been a month since I got here, and the house is on its way to being presentable again. The hole in the roof’s been fixed, and the windows have been replaced and Samson put a whole new electrical system in, but there’re still problems in the structure, in the foundation that developed from years of neglect. It’ll take some time, but I think we can fix it. So I’m hanging around out here on the porch looking at the stars. I forgot how many stars there are in the sky, busy trying to be one in the big city like so many others. The lights blinded me, I guess.
I realise with a jolt that it’s past midnight now. I didn’t even notice. See, today, I’m thirty years old. I was so afraid of this day coming, afraid that I’d be thirty and still have nothing. I guess I thought that people had to be something by the time they’re this old. Well, I’m still not sure what I am, but maybe I’m finally on my way to being grown up. I lean forward on the new pine railing of the porch and stub out my cigarette. Like Samson said, I guess I’m going to need some help, and this time around, I won’t be afraid to ask for it.