...About Lunch Money?

Lunch Money is a fictional short story that I wrote for a creative writing class this semester. I liked it, so I'm posting it public consumption. I hope you enjoy it!

Lunch Money
By Scott Schauf

A piercing shriek eviscerates me from my comatose state. The person who invented alarm clocks should experience every horrible sensation we as a species can conceive of. I muster every ounce of strength that I can in order to drop my fingers upon the snooze button. With the first item crossed off of my to-do list for the day, I roll over and enjoy ten more minutes of sweet, sweet slumber…

            A second round of almost-deafening intrusions erupts from that little box from hell, and I am no more ready to face the day than I was ten minutes ago. I know that my alarm triggering for a third time would summon Carl, my step-father to rouse me from my sanctuary, which is the last thing I want to deal with at this ungodly hour. I never knew my biological father; Carl has taken up the mantle of ‘man of the house’ ever since I was seven, and we got along just fine. I was simply in no mood to deal with people at the moment. At 5:30 AM on a Monday morning after the summer that I had, I was in no mood to deal with much of anything. I relent in my battle against the alarm clock for the time being. Until we meet again, Sony. Until we meet again.

            “Chris, get up and get in the shower, or you aren’t going to make it to school on time!” Carl shouts from outside my door. What a bastard. I force myself into my bathroom and turn the shower on, so Carl knows he was heard. I like my showers hot. No, really hot. I take stock of myself in the mirror as steam slowly begins billowing from the tub. My long, curly black hair obscures my view a bit; I toss it aside to get a better view. I’m one of those tall and lanky kids, who look like they haven’t eaten in a week. I’ve been skin-and-bones for as long as I can remember. My appearance has earned me several flattering nicknames over the years. Too Tall was my favorite, and Skeletor was the most confusing. I get it, I’m thin like a skeleton would be, but Skeletor wasn’t thin. It’s as if kids these days haven’t even heard of He-Man or Masters of the Universe.

            My bathroom is sufficiently steamy; the mirror I had been looking into is now almost completely engulfed. I glance at the clock before I enter my rejuvenation chamber. It is 5:45. I’ve got time for a twenty-five minute shower, give or take. It only takes me a few minutes to wash myself; some of my best thinking is done in the shower, enjoying the scathing water as it flows down my body. I quickly take care of the necessary cleansing, eagerly anticipating the time when I could just stand in the torrent of fire-water and melt away into my own head.

            I think back to my elementary school days. I attended the after-school care program that was run by our local YMCA. Carl and my mother both worked until 5:30 or so, so I spent my afternoons playing dodge ball and Connect 4. Man, I was great at Connect 4! It was so simple to me; there were only seven possible choices on any given turn. I guess that is why I feel like being a kid was so great. Your whole life is essentially a game of Connect 4.

On this particular afternoon, my friends and I were talking about our favorite movies. When it got to be my turn, I proudly proclaimed my love for The Iron Giant. When that was met with a rousing course of laughter and ridicule, it was safe to say that I was more than a little upset. I said some words that I had heard my mother and Carl shout at each other, and stormed off. The group leader, Ms. Emily, called me on my crime. Now, I would normally accept my fate and serve my sentence on the time-out bench. No big deal. Today, though, something was different. I just got so angry. I sat down under a tree and refused to move.

When Carl picked me up that night, Ms. Emily told the tale of my misdeeds that day. With a sad look in his eyes, he walked over to me and simply quoted The Iron Giant. “Look, it's none of my business, but who cares what these creeps think of you? They don't make you what you are, you do. You are who you choose to be.” He then smiled and turned to head for the exit. I quickly followed, already feeling much better.

A knock on the bathroom door shook me from my thoughts. This was Carl’s normal signal to me that I was overindulging myself. I glance down at my fingers; they were sufficiently wrinkled. I cease the flow of liquid fire and step out into the arctic. I quickly grab a towel and begin drying myself, shivering slightly as I do so. I brush my teeth and head back to my room in order to get dressed. Our hallway is littered with photos. They are mostly family shots; we are together and we are happy. I think for a moment about how we could possibly get to where we are from where we were. No answers come to mind, and I doubt that they ever will.

My first order of business upon entering my room was checking on my picture. I only have one photo in my room; a group shot of me, Carl, and my mother outside of Sea World. Ever since The Event, I’ve kept that picture face-down. I just can’t stand the constant sight of it. I do, however, check it once per day, making sure my mother didn’t abandon her photo duties as well. As I lift the frame up and see three sets of smiling teeth, I quickly put it back down and head towards the closet. I grab a pair of jeans and the first t-shirt I see and throw them on.

I can hear Carl making a racket while trying to prepare breakfast. My mom was never much of a cook. She tried to make me a grilled cheese sandwich once. I was very confused when I was handed a plate with two pieces of toast placed on top of each other. Carl has always been the chef of the house, and used to spoil me with homemade chocolate-chip pancakes with whipped cream and chocolate syrup. In the past few months, though, he makes scrambled eggs if anything. I generally make myself a bowl of cereal or skip breakfast altogether.

As I walk down the hallway, I detect the faint aroma of pancake batter. Without really noticing, I pick up my pace slightly. The scent gets stronger and stronger as I approach our kitchen. Carl has his back to me; he is slaving over something on the stove. “Good morning,” I say. Carl turns and smiles, then goes quickly back to the stove. I pour myself a glass of skim milk and sit down at the table. I hate skim milk, but my mother insists on buying it. Carl brings over plate of pancakes loaded with chocolate chips, the mountain of cooked batter obscuring my view of him a little bit.

“Thanks Carl. What’s the occasion?” He winces a bit. I used to call him dad, but somehow it didn’t feel right anymore. “It is your last first day at Creekwood!” He seems far more excited by that fact than I am. I simply nod and begin to load my plate. He sighs and slinks into his chair. That was the longest conversation we’ve had in a few days. When did things get so complicated?

His pancakes are just as good as I remember. As I eat, I stare out the window into our backyard. I see the tree house that Carl and I built together, many summer ago. I smile to myself as I think back to the afternoons we spent in the summer sun, hammering nails into pieces of wood seemingly at random. I remember lounging in our lawn chairs during one of many construction breaks, my mom serving us ice-cold lemonade. The tree house is still there, but time has done a number on it. The ladder has maybe 3 rungs intact. The wood is all discolored and rotten in spots. It looks less like the childhood sanctuary I have such fond memories of every day.

“Hurry up and eat,” Carl says. “You don’t want to be late for your big day!” He has no idea what I want anymore. I sigh quietly and shovel down the last few bites. I head back to my room and grab my things, including the oh-so-vital iPod. I step out onto our front porch just in time to see the bus fly by. I consider chasing it down, but each second of contemplation puts the bus farther away from me. Carl steps out behind me, briefcase in hand. I watch his mouth move, but the sound is drowned out by Noah and the Whale.

***

I need your light in my life
need your light in my life
need your light
so come back to me my darling
come back to me my darling
I'd do anything to be at your side
I'd be anyone to be at your side

***

I assume he is asking why I’m still here. I wonder the same thing sometimes. I point to the bus rounding the corner down the road. Come back to me my darling! His disappointed grimace tells me that my assumption was correct. Carl moves his lips some more, and turns to walk to his car. I follow and get in the passenger side.

I’ve always admired Carl’s car. I don’t know the make or model. I’m a lot of things, but ‘car guy’ is not one of them. But I know that he has seat-warmers and little screens all over and a built-in GPS system and all of the other things that luxury cars come equipped with. I remember the day he pulled into the driveway with it for the first time. I was ten, and immediately enamored with all of the bells and whistles. I was testing the DVD player out with my favorite movie, The Iron Giant, and I remember seeing Carl and my mom having an argument on the porch. I couldn’t hear them at all. The Iron Giant’s narrator set the scene.

***
A peaceful, uneventful day in a town much like your own. Then suddenly, without warning...Atomic holocaust!

***

My mom stormed into the house, and then Carl took me out for ice cream.

            We weren’t going for ice cream this morning, though. No, in fifteen minutes, I’d officially be beginning my career as a senior in high school. And before I knew it, I’d be graduating. Then what? Where do I go from there? College? Who am I going to become? What if I turn out like Carl? What if I don’t? What would my mom think? I begin to breathe rapidly, as these thoughts flood my mind and spawn further questions.

“Chris? What’s wrong?”

Shit! I must really have been freaking out if Carl had noticed. I had to decide how to proceed. I could lie and explain that I was nervous about my first day back. I could write my panic attack off as a symptom of sleep deprivation. I could tell him that my iPod stopped working and I was going to have to face the day without the comfort of The Postal Service. Or, I could tell Carl the truth. I could explain my fear of the future, my bleak outlook on the rest of my life. Maybe he could help! Maybe he has some sage insight only privy to the college-graduates of the world!

“Nothing, Carl. I’m just a bit nervous to go back to Creekwood.”

            He nods, and refocuses on the road in front of him. I don’t think he bought it. I know that Carl worries about me. I wish there was something I could do about that. I wish there was something I could do about anything. I slide my headphones back on and close my eyes as the black leather seat threatens to engulf me. The Avett Brothers are serenading me with dulcet tones, and I drift back into my own head.

***

I don't want to live, but I sure don't want to die.
I'm stuttering again and tellin' her goodbye.
Oh m-m-my, Goodb-b-bye

Will you come again? It's hard to say.
I surely hope so.
Will you come again? It's hard to say.
I surely hope so.

***

            “Chris, you can do anything you want to do in this world. I love you.” The last thing my mother said to me was a cliché and something she said every day of my life. Where was the heartfelt goodbye that movies and television had taught me to expect? Where was the life-changing insight into my character? She had delivered that line as if she were ordering a Big Mac at the drive-thru. And then she was just gone. It was just me and Carl, alone to face the world, and neither of us knew what we were doing. I am startled awake as the car stops abruptly.

            “We’re here big guy, time to grow that brain of yours!” Carl puts on the chipper face, the one that pretends high school isn’t a huge joke. It is admirable, but we both know I’m smarter than that. I sigh and open the door, resigned to my fate. I pause, and before I know it, I’m asking a question.

            “Carl, do you miss her?”

            Carl looks at me. His expression is hard to read. His brow is furrowed, and he looks a mixture of surprised, saddened, concerned, and regretful. I think I see the beginnings of tears pool in his eyes, and I quickly look away. I turn for the door, not expecting an answer. That question caught him off-guard as much as it did me.

            “Chris, wait!”

            I turn back again, growing weary of this dance, but eager to hear him finally talk about her with me. It had been almost two months now, and we hadn’t had a real conversation about it yet. Although we had been very close, we talked less and less as I grew up, and The Event seemed to be the final fall of the hammer driving the wedge between us.

            “Don’t forget your lunch money.” Carl’s arm is outstretched, a wrinkled five-dollar bill in his hand. I retrieve it from him and open the door once again. Nothing stops me this time. I close the door behind me and head into the future.