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please comment and tell me about my work!

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Art HW

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Dreamer, that’s my name. I have been called that ever since- well, I don’t remember. But, I know that’s my name and that’s what I respond to. I bet you my mother will tell a good, long story about why Dreamer’s my name. Maybe how it derived from Darwin, my good, legal name, or it came from my dad, or the dreams I had when I was three. But, me, I don’t know how it’s my name, but it is. Dreamer, that’s my name.

I’ve been walking on this cracked sidewalk for about ten minutes. Click, click, click. That’s the sound my feet make, or the stone I’m kicking makes. My back-pack is heavy, full of good, hard books. In my hands are the straps. This was the first time I was walking home alone in years. It feels strange, kinda grown-up and strong-feeling, but also scared to bits. Scared of things like large dogs or people or bird poop or cars or balls or talk or rain or cracks, I’m stupidly scared.

But, I know if I keep on walking, I’ll be closer to home, I’ll be closer to my room. I have to walk, not run, because I don’t want to be heard. I don’t want to heave. So, I kick the stone with my left foot to the right and my right foot to the left. Then, I repeat. This pattern, this habit, it’s not hard to break. This stone can easily move one hop to the grass and this pattern wouldn’t be a pattern. But, the stone does what I tell it to do. It lands perfectly each time.

I’m almost home. Five kicks away. Four kicks away. Three. Two. One. I’m there. I reach into my pockets to find my key. Inside, I feel safe. I feel well. Throw my back-pack onto the ground. Nothing in there is of any real value, just books. Open the fridge, I grab a carton of milk and chug. No one is here to stop me. Lick my lips, yum. I grab the remote and start watching TV.

I awaken when the doorknob turns. The television is still on. I must have dozed off. In comes my uncle with a lady. Both drunk. I quickly turn the TV off, afraid he will hear it. I close my eyes, pretend to be asleep. He doesn’t notice me and walks upstairs. Lucky call. There’s no point in going upstairs now, so I fall asleep again. That night I dreamt about my parents. I was dreaming of them hugging me, so tight that I burst like a piñata. Then, the scene changed into a cage. Inside, there were three people, my dad, my mom, and me. We looked happy as can be and unaware of the cage that surrounds us, partially because of the vast size of the cage. It was also because of that good feeling of being loved. It was a good life. Note the past tense.

When I woke up, I realized I haven’t had dinner and felt awfully hungry. There wasn’t anything but some frozen peas in the fridge. I grabbed those because it was better than nothing. I shuffle some into a pot with water and cooked them on the stove. I felt smart to know how to work a stove even though I was never allowed to when I was younger. But, I do now, and that’s sure a good thing to know. When it boils, I wait two minutes. Done, I drain the peas and start eating with a spoon, yum.

My uncle is already gone, fishing that is. He told me he always goes fishing on Saturdays and won’t wait for me if I don’t wake up at 5am sharp. I told me I didn’t want to go. He told me maybe next Saturday. I don’t know why I would get up at 5pm to go fishing for cods with an uncle that had been drunk the day before. I don’t know why anyone would.

So, I decided to do some homework with the books with crooked spines and crumpled paper. I came across a contest flyer, for photography that is. I looked at it for a second. Was it a joke? The prize was a new camera, a Canon, valued at three hundred dollars. Who’d spend three hundred buckaroos on a camera? I should have thrown the flyer in the trashcan right then and there, but I didn’t, because the trashcan was full. So, I tossed it back into my back-pack and continued on my homework.

At noon, I finished my homework. The TV only had reruns of dumb shows and I wasn’t gonna spend a good Saturday afternoon watching dumb reruns, so I went outside. As I step out the house, I realize how strange it was, how strange I felt.

I’ve lived in this house for nine years, when I moved from Connecticut at the age of three. So, I guess if you had to map out where my childhood was spent, it would be here, Savannah, Georgia. Now, this house is like a stranger, because my room and I are the only things that are visually kept the same. I’m the remains of what was once joyful, but my heart is hard now, like stone so there is no joy. I don’t know if I will ever love again, seeing what the lack of it can do to me. Underneath all that, I know my philosophy is wrong, however that is something I am afraid to admit.

I am a coward.

My breaths become hard to manage. I feel like I’m going have an asthma attack but I don’t have asthma. And my eyes are pouring out drops of salty ocean. I can’t stand this feeling. I won’t be a captive of this feeling. I won’t. I won’t. So, I run. My legs are moving fast, faster, so quick they seem to come off the ground. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I know I’m going somewhere. I don’t care where, I just want to run. I want to hide.

Run. Hide. Run. Hide. Those are the only thoughts in my mind. My vision is blurry and I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know me anymore. I don’t understand.

Suddenly, a car makes a turn and almost hits me. It honks its horn, but I can’t stop. I can’t stop. I also can’t die, not this way. Not the same way they died. Then, I jump up on the car’s hood and bounce onto the grass. My feet are still moving. I’m still alive.

“Unbelievable!” I shout, the word echoing through this unfamiliar neighborhood. In a second, I’m aware of my sudden voice and feel like a total maniac. I’m too tired to move now and drop like I’m dead. My eyes close quickly like they always do when they’re scared. What have I done?

Why did I run? Was it away? Did I run away? No. Was I going somewhere? Maybe, I thought. The truth is I don’t know. I have no idea. Confusion strikes me hard. I sit up on the grass, with my arms over my knees. I pinch myself to see if this was a dream. The pain tells me it’s not. I have to find a way back to home, only because I don’t know what else to do.
I realize my principles change easily. Yesterday, I was scared to run, scared to be heard, and scared of cars. Now? I broke all my rules, all with no reason.

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“Who are you?” the assistant director asks me, ready to get this conversation over with. Well, he clearly doesn’t know who I am or else he would slave to my every cry.

“My name is Thomas Alva Edison, I’m sure your boss have heard of me,” I slur my name to be sure he gets the memo.

He looks up from his list of tasks for the weekend. That surely got his attention.

“Oh, yes. Very sorry, Mr. Edison. I ‘ll direct you to Allen immediately,” he apologizes as Allen walks in. He examines, “Oh, Thomas, boy. How are you?”

“Doing dandy,” I say with truth, because I was doing dandy. I just invented a new way to make plumbing an industry. My fame for doing such a thing has gotten me much respect from colleges and even here today, Allen, himself.

“Good, Edison. You got yourself a real nice position here if you want it. Not only that, but you will be working with your good friend, myself,” he says with hope of me taking the job.

“Golly, Allen. I don’t want to be comfortable too soon!” I object. I may have invented the Edison system of Plumamatics, a feat many people at the age of 87 might not even be able to achieve, but I still had some time in front of me. I sure wanted to invent other mechanics as well, such as a object used to tighten the parts and pieces of my system. I wonder what I would call such a thing.

“Well, Edison, boy. What are you doing here if you are not ready to settle down?” Allen asks.

“I need your help,” I say and then whisper, “can we talk about this a bit more privately?”

“Of course,” Allen whispers back and brings me into his office where I see a couple of peculiar things.

“What do you need help with, Edison?” he asks me quietly.

“Ah, Allen,” I say, “I am waiting for a few spontaneous and inventive minds to join me in inventing a device that tightens and can also loosen a plumbing pipe,” I pause, “yes, I know that might sound impossible, but I think it can be done.”

“I see what you mean,” Allen responds with interest, “I think I got a couple boys here that would love to do work like that, including myself. In fact, I have thought of an idea myself on how to do such a thing. Look around the room,” Allen directs me, “I have tried making such a device myself, but it hardly seems so. The closest to doing those functions of loosing and tightening a pipe is number 32 right there.”

Allen points to a metal object on the corner of his desk.

I pick it up with my hands and feel its smooth and also sometimes scratchy texture. I see that it has a handle for the user to hold with his hand. It wasn’t a bad idea, I thought.

“Dandy,” I say, “But, I think it definitely needs improvement.”

“Yep, I think so, too, except I don’t know what else to add,” Allen tells me.

“Well, I sure do,” I say, thinking of a gripping mouth to the top of the handle that can slide up and down for adjusting to the different sizes of pipe. I had the whole idea in my mind now. Allen definitely noticed from the expression on my  face because he said, “Well, boy, tell me the idea!”

As I describe my additions to the handle, our faith in such a device grows more and more. Along the way, he helps me consider a few obstacles I have not thought of such as the material such a device.

“Golly gee, I think we got ourselves a plan,” I say.

“Me, too. If we only could think of a way to stop the night from hovering over us, I am sure we can have the invention by tomorrow,” Allen says. I suddenly notice the darkness of night looming over us. The other workers at the building already went home, all except Allen.

“Why don’t we just use a candle to see?” I ask.

“Come on, we’re inventors! We have to think of something more dynamic! Maybe something that uses electricity instead of mere wax and wick,” Allen persuades.
After thinking for a few moments, I also agree and start wondering how I can make such a thing. Even though I am a plumber expertise, I still want to be an inventor. Somehow, it seems as if I was meant to an inventor, except there was some physical force in the year 2012 from a teacher named Mrs. Walker keeping me away from doing what I want to do. Strange, right?

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Not once in my life have I questioned what it’s like to be arrested by my own father. Nor have I wondered what it’s like being convicted of a felony at the age of eighteen. Guess I should start asking myself those questions now, because those are the circumstances for me.

It was all set and done last week that I was to begin community service at an orphanage tomorrow. I only remembered because my dad reminded me ten times that night. Even though community service is a better option than the slammer, it is still a menacing choice compared to my familiar days of not getting caught. Maybe it is karma getting back at me for being a high school dropout or the odd bean in the family. Whatever the reason, it is supposedly to end my criminal ways for a good two months. All I can say to that is a sympathetic good luck, to whoever is in charge of me and my own darn self.

My dad storms into my room at 5:30am and tells me to get up and ready. Of course, he had to do this a few times before I actually got up.

On the ride to the orphanage, he began lecturing me about being respectful, my representation of the family, like a rerun on television. I already knew I am a big disappointment to our family and never will be able to fit in the mold they set for me. It is pointless to hear something I’ve already been told, so I turned on the radio.

“Emma,” my dad almost yells above the radio, “Turn that radio off right now.”

“Why?” I ask as I turn off the radio, even though I know why.

“Emma Elizabeth Dillard, you know what?” my dad lectures, “To the public, an eighteen year old is an adult. But, the public clearly haven’t met you,” he sighs and laughs a bitter chuckle, “you’ve got yourself into some trouble, yet you don’t seem shaken at all. Seems to me I’m the one suffering, driving you every week to and from the orphanage for the next two months. Since you can’t act like an adult, at least have some appreciation for what I’m doing for you.”

I immediately feel ashamed for asking why, but haven’t the courage to say that aloud.

When we walk into the orphanage, the first person I see is a little girl, probably the age of six. I notice her first because she isn’t sitting with all the others who look as enjoyable as orphans can get. My dad starts talking to a lady, ready to introduce me and run out the doors, that way maybe people won’t associate his reputation with mine.

Well, I guess it worked because the lady looks at me with such concentrated pity that I know she didn’t spare any for my dad. She is the first one to speak.

“You’re lucky you get to work with real people instead of doing laundry,” are her first words to me, “You can call me Mrs. Addams, I will be showing you the ropes today. Tomorrow you’ll be doing these tasks yourself.”

After a brief moment of silence, she gets the message and walks me into the kitchen. There isn’t a way this lady is getting a word out of me.

“Your first task would be to set their breakfast, take the plates out of the cabinets, all eighty-nine of them, and grab the silverware from that bucket,” she points to a large off-white bin beside the sink. “The cook, Samantha, will take out the food, but you can help her if you like and that’s pretty much it for now. Got it?”

I glance around the obsolete room a little, noticing every stain. But, I nod, like I am supposed to. Did this lady really expect me to set the table for these kids? What am I? Their servant?

“Good, I’ll check up on you in an hour or two,” Mrs. Addams says and goes into another room.

I roll my eyes out of habit. I am not doing this. Seeing that there isn’t anything else to do I decide to roam this alien of a building. Outside of the kitchen is a hallway. In the passage, there are some stairs leading upwards and some abused doors. I decide to take the stairs, all of which seemed to need repair since they all squeak in wails. As I arrive on the next level, I notice two doors leading to bedrooms clustered with tattered twin beds. Did these kids really sleep in there? All scrunched up in one mess of a room?

All of a sudden, I hear someone coming up the stairs, so I duck into one of the rooms. I hear the footsteps coming closer to my hiding spot, so I conceal myself behind the closest bed. I know it is a silly tactic and doesn’t change much, but I closed my eyes. I guess that makes me equivalent to a toddler who’s afraid of the dark. When I hear the footsteps stop, I carefully open my eyes.

“Shit!” I shriek, startling the isolated girl I saw earlier, who is standing right in front of me. I suddenly feel an uproar of irritation boiling through my veins for having this pintsized pest alarm me, “Get lost, loser!” I scream at her.

The girl hastily backs off at my remark and starts tearing up a little. Even as I am shocked by what I’ve done, I can’t face this sobbing girl. I haven’t the courage to comfort her and apologize. Therefore, I jump right up and walk out the room, wanting the easiest out. I tell myself I only did that because I have no interest in dealing with a crybaby, but I know I am lying to myself. With each step down the squeaking stairs, I feel more and more regretful.

I finally make my way to the cafeteria, not knowing where else to be. That had been a mistake, because eighty-eight rowdy kids are looking straight on at me, waiting to be served their breakfast. I consider walking out of the cafeteria and leaving their problems to someone else, which was what I usually do. Yet, I am tired of taking the easy way out.

So, I actually force myself to walk into the kitchen and get all the eighty-eight kids their plates and utensils. After I did this, I become quite hungry myself and go into the kitchen where Samantha is taking out jars of yogurt. As soon as I saw what she was preparing for the kids, I lost my appetite.

“Oh, are the children ready for breakfast?” she wonder.

I nod, observing the fruit things she was making.

“I’ll get to them in a few minutes. Are you hungry?” she asks.

Nope, not hungry for those fruit things, I shake my head.

“Okay, well, if you get hungry, you know where the kitchen is. For now, help the children with their cereals,” she point to the gigantic bins of cereal in the cafeteria.

As I finish up the last kid with cereal, I see Mrs. Addams walking towards me. Guess this is her check-up on me.

“Well, I see the kids are eating their food, a little too much cereal perhaps? We’re not a food bank, so give the kids a little less tomorrow,” she says.

I nod.

“Once the kids finish eating, which I assume to be in thirty minutes,” she looks at her watch, “They’ll go to their classrooms, which are all on the West Wing. This will give you plenty of time to clean up a little, take their plates to that sink in the kitchen, as well as the utensils and help Samantha wash and dry them.”

I nod again.

“Oh, and after you’ve done all that, come meet me in the bedrooms. They’re upstairs, first door to the right,” she explains.

I roll my eyes. Thanks a lot, Mrs. Addams, thanks a lot for wasting my morning. While the kids finish up and disperse into their classrooms, I take their sloppily stacked plates, smelling of rotten eggs, into the kitchen.

“You can put those plates right here,” Samantha says, indicating the sink, “and when you get the utensils, put them on the counter. Once they’re all here, dry the plates and utensils as I go and put them in their previous spots.”

That was my two hours and a half gone from drying those dishes and utensils. I hate this place, I hate this stupid orphanage. I wonder if the slammer might have been a better punishment compared to doing these fruitless chores. As I walk up the squeaking stairs I hear Mrs. Addams dictating the kids in the bedroom.

I knock on the door.

“Hello, Elizabeth, that’s your name, right?” Mrs. Addams asks.

I shake my head, not wanting to answer. Mrs. Addams takes a few more stabs at my name, all of which are wrong. It gets to a point where her guesses are so obnoxious I know she is just trying to get a word out of me, the fake.

“No, it’s Emma,” I admit, tired of her game.

“Well, Emma,” Mrs. Addams says with a hint of satisfaction, “the kids are going outside to the playground in the backyard, just assist them if they ask for help.”

Being outside and watching the kids, is going to be the easiest job of the day, I bet. All around me are orphans playing, joyfully, it seems. They are all genuinely happy for the sun and the sky and their small broken lives. Yet, their broken lives aren’t anything like mine, theirs are forced. Mine is chosen. When I realize this, I suddenly feel guilt punch me in the heart. All the things I take for granted, like my family, my education, and my daily routine, these are all of these orphans’ envy.

Suddenly, I notice the small girl I saw earlier, sitting on the blacktop all alone. Should I go talk to her? Apologize? Before the thoughts launch into action, three older boys approach the girl and start teasing her. I can hear it in their mocking tone and see it in their taunting actions. Their snickering itself can break down this girl. Then, more kids start circling the girl, giving her no way to escape. They are now tormenting her with kicks and hits. One of the older boys hit so violently that it drew blood.

Just by watching this scene, my heart ached with uneasiness. I wish someone will walk over there and stop the violence, stop their hate. Then, I wonder why I can’t do that. Why not me? I know it isn’t fear from the ruthless bullies. Instead, it is my own dark morals and image that is holding me back.

I look at the helpless girl again and this time I realize my petty, selfish ways. I don’t want to be the coward anymore, the only role I know how to be. Suddenly, I get up on my two feet and push through the tightly packed circle, throwing the teasers, the girl, and myself off guard. As I help the girl off the blacktop and away from the other kids, I feel as if I just won a battle. Except the battle isn’t so much against the tormentors, it is against my previous self.

Her brown eyes, still glistening with tears, tell me she is startled and also that I am the world to her for defending her. Me, the high school dropout, the rebel, the disgrace to the family name, I am significant to this little girl. Deep down in my heart, a hole, one that I haven’t known existed, starts filling up with something, hope.

“Hello” I force out the word, realizing I really am trying, “You know, I don’t do this often, but…” I notice the unfamiliar words I am forming in my mouth “if you ever need help, a friend, or anything, I’ll be there.”

“Really?” the girl asks almost too quickly, “you promise?”

I stare into her bright brown eyes again, seeing how willingly I am to defend this girl. “You betcha!” I say, wanting to make her laugh more than anything after all the trouble.

It works and before I knew it I was laughing alongside with her.

“By the way, my name is Emma. If those kids ever pick on you again when I’m not here, just step out of it. Don’t fight, just stand up for yourself, that’s all you have to do,” I tell her.“My name is Lilly, I will” she replies, smiling a real, genuine smile. I suddenly wonder why I never felt so at peace all my life. Then, I realize, I have hope now.

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"And why exactly should I believe you?," Allison asks.  "Why? Because I am deeply in love with you," answers the boy she met not a week ago.

Allison Gorgon had never strayed far from her home in Rich. In fact, no one goes beyond the Fog Line which divides the Rich and the Less Fortunate. Except one frosty winter day when Allison saw something more than the fog and the boundary, a Less Fortunate.

Toad had walked this line many times. So many, it killed him not to pass it, not to spit on it and laugh. Even though his brother warns him not to get too close, how was his brother to know? And how dangerous can the Fog Line be?

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What do you think about when you hear tater tots? I think of kids, toddlers. About the age of 4 to 6. Playing, tackling, having the best of their childhood. It was an age where cooties were the biggest issue in mind. Crawling and biting, these little critters seemed almost like worms in the grass.

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“And before I knew it, I was being led to a place, a place that I never known, a place that slowly crept up onto my list of favorite places to be. I hadn’t known it at the time, but it will be the place I get buried.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, appalled.

“They’re turning that land into a cemetery.”

“Well, how are you going to be guaranteed a spot?”

She didn’t respond right away, but then swallowed and said, half joking, half serious, “Guess I’ll have to die at the right time.”

“Even if you’re not,” I pause to find the right word, “ready?”

“Oh, stop, being so melodramatic, there’s time, there’s space. It might not be for some time.”

“But, gram, you still got decades to live. You shouldn’t purposely end them!” I couldn’t believe she was even considering killing herself just to get to be buried in a certain spot.

“Gosh, kiddo. I don’t know about that. Decades? I just hope to get past another five years.”

I glanced at her and looked at her timeless beauty. She was geriatric, but still glowing with delight at the thought of her future. I wished I could hold on to her forever. I wished she was like a jawbreaker, lasting flavors and sweetness. Then, she closed her eyes and when she  opened them she looked right at me. What was she thinking? Did I have something in my hair?

“Oh, you’re going to achieve great things, I tell you,” she says and ruffled my hair. With that she kissed my forehead. “You,know, you take after your father. Ambitious, full of life, and, yes, stubborn.”

Slowly, the silence fell between us. But it wasn’t an empty silence. It was hopeful like sunshine after a long week of thunderstorms and rain. We stood there looking at the treasured piece of land.

At that, we walked home, taking our time with each step.