Mr. Gorbachev And All The Pretty Kites

Got bored in class and decided to write a story.

��������The cab sped down the road as my head bounced against the window I leaned on with the other ear placed against the speaker of my cell phone.
��������"Do you really think this is the best idea?"
��������"Look, mom I just need some time away."
��������"But with your grandmother? Im not sure that is the place you want to clear your head. The woman is crazy. You know, your father tried for two years to get that hard headed woman to move closer to us. What does an old woman, living by herself, need a house that big for anyways?"
��������"Mom, I appreciate it. But I just need to get away from everything right now. Find some things out."
��������"Look, I know your going through some hard times right now with losing your column and Jenny but they're will be other opportunities and Jenny will come around. You just freaked her."
��������"It'll be fine mom. I just need some time. I'm almost there. I gotta go."
��������I clicked my cell phone shut as my head continued bouncing against the glass. I wished we were close. An elaborate lie to get my mother off the phone, we were still a good twenty miles from my grandmothers house. The houses flew by and continued growing larger the closer we got to the bay dotted with bait shops and boat rentals. I tried to remember my grandmother. I had been sheltered from her influence from a young age and had never spent much time with her. I was, however, able to retrieve a memory from my fourth Easter when she punched an Easter bunny for not giving me candy. It was quite a sight. The parents gathered around my snarling grey haired grandmother and a cussing, zit faced, teenager as if they were watching the Lennox, Tyson fight. The family had filed it under technical knockout but after the event I didn't see much of her.
��������Lost in thought, I felt the car come to a halt and heard the cabby ask for cash. I looked at the meter and dug around my back pocket to retrieve my wallet, a feat much more substantial considering my a*s was asleep. I slammed the trunk closed and turn to examine the house. A beautiful Victorian home set bay side on Crescent Bay Street. The grass looked as though it had not been mowed in weeks and the dead garden stared back with sunburnt eyes, "What are you looking at? Why aren't you calling for help?" The sun shown from between the homes reflected off of the bay and straight through the cheap pair of aviators I purchased at a gas station on the drive to the airport. I grabbed my bags and slammed the trunk. The cabby yelled something to me in a language I didn't understand. I could spare no attention for him considering it all now belonged to the old lady now emerging from the large front oak door.��������
��������First, it cracked and a hand emerged. It waved through the air as if she was petting an imaginary dog. Then her head crept out staring at the driver. The scene must have frightened him. Before I had time to step away from the back of the car he sped away down the street making a left on Donahue. She eyed me as she waved me in with her hand. I looked around nervously. Here I was now, all alone, nine hundred miles away from all my problems. My life possibly couldn't get any worse.
��������I opened the door slowly and walked through the dining room and began exploring the house. I had lost the blue haired creature that let me in. If there was anything that bound all elderly women together it was the mystical blue afro. I wrote a piece on it for my paper once. I imagined leaving my office one night while a rowdy gang of leather wearing grandparents waited outside for me. They would be standing, breathing oxygen next to the entrance and give me a smile while I passed and begin following me. It would only be after I noticed the over abundance of rascals parked along the street that I would hear their steps behind me and begin to run. With canes and walkers held high in revolt, death by rascal scooter drive by is what the headlines would read. However, to anger an audience, one must have an audience. Unfortunately I believe the only readers I possessed were that of parrots who were forced to read my ideas and thoughts on the floor of their prison cage until it was too much to bare any longer. There owners would wake up and find they had drowned themselves in their water bowls. I would be curious to see the rate of house bird pet suicides since my column had began.
�������� The house was surprisingly clean. Not a spot of dust in eye sight and beautifully decorated. A large oak staircase circled around a chandelier that was made of god's shoeshine. I thought for a moment that surely this is what Gatsby's mansion must have looked like. I could hear movement from the kitchen and then a loud voice came from behind the sliding doors. "You must be starving. I'm sure you haven't eaten all day." I entered the kitchen and sat down. Pots and pans dangled above my head on a hanging rack. "Actually, I think I'll have to pass I'm just really tired. I would enjoy a nap."
��������She sat down beside me and looked at my face for a moment. Her eyes were the darkest I had ever seen but yet seemed so soft.
��������"Why are you here? Do you want my house?"
��������"What?"
��������"Well I've already left it to your brother Daniel."
��������"Grandma, I don't have a brother."
��������"Well, it must have been your sister."
��������"Yeah, must have been. I'm just here to visit grandma and take care of you for a little while," I said, not wanting to mention I was an only child.
��������"Maybe you can just show me to my room?"
��������"Sure, just let me put on some shoes."
��������She walked into the din and I could hear the faint sound of what sounded like rustling plastic. She returned and I discovered where it had been coming from. "Follow me deary", she said motioning to the staircase in her bubble wrapped shoes. The bubbles had been popped from walking. Obviously, she had worn them for some time. Despite the shoes, she seemed to flow with a certain class. She wore a blue dress with a pearl necklace that lit up as we wrapped around the chandelier. She seemed calmer, quieter than I remembered.
��������"Here we are. You can stay in here with me."
��������"What?"
��������"This is my room. You can stay with me."
��������I eyed the other doors and looked at her face. From it's stone look I could tell she wasn't kidding.��������
��������"Grandma, there has to be five other rooms in this house."
��������"Yes, six in all. You can stay in here with me. It's more homely. Were family."
��������I walked into the well lit room as the sun was going down over the bay and shown beautifully through the window.
��������"Your mother tells me you're a pediatrician."
��������"I'm a writer."
��������"What do you write?"
��������"I'm in the movie business. I wrote Top Gun."
��������"Oh, I love that movie. What was Robert Redford like?"
��������I paused for a moment contemplating my next statement. What was the use? " He was wonderful," I replied.
��������"Well I'll let you get settled in. I'm late for my show."
��������"Goodnight."
��������I hadn't seen any televisions when I entered. I thought it was best not to ask. I laid down on the bed staring at the ceiling. I thought about my normal father and how he could have grown up here. I rolled over and tucked my hand under the pillow, pulling a pasta strainer out from behind my head. I closed my eyes and drifted to sleep.
��������I dreamt of Jenny and the night on the balcony. Everything was perfect. Lit candles set the mood and I could feel the ring box digging into my chest through my jacket pocket. I was woken with a sharp kick and then a loud scream. Startled, I leapt from the bed to see my grandmother standing near me with one foot on top of a chair wearing an army helmet and waving the lit bedside lamp screaming, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!" Sweat pored down my head in fear as the light from the waving lamp flew through the air. For a moment she stopped and I examined her face. Her eyes were closed. "Great, she sleep walks." I slowly moved in with one shaking hand and grabbed the lamp and sat it on the table. "Where did she get an army helmet from?" I coasted her to the bed and she laid motionless and peaceful. I checked the time on my watch. It was four thirty. I had been asleep for almost ten hours. What was I doing here? I stared at my bags for a moment and contemplated an early morning escaped. I sat back on the bed and looked over at the lamp. "Dear lord, please have a plan. If your listening, tell me it's a good one." I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep.
��������I woke the next morning with the sun shining brightly on my face. The room felt like an oven. I rolled out of bed and gathered my luggage. I walked down the hall and discovered another bedroom and threw the large Samsonite bag onto the bed. She appeared in the doorway.
��������"What are you doing?"
��������"Changing rooms."��������
��������"Why?"
��������"I didn't sleep well. I thought it would be best to have my own room tonight. I'm scared I may wake up with you standing over me with a shaved head and black suit screaming about how you have a dream."
��������"Well to each their own. Breakfast is ready."
��������"Thanks, I'll be down in a bit." I was running off of airplane peanuts at the moment. A good meal sounded great. The room was filled with trophies and medals, All State and Champion frequently filled the space between the golden plaques. "This was my father's room." A picture of my father and mother at highschool graduation sat next to the window. "How were you so normal?" I thought about my father quite frequently after he had passed away. I was in Portland, covering a story and couldn't make it back in time. I would never see him again. And for what? For Portland. I had no last words, nothing to remember. I couldn't remember the last thing I said to him. From the window the sky over the bay was all completely blue but for one red floating object. I moved closer to the window to examine it. It was a kite flowing over the air above the dock. I followed the string down to an old man sitting next door. His face sat coldly on the kite. Any average person would find joy in flying a kite. This man looked as if he was at work, waiting for the horn to sound so he could get home to his wife and kids.
��������I headed downstairs and entered the kitchen where grandma sat at the dining room table looking out over the dock.
��������"Grandma, do you know the guy who lives next door?"
��������"Oh yeah, a real nut job. He chased me around the yard with garden sheers once. He is not to be trusted."
��������"Oh grandma, I doubt that's true," I said thinking that it did actually sound possible.
��������I finished my breakfast quickly, scraping the guacamole from my burnt waffle and applying butter then put my plate in the sink after removing the socks and iron. "Maybe I'll cook tonight grandma," I said as I grabbed the handle to the door and walked into the backyard. I could see the old man was now flying a large blue kite. It glided through the air and swooped down over the water and back up as if trying desperately to escape the man's grasp. "Hi there!" I yelled from across the yard. The man stood, eyes still on the kite. I walked over to the hedges and peered over. "How you doing? Great day were having. I love the weather out here." The old man reached up and grabbed the string and began reeling it in without saying a word. "I love the kite. I saw you flying a red one earlier from my window." He stuffed the kite under his arm and turned towards his house and began trudging across his lawn. "Nice talking to you I guess," I said squinting through the sun. "The people around here sure know how to make you feel welcome."
��������I walked back inside and the smell of burnt waffle mixed with scented candles and filled my nose. In the sitting room Mr. Gorbachev, as I know refer to her, was lying on her back on a mat surrounded by candles with her legs stretched high in the air. "Great, she does yoga too. These candles can't be safe." Her eyes were closed and she breathed in and out loudly before she opened them, still in position, and looked at me.
��������"Can you move along son, your throwing off my chi."
��������"Sure thing grandma."
��������The next few days were nothing special. Gorbachev drove into town for weekly karate lessons and freed the slaves as Abraham Lincoln late one night in the sitting room, I tried peanut butter and tuna sandwiches for the first time, and the old man by the dock still flew his kites. I found myself sitting on the dock a lot. I thought about Jenny and why she hadn't had the decency to at least call. I thought about my mom and how she was doing in Boston. And I thought about my dad. I thought about his life and the great things he did with it, about how he would feel about my life, an unmarried, out of work, writer. I wondered what he did here, where he played when he was a child, if he swam in the bay, jumped from the dock, even sat where I sat. His name was carved all over the dock, along with my mothers. They had grew up down the road from each other. Grandma was in side at this time doing her yoga and I found it best to not get in the way, sitting at the dock with my glass of jack. The great thing I had discovered about the house was it's over abundance of alcohol in the bar. The stars were beautiful and I found it sad that I had never seen them this way. The city lights killed the godlike connection between me and the beautiful sight. But here they seemed so close, as if you could walk out onto the water and collect them like seashells.
��������A few more glasses later, I decided to be adventurous. Past the hedges sat the old man's shed in which I always noticed he escaped to after flying his beautiful kites. I clumsily sat up from my chair and felt my brain shift slightly in my head as I moved towards the steps. Feeling my way along the railing of the dock my knees felt like rubber as I missed the last step down and plowed, face first, into the soft grass. I stumbled to my feet and made my way towards the hedges fumbling my way down the sharp leaves until I found an opening near the water. The shed was decaying and slumped slightly sideways and I thought this surely must have been here while my father was still here. Perhaps he ventured here as well, following the same path. Maybe, the old man wasn't so senile then. There was no doubt that grandma hadn't changed much. "Chased her with garden sheers?" I thought sliding the rotted door open. Hopefully, I wouldn't suffer a similar fate. While at my best I was confident I could outrun an elderly man, but the state I was presently in it would be in god's hands. I flipped open my phone, shining the artificial light through the dust. I read one missed call from my mother before my eyes wandered up. My eyes widened as they moved from one corner of the small structure to the other. Hanging from the ceiling, lying on the floor, sitting on the side tables were kites of all sizes and colors filled every crevice of the wooden sanctuary. Hundreds of the beautiful, man made angels sat nesting. I shined the light over them, meeting and greeting the lot. I walked slowly through them, letting them bounce from my shoulders and flutter into my face when one caught my eye. Inscribed on the back was what looked like a small message:
��������
��������Lorraine, Thomas does well. The kids are beautiful.
��������
I stared at it for a moment, running my fingers over the words. A cool, water filled, breeze entered the window making a near by kite dance. It read:

��������Sgt. Wellington, I'm sorry I couldn't do more. The troops acted heroically.

I watched the words flutter through the breeze and soon the others followed after, all dancing to the same rhythm, their words all swirling. On the back of every one of them were words written. They were all messages wrote to someone. "What are these for?" I thought staring at them. All the gorgeous, landed angels, with messages to people I had never met. Possibly, messages to people I had a feeling I would never have a chance to meet. I began reading the messages. Many of them were short messages, updating someone on family and friends. Many of them were apologetic, asking for forgiveness.
��������
��������Just as I began to think that possibly I had drank a little too much, I heard the door squeak open. Startled, I dropped the kite and it floated softly to the dusty floor.
��������"I see you sitting on the dock," the old man said softly as he entered the small cramped room.
��������
��������My mouth, I knew, had the ability to move and, through no fault of my own, produce sound. I had much experience with this ability having done it for many years throughout my life, but for the moment it seemed to have failed me. I searched his hands first. No signs of garden sheers or sharp objects. Then my eyes turned to the room for possible escape routes. The window was open but if I managed to get to it, would my slow reacting body keep up with my mind long enough to perform such a feat?
��������"I knew your father. He was a great kid. I heard what happened to him. I'm very sorry."
��������I felt my mouth move and tried to grab at my words as they floated out. It was no use.
��������"You knew my father?"
��������"Yes. He actually helped me make some of these."
��������"What are they?"
��������He paused for a moment, and turned towards the wall flipping on the light switch near the door introducing a much more vast array of kites not visible through Motorola light.
��������"Your father had big dreams your grandmother didn't exactly agree with. She wanted to keep him here after the death of your grandfather. He wanted to run away with your mother and start a life."
��������"Did you know my mother?"
��������"Oh yes," he said laughing.
��������"You hardly ever saw them apart. You see, my wife and son had just passed away shortly after we moved in here, a car accident." He spoke even softer, showing this was a hard thing to speak about.
��������"I had turned into a bit of a hermit, when I met your father and mother one day when they ventured over to my dock. He spoke of the death of his father, we talked everyday. We talked about my wife and son, his father and his dreams. He was very young when we met but he saved my life. I like to think I saved his. At least I thought that when he said goodbye. He left for college with your mom."
��������"Against what grandma thought?"
��������"Oh, if you saw this kid, nothing was going to stop him."
��������"Well, what do these have to do with anything?" I asked, the kites dangling above my head.
��������"Well one day your father was flying a kite and we began talking. I asked if he ever thought his father heard him talking to him. At times I felt as though my wife could not hear me. Well your father told me something I remember until this day. He said maybe sometimes we aren't loud enough to hear. He took a pen and his kite out and asked me what I wanted to say to my wife and son."
��������"Why?"
��������"He wrote my message on the top of the kite along with a message to his father. He told me sometimes they can't fly low enough to hear us." He said forcing a laugh trying to fight back tears.
��������"So you flew them a message they could see?"
��������"Oh, yes we did. We flew many messages after that day including one last one to his father the day he left."
��������"What did it say?"
��������"I never read his messages and he never read mine. They weren't meant to be read by anyone else other than the ones they were sent to."
��������I knew that within this room was the kite my father had sent his father. That kite held his dreams, his ideas, his thoughts. As much as I wanted to read them, I knew I wasn't meant to.
��������"I'm sorry for breaking in. I was just curious."
��������"Oh, no harm done."
��������"Perhaps I should be going."
��������He looked at me for a short time and smiled. In the light I could see every line on his face, as they disappeared through his smile.
��������"Everything has a way of fixing themselves son."
��������I smiled and walked out into yard. I stopped to look up at the dark sky as the cool night air swam across my face. I laid my jacket down on the damp grass and threw my body on it. I stared at the exploding stars and thought about my father and the old man flying their kites, with all their words as their lost ones floated only a few feet above grabbing at them as if checking their mail. They ripped open the envelope and unfolded the kites and sat back and read as tears filled their eyes. They would peek down from their clouds and see my father and the old man flying their kites and smile. I laid there on the ground until I felt the last sensation of inebriation leave my body and my eyes get heavy.
��������I woke with Gorbachev standing over my body with a pitcher of water in her hand and the bright light of the sun beaming behind her. My head pounded and I had trouble breathing. I gasped for air and sat up.
��������"I thought you were dead." She said holding the pitcher to her side.
��������"Were you going to throw that on me?"
��������She stood in thought for a moment. "No, thought you might be thirsty." She smiled.
��������I stood up and grabbed my jacket and ran inside and up the stairs. I pulled my laptop from my bag, whipped down the antique desk and sat it down. I thought about what the old man said about my father and my grandmother and I thought about Jenny. I began charging my phone and it lit to life, four missed calls, all mom. I cleared it all from my mind and began typing. A few hours later I finished and grabbed my phone and called a taxi into town. I pulled some fresh clothes from my bag and took a shower. I stepped naked out of the bathroom into my room, when I saw my grandmother standing in the door. Quickly, I threw a towel around my waist.
��������"What are you doing in here?"
��������"Oh, don't be so shy. You don't have anything I haven't seen before. Are you hungry?"
��������"I'm taking a taxi into the city to pick some things up. I'll get something while im there."
��������"Good, my shows on tonight anyways."
��������I finished getting dressed and made my way downstairs determined to keep an eye open for a television this time. Still nothing. The taxi was waiting outside. I opened the door and got in. ��������
��������"It took you awhile." I told the driver.
��������"It's hard to find a driver that will come out here. There's a crazy lazy in this neighborhood."
��������I laughed as he drove off down the road. I stopped by an old thrift store after eating and picked up a kite. One last stop. I got back in the taxi and told him back to the house. My phone vibrated in my pocket and I opened it up expecting to see my mother's name. Instead I saw Davis, my roommate. I closed it as he left a voicemail. The taxi pulled up outside the house and I payed the driver.
��������"Be brave," he said laughing as I shut the door.
��������I walked through the front door and threw the bag down on the table. Never ceasing to amaze me, Gorbachev was juggling eggs in the dining room.
��������"How was the show?"
��������"Great," she said, keeping full concentration on the flying eggs.
��������It was getting late, I walked to the bar and fixed a drink. I took a sip, looking at the smashed eggs on the floor and smiled. I walked out to the dock and sat down with my kite and a permanent marker. I looked out over the bay and thought about what I wanted to say. There were so many things, grandma, my life, mom, the old man. My mind wandered when it finally came to me. The marker touched the silky skin of the kite and Gorbachev walked up behind me.
��������"Can I write something?"
��������Startled, I smiled and handed her the marker.
��������"My son and that girl. They were so ambitious, so many dreams. I was stupid to think I could ever hold him back. And selfish."
��������"You know about the kites?"
��������"Of course, he was always flying these damn things. I even tried to get in that crazy man's shed one night. I wanted to know what he wrote to his father. He wasn't the only one that hurt."
��������"Is that when the old man chased you with the garden sheers?" I asked, smiling.
��������She laughed and handed me the kite. "There we go. You think he'll see it?"
��������"I'm sure he will."
��������I finished and sat the rest of the night thinking about what I would do with my life. Everything would fix itself. That's what the old man had said. I put the kite under my arm and walked inside to go to bed almost tripping over Gorbachev who was asleep in the dining room floor. I placed a blanket over her and walked upstairs. The next morning I awoke with her hovering above me once more.
��������"You know, that's really creepy."
��������"You got a call from some newspaper. In Philadelphia."
��������"A call?" I asked staring at her through on bloodshot eye.
��������I sat up and reached for my cell phone, dialing the number Gorbachev left next to my bed.
��������"Hello, Editor's desk. This is Dean."
��������"Yes, this is Jamison. I got a call this morning."
��������"Oh, yes Jamison. I read the articles you sent me. I would like to offer you a job."
��������"You liked my articles?" I asked, lost for words.
��������"Well they were alright, but one intrigued me. Showed a lot of promise. The one about Gorbachev and the kites. Is all this true? The stuff about your grandmother?"
��������"Sadly, yes."
��������"Hilarious, good stuff. I would like to set up an interview."
��������"That's great. Thank you."
��������"I'll put you on with my secretary."
��������I finished making a date with a woman with a forgettable name and hung the phone up. I took a shower and put clean clothes on. I stared at the pictures of my father for a moment, the awards and the ribbons and beautiful plaques. The trophies were the only dusty thing in the house. The whole room actually looked as if it had not been cleaned in a very long time. I thought about how hard it must have been for Gorbachev to come into the room and see her son's life spread around her. Maybe she was at peace now. I didn't read her message. I didn't feel I had the right to. I peeked out of the window, across the lawn the old man stood with kite in hand. I smiled and threw my clothes into my bag and ran downstairs and out the door. I grabbed the kite and met him in the back lawn. He looked at me and waved.
��������"So I see you've decided to join me."
��������"I figured a last goodbye was in order."
��������"Oh, I see. And where might you be headed?"
��������"I got a job offer from a paper in Philadelphia."
��������"Good to hear son. Planning on telling your father?"
��������"I think he knows." I said smiling.
��������I unwound the string as the bay winds caught the last words to my father and sent them soaring through the air.
��������"You think he'll see it?"
��������"They always do."

Reviews

[SR Urie]

Hiya' Nathan.
Great work, man. Let's go fly a kite, leave the world behind as we express our messages of regret and love and admonishments to the sky. Outstanding story line and character descriptions, and superbly told in some far away land where the crazy, lovable grandmother dwells in the house your father was raised in, the home your parents began their love in, and next store to a very credible witness to events past so long ago. As always you weave your text like fine silk, my friend. To be honest it does need a little bit of editting. Looking forward to reading more of your work. I hope the part about the job was factual. BZ


PS: I envy your nuclear family, despite how unordinary it seems to you. It's much more than I had.

[Legion]

That is just damn good writing right there. Can't say much else about it. Keep up the good work (on a kite or not). ;)

[Pax Analog]

Engaging mix of absurdity and wonder.

Memorable in the manner of a slice o' a good indie film.

Even a self-fulfilling prophecy component, re the Philly job.

There is a growing substantiality to your work when humane wonder emerges from the seed of idiosyncratic humor. Time to clean up spelling errors and such, 'cause you should begin to peddle your work. Cheerz!

[~LeeAnn~]

interesting.

[Starting Over]

I love this! Imaginative! I loved it (again) Ahh the joys of the simpleness of flying a kite! I love when ppl get bored because they come up with some of the best stories!

[Mark]

I wish I were able to stop obsessing about spelling and grammar, as there are so many really fine writers here, whose work, could I but ignore those, would be so much more entertaining, and you are pre-eminent among them, Nathan. But I'm afraid I never shall...
This was a wonderful tale, with realistic characters that any reader could identify with. I mean, who among us has not had at leat one crazy Granny, or Auntie, and an obstreperous neighbor, whom we found out too late would have been a blessing to us, had we made the effort to penetrate his shell of disagreeability?

[Jason]

Kind of inspiring....and an enjoyable read. I like the way you let the characters talk alot. It really allows the reader to interact more with the story. Great work!

Jay

[nostal]

You have created a masterpiece. The whole story was a pleasure to read throughout.

[Kelsey Desmond]

This story has a really good hook. The opening is simple yet extraordinary. To really keep me reading a story, which I mainly only read a few lines then judge those upon my review unless the author specifically asks me to review a certain part in the story other than that, you have to have a well-written opening. I think you made your first few lines very well and instead of wanting to read a little and not read the rest, I surprising wanted to go on, which I rarely ever want to even with well-written writing. I have this thing where it's hard for me to really want to read something on the internet. It is so much easier for me to read something printed like a book or something. But that did not happen in this story. Very nicely done.

--Kelsey Desmond