You Get What You Asked For

 

“I don’t believe in accidents. I don’t believe in UFO’s. I don’t believe in world peace. I don’t believe in forever. In fact there’s a whole lot I don’t believe in, maybe I should just tell you what I do believe in. I believe, honest to God, cross my heart, that the earth is round; thank your Mr. Columbus. And for the record I hate bumble bees.”

 

“You’re not supposed to say hate.”

“Shut up Marley, it’s my commentary not yours.” She stuck her tongue out at the four-foot-seven little leaguer harassing her vocal selections.

He whined in a sing song voice, “Your not supposed to say that either.”

“Go home or I’ll rip your guts out.” She pressed the ‘stop’ button on her tape recorder, scowling as Marley stumbled towards the house.

 

“That wasn’t very nice.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well you should, he’s your brother. Imagine him doing that to you.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He’s eight.”

“So?”

“So he’s too young to be cynical.”

“You’re too young to be cynical.”

“No I’m not. Leave me alone.” She heaved a sigh and ignored the criticism from her conscience.

 

She switched the recorder back on. “As I was saying, I hate bumble bees and cats. Cats are the worst. They’re disgusting and mean and they sulk around all day.”

“Kind of like you.”

“I don’t sulk.”

“Really? Then what do you call this?”

“I’m making my life commentary, stupid. That way when I’m famous people will know I started out with good intentions.”

“You mean if right?”

“No when. I’m definitely going to be famous.”

“Oh really?’

“You’ll see.”

“Right…Has anyone ever told you that you’re weird?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re just a voice inside my head?”

“Touché.” He ceased his incessant chattering and retreated into a distant memory.

 

The tape recorder was spinning calmly, unfurling and curling tape around tiny spools as it encoded silence.

 

“What’s that?”

“What?” She glanced to the seat beside her where a little boy had climbed onto the bench and was pointing with chubby fingers at the side of her face. She could feel the corners of her mouth sag. “It’s a scar.” she said. He stared curiously, moving his hand closer but she ducked her head before he could touch it.

“How’d ya get uh scar?” He started swinging his tiny legs over the side, bouncing slightly in his seat.

“I got hurt.”

“When I get hurt my mommy –my mommy she puts a Spiderman Band-Aid on it –and then, then if it‘s a real bad ouchie she kisses it.” He puckers his lips and kisses his palm to demonstrate. Thankfully his mother chooses that moment to call him back to the picnic blanket and she can defer from answering any awkward questions; like how she actually got the scar. The damaged area in question is about five inches long and extends over the left side of her face. She flipped the switch on the recorder and continued.

“Once again as I was saying, I hate bumble bees and cats and most of all…I hate my conscience.” She hit the ‘stop’ button once more and sat the device on the park bench beside her, knowing that the last remark was sure to bribe him out of his little drawer.

“That wasn’t very nice either.” He sang.

“Well it’s true. You’re the worst conscience ever.”

“I’m a top of the line conscience thank you very much. Hand selected just for you.”

“Yeah well whoever picked you obviously wanted me to have a screwed up life.”

“I’m actually insulted by that.”

“Good.”

He disappeared again.

 

“Haley! Dinner!”

Her mother was calling insistently from the front porch of the house, waving a hand frantically to attract her attention. She got up slowly, shoving the recorder into her sweatshirt pocket.

“My friends call me Chaos mom. Why can’t you?” She followed her inside the house, descending the stairs to the kitchen where tomato sauce was boiling delicately.

Her mother laughed. “Because your name is Haley.” 

 “Where’s Marley?”

“He fell asleep while I was cooking. He hasn’t been sleeping well you know.” It sounded like an accusation.

Haley knew. Of course she knew. How could she not? She and Marley had shared a room since she was eight. She was there when he went through the terrible twos and took scissors to her entire wardrobe. She was there when he decided their goldfish, Bert, needed a larger bowl and tried to flood the bedroom. She was there when he opted to flirt with self expression by wearing the same outfit for three weeks straight. So yeah. She knew he’d been skipping visits from the sandman.

“I think I’m gonna pass on dinner mom. Not hungry.”

Her mother’s face glazed over with concern. “But I made pasta-I used meatless sauce too.” There are hidden intentions behind the meal; Haley’s sure. Her mother has never fully accepted the whole vegetarian phase she’s going through.

“Maybe later. I got stuff to do.” It was hard to leave the table, to leave her mother standing, ladle in hand, apron crumpled, but she really did have things to do. If she was going to be somebody by the time she left high school, she didn’t have free moments to spare, dinner included.

“Haley…”

She kept walking, couldn’t bring herself to swallow her pride and turn around, to be a little less selfish.

 

“Tsk-tsk Chaos. Why are you vegetarian anyway?”

“I don’t know-it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

 

Sometimes she doesn’t understand why her friends even gave her the nickname because if anyone caused chaos it was definitely her conscience and not her. And for some reason tonight its being quiet, uninvolved. It’s nice. She tip-toes into the room softly, careful so as not to wake up Marley, however she finds the ten year old playing silently with his Gameboy.

 

“Mom made meatless pasta for you,” he says. She feels guilty all over again but crashes wearily onto the bed beside him.

“I know.” She doesn’t say anything about earlier, no apologies. They sit like that for awhile, side by side in complete silence. She stands up eventually, stretches her arms above her head towards the ceiling and then slumps over to her side of the room, plugging in her IPod. She falls asleep like that, ear buds wrapped recklessly around her neck, and in the morning they’re twisted from tossing and turning in the night and she’s fully dressed, sweatshirt clinging to the damp patch of skin on her neck from the overheated bedroom.

 

“Haley.” Her mother’s sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand reaching for the curtains to pull aside the sun shade.

“Hmmmm…”

“Can you go to the grocery store for me? I’ve got to take Marley to school.”

“Um sure but I’ve got school too you know.” Her mother can be forgetful sometimes.

“You can go in later if you want…write a note.”

“Fine.” She takes the opportunity for what it’s worth because she still has to finish her English paper and she figures a trip to the store is a great place to continue her life commentary anyway. She smoothes the wrinkles on her jeans, slips on a fresh sweatshirt and grabs her recorder from her nightstand.

“I left a list of stuff down on the refrigerator and money on the counter –let’s go Marley.” She calls on her way back downstairs to the kitchen. Haley sighs, wipes a sleepy hand across baggy eyes and then flips the switch on her pocket device; recording the first sound bit of the day.

“I hate grocery shopping.” That’s all she whispers into the speaker before sliding her feet into a pair of shredded sneakers. The shoelaces are crusty with dried mud and clumps of blue paint, leftover residue from the “big move” a few years back. All it takes are a few sips of luke-warm coffee to get her brain up and running, her conscience punching out witty comebacks for every thought her nerve endings churn out.

 

“Grocery duty again –that bites.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I just did.”

“Do you have to take everything so literally?”

“Yes.”

 

On the kitchen counter is a wad of money and a post-it note. The list contains the usual; two gallons of milk, strawberries, a loaf of whole wheat bread, oranges, granola bars, four boxes of Lucky Charms and a box of Frosted Flakes –she and Marley are both cereal fiends. The car keys are lying off to the side.

 

“Do you have to drive with the music this loud?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m hoping it will drown you out.”

“Impossible. I’m inside your head.”

 

She doubles the radio volume anyway and pulls the beat up box on wheels into the parking lot of the Lots-a-food grocery store. The greeter smiles briefly before turning to the next customer.

“I hate grocery shopping. I hate pushing the rusty cart down over-crowded aisles and seeing all the nosy people eyeing up your stuff and trying to evaluate your life based on the content of your shopping cart. It’s annoying.” The black ribbon catches her whispered rant and she presses ‘stop’ before reaching to tug a box of Lucky Charms off the shelf.

 

“People probably think you’re a health freak.”

“Why?”

“The only thing in your cart that contains any amount of artificial sugar is the cereal, and even that isn’t too bad.”

“Well being a health freak isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

“I was only reflecting on your previous statement about judging people by their shopping carts.”

“I know. Take that guy for example. He’s got at least twenty TV dinners and a two liter of coke. I’m guessing single or divorced. Mom still comes once a week to clean the apartment and wash his clothes.”

“Washes his clothes? Really?”

“Yeah, look at his collar. It’s perfectly starched and the one button on the left side is a different shade, which means someone had to sew a new one on; guaranteeing it wasn’t him.”

“Maybe he’s into that stuff. Guys aren’t completely clueless you know.”

“Still look at his socks and shoes. They don’t match his shirt and his pant legs are different lengths. If he cared so much about his shirt he would have chosen a better shirt and shoes.”

“You over analyze everything.”

“I’m merely making an observation jeez.”

 

She’s reached the last item on the list and goes to check out, waiting impatiently for the cashier to scan everything. The bill goes over thirty dollars and she has to dig into her own cash to cover the difference.

 

“Are you really going to school today?”

“Probably…maybe…I don’t know…haven’t decided yet.”

“Will you have the house to yourself?”

“Yeah.”

 

She loads the canvas bags into the trunk and starts the car and the recorder simultaneously.

“I hate using my own money to pay for groceries.” The traffic light turns green and soon the store front fades from her rearview mirror and she’s coasting down the back road towards the park. Everything’s a blur. Nothing is separated. The trees blend together with the road and sky. Normally her conscience kicks in by now; says something along the lines of going too fast and slow down. This time there’s nothing. She rolls the window down a little and cranks the volume once more, hoping that one day she’ll be sitting in the back seat, glancing out the window on her way to some concert, camera in tow, ready to film some musicians career. She doesn’t see the small figure begin to cross the road as she reaches for a CD in the glove compartment, doesn’t see or feel the look of fear and resignation hover in the boy’s eyes, doesn’t hear anything from her conscience which should be screaming for her to stop. And looking back on that moment if she could have pressed ‘stop’ and paused life she would have; just like she’s done countless times with her recorder.

 

She remembers slamming on the brakes, foot pressing down, begging the car to stop. She remembers the feeling of loath and disgust, horror, as she ripped herself from the driver’s seat and scrambled for the seemingly lifeless form. She remembers choking and crying and vomiting. She remembers dialing the three most dreaded and lethal numbers, remembers going into shock as his chest rises faintly. Remembers the camera crew and the death glares as she walked away from the courthouse. Remembers curling up in the corner of her room, scribbling long winded apology letters and finally settling on three simple words, almost as lethal as those three numbers; I am sorry. She remembers the boy smiling and telling her it’s alright, giving her a one-armed hug from the hospital bed. What she remembers the most is the nightmares. She can never seem to rid herself of the nightmares. They’re there to stay it appears and apparently their residence is her conscience’s cue to abandon her. She’s surprised to be sitting in silence for so long. It’s been three months. Three months since the headlines were unleashed, three months since she became a house hold name in her small town. Her mother will say everything will heal with time. Her brother will offer video games and trading cards. Nobody offers to talk.

 

“You got what you wanted.”

“Excuse me?”

 

It’s been so long she’s almost forgotten what her conscience sounded like.

 

“You got what you wanted.”

“I heard what you said, I don’t understand. Way too show up now. Where were you when I needed you?”

“What do you mean?”

“A conscience is supposed to help you choose right over wrong. They’re supposed to keep you out of sticky situations. They’re supposed to be a helpful voice inside your head. They’re supposed to tell you to brake when there’s something standing in the middle of the road. You’re supposed to tell me when I need to slow down. You’re supposed to tell me when I mess up.”

“You said you wanted to be famous.”

 

She doesn’t know how to handle its answer. She knows it was her fault, she’s known it ever since the car didn’t stop in time. What she doesn’t know is how to move on. She extends her arm and reaches under the bed, fumbling for some consolation. She pulls the tiny device out from under a pile of socks and flicks the familiar switch.

 

“Note to self: I miss you terribly. This is what we call a tragedy.” She recites the recognizable tune and listens to the rhythmic spinning until finally the spool ends and there’s no more tape left to unravel. She rewinds it and presses the play button.

 

“I don’t believe in accidents. I don’t believe in UFO’s. I don’t believe in world peace. I don’t believe in forever. In fact there’s a whole lot I don’t believe in, maybe I should just tell you what I do believe in. I believe, honest to God, cross my heart, that the earth is round; thank your Mr. Columbus. And for the record I hate bumble bees.”

 

She wishes life was that simple, as easy as ‘Stop’ and ‘Play’ and ‘Rewind’ but it isn’t. And the only button left to press is ‘Forward’. So she does.

 

Reviews

[breezy]

oh my gosh! I love it, you create great characters without having to detail much at all, like which removes draw from the story. If you made a book stemming from this and worked on it a little more, a tiny extra oomph, I would buy the book. I never buy books. :)
congratulations on the pulling off the conscience vs main minded, it takes a lot to do it well. The whole idea and concept was phenomenal.