Monarchs in Pella

 [Note]: This is a very long post (approx. 13 pages). If you want to read it, I recommend copying and pasting it, then posting in word. That way the formatting will be correct between each paragraph.


AN APATHETIC EXPRESSION marred Henry’s thin lips. They were pursed as if he was restraining himself from speech while sipping a drink from an invisible straw. His instructor, Ms. Plummet, eyed him warily. Although he stared ahead at the whiteboard, his eyes never wavered from the middle of the square room. Henry’s dark green pupils didn’t follow Ms. Plummet’s fine, legible cursive, nor did they wallow in her mathematical formulas, her quotes from a previous time. Not to mention the activities listed under the header that read, “Daily Warm-Ups.”

Instead, Henry seemed more interested in the perfect circling motion of his thumbs as they spiraled round and round his hands. Ms. Plummet didn’t mind. She was happy to be there- even if her words were just waves drifting past Henry’s ears, disrupting the calm, cool air.

Ms. Plummet stilled her left hand, which held her black EXPO marker, and watched Henry’s eyelids gently fall. She was a patient woman and it wasn’t the first time the boy had fallen asleep during one of her lessons.

*

Henry stood on a prairie of differently shaded red bricks. He filled his lungs to their maximum capacity and released the air back into the eerie, violet sky. For a moment he was stationary, paused long enough to examine his reflection in one of the floating glass orbs that inhabited the atmosphere. His shadow stared back, unmoving, without any emotion.

As he walked the brick lane, the glossy spheres changed size and shape. Enormous to miniscule. Flawless loop to elongated oval. Unperturbed by the lilac emptiness of his netherworld, Henry paced onward. He brushed hair from his face and shoved his hands into the pockets of his worn, favorite pair of jeans. In the end, he grew tired of walking. He sat down. He stared blankly into the nothingness of the purple sky and the surrounding shadows.

Henry crossed his legs. A monarch butterfly fluttered in the air and landed on Henry’s rigid shoulder. His eyes, timid, showed initial confusion at the insect’s presence- but quickly were entranced in the beauty of its orange and yellow wings.

Slowly, Henry moved his right index finger, wading through the memories that thickened the air. The butterfly flapped its wings once and a gust of wind carried it easily from his body. His gaze followed it, until one of the floating orbs blocked his path. Henry frowned. The sphere doesn’t reflect an image of his shadow; instead it showed a picture of the past. It appeared vivid, real, and truthful. Henry reached out at the orb. Upon contact with the glass, Henry felt his arm shudder and his torso, legs, and feet being vacuumed upward. He tried to pull back but he the orb pulled harder.

Henry gave in and let his body go limp. The orb swallowed him.

A short distance away, the monarch danced and spun through the violet sky in a trance, an obtuse beauty in an estranged world.

*

The game faded to commercial. In the momentary darkness of the television screen, a reflection of Henry’s younger self sat hunched over a bowl of popcorn on a beaten up fabric couch. The room around him wasn’t in much better shape. Chips of drywall clung to messy, coffee colored carpet. Picture frames of happier times gathered dust. The kitchen, a short distance away, smelled of oil and cockroaches. The cracking speakers built into the TV mumbled, “Buy now! This is your one and only chance- if you order now; we’ll throw in another blender for free! That’s right, pick up the…”

In the corner of the room, surrounded by ash trays and empty beer cans, Mr. Emerson sat with a hand-rolled cigarette in his hand. He’d long since cared about smoking indoors and his grimy, unwashed skin attempted to mesh with the smoke in the living room. He inhaled the fumes, tapped his cigarette near the ash tray- missing it just slightly- and tipped a beer can back so the rest of it funneled down his throat. “Only thirty seconds left! Be quick to order! Remember, this offer includes…”

Mr. Emerson dropped the empty Bud Light on the floor next to piles of Coors, Milwaukee’s Best, and a pair of PBRs. “Henry, Henry.” Henry looked over at Mr. Emerson, his step-dad. The man was motioning him with his hand. “That’s right. Fetch me two more beers.”

His voice was beginning to slur. Henry shivered as he stood up from the couch. “Quit slouching, lazy-ass. Get up already.”

Henry shuffled off into the kitchen, stomach growling. He plugged his nose as he opened up the fridge, avoiding the moldy discoloration on its sides. Two cold beers filled his open hands. He looked around the kitchen for something besides the stale popcorn near the TV. Nothing but bread crumbs and dead bugs. Henry flicked one of the keeled over beetles away from the counter. “BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.” Henry heard the volume going down on the TV. Mr. Emerson muttered in the living room, annoyed. “This is an AMBER Alert for six-year-old Ryan Williams. Last seen in a park outside the intersection of Third and Elm…”

Putting the two beers on the table next to Mr. Emerson’s decomposing La-Z-Boy chair, Henry fell back into the couch. Dust erupted from his imprint, and he coughed slightly. The game was coming back on. Mr. Emerson popped open the next beer after taking a final draw on his cigarette. “And we’re back. This is Bruce Henderson of ESPN, and I’m feeling the excitement in the audience today. We’ve got a close one here, could be a very rare upset if the Hawkeyes can pull off this win against Sparty. Right now the score is tied at 53 apiece; six minutes left in the second half…”

Henry shuffled three pieces of popcorn in the palm of his hand, and began to ask Mr. Emerson if they could get any food. Mr. Emerson responded with a blunt, “Quiet kid, the game is on.” Henry looked around the room. Mr. Emerson was wearing one of his old Iowa sweaters to support his team. He counted the beers at his feet- most of them fresh from tonight. Eight, nine, ten, eleven. Mr. Emerson would be done soon. Last time Henry counted, Mr. Emerson made it to eighteen before passing out in a drunken slump. It was a new record, by Henry’s count at least. “It’s 60 to 58 now, as McGillian sinks another three for Iowa, putting them in the lead. Armstrong brings it up for the Spartans. What a move! He cross-dribbles past Bernheart, spins between Hernandez’s arms, and puts it in the hoop. And a late whistle! The head referee is calling a foul on Hernandez!”

“Fuck you Armstrong, fuck you Hernandez.” Mr. Emerson slammed his beer against the table. It’s good it’s almost empty. “And fuck you Ref. Come on!” He drained the beer. It joined the rest on the floor. Henry counted twelve.

Outside a car door is slammed shut. Henry sat up straight, excited for his brother, Joel, to get home. Joel usually brought him leftovers or a snack, and he was starving. Mr. Emerson glared angrily at the newest commercial, then at the door.

Joel walked inside, and threw the door shut, hard, behind him. Mr. Emerson stumbled up from his chair like an angry watch dog. “Don’t you slam that door boy. Where the hell have you been?”

“Out.”

“You going to apologize?” Mr. Emerson gritted his teeth and put his beer down. He clenched his fists. Henry grabbed the bowl of popcorn and shielded himself clumsily behind it.

“Sorry, Rodger.” Joel said Mr. Emerson’s first name with a hint of sarcasm. He put his hands in the air and walked toward the kitchen, letting out a heavy sigh. His blue and black plaid long sleeve was wet from the rain. Henry hoped over and over in his head that Mr. Emerson would let it go.

He didn’t.

Mr. Emerson grabbed Joel’s flannel and pulled him backward. “You treating me with disrespect, Joel? I’ll show you disrespect.” His voice was loud. His words slurred together. Henry couldn’t hear the TV and couldn’t see anything besides the mixed expression of anger and fear on Joel’s face. Mr. Emerson pushed Joel against the wall, and staggered toward him, his right fist quivering.

Joel lost his smooth attitude and put his hands out. “Cool down Mr. Emerson, cool it.” Mr. Emerson batted Joel’s defense away with his left hand and swung a wide right hook aimed at his face. Joel ducked it and spun back toward the front door. He threw it open and pulled his keys from his pocket. “Henry, we’re getting out of here. Let’s go.”

Henry tossed the popcorn to the side without a second thought and followed Joel to the door. Mr. Emerson yelled after them as they ran toward the sidewalk. “Get out of here, I don’t want you kids. Worthless, you all don’t respect anyone.” He grabbed his thirteenth beer, still half full, and pitched it at Joel. It hit him in the side of his leg and the alcohol spilled down his jeans. “Don’t come crawling back here either.”

*

Joel stared ahead; white-knuckles grabbed the original steering-wheel of his ’66 Mustang. Henry remembered when Joel bought the car; beat up, broken and rusted, for a flat $250. Joel would work every day after school on the vehicle, salvaging spare parts and toying with the engine. It was a couple months ago he that he finally got it to run. Its tires screamed down the asphalt of the 163. Henry turned the knob on the radio. The Iowa game was still on. “I’m Brady Gibson on 1815 the ZONE and we have ourselves a game. Don’t change the channel now because we’re going to triple overtime! McGillian, Iowa’s hot hand, took a long three-pointer that was well-guarded by Michigan State’s defense right at the buzzer of the second overtime, and it went in! Just hang in there, we’re heading to commercial but we’ll be right back with the rest of the game. Iowa isn’t falling easy tonight. They’re fighting hard, that’s for sure.”

They’d been driving for the past half hour. Joel had his foot heavy on the gas and Henry had fallen asleep in the passenger seat. He was awake now, quiet and somber, his usual self. Joel rustled the hair on Henry’s head. “We’re going to be fine. I got this friend in Pella, Henry- he’s got a big apartment near Central College. I talked to him while you were out and he says we can stay with him for a while. We just left Des Moines a little bit ago. You missed the city man. Although, I don’t think you missed much.” Henry smiled as Joel winked at him.

Hanging on Joel’s rearview mirror was ceramic butterfly. Henry pointed at its carefully painted wings and antennae. Joel nodded. “Anna made it for me. You like it?” He carefully loosened the string that allowed it to hang and handed the butterfly to Henry. “Check it out- no, keep it. My present to you. Anna’s a good painter, too. Look at all the detail.”

Henry’s eyes lit up as he took the winged sculpture. He was fascinated by the multitudes of oranges and the patterns on the butterfly’s back. He looked at his brother. “What about Anna?”

“She knows what’s going on, Henry. She doesn’t have room in her dorm at the University- but she’s glad we’re moving to Pella. It’s a much closer drive, you know.”

Joel seemed happy, and Henry was glad. He held the monarch against his waist and leaned his head against the cool window, staring out at the backdrop of Iowa under the clear night sky. “Looks like Bernhert fouled out for Iowa with that clumsy move there. Each team is still even and lost one player to fouls. Michigan State on offense now, man that Sparty can play ball. Armstrong passes to Weaton, Weaton fakes, dribbles to his left, bounce pass inside to Clifton, Clifton pivots, tries to go up- but is smashed down! What an effort by Hernandez! Udall with the rebound passes out to McGillian, who is 8/11 from three-point range…”

Henry pictured Mr. Emerson on his La-Z-Boy, either passed out or yelling, drunk, at the TV by now.

“Shit.” Joel tapped the gages on the dashboard. “Haven’t been paying attention to gas. We’re almost empty- help me lookout for the next station.”

Joel pulled into an old 7-Eleven gas station on the side of the 163. It was empty. The fluorescent lights flickered in the darkness. Henry watched him turn off the ignition in front of pump #7- and stared at an ad- Buy One get One Free hotdogs. Joel caught his look and grinned. “Here’s thirty dollars. Put twenty on pump #7, alright? You know how to do that?” Henry nodded. “Good. That remaining ten dollars? That’s all you. Stock up on some snacks, some drinks. Oh, and surprise me with something too.”

Henry’s stomach snarled as he climbed over the driver’s seat to get out of the car. The passenger door didn’t open- Joel hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yet. Joel gave him a quick hug and went to unscrew the gas cap as Henry ran toward the glass doors of the convenience store.

The clerk grunted as Henry reached up and placed the twenty on the counter. “Put it on pump #7, please.”

“Got it.”

He mulled around the aisles, eyes filled with images of candy, chips, soda, and sandwiches. He grabbed a Coke and a Sprite, two hot-dogs, a Starburst- and Joel’s favorite- Shockers. As he walked back to the cashier he looked out the glass doors at Joel, filling up the Mustang. Two cars had pulled up at the pumps next to him.

At the counter, the man was listening to the radio. Iowa and Michigan State were in triple overtime, and McGillian just stole the ball and made a quick layup to put the Hawkeyes up by five. Annoyance filled the man’s face. A green lanyard repeated Michigan State Spartans all down its side. No wonder he was annoyed.

The clerk rang up his items and itched the stubble of his growing beard. He squinted at the LED numbers of the register. “That’s eight dollars and eleven cents.” Henry handed him the ten. There was noise from outside, like someone yelling. The cashier held up a bag with a faded 7-Eleven logo on it. “Bag?” Henry nodded.

With the bag in his hand Henry walked to the glass door to head outside. He stopped, the bag wavering from its remaining momentum, a pendulum in his clenched hand. Four men had stepped out of the cars and surrounded Joel. Henry watched as one of them motioned at Joel’s pockets. Joel reached in, pulled out his wallet, and handed it over. The men were laughing. One of them pulled out a gun. He pushed Joel against his ’66 Mustang. There was a loud bang.

Henry stumbled backward in pain, as if he was the one to take the bullet. The clerk rushed out from behind the counter muttering, “Shit. Shit. Shit.” He looked out the door and saw Joel slumped against his car and the men driving away, headlights off, speeding down the 163. “Fuckers.”

The clerk pulled out his cell phone and threw the glass door open, running toward Joel. Henry let the plastic bag fall to the floor of the convenience store and fell back against the old, red brick wall of the 7-Eleven. His eyes focused on nothing in particular. His mouth tried to move, but then faltered into pursed lips. He clenched and unclenched his hands rapidly, then pushed them together. He twirled his thumbs.

*

The butterfly finished its loop around the glass orb through the purple sky and landed on Henry’s stomach. Henry sat up and the insect fluttered to his fingertip. He looked at it in amazement, dumbstruck by the color and spectacular appearance of the monarch’s wings. He felt a hand touch his shoulder and the lilac sky drifted away. The spheres too, then the red brick beneath him. The monarch was the last to go as it gracefully beat its wings and drifted into oblivion.

*

“Henry, Henry- can you wake up for me?”

Ms. Plummet withdrew her hand from Henry’s shoulder, and glanced at the whiteboard from her student’s point of view. She admired her handwriting, the detail she went into on the subjects of algebra and history. Henry was back at it- twiddling his thumbs on the wooden desk, eyes marked straight ahead. She wondered if he even noticed the white-washed walls and lack of decoration in the room. She certainly did.

Henry had only been asleep for at most ten minutes and she had let him rest. She had pulled up the room’s only spare chair- a lop-sided old thing- and took the time to relax and read a book. She enjoyed romance novels and rarely had time to sit down and read.

The book was in her bag now and she lifted it over her shoulder and gave Henry a big smile. He looked so peaceful sitting there. She wished that for once in her life she could be at peace like him, too. No worries in the world. Ms. Plummet let out a sigh and jumped slightly as a knock on the door raised her heartbeat. She walked to the door and leaned into the hallway- admiring the sky-blue paint that decorated the walls. It was refreshing. A nurse stood outside in white scrubs her arms at her sides.

“Mr. Flint has a visitor. May I send him in?”

“Yes, please.”

“Alright then, Ms. Plummet. Hold on just a moment as I get him from the lobby.”

Ms. Plummet closed the door and walked back to Henry’s desk. She smiled again, and said, “Henry, you have a visitor. I wonder who it could be?”

She thought she saw Henry’s eyes light up.

The truth was she knew the visitor. He always came- once every Tuesday and Thursday. Sometimes on weekends, if he had the time off. But he never missed a Tuesday or Thursday.

There was a knock on the door again, and the dark-skinned face of the nurse peeked in. “A Mr. Joel Flint, here to visit Mr. Henry Flint.”

Ms. Plummet stood up from her chair and shook Mr. Flint’s hand. “Ms. Plummet, you really can call me Joel. I don’t mind.”

She nodded, and replied that she was just too used to formal affairs these days. Joel smiled politely and Ms. Plummet let him take her seat next to Henry.

Joel had told her all about what happened at the gas station. The mugging. How the bullet passed right above his heart. How he was so lucky the paramedics arrived quickly, how the cashier had stopped the bleeding and kept Joel talking- not letting Joel close his eyes.

To Ms. Plummet, it was a miracle. But it was a tragedy that Henry couldn’t remember it. The doctors said that Henry went into shock. Too much trauma in one day screwed up the brain. They’re hoping that it’ll rewire itself and escape the shock but the odds of that happening weren’t likely. Therapy helps, slowly. They said he’s like a war veteran that was in horrific combat for three days straight. Worst of all, they said, he still thinks his brother died by that gunshot.

Ms. Plummet sat in the corner of the room, out of sight from Henry and Joel, and pulled out her book. She tried her best not to listen to Joel as he told Henry about his life. She couldn’t help but hear that Joel just got engaged, though. To a nice woman named Anna. Joel handed Henry a present- it was wrapped in brown paper. Looked like it was fixed or something. It was a monarch butterfly, with its abdomen seamlessly glued back together. She admired the artwork and talent and returned to her reading.

END

A Plastic Brick Kind of Life

A Plastic Brick Kind of Life

HEATH WASN’T A LADY’S man and he wasn’t necessarily a man’s man. He was an easy-going man, one that preferred sitting with his feet on the coffee table rather than keeping his elbows off the dinner table. He enjoyed lunches on the couch by the television, sipping coffee at his desk late at night, fishing trips on weekends, and teaching his son, Patrick, to ride his bicycle.

He disliked sleeveless shirts, tomatoes, and raw fish.

Sarah Amber Dawson fell in love with Heath Josef Woods during the summer of 1997. She used to tell her friends that Heath was the most charming man she had ever met, that he gave her daises and took her out for long romantic drives down the coast of Virginia.

She always loved those beautiful flowers and twisting road trips on the ocean’s edge.

Friends of Heath say he was spellbound with Sarah since the moment they locked eyes. While his stories of relentless love swarmed past conversations, they are landlocked on the outskirts of imagination now.

In 2003, Heath accepted a job in Philadelphia. He packed his bags and his wife packed hers. Sarah grinned with a smile at the new city and its opportunities. Heath couldn’t withhold his excitement for the future. At the entryway to their new apartment in Rittenhouse Square, Heath lifted Sarah and carried her into their spacious living room (without hitting her legs or head on the doorframe).

Currently, Sarah makes eggs and bacon for two. She sits in the dining room with her son, Patrick, and they start their day. Patrick’s godfather, Brian, hasn’t heard from Heath in years. Sarah says she doesn’t care anymore.

But deep down, she really does.

Where is Heath? How is Heath?

He’s divorced, but still enjoys his hobby of fishing. To a certain extent, that is.

*

Heath stood knee-deep in trash with one arm in the air and one fist searching the insides of grime, stench, and misery. His eyes (which matched the color of an aged, discarded Sunday newspaper) glared at a half-eaten steak, fixated the flesh.

He hadn’t eaten in days, and in front of him was a solid meal. Saliva hung from his dried lips.

As he surged forward, Heath gripped the steak between his greasy palms. A muffled shout of victory escaped his untrimmed beard. He examined the food. It was premium quality- yet to be infested with flies and at the top of the pile. He laughed to himself, astounded at the luck of finding a prized catch. It reminded him of dinners at the Giovanni Bistro. He’d always order steak with his ex-wife, Sarah. Of course, this included a side of garlic mashed potatoes and perfectly cooked green beans. The steak was quite good then.

He sniffed the meat and devoured it in two bites.

It was quite good now.

Heath leapt over the side of the dumpster with the agility of a drunken teenager. He grabbed his backpack from the asphalt and meandered down the alleyway toward Chestnut. The reflective glass window of a nightclub caught his eye and he paused to part his brown hair- frowning at incoming gray and silver strands. He ruffled several wrinkles from a worn black dress shirt, grimacing slightly at a bright red stain near his left bicep. His appearance dissatisfied him. There wasn’t a thrill anymore, no buzzing sense of adrenaline inside of him. His adventure had become a mocking excuse for life. He breathed in and his skinny, tattered frame released a long sigh.

In the lobby of their apartment complex Sarah solemnly crossed her arms. “What, so you’re just throwing away your life because of this? You’re putting this all on me?”

                “It’s what you want, isn’t it? Everything to yourself?”

“Of course not, Heath. We weren’t happy. That’s why this is happening. It wasn’t right, it had to end. But there’s no reason for you to disappear-” She paused to glance at a torn, yellow notepad paper. “No, I can’t accept that, don’t even.”

“If you don’t, someone will. Take if for Patrick- and if you don’t want it, put all the money into a charity.” Heath held out the parchment. A series of numbers were written on it. He faked a smile. “I’ll be alright. I need time to think. I can’t be here right now.”

Sarah took it from his fingers. “Fine.”

Heath straightened his backpack and left the marbled entryway.

A tap on Heath’s shoulder forced him to turn around. Another man, most likely homeless as well, was staring into his eyes. A needle was in his hand, empty, but still dripping poison. He was fat, gruesomely so, and wore a red-checkered plaid flannel. Heath couldn’t tell if the red was from wine or the dye within the fabric. He looked down, and noticed that the man’s right hand was extended.

“Please to meet you.” The needle-guy said. “I’m Moonshine.”

Heath responded with his trained, traditional, lawyer handshake. He felt like he was about to crush Moonshine beneath his palm. “My name’s Heath.”

Moonshine giggled.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeaath. Rolls right off the tongue. Heh. Heh. Heeeeeeeeeeeaath.”

Spit. More spit. And more spit.

Heath mentally noted never to stand next to a druggy upon an introduction. He scowled as he walked away, wounded in pride (whatever of his remained), and from countless drool-missles that landed on his black button-up during Moonshine’s enthusiastic reiteration. As he wiped off the saliva, he sighed again. The rustling of the SEPTA trolley beneath the grating in the concrete soothed him. The green street sign, CHESTNUT, greeted him with apathetic honor.

Glancing over his shoulder, he watched Moonshine argue with himself in the middle of the alley. The insides of his stomach turned. He was sick of this life. He was tired of his cowardice.

Patrick stood smiling, bright green eyes staring up at Heath’s tall frame. “Daddy! Can we go to the park? Right now?”

“Did you finish your chores?”

“Yes! My room is clean and Mommy and I put away the dishes.”

“You’re a good kid, you know that?” Heath rustled Patrick’s hair as they stepped out the door of their apartment.

“I know.” Patrick grinned, and sprinted to the elevator.

Heath progressed to City Hall from Chestnut; shoulders slumped like a nomadic ghoul. He paused outside of Macy’s and stared at the porcelain flesh of the manikins. A scent begged for his attention. He succumbed and turned to look inside the window of Starbuck’s. The aroma of fresh, ground beans drifting from steaming mugs. He imagined the steaming coffee entering his bloodstream, roasting his tongue as it warmed his throat, lungs, and stomach. The atmosphere of society. Fuel for the soul and body.

He failed to realize that he was standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Several people drifted by, skirting at odd angles to avoid touching him. An elderly man gave him a very disapproving look. He was a tall, aging, smelly, and distraught creature in their way.

An empty cup caught his attention. He stumbled forward, urging to remove its lid and press his nose against the rim, to inhale the wonderful perfume of coffee.

“I don’t normally do this,” The gentle voice of a woman interrupted his action. “Give money to the homeless, I mean.”

Heath rotated to face her. She wore a business suit with pant legs and jacket. Professional. A leather purse wrapped around her shoulder. She was reaching in it, searching for a five, maybe several ones. Brown hair guarded olive eyes and a cautious expression.

“By the way you’re looking at that empty cup of coffee, I figure you could use a cup of coffee.”

She zipped up her bag and looked directly at Heath. His heartbeat increased and his body felt heavy. A five was in her hand, tightly clenched. “You would like a cup, wouldn’t you?”

Heath ordered a tall, black coffee. He rested his backpack on the floor next to a comfortable armchair and let his body sink into a leather embrace. He absorbed the stench of coffee and the dim-lighting of the store.

The business woman sat on the other side of a small, wooden table. She stared at him with curiosity in her eyes.

A clerk dropped their drinks off on the table. Heath picked it up, paused, and drank.

“How’s the coffee?”

“Great.” Heath recoiled from the heat and set his cup down.

“You burnt your tongue, didn’t you?” She laughed slightly, and crossed her legs. “My name is Jennifer. What do you go by?”

“My name’s Heath.”

“Alright. Nice to meet you then, Heath.” She took a long sip, after hesitating at a pile of whipped cream near the rim. “I’ll be straight with you. I’m a lawyer from a firm down 18^th Street. I’m given an hour during my workday to search the streets for people that need help. I’ve worked with the homeless a lot- but I look for those that have a sense of cognition intact.” She set down her drink, and stared Heath in the eyes. “So, what’s your story?”

“How often does this work for you, being honest upfront?”

“About sixty-percent give or take.” She was cocky, but there was something about her that was comforting. Not the wiry eyes or glossy hair. Her persona rushed forward, mentally supporting him.

“OK. I’ve been on the streets for two years, ever since my wife divorced me. I decided to throw away everything I had. I gave my wife access to my bank accounts, all except a small burner debit card I buried in Rittenhouse Square.” Heath saw Jennifer glancing at his tattered backpack.

“I’ve collected a few things through the years. Mementos, I guess.” He breathed into his coffee, cooling it. The business woman remarked at the bags beneath his eyes, and asked why he shut down.

“I wanted to run free and wild. Not to be a kid again, but to experience something completely knew. I’ve realized now that I’m a coward, though. I left my kid behind. He’s been raised without a father.”

“Two years.” She shuffled her drink in her hands. “That’s a long time without a dad. How old is the kid?”

“He’s turning six in about a month- May 3^rd is his birthday.” Heath felt his eyes drooping. The caffeine wasn’t doing its job- his body was screaming for a rest. Jennifer finished her drink. She looked at him as if about to ask something, but saw his head nodding and decided against it. She pulled something out of her bag as she picked it up off the floor. Heath’s vision was foggy. He was drifting in and out of sleep.

“It’s been nice talking, Heath. I’m leaving you my business card in case you ever need help, or just someone to talk with.”

Heath tried to listen, but didn’t hear much. Instead, the world faded and disappeared.

Heath opened the door to his office and fell into his leather chair. He absorbed the world around him in a new light as he rested his feet on his posh, mahogany desk. A bottle of champagne was bathing in ice nearby. Heath fiddled with the notecard attached to its side, and read it aloud. “Congratulations on closing your first case, Heath!”

A smile brushed across his clean-shaven face. His life felt like a classic fairy-tale. When he took the offer from Gregor and Melvich to work in Philadelphia, he never imagined he would become so successful so quickly. The firm said they knew he had a place in the city, that they were confident in his success. They taught him the tricks; he spent the hours learning them. And the firm was right- he had a place in the city- he was rising to become a great lawyer.

 Placing the note onto his desk, he noticed a manila envelope beneath a stack of legal papers. He examined it. In the middle was his name, “Heath Woods.” In the upper-right corner of the envelope was the insignia of another law firm- Hendrickson- which worked primarily with divorces. Heath ignored the alcohol on the corner of his desk and proceeded to open the envelope.  He shouldn’t have ignored the alcohol. He didn’t ignore it. After reading the letter inside the envelope, he opened the champagne and downed it all, with his office door wide open.

Heath woke up slumped in his chair at Starbuck’s. One of the clerks, agitated, was prodding his shoulder, telling him he had to leave. His coffee was in his hand, although cold, and a business card was on his lap. He read it as he grabbed his bag and went outside.

Jennifer Swanson, Attorney, Gregor and Melvich

Phone: (215) 421-6670

Fax: (215) 271-0900

Email: jswanson@gandm.com

The card was crisp and high-quality. G and M, the logo for the law office was displayed in its lower right hand corner. Heath placed the card in his pocket.

*

                For sixty-eight seconds, Heath stood in the elevator of the Rittenhouse Hotel. Before that, he spent three-hundred and twenty-seven seconds passing through Rittenhouse Square. Looking at the trees. Remembering the grass and how Patrick loved to look for squirrels in the bushes. Two-hundred and sixty seconds were spent traveling from the subway at 19^th street to the fringes of Rittenhouse Square. The smell of Qdoba and the restaurants lining Chestnut made his stomach urge for a meal. Four-hundred and eighty-three seconds passed on SEPTA, as Heath moved from City Hall to 19^th street. The driver of the trolley did not appreciate Heath’s conglomeration of quarters and nickels.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open. Heath brushed a hand through his hair and walked to the end of the hallway where he could look out a tall glass window. He pushed a flowery curtain to the side and pulled a chair close. His beaten Nikes left a track of mud on the diamond patterned carpet. He scratched his beard with his right hand and cringed at the length of his fingernails.

Every Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday, Heath would sit in this chair. He would move the curtain out of the way and watch from the window. He enjoyed it. He was able to relax.

He was able to see his son.

Across from the window was Heath’s old apartment. Whenever the blinds were open, he could look straight into his son’s room. Patrick was there today. He was sitting on beige carpet, surrounded by handfuls of Legos. He was constructing a multi-colored castle.

Heath watched for fifteen minutes while Patrick built the surrounding walls, placed the roof on top, and imagined a battle of crossbows and trebuchets.

It was getting late.

Sarah entered to turn off the light. Blonde hair with highlights shaped her fine-featured appearance. Patrick’s room was a little more barren then usual, and Heath watched him push the Legos aside and climb into bed. The spaceship comforter he and Sarah bought him on his fourth birthday was still there. Heath smiled at his son. Sarah flicked the light switch, and Patrick disappeared.

A black-haired worker from the hotel came out of a nearby room dressed in a blue blazer and dark pants. He approached Heath, grinning, and shook his hand. It was Adam, a collected man in his mid-twenties with a secure handshake. He was an old friend of Heath’s and had supported him with a place to sleep, whenever he needed to escape the streets.

Adam offered him the usual spot- a mangled twin mattress in the hotel’s laundry room. Heath accepted.

He followed Adam. After a short elevator ride to the basement they arrived. The barren white walls of the laundry room made it appear infinite, a gaping universe of bland sheets and pillow cases. The small twin bed was at the side of a line of washing machines. Although he was used to the area, Heath stood awkwardly at the edge of the mattress.

“Something on your mind, Heath?”

“I’m failing my kid. I’ve vanished from his life. The best I can do is watch him from a window across the street.”

“It’s not the best you can do. You know that.” Adam took a seat on the mattress. “You can do much, much better.”

“I need to hear that.”

“It’s tough, I know. But Heath, I can’t keep letting you sleep here. You have to move on. Step up. Do something. You can’t sit back and do nothing the rest of your life.”

Heath sat down.

It took Adam seven seconds to sit up and leave the room. It took Heath seven-thousand five-hundred and twenty-one seconds to fall asleep.

*

                The blue, red, and white debit card entered the slot and Heath withdrew it quickly. The ATM screen flashed. He recovered the card earlier that morning from a shallow grave in the park. His balance read just under four-hundred dollars. He was surprised it worked after so long.

Heath walked to Macys. He quickly found his favorite pair of slacks and a fresh white button-up. He grabbed a belt, a pair of underwear, an undershirt, making sure it had sleeves. He didn’t forget deodorant.

At the counter, the clerk looked at him, then back at the clothes. Heath thought that she’d never seen a homeless man get cleaned up before.

He went to the bathroom. He washed his face with water from the sink and changed his clothes. He generously applied the deodorant. He felt fresh. He felt strong. He tossed his old clothes in the trash and left the building.

Heath swiftly moved through the marble entryway of a tall glass building. In the elevator, he pressed ‘33’, and his body lurched as it leapt from the ground floor. He was determined. Confident. Ready.

The doors opened and Heath moved toward the receptionist. She was new, he didn’t recognize her from before. Unsoiled shoes pressed against rich green carpet. The comfort of chilled air-conditioning surged against his skin. He placed his elbows on the counter and leaned forward. The receptionist eyed him, raising a pair of thick, black eyebrows.

“May I help you?”

“Yes. I’m looking for Jennifer Swanson.”

The receptionist glanced at her computer screen. “Swanson? Let me see if she’s in. What’s your name?”

“Heath.”

He paused, nervously tapping to the rhythm of the music in the waiting room. The receptionist walked into the hallway behind her desk and opened the third door on the left. She waited for a moment and then the business woman, Jennifer, followed her out.

“Wow. You’ve cleaned up a bit.”

“I needed a change.”

“Come on, follow me into my office.”

Heath sat down in a leather chair similar to the one at Starbuck’s. The soft leather reminded him of his own chair, several years ago. The fresh smell of mahogany and pages of textbooks brought back the lingering taste of long work hours and court cases.

Jennifer reclined behind her desk opposite and clasped her hands together, preparing herself as if he were a client.

“How can I help you, Heath?

“Does Steven Parks still work here by any chance?”

“Yes. He’s one of the top partners. What do you need from Mr. Parks?”

“I used to work here. I wanted to speak with him about getting my job back.”

Jennifer Swanson hesitated, then reached for her phone. She dialed the number of an extension.

“This is Jennifer Swanson, Mr. Parks. I have a man here, his name is Heath,” She held the phone against her chest, and whispered. “What’s your last name?”

“Woods.”

She placed the phone back against her ear. “His name is Heath Woods, he says he used to work here.”

The gruff voice on the other side of the phone responded. “Woods? Send him into my office. I don’t have any clients lined up for the next thirty minutes. Ms. Swanson.”

Jennifer returned the phone to its holder. She nodded at Heath, and lead him into Steven Parks office, which resided at the end of the hall. Heath entered in, tentatively. Jennifer returned to her desk.

Steven Parks sat in a high-backed, brown leather chair, at the end of an elongated room. Behind him, a large glass window displayed an expanded view of the city, which appeared as a series of decorated blocks from thirty-three floors up. Parks motioned for Heath to sit down.

“I’m glad to see your doing alright, Heath.”

“I’m pulling everything together now, Mr. Parks. I’m working on getting my life back.”

“People take stress differently- some can absorb it like nothing, and for others, it destroys them.”

“It overwhelmed me. I admit, I couldn’t handle anything. I fell apart and tried my best to leave my life behind.”

“But you knew you couldn’t, didn’t you?” Parks shuffled a stack of papers on his desk, and placed them to the side of his computer.

“Yes. That’s why I’m back. I’m here to ask you for a second chance.”

“What for? You’re not even validated as a lawyer anymore. The last time I saw you, you were in a drunken fit inside your office. Security had to escort you out. Why would I give you a second chance?”

“When they hired me, the firm said I had a place in this city. Well, I’ve lived on the streets and in a plush apartment- and I know Philadelphia more than the normal citizen. This is my home now. You and I? We both started at Gregor and Melvich together. I was fresh, you moved into a new company. We’ve worked together on cases, and you know my work ethic.”

“I knew your capabilities. But I don’t know you now, Heath- it’s been too long, times have changed.” Heath fidgeted in his seat and wiped the sweat from his hands on the top of his pants.

“Times have changed things, yes. But if I’m different now, I’m only stronger. Back then, I couldn’t handle adversity. Now, I’ve struggled through the sewers and gutters and slept in the muck next to the subway at City Hall. I can damned near survive anything, and I’ll work impossibly hard to be my best. I’ve changed, Steven.  I accept my responsibilities- I’ve got a kid I miss more than you can imagine, and I’ll do anything to see him.”

“You have to understand, Heath, I can’t take your word for this.” Heath eyed Mr. Parks, who was leaning back in his chair. “But, I’ll give you a shot. As a friend of the past, I’ll give you that. But you’re not getting your old job back.”

“That’s fine- that’s great- I don’t need to start up where I began. I can handle a downgrade.” Mr. Parks grinned, but maintained composure.

“I know a friend in the courts. He recently told me about the janitor there, how he tended to put our more trash than he cleaned. The guy got fired a couple days ago, and they’re looking to fill the position.”

“A janitor?”

“You have to work your way up from the floor, Heath. I’ll make a deal with you. Show me you can work this job for a year. I’ll let you take out books from our library here at the firm, and if you pass the bar next January, I’ll think about giving you your old position back. Heath, I have to see if what you’re telling me is true.”

“Alright, that’s fair. When do I start?”

“I’ll tell my friend at the courts I found him a janitor, and to meet you at the court entryway at 6am tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, Steven. I needed this.”

“I know, Heath. Good luck, and I hope to see you when you’ve completed the bar.”

Heath stood up and left the offices of Gregor and Melvich.

*

Heath returned to Rittenhouse Square. He had a stable job, albeit as a janitor, but he was excited about the opportunity to move up. He was getting his life back.

He was done hiding behind the front that his homelessness was a search for adventure. He knew it was an attempt to escape the loss of the woman he loved. It was time to come to terms with his sad display of emotions.

The gray apartment building stood in front of him. Heath wavered. Did he want to go in? Could he handle seeing his son?

Could he handle seeing Sarah?

Yes. Yes he could.

He walked inside and missed the elevator. He took the stairs instead, sprinting all seven flights.

When he reached room 712, he knocked on the door and smiled at the memories that vibrated through his body. Heath had enjoyed how the sevens in the complex looked like twos, how he and Sarah always called their floor the second floor, not the seventh floor. They had gone so far as to draw, with permanent marker, the sliver at the bottom of the seven to make it into an actual two.

He laughed out loud.

No one answered the door.

He tried the handle. It opened.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

“Hello? Sarah? I’m coming inside; I’ve come to see Patrick.”

Nothing.

The living room was empty. Where it once was spacious, it was now a deserted. Indents in the carpet from the couches and the coffee table were fresh. The kitchen was clean. No pots in the sink, no cups in the cupboard. The oven light was off. Heath felt like he was a wraith in an unfamiliar home.

He floated into Patrick’s room. The spaceship blanket was gone and a couple of empty moving boxes leaned against the opposite wall. A Lego man, with a crossbow, was left behind on the carpet. A casualty of war.

Heath squeezed it in his hand. It stared at him with its simple yellow smile. Its dotted eyes.

At first, he felt hopeless. Standing there in the barren room, missing his son and his past life. He pictured the furniture as he remembered it, the times he danced with Sarah in the living room. Making meals in the kitchen, cooking for his wife and son. He remembered the good times, and not a single bad memory came to mind. A smile crossed his face, briefly, and happiness began to run through him. His life wasn’t hopeless- he was gaining ground.

No longer would he give up. He would find his son, and become the father he once was.

END