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Post by samson manyhorses on Sept 12, 2013 2:03:02 GMT -5
"Samson, I'm worried about you."
Samson hated it whenever his aunt worried. His aunt worrying meant discussions, lectures, conversation; everything he never wanted or asked for. And she had a knack to do this while his cousins were with their dad in Boston and Martha was a with a friend.
He supposed she meant well. She was, after all, a clinical psychiatrist who specialized in child welfare who also happened to be his aunt. She was supposed to feel worried. The Benjamin Turner case became a big deal overnight, and as his aunt became 'concerned' with his safety, he secretly knew that the dreaded 'conversation' was coming.
It happened with the Trayvon Martin case. And then, it happened with the school shooting in Colorado.
So when she called him to the spaced out kitchen they shared with three other people, he kept his head down and said nothing until she spoke.
"I want to talk about this upcoming school year," She began, her voice as professional and accent-free as she could possibly stand it, "As, you would know, they found Benjamin Turner's body a few days ago."
"Three days ago." he corrected.
He stared at her. A pair of brown eyes peered into a matching set of brown eyes that hid behind glasses and long hair, Samson thought he saw something that indicated some sadness but he wasn't sure. She continued.
"Yes, ahem..." Dr. Birdsong's voice was slightly scratchy and hoarse, as if she had been screaming the entire morning.
"Three days ago, they found Benjamin Turner's body, Samson. Do you know what this means?" She said it in that way where teachers, or doctors, or any other type of authority figure would ask a patient or a student an obvious question, and answer it without giving the other person a chance to speak. He didn't let her have that chance.
"He's dead."
"Well, you are right," she took a sip from the coffee mug that she cradled between her fingers and said, "But, what does this mean for you?"
He shrugged. What did it mean for him? He wasn't Benjamin. He wasn't even his friend. What did it matter? His sister barely cared either, and she was in the same grade.
"It means, that you need to be careful." Here it comes, the lecture-talk.
"Anything can and will happen, and I made a promise a long time ago to keep you all safe." He wanted to drown her out, but he loved her enough to listen, even if it was just the same, hackneyed speech that she's given out since 9/11.
"...take your phone with you... hide your money... if someone follows you in a car and it's not me, run."
Stay safe. Don't die. Please don't die.
"Did you get all of that?"
But he never complained. It wasn't his place, after all.
"Samson."
"Yes?"
"Do you understand?"
"Yes ma'am." He stood to his full height, dwarfing the grown woman that sat beneath him. "Where are you going? To Cici's."
She held back a sad chuckle, "Of course, you always go there these days."
It was either that or the library. And it was closed, today.
"Don't worry. I know what my curfew is. It's still light out."
"I know." Her eyes said differently.
"I'll be fine." he said as he lurched towards the door, "I know."
I don't know.
"Don't worry."
I will.
..
Ashwick might've been a small town, but he was grateful for its arcade. It was bright, and had a collection of classics such as Pac-Man and Street Fighter. Which might've been boring or simplistic to some, but like with his writing and his pet snake, it kept him normal and temperate.
He bought a slice, pepperoni, and sank into the game room where he was greeting by the warm neon glow of Space Invader and Tetris.
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Post by naomi williams on Sept 12, 2013 19:50:21 GMT -5
“Did you finish your homework?” This was becoming a daily routine for them, this line of questioning. Their dad was going to be gone for a couple of days. He was hauling lumber out of state; it didn't pay much but nothing around here did. He kept talking about selling the truck or putting another driver in it and working for a big company with a dedicated route. Waste Management or Ozarka or something. When work was going good he could bring home twice what he'd make at one of those other places in a week. But it hadn't been going good for a while now.
Her little brother was sitting on the living room couch with a bag of Doritos in his lap. He ate them mechanically without looking, hand to mouth. “Yeah.” At ten years old he was small for his age and slim. He didn't even look back when Naomi talked to him.
Their living room was all mismatched furniture and garage sale finds, madras plaid and bright green velvet upholstery that was bought on sale. Naomi stood behind the wood-and velvet couch tucking in her black Cici's tee. She hated tucking in her shirt, but it was a rule.
“I’m gonna check it when I get home.” She was trying to sound authoritative, something their mom might have said, something she probably heard before herself. “There’s pizza in the fridge if you get hungry. Lock the doors when I leave, and don’t open them for anyone. You hear me?”
“Uh huh.” Alton's eyes still glued to the car chase on t.v. He was watching COPS, or something like it. Where they film from the back seat of a patrol car and the officer tells you about why they do the job they do before they pull someone over for swerving across the line.
She wishes he'd look at her, acknowledge how hard she's trying to be the grown up.
But he doesn't. “I’ll call you on my break. Bed by eight.” Naomi picked up her mandatory cap from the hat stand by the door and locks the door behind. The pinto-brown Datsun in the drive way used to be her dad's work truck before she inherited it. She had to use a pair of pliers to crank down the driver's side window.
.....
At work she got in trouble for being out of uniform. She'd forgotten to change in to her slip proof shoes, but the manager let her off with a warning. She has to go around and check the temperature of the warm foods on the buffet tables, probing them with a thermometer to make sure they aren't breeding bacteria. It's an important job, the manager says she's the most responsible person on shift.
When her break rolls around she calls home and then grabs one of the big red plastic cups and fills it with ice and coke. She never eats at work. Sometimes she goes to the Subway down the strip, but she doesn't have any money for it today.
Wandering back towards the arcade she sees the tall figure of Samson Manyhorses playing one of the games. He's here a lot, never really talking to anyone, just playing. She didn't know his story. To the best of her knowledge no one did.
There wasn't anyone else around, really. Not near the games anyway. There was a family up front, eating slices, the mom in sweat pants and the kid making spitballs, aiming them at the window. Naomi couldn't bring herself to sit at one of those empty tables not eating.
She approached Sam quietly, speaking over his shoulder. "Hey." Pause. "Do you want a drink or something?"
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Post by samson manyhorses on Sept 12, 2013 21:07:27 GMT -5
He inserts his first quarter and the machine springs to life, as if it had for the first time. The first level is always easy. The aliens are always slow and easy to defeat. Always. The 8bit formula's stayed the same for over 20 years. Yet, Samson found a form of safety in it. If his snake died, or whenever the world becomes a pile of ash, he'd always go to this game for comfort. Comfort and stability, that's what most humans aim for, right? That's what most things boil down, to, anyway.
He didn't move from his spot when he heard someone walk in. He assumed it was a younger kid, so he didn't really feel like scaring them away. Usually, people would leave or play on another machine that was purposefully spaced away from his own.
But when the person didn't leave, or avoid him, he felt a small bit of shock? Was it really shock? Maybe surprise. And then she spoke to him.
"Hey." He stops playing, and loses, "Do you want a drink or something?"
He finally decides to turn and look at her. "Oh, hey, Naomi," Naomi Williams. The art club girl. He barely spoke to her. He barely spoke to anyone, but to have someone from school approach him out of the blue was...strange. She seemed nice, though, he's seen her a lot at her job, but he never bothered speaking to her. They weren't friends.
"Ah, sure." he says, as he reached for a few dollars, in his jean pockets.
"Here. Pick what you like and keep the change."
He wondered if he was acting normal enough to not freak her out. Being around people, especially people his own age was hard. He always felt like he gave off this aura that made him unapproachable. So, he always tried to be as friendly as he could, which was next to impossible at times. But he tried and that's all that mattered at this point in his life.
And besides, he really should get back to his game.
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Post by naomi williams on Sept 15, 2013 0:05:01 GMT -5
She waved his money away with an open hand. "I get freebies. Pay it forward." Not waiting for him to argue she went back to the soda fountain grabbed another one of the big red plastic cups. They were bubbled in a way that she guessed was supposed to make it look like glass, but reminded her of warts. She filled the cup with ice and Mountain Dew, not really sure why. It was one of those guy things.
Every guy she knew under the age of 20 drank Mountain Dew like it was going out of business.
She capped the cup with one of the flimsy plastic lids that didn't match and stuck a straw in it, careful not to touch anything that might come in contact with his mouth. It was another one of the rules. It scared her that she did it without really thinking about it.
Bringing it back she sat it on the edge of the game console, trying not to interrupt his game. It felt strange and awkward; it's not like she was really a waitress or anything. She just didn't know what else to do. Was it loneliness, or boredom?
Maybe.
"It's Mountain Dew. I hope that's okay."
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Post by samson manyhorses on Sept 15, 2013 2:06:13 GMT -5
He swallowed, a little taken aback from her kindness, "Thanks." but then he realized it was probably all a part of her job. Still, he felt like he had to give her something for all of the trouble. He put his money away. When Samson went back to the 8bit game, he couldn't help but feel some form of discomfort. Not from the girl's gesture, no, that was nice. But more about himself.
Did he speak clearly enough? Did he have an accent; and if so, was it obvious?
Did it look as if he were leering over her like some weird pervert?
He shook his head. He lost. Again.
He felt her presence again, and when she rested the drink to his side, he quickly thanked her without turning.
Don't be weird. Don't be creepy. Just. Act. Normal.
"Do you like working here?" he asked after he lost for a third time. "And yeah, Mountain Dew's fine, I guess." he took a sip, "It's really sweet. Did you know, there was a time in the mid-nineties where they tried to market it as an energy drink? Messed up." He chuckles nervously, "But, yeah. Do you like working here? You seem...tired, sometimes."
Was he asking for too much? Honestly, they never really said much to each other, ever. Except for that one time he texted her by accident.
She probably thought he was the world's biggest fuck-up, already.
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Post by naomi williams on Sept 15, 2013 23:15:57 GMT -5
Naomi shrugged lightly, taking a sip of her coke and then poking the ice around the cup with her straw. There was too much, it was almost empty. She was sure there was some sort of plot to make sure your cup always had too much ice, save the vendors on soda.
"It's okay. I mean, it pays and stuff. "
Not enough. After gas, her cell phone, the water bill, and food it was gone. She was supposed to be saving up for college, but that thought was evaporating like raindrops on the 4th of July. What's worse, her problem could all be solved....but it couldn't. Her stomach tied in knots at that thought. To be so close, but so far.
"I didn't know that. I thought it was just a guy thing....not like I know a lot of guys or anything, but my brother can drink like a liter by himself if you let him."
She tried to sound normal, casual. Not like someone striking up a conversation with a total stranger so she didn't have to sit alone and think about how screwed up her life was. "So where did you move from?"
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Post by samson manyhorses on Sept 16, 2013 0:02:22 GMT -5
"It's always good to have extra money. You can buy whatever you want. Or save it up." Not like that was happening for him any time soon. Jobs were hard to find when you had no work experience and you literally came from the middle of nowhere.
"Pine Ridge, South Dakota." Samson answered dryly, to be specific, he was in the capital at a children's home for a while until his aunt was able to adopt him and his sister when he was about 12. His parent's case was brand new then and it was covered by a few stations for about a month.
Needless to say, he didn't like to talk too much about South Dakota. His amnesia handled the rest.
When she mentioned a brother, he gave her a look and asked, "You're the youngest?" as if to show the type of interest a normal person does when they're having a conversation with someone for the first time. Oh, where'd you go to school? Who are your parents? Are they rich?
Or whatever he gleaned from when he heard his more affluent classmates talk about themselves.
"I'm the youngest. I have six siblings. Four girls and two boys. My brother's been living by himself since he was seventeen. I'm wondering if I can ask my aunt if I can do the same."
He stopped before he could speak any more, he had to remember to slow down before he revealed too much about himself. Too much for him to feel comfortable with sharing, anyway. "Sounds fun, don't you think?" He smiled.
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Post by naomi williams on Sept 17, 2013 21:20:35 GMT -5
"Yeah. I guess so." She didn't want to admit that her money went to bills and gas and Mountain Dew by the liter. They were her problems, and at least outside of home she could pretend to be normal, just for a little while. As if her biggest problem was figuring out what movie to see on Saturday night, or her parents cracking down on curfew.
"No, i'm the oldest. It's just me and my brother Alton. He's ten." After her brother her mom had gotten her tubes tied, so there'd be no more 'uh-oh' babies.
She couldn't imagine having six brothers and sisters. Their house seemed crowded enough as it was. Already she was thinking in terms of laundry, bread, gallons of milk. "I dunno. It sounds hard. You have to pay rent, gas, bills, food. Find a roommate. But you don't have anyone looking over your shoulder, telling you what to do. " It actually didn't sound much different than what she did now, but who would look after Alton? "I'm probably gonna be stuck here forever slinging pizza to the masses." She hadn't meant to say that and it sounded bitter, jaded even. Looking down at her cup quickly she it around, mostly ice and icemelt only tinged coke brown, "Do you ever miss South Dakota?"
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