(no subject)
Fred. Fred Freddy Fried Fred . “God I hate my name. So damn boring,” he mumbled as he rambled underneath the wet empty buildings under gray sky. The rain fell into his coppery red hair and mixed with week old sweat running down and stinging Fred’s eyes.
“They couldn’t name me something cool or dramatic like Anselm or Bartholomew. Noooo, just Fred,” he grunted catching a glimpse of himself in a shop window.
“Geez, look at me. I could’ve had a great name like Winston or Olin, but no, I am stuck with Fred.” He looked at his crumpled clothes in the shop window and let out a grimace.
Jacket was the oldest clothing he wore, a faded green and yellow letterman jacket someone had left out alone in the cold night. Pants and Shirt he found in a secondhand store just a few days ago. They were his now his Stuff. His Jacket, his Shirt. They couldn’t take it away. “My stuff,” he said to the mannequin in the window.
The bright colors of the jogging suit on the model caught his eye and Fred stared. “Damn thing, damn fake person inside nice and warm while I am out here in the rain. Why me?” Fred began to tap his foot in frustration. The cool morning rain sloshed into his shoe as his foot slapped pavement and Fred’s eyes slithered down towards the mannequin’s feet. “Damn fake thing ain’t real. He don’t need those nice shoes.” He rested his head against the cool glass and stared down at the new Shoes. The big bright important logo reflected dimly in through the glass.
Fred stared at His New Shoes as his hand reached into his pocket and drew out The Knife. He fingered the stainless steel handle and fingered the back of the blade that he could pop out with a flick of his wrist. It was His Knife. The light handle was made without rubber grips and looked unfinished. It felt almost weightless in his palm. He never needed a new Knife, but now he needed new shoes.
His eyes met with their reflections in the glass and he jumped back startled. “Oh, you again.” Fred wrapped his hand around His Knife so an inch of the handle stuck out and then he swung. The glass spiderwebbed as the heel of the knife struck. Fred glared and the thousand little blue eyes that burst forth from the center of the window met his glare from every angle. With a thousand little twitching eyes gazing at him, Fred let out a roar and kicked through the weakened glass. Their hateful glowers fell away in a cascade of broken glass.
He blinked and stared at the silent shop. The rain fell in almost silently a few moments before he spoke again, “What was I doing again?” Fred looked down at the sneakers. “My Shoes!,” he exclaimed, “Yay!” Flopping onto the mannequin’s legs, he sat and stripped off his old Shoes and put on his new. Fred wiggled his toes and tied the laces up tight to get the feel of them. He turned to the mannequin and smiled, “These are the best shoes I’ve had yet! Thanks a lot!” The broken glass crunched under His New Shoes as he tossed the old ones away. “Buh-bye, shoes. Thanks for keeping my feet warm,” he said with a wave. He turned and walked back into the rain.
Fred skipped along on the balls of his feet enjoying the new feeling of warmth in his toes. The last Shoes were old when he got them and didn’t fit right so his feet were cold the last few days. They were not meant for walking and wore out fast. Fred walked a lot. He always walked. He didn’t like staying still, not even to eat. He didn’t like cars. No, sir. Not Fred. He didn’t like the idea of moving without using his own strength. He liked bikes and pogo sticks and the boats you use with paddles but nothing with those motors. He didn’t like the motors anyway; they were always loud and smelled funny. Fred liked the quiet. He liked the rainy quiet and the night time quiet. “This is a good quiet,” Fred said to the sky as he walked along. The rain washed sweat stung his eyes and he wiped them clean with the sleeve of Jacket.
“What pretty gardens,” he murmured to himself as he saw the homes around him now. Some of the houses had names on them and he knew this was a nice neighborhood. Only houses that have names are nice. The ones that have numbers are ones that got in trouble. He knew because he only had a number when he got in trouble. He wondered what those houses did to get in trouble. He didn’t like being Fred but he liked being Fred more than being a number. Somewhere behind him, he heard the loud noise of the police sirens. “I hate that sound. I’m glad I’m not there,” Fred said as he strolled further down into the nice neighborhood.
“They couldn’t name me something cool or dramatic like Anselm or Bartholomew. Noooo, just Fred,” he grunted catching a glimpse of himself in a shop window.
“Geez, look at me. I could’ve had a great name like Winston or Olin, but no, I am stuck with Fred.” He looked at his crumpled clothes in the shop window and let out a grimace.
Jacket was the oldest clothing he wore, a faded green and yellow letterman jacket someone had left out alone in the cold night. Pants and Shirt he found in a secondhand store just a few days ago. They were his now his Stuff. His Jacket, his Shirt. They couldn’t take it away. “My stuff,” he said to the mannequin in the window.
The bright colors of the jogging suit on the model caught his eye and Fred stared. “Damn thing, damn fake person inside nice and warm while I am out here in the rain. Why me?” Fred began to tap his foot in frustration. The cool morning rain sloshed into his shoe as his foot slapped pavement and Fred’s eyes slithered down towards the mannequin’s feet. “Damn fake thing ain’t real. He don’t need those nice shoes.” He rested his head against the cool glass and stared down at the new Shoes. The big bright important logo reflected dimly in through the glass.
Fred stared at His New Shoes as his hand reached into his pocket and drew out The Knife. He fingered the stainless steel handle and fingered the back of the blade that he could pop out with a flick of his wrist. It was His Knife. The light handle was made without rubber grips and looked unfinished. It felt almost weightless in his palm. He never needed a new Knife, but now he needed new shoes.
His eyes met with their reflections in the glass and he jumped back startled. “Oh, you again.” Fred wrapped his hand around His Knife so an inch of the handle stuck out and then he swung. The glass spiderwebbed as the heel of the knife struck. Fred glared and the thousand little blue eyes that burst forth from the center of the window met his glare from every angle. With a thousand little twitching eyes gazing at him, Fred let out a roar and kicked through the weakened glass. Their hateful glowers fell away in a cascade of broken glass.
He blinked and stared at the silent shop. The rain fell in almost silently a few moments before he spoke again, “What was I doing again?” Fred looked down at the sneakers. “My Shoes!,” he exclaimed, “Yay!” Flopping onto the mannequin’s legs, he sat and stripped off his old Shoes and put on his new. Fred wiggled his toes and tied the laces up tight to get the feel of them. He turned to the mannequin and smiled, “These are the best shoes I’ve had yet! Thanks a lot!” The broken glass crunched under His New Shoes as he tossed the old ones away. “Buh-bye, shoes. Thanks for keeping my feet warm,” he said with a wave. He turned and walked back into the rain.
Fred skipped along on the balls of his feet enjoying the new feeling of warmth in his toes. The last Shoes were old when he got them and didn’t fit right so his feet were cold the last few days. They were not meant for walking and wore out fast. Fred walked a lot. He always walked. He didn’t like staying still, not even to eat. He didn’t like cars. No, sir. Not Fred. He didn’t like the idea of moving without using his own strength. He liked bikes and pogo sticks and the boats you use with paddles but nothing with those motors. He didn’t like the motors anyway; they were always loud and smelled funny. Fred liked the quiet. He liked the rainy quiet and the night time quiet. “This is a good quiet,” Fred said to the sky as he walked along. The rain washed sweat stung his eyes and he wiped them clean with the sleeve of Jacket.
“What pretty gardens,” he murmured to himself as he saw the homes around him now. Some of the houses had names on them and he knew this was a nice neighborhood. Only houses that have names are nice. The ones that have numbers are ones that got in trouble. He knew because he only had a number when he got in trouble. He wondered what those houses did to get in trouble. He didn’t like being Fred but he liked being Fred more than being a number. Somewhere behind him, he heard the loud noise of the police sirens. “I hate that sound. I’m glad I’m not there,” Fred said as he strolled further down into the nice neighborhood.