A Boy Can Dream pt. 4

A Story by Little Crow

The fourth part of this little story.

I'm hunched over my watch trying to get close enough to read the faint light of the glow in the dark numbers around the black face. It smells strongly of ammonia in the dark closet, and it's starting to give me a headache. I light up another Newport to combat said headache.

As I close my eyes and inhale deep, my thoughts drift to my small blue room back at the house, the only things I unpacked were a single sheet and the clothes for each day. There's half a dozen boxes of stuff I've got to eventually get to, but the task seems overwhelming right now.

I'm contemplating lighting up another smoke, as the faint smell of burning fiberglass reminds me I've puffed mine down to the filter, once more. Some day these things are gonna kill me, but for now they keep me alive.

I lean back further on my stool, that is to say, the upside down five-gallon bucket which I've decided to call home for now. As I'm leaning, and digging in my pocket for my smokes, I tilt too far back and the bucket tips, spilling me and the contents of my pockets out the door and into the hall just as the bell rings. I scramble to my feet and grab the important things first, Zippo, Smokes, iPod, then everyone's upon me in their haste to reach the next class. I keep up my search for my pocket knife, and the keys to my truck, after a minute or so I find the keys, and I find my knife kicked up under a locker, so I grab that and stuff it back in my pocket.

I kick the closet door shut and hope it stays latched this time, then pull an about face and head towards the caf, apparently my watch was five minutes behind. I pick up the pace a little, not quite jogging, but not quite walking. I imagine it looks like a person with Parkinson's power walking. I pay no mind, and just swim through the sea of people between myself and the cafeteria.

I finally make it to the caf, only to realize that it's a lot bigger than I had imagined. I start to get a little worried that I won't be able to find Katrina, and as I'm standing up on my tiptoes peering over the heads of everyone trying to get a glimpse of her, I hear what sounds suspiciously like someone fighting back laughter say: “Looking for something?” I spin around to find myself face to face with the one I'm looking for. I give her an awkward half-smile. “Yeah, but I found it”
She rolls her eyes and says “Shall we have a seat then?” I simply nod in response, fearing to make myself look any more ridiculous.

She weaves through the crowd with practiced ease, heading towards the far corner and an empty table. I follow her, bumping into everyone, apologizing where I can. As we reach the relative safety of the empty table, she tosses a book on the table, and I slide into the chair across from hers. I self-consciously run my hand through my hair, realizing it's probably very messy. When I tear my eyes away from the tabletop I make eye contact with her, she flashes me a smile and laughs. “You okay? You seem a little on edge” I let my hand drop back to the table, a little heavier than I intended, it thunks rather loudly, making her laugh again. “I...uh, never mind. Anyway, what book is that, you've got?”
She slides it across the table to me, and I examine the cover, it's one of Bukowski's poetry collections. I've never read him myself, but I've been told he's very good. I say this out loud and smiles at me again. “So you do actually read then. I wasn't entirely certain with the look of you, you know the ashes on your pants and all” I groan and frantically brush at my jeans again, in the vain hope that they will come clean. “Yeah, despite my unkempt and rather simple appearance I have read a few books, I'll admit.”
She raies an eyebrow skeptically, and asks "Such as?" I lean over the table as I reach into my back pocket and pull out my beaten copy of Slaughterhouse Five, and I slide it across the table to her. She examines it with a critical eye, and states "The cover's creepy." I cringe inwardly and say "Well it's not for everyone, I suppose." I grab it and stuff it back in my pocket, trying not to look too embarassed. "So what other books are you into?"
She looks down at the table in thought as she lists a few "Bukowski, as you've seen, The Bell Jar is great, The Catcher In The Rye was good...uhm...The Perks of Being A Wallflower was a fun one, a few others. I read a lot."
I smile at her "Yeah, so I see."
She inclines her had towards me and asks me the same question.
“Well, Vonnegut obviously. I'm also a big fan of Tim O'Brien's books. I haven't read The Catcher In The Rye in a long time, but it was a good book. I really liked Michael Crichton, but I kind of fell out of those books.”
“Pretty impressive list, you don't read the typical garbage everyone reads.” she says.
I grin and say “Yeah, well neither do you. I've never read The Perks of Being A Wallflower before, or The Bell Jar, but I've heard a lot of good things about Sylvia Plath.”
She scrounges in her purse for a moment and pulls out a tattered old book, the pages yellowed with age, and shows it to me. “It's in my top five books, I really like it.” She sticks it back in her purse and we lapse into a somewhat uncomfortable silence.
I pull out my Zippo and flick the lid open and closed, as I tend to do when I'm nervous or anxious.
She raises an eyebrow and gestures under the table towards the metallic clinking of my lighter.
“You smoke?”
Realize what I'm doing I stuff my lighter back in my pocket and grin up at her, a little embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn't realize I was doing it. But yeah, I do. Why?”
She nods her head towards the door and says “Wanna ditch this and take a smoke break?”
I nod enthusiastically and stand up a little too quickly, toppling my chair over. “Opps...”
I hastily pick it back up and she laughs quietly to herself. Then we collect our stuff and head towards the door marked “EXIT”.