Hansel & Gretel

My mother was digging through some old papers and books of photos and came across this. It's a story that I dictated to her and she wrote down. I was four. Embiggen to enjoy. (Also, my mother's handwriting hasn't changed one bit since then.)

A Very Early Story

Surface Temperature, Part 4 of 4

Many years ago, I wrote this short story, "Surface Temperature" -- I think I was 18 or 19, or something like that. It's mostly bad, but there's something charming about it, sort of, maybe. It's a bit heavy-handed. Lately, I've felt the need to go back and read things I wrote long ago--maybe it has something to do with turning 30. Or maybe not. So, for what it's worth, part 4 of 4:

I have come to a conclusion. When everything is blown up, all you have is what is behind you. No matter what you plan to do, how many experiences you hope to live, who you plan to marry, what you want to be when you grow up, where you want to buy a house, and what you want done to your body when you die - none of that matters. Because all that can be taken away, and it will. I hear people who are thirty years old asking each other "what do you want to do with your life?" They talk as if life somehow begins as soon as you decide that it has. They're waiting for the defining moment to alert them to the fact that life has indeed begun. But the thing is that waiting doesn't get you anywhere. Waiting is what those people back at the grocery store are doing. Waiting is what that man selling kites is doing. Waiting is dying, and they're just doing it slower. I can't live that way. I'm afraid of dying that way.

So here I am sitting on the sand with just the ends of my toes in the water. I wiggle them back and forth and the heavy sand covers them. I move my ankles a bit more and the sand cracks open to reveal my now nuclear skin. Funny, it still looks the same. The air around me is becoming more and more chemical. When the wind blows now, it smells like boiling ammonia and ozone. My UFO kites block the sun and spin a shadow on my chest that dances across my torso and shoulders. There is no one, as far as I can see.

What is my life? I am terribly disappointed in what I have accomplished so far. But there it is again, so far. In a few hours there won't be anything left to desire. All I've ever worked for, hoped for, asked for, has come down to this moment, and all I have to show for it is a couple of UFO kites.

I shove their strings deep into the sand and pile more on top so that they are well anchored. I pull off my swim trunks, then lie down again. The chemical air is blowing across my entire naked body. The heat is greater now, and the sun has moved directly above me. I move myself down onto more of the wet sand. I shift my weight from one shoulder to another to push the sand out from under me, making a hole. I wiggle and writhe until there is room enough to cover my whole body. I slide into the hole I've made and begin to cover myself up with wet sand. I even cover my face. I'm taking a hint from those turtles. I move down into a hole in the sand to wait for the surface to cool, so I can come bursting out to make a mad dash towards life. My UFO kites are flying like tethered birds above where I'm buried. I wonder will anyone see them. Every few minutes (or every few seconds, I've lost all time now) I check the surface of the sand for coolness. Only it gets hotter and hotter each time I check. I'm beginning to wonder if it will ever again be cool to the touch.

I eventually fall asleep. When I wake up (who knows how much later) I check the sand above me, knowing that now is the time. But it's still hot. The sand feels so hot that I think it might be cool at first, but I know that feeling all too well from standing barefoot in the road as a kid. I don't have enough guts to burst out like the sea turtles did. I'm too afraid of what I might find out there. I'm too afraid of how hot it actually might be.

I can only wait. Wait like those poor crying mothers in the freezer case. Wait like the kite salesman. And the waiting feels like dying, only slower.

Surface Temperature, Part 3 of 4

Many years ago, I wrote this short story, "Surface Temperature" -- I think I was 18 or 19, or something like that. It's mostly bad, but there's something charming about it, sort of, maybe. It's a bit heavy-handed. Lately, I've felt the need to go back and read things I wrote long ago--maybe it has something to do with turning 30. Or maybe not. So, for what it's worth, part 3 of 4:

I continued down the road. I took off my shoes. There weren't any cars. Although the man who sells UFO kites was still parked on the west side of the highway. His sign had changed. It used to read "UFO KITES $10." He had added the words "EVERYTHING MUST GO" to the bottom. As I walked past he slathered white sunscreen across his flushed flesh. He was wearing a straw hat with the brim flipped up, a severely ugly bathing suit, and some well-worn purple flip-flops. He looked like John F. Kennedy with a couple of earrings. Maybe he was in the navy at some point.

"Where you think you're going?" He shouted lazily from his lawn chair.

"Just down the road a bit."

"You live around here?" He added. I could tell by his tone that he didn't really care.

"Yeah, I live down in the Three Palms Apartments."

"Really? Mind if I ask how much you pay for something like that?"

"Four sixty. Plus utilities."

"Really?" He pulled his head back and the skin on his neck folded up. "Do you like it much?"

"Oh yeah, it's got a great view." I told him what I tell all the people who ask. Mostly only tourists ask me how I like my apartment. In Florida everyone makes the balcony sacrifice. If you want to see the ocean you pay five times more than you would if you want to look at sea oats in front of a line of pine trees.

"Maybe I should look into getting a place there. I'm looking into moving you know. It's just that I'm waiting to really get up on my feet. You know, financially. I'm trying to save up to get my daughter to college by selling these damn things." He sat forward. “She wants to be a baby doctor. You know, deliver babies.”

"Yeah." I pretended to be interested.

"I mean I can't just go out on a limb and take a chance like moving into a snazzy apartment like the ones at Three Palms. I don't have that kind of security. Oh well, one day." He sat back.

"How much?"

"Ten dollars." I thought the kites might be drastically reduced.

I reached into my bathing suit pocket and pulled out a twenty that had been through the wash several times.

"I'll take two."

"Sure thing! Do you have a color preference?" He inquired honestly.

"No. Just whatever you have will be fine."

"Okay. Here you go." He handed me two long strings with kites attached. They fluttered in the wind twisting around each other like sea serpents.

"Thanks. So I'll see you around."

"Yup. I'm here every afternoon." He waved as I walked away. I just turned and went, like it was a regular day, like it was a regular conversation, like I wasn't consumed by fear.

When I got to the beach nature had gone a bit askew. There were sea turtles hatching. Sea turtles aren't supposed to hatch in the daytime because the sand is too hot to crawl on. Normally, they hatch out of their eggs then crawl to just underneath the surface of the sand and wait there until it's cool enough to make the mad dash for the ocean. The movements of one turtle inspire the others so that when one breaks the surface, so do all the others, and all three-hundred or so baby sea turtles burst out at the exact same time. Nature.

Why is this happening now? It's almost noon and the blast made the temperature rise even more. The turtles were braving the hot sand like they didn't even feel it, flapping their tiny flippers as fast as they could go, chasing each other towards the water. Their backs each caught a single shimmer of blue light that sparked across the sand in waves. Most of them made it to the water. I hadn't the heart to tell them that it's tainted. Their one chance at life has already been poisoned.

I walked a few hundred feet down away from the turtle’s nest to where the sand was fresh white and I couldn't see any footprints. It was warmer there, but I sat down anyway. I took deep lethal breaths and my mind wandered. A short while later, I'm really alert.

Surface Temperature, Part 2 of 4

Many years ago, I wrote this short story, "Surface Temperature" -- I think I was 18 or 19, or something like that. It's mostly bad, but there's something charming about it, sort of, maybe. It's a bit heavy-handed. Lately, I've felt the need to go back and read things I wrote long ago--maybe it has something to do with turning 30. Or maybe not. So, for what it's worth, part 2 of 4:

Slowly people began to realize that the very air was tainted and some began to cover their mouths. They looked like they were halfway between hypochondria and sheer disbelief. I began my way through the cars towards the road and stepped off the curb. I even remembered to look both ways before crossing the street. I looked up. I didn't really know what to look for. Would there be another one? I let the wind blow across my face and my hair fell into my eyes. My skin was tingling and pink. It was the same feeling you have right after really good sex, and I was breathing the same hard slow breaths. I burrowed my eyes into my palms, expecting the skin on my face to rub right off. Isn't that what's supposed to happen?

"We have to move out of here!" A man in a long black trench coat was tiring the stunned masses ever more. He was trying to fix us, and most didn't yet know they were broken. He had smooth cheeks that faded into curious black hair that lined the curve of his ear. It was pulled into a braid that slid down his back and pointed to his hips. "Listen to me! If we don't get to a shelter fast the air is going to kill us. You feel hot because your skin is burned. Listen you people; there isn't much time! Five more minutes and you're sure to die. If you made it through the blast get your asses off the pavement and get inside!"

Several of us peered into the store. We saw faces that mirrored ours, only they weren't us. They were the faces of strangers, fear flooding silently from every opening.

"It won't help,” I said. All the glass is broken and the walls aren't thick enough to do any good." I could hardly hear my own words. My hair began to blow into my mouth and it tasted like red wine, a charred finish and a suburban bouquet.

"Quit arguing and get inside. If we get inside the freezer case, we'll be safe from the radiation." He stirred once again.

Lots of the women who had gathered their children were obeying and most of the men too. There were a few of us left out in the parking lot. I could do nothing to stop them. At least the tourist moms could die with their children huddled tightly against their stomachs.

"I'm telling you, it won't help. The wind is blowing through just as much in there as it is out here." I heard myself contesting, even though I didn’t really care. There was no way I was going to get cramped up in a tiny broken freezer case in the basement of the Save-A-Lot. I began walking towards the beach.

"Look, stay with us. When the police come we will all be together. I won't come looking for you." The man in trench coat was sincere. I didn't turn around for another twenty feet and when I looked, he was gone, just as quickly as he had appeared.

The road was hot. When I was a child I would stand on the black paved streets without shoes because I liked to feel the bottoms of my feet burn. I thought that the heat would make my skin stronger and tougher. I thought I would be able to run faster through the mowed fields, through the musty pinewoods. Tough feet were equal to limitless character.

After three or four minutes standing on the burning streets, your mind begins to play games with your body. You can't tell whether your feet are burning or freezing. It's the same feeling when you put your fingers into scalding water. First it feels terribly cold, then hot. As I was standing alone in the parking lot, when the bomb actually detonated, there was unbelievable heat. It was like all of America's suburban ovens were thrust open at the same time and everyone's glasses became foggy. The concrete heated up so fast that my heels began to burn. I stood there and savored the heat, knowing that I was becoming stronger, knowing that I was on my way to limitless character.

But if you want to know the whole of what I was feeling – the heat was closing in on me from the outside, and the cold was exploding from my insides. I felt with such lucid clarity my own isolation. The cold began to emerge and wrap itself around me. I was alone. In this way what I felt was the opposite of what I normally feel. It wasn't the stinging cold of hot water, but the caustic heat of solitude.

Surface Temperature, Part 1 of 4

Many years ago, I wrote this short story, "Surface Temperature" -- I think I was 18 or 19, or something like that. It's mostly bad, but there's something charming about it, sort of, maybe. It's a bit heavy-handed. Lately, I've felt the need to go back and read things I wrote long ago--maybe it has something to do with turning 30. Or maybe not. So, for what it's worth, part 1 of 4:

Hiroshima happened on an ordinary day. This morning when the sky was blood red from dawn, I could see it wasn't going to be an ordinary day, and that's why I didn't worry. I woke up fast and hot − night sweats, except the air was cold. I opened the east-facing window and the air smelled of wet rust. There were no yard sale signs posted, as usual. There were no women walking dogs, as usual. There were no metal-detecting tourists on the beach, as usual.

Work started in forty minutes and I was only half prepared for the hours ahead. I work at the Save-A-Lot on A1A. I am a bag boy. I studied at the University of Southern Florida for four years. I have a bachelor’s degree in advanced mathematics, but don't ask me to recount the list of events that promoted me to bag boy. It's a very short list.

I force myself into the bathroom and cough up some phlegm into the sink, (ahh…Florida mornings.) The hot water is steaming my nasal passages open and my eyes are still foggy from sleep. My face in the mirror looks like a frightened mouth gaping open. The steam rises from the fake porcelain to surround my head in a smoky wreath. It smells like a dirty mixture of ocean water and all-you-can-eat seafood buffets. It’s that smell that Floridians know too well. The smell that arouses the tourists attached sentiment. I gather up enough of myself to begin the day. Half a stale everything bagel and a fifteen minute walk later the glowing Save-A-Lot neon casts red light across my face and I can feel it's warmth.

What people allow themselves to buy when they're on vacation--every cart looks the same: half a gallon of skim milk, one tub kool-aid powder, several ice cream flavors, lunch meat, Wonder bread, tortilla chips, mild salsa, Chips Ahoy! Cookies, and salad dressing (no salad ingredients.) I make sure to bag the bread separately. The tourists seem to like that and they always ask for plastic.

The registers were beeping at their usual random intervals when all of a sudden they began to beep in unison, one after another like a giant bar code countdown. Only the beeping continued, and the freezer case when out with an almost silent whimper. Babies quit crying and mothers quit sorting through coupons. Everything in the entire supermarket stopped and we all stood there silently listening to the countdown of the laser registers. Five, four, three, two, one, and then even they stopped. The radio in the store buzzed static like it does during a hurricane. We began to look out the windows and up at the sky. There was nothing. It was clear and empty only the blood red that I woke up to was gone, now it was a loose striped olive color. The air blew through the aisles and smelled like sweet rotting fruit.

I started to walk out into the parking lot; most of the customers were already on their way outside. We stood there in the strangely empty lot staring up at the sky, looking for it, waiting for it. A seagull flew in a growing spiral above our heads. There was an incredible flash of light, like God taking a picture of us. There were smoke circles in the sky high above; an atmospheric crystal pond − and someone had tossed an atomic pebble into the center. The greenness of the sky faded to yellow, then burned orange, then was black. The smoke lifted upwards, away from us and wind blew plastic bags around our feet in miniature tornadoes.

Then there was the noise of a thousand freight trains skidding to a cold dead halt − the noise of a dozen hurricanes thundering in over the coastline in one fatal swoop − the noise of a massive herd of charging bison − the noise of a cheering crowd − the noise of one hundred Fourth of Julys. Then the cry of a tiny baby, strapped into a car seat. She stretched her arms and legs out as far as they could reach, reaching with every bit of sacred life inside of her. The child screamed with such innocent terror − it was the sound that all of us would have made, if we could have made any sound at all. We were thrown to the ground. As I lay there listening to the nuclear holocaust above us my mind raced to find a conclusion. I tried to think of something that would set my mind − not at ease − but in a still quiet place. I tried to remember my mother. I tried to remember my first love. I tore through all my experiences trying to find something that would give me the courage to die. I could think of nothing.