Too Short Maybe

I felt like writing something with no interpretations necessary, sometime it can be so fun to

write things like that. Its an absolute relief for the writer sometimes. I kept changing my mind

mid way about where the whole thing was headed. It was fun writing something that didn't

need very much thinking I could just type away uninterrupted. I know writing is supposed

to be a heavy editing real trial and error thing but its a real joy to sit down and let something light

and crisp; something salad-y and light winded come out.

For the summer me and my friend decided to get a job painting houses. Not the best idea we've ever had; we would arrive at houses fresh faced and lacking in paint splattered overalls; and no matter how little we charged nobody seemed to be into the ideas of two kids painting a house. We agreed that we wouldn't paint outsides only insides. Only rooms with air conditioning and possible lemonade; my friend bought $200 worth of painting equipment: paintbrushes, ladders, tarp all that stuff. I liked the determined look on his face when he got back from the hardware store. He put his hand on my shoulder looked me in the eyes and said: we can fucking do this. We never fucking did it.

We spent most of the summer; sitting around; waiting for calls. Sometimes an old lady would call us in and ask us to paint her dog house or maybe just touch up the smallest room in the house. We could never make enough to balance our $200 expenses. I would wake up every morning 8am sharp and walk to his house. A half an hour walk through the traffic and the grime and the squishing squashing heat; ignoring all the motorists passing by whistling at me cause I choose to wear shorts. He would buzzer me into the house; a huge house with fresh modern furniture and fixtures and panelings. It wasn't one of those modern charming -expensive- houses you'd see on TV. It was possible tacky but it most definitely would sweat this sort of I have a lot of fucking cash in my bank account feel. It was so hot; that I imagined the house sweating.

They had no maids or houseworkers; my friend did all the cleaning and he did all the cooking. Every month he would wake up at 7 to polish and mop the floors. Every 2 months he would wake up at 9 to clean all the shining stair railings. It was a Cinderella's step mothers house; tile and golden banisters. When I arrived he would always be cleaning something; I would make him breakfast. Then we would sit around in his room and wait for phone calls to come and they almost never did.

I loved his house because he would put the air con on full blast whenever I came over. There was always something in the pantry for us to cook. He had nutmegs and cardamom seeds a whole god damn spice rack that felt two feet tall. He would put nutmeg in his pancakes and I always felt it must be good to be able to eat so grandly. When we weren't eating we would sit around and read Peanuts comics. I would walk back home at 5 just before it would get dark. I wouldn't take any of the shortcuts through the bushes or parks; I would avoid all dark corners; I would constantly try and pull my shorts so they'd stretch across my legs more and pull my top up to show considerable less cleavage and wonder whether it was really that hot that I had to dress like a slut and get possible raped. I wonder whether women should really be this frightened. When I got home he would always call just to make sure I wasn't mugged shot kidnapped gang raped on the way back. Despite all his worrying he never walked me home. He was not much of a walker.

"Do you think we should go get a more; successful job? Waiter; fast food attendant; delivery"

"No I don't really care about getting money" I really didn't; I just wanted to spend the summer the best I could. And the best I could in a way that allowed me to stay cool refreshed lounging in a big bed in an air con room sipping lemonade in some sort of crystal cup with Indonesian sugar cane sugar and European Lemons. "What about you?"

"I just want to paint houses" I assumed that as a rich kid he always had someone else painting rooms for him; some professional hired from the South of France or something; hence driving his dire to do his own painting. I noticed that whenever he painted he would focus and focus like his mind would explode.

We painted a few more places; the inside of a small school cupboard that had spaghetti sauce dripping from the walls; somebody's large wooden Ikea table. I did not see him after that; I stopped going to his house for a few days- the newspaper reported a bank robbery with the suspects still at large and even though I wasn't sure what a bank robber would want with me I could not bring myself to leave the house- and when I went again I rang the doorbell to have nobody answer me. I tried a few times before guessing that he was out on vacation or something.

He did show up to my house two weeks later. I found him sitting on my bed playing with the curtains when I came back from a job interview ; I never locked my bedroom window and I could imagine him finally putting that shiny $70 ladder to use. I glanced out the window and could see the shine of its slime steel frame. He was very very tan all of a sudden I didn't like looking at him it was too much like looking at a carrot; a over sized carrot sitting on my bed. He looked at me not the least bit upset by his new carroty appearance

"Hey where have you been?"

"Job interview; you?"

"Camping. There I brought you a pine cone!"

There was a pine cone sitting on my table and a glossy plastic bag with pictures of trees on it. There were shorts and lumberjack button up cotton shirts in there "My family insisted I buy you something" There was also a rape alarm in there.

He left at around midnight so that I could finally fall asleep with being self conscious about drooling or saying strange names in my sleep. I assume he left the way he came in. I woke up again 3 hours later; restless restless restless; the ladder was gone. I tried on his gifts before dozing off to sleep again.

He kept going back and forth; first here then back camping then here then back camping then here then back camping. He always came back with the same tan carrot colored never darker or lighter; as if he had reached the point of no return. I would always get different things as souvenirs; a pile of rocks, a pile of leaves; vast amounts of lumberjack shirts and at one point sturdy hiking shoes. Every time he came back he would climb his way into my unlocked room and bring me my gifts; then we would put on the computer and on the PS2 and play Pacman all day. Honestly I was pissed I did not have the opportunity to try out my new rape alarm. I never left the house anymore except to buy nutmegs.

It was his 8th time back from camping and this time he brought me 3 cotton t shirts and a large towel. The window was open and there was a breeze drifting through. A breeze is not as wonderful as an air con. A breeze keeps coming and going and there is nothing you can do to control it.

"Do you want to come on the next trip with me?"

I gave him an odd look; he never told me anything about his trips. He wasn't the type "Why?"

"I enjoy your company"

We put on Pacman on the PS2 again. On the 8th level I agreed. Finally, a place to go out and possible use my rape alarm. He said he would bring everything else; flashlights, first aid kit, sleeping bags, pillows, the whole set. He helped me put a few shirts and shorts into a small backpack; with my rape alarm and a fresh toothbrush. At 3am he stumbled out of the room climbing down the ladder; I envied his masculine confidence of the shadows and the alleys.

When we left he drove up in a small old car; there was a lot of crap crammed in the back. Half way along the journey he admitted that his parents would one out of the two nights. I did not care.

We didn't do anything romantic or inappropriate up there; I felt like I wanted too but at the same time I didn't. We took cold showers in the river and laid out to dry in the stony banks. We baked fish. We didn't talk as much as usual when we were there; he never looked like he wanted to talk. Not that he was, upset, or anything like that. He just always looked like he was out of words, like he was born a mute and this was crisp clear apple flavored silence was natural completely natural. There was no lemonade out there that was the furthest away I had ever been to any source of lemonade. There was no Indonesian sugar cane sugar out there. I loved how the water was clean and cold and how the stones were round and smooth; I kept wondering how rocks could be so round and smooth. I never touched my rape alarm; there were other campers around here and there; but I never felt I needed it. Maybe I could smash someone in the head with a smooth round rock if they tried anything. But I didn't worry about it. I spent hours sitting near the waters trying to trace the little streams that trickled from the forest into the rivers I would use the stones to block the stream; re route the stream; make a dam; make a waterfall. All sorts of things. I was like those little kids who can spend hours absorbed in elementary wooden blocks. I felt bad that, as an adult, I grew out of toys. But things can remain timeless; building sandcastles and rerouting little streams. Well, I hoped that those things were timeless. I liked dropping leaves and sticks into the currents; running to a meander barefoot and wet and then squatting on the shores waiting for the leaf or stick to blow past me so I could pick it up.

The middle of the last night; we had moved camp right by the rocky river so I could play all night long. I wasn't allowed to swim but I didn't need to. There was no moon out and we were a bit to close to the city to see many stars. It was still light for some reason; I could still see. I could spot my rocky towers and my rocky arches, caves and waterfalls. I would keep mounting them up so that they stuck up even more and were even more distinct. He couldn't sleep; he hadn't slept since we got here. After I had finished up my monuments; made them so perfect and so wonderfully complete; I walked up to him in his sleeping bag "Are you tired?"

He didn't answer. He hadn't talked much all day. Today less then yesterday "Why do you think we failed so badly at painting?"

"I don't know, too young I guess"

"Too short?"

"Maybe"

He didn't have the born mute born natural face on, he looked the same sort of troubled he looked back home when he couldn't find his mop or when he was too sick to make Pancakes. I got him to go back into the tent but it didn't make a difference. I could feel his worry stir up into the surrounding air; it made everything thick like yogurt and I couldn't sleep because of it. I twisted and turned in my sleeping bag because it was hot and uncomfortable; he didn't move like he was weighted down by a specially strong gravitational pull. Sometimes I felt he might sink into the ground and I would wake up and he would be in a 6 foot hole with the same sort of face and I would have to try and pull him out.

"I can't sleep"

"I'm sorry" he assumed insomnia was contagious at that moment. Insomnia is when you can't sleep. I was trapped in some sort of yogurt flavored insomnia. The last thing I wanted was for the sun to come up. I wanted to go out and play with my rocks but for the first time was too afraid to go outside. "I wandered lonely as a cloud,

That floats on high o'er vales and hills" I didn't know he was a poetry reciter

"I didn't know you were a poetry reciter" I pulled the sleeping bag as high up as I could; but I couldn't get it over my head.

"Are you scared of something?" I was scared he would sink into the ground; I was so scared of something, so very scared of not knowing what to be scared of. And I couldn't pull anything over my head; not like at home where I could pull a blanket over my head and be completely shielded in my vortex of cotton and polyester. That worried me even more; not having my polyester cotton shield.

"I'm bloody terrified"

He didn't ask me any questions he just kept on reciting

"I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills

When all at once I saw a crowd

A host, of golden daffodils

Beside the lake beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze"

I had to bury my head in his chest to make up for the lack of cotton polyester protection over my head. I was afraid I would wet his t-shirt so I tried to squeeze my eyes shut till they were sealed. "Continuous as the stars that shine" Continuous as the stars that shine. I sensed that he felt like a Romantic poet then and there; Byron Shelley Wordsworth were the only one's I knew. I sensed it through the yogurt filled air. Maybe then I could pretend to be Mary Shelley; but the I thought of Frankenstein's monster and got even more terrified. His orange-ness didn't glow in the dark as I had once assumed; I comforted myself thinking of his carrot color and all the other colors I knew. "And twinkle in the Milky Way" And twinkle in the Milky Way; how I wanted a candy bar. I clenched my fist keeping my thumbs tucked in; a terrible habit. I shoke my head a little side to side. "They stretch'd in never ending line along the margin of the bay."

In a never fucking ending line. I don't know how long I managed to keep my eyes and my fists clenched shut I was gonna squeeze the life out of my thumbs; I resisted putting them in my mouth so I could suck my thumb like an infant. He patted me on the back; with a determined voice "I'm not ever gonna sink into the ground no matter how much the earth's pushing me"

I had to think about what he had said 3 times before I understood it "Pulling"

"?"

"The earth would be pulling you"

"Right" He had a determined silence; a concentrated focused silence. He yawned, a good sign.

As if that was the end of the poem he recited the whole thing again

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden Daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle in the Milky Way The stretch'd in never ending line across the margin of the bay.

There are no such thing as perfect imperfect nights; if you were to look at it scientifically literally. In the same way it could be argued that you can't say that a perfectly imperfect night with your head buried in a poet singing chest can happen non romantically non inappropriately non in love. I wasn't in love with that boy no matter what is said; I loved him only in that way that people love people that friends love friends that pine cones love pines and that rocks love rivers.

"I feel like Mary Shelley" I told him

"I like Mary Shelley"

Eventhough there was no moon out and we were too close to the city to see stars; it was still light out.