“We can hear the night watchman click his flashlight, ask himself if it’s him or them that’s really insane.” ~Bob Dylan
Garage smells were all encompassing; the scents of stale newspapers, mulch crusting on the ends of shovels, and decaying leaves crucified to rakes all congealed and created an odor of remembrance. Life in the past was hovering, whimpering, whispering old family stories and countless tales of Saturday afternoons spent in the yard weed eating. The lingering past, solidified in time in water-ruined cardboard boxes and beneath old picture frames and in the dust preserving tee-ball trophies that everyone on the team had received. An old ban saw sat growing gray hairs of rust on its blade, yearning for the mossy wood stacked in the corner.
Will stood amidst the capsule of fleeting times, letting the past soak through and tell him what life once was, all while searching for the pellet gun Peanut had assured him would be in here. An old badminton net was crammed in the corner, interwoven with cobwebs making it hard to distinguish where net and web ended and began. Rickety metal shelving leaned next to it, seemingly supported by its shadow, which was propped against the dusty, cold floor. Paint cans were stacked the width and breadth of the shelves containing annoying colors like beige and light navy; the colors created tear stream paths down the side of the cans, which made them appear sad and unsatisfied with the color they had been given. Insulation drooped from the ceiling, as did a dented ping-pong ball that swayed back and forth, almost imperceptibly. Will stood in the doorway, not wanting to enter. He would have to. He couldn't see through the oblique colors and dull lighting. Stepping onto the cold floor, he felt at ease; the chill on a summer’s day relaxed his muscles and propelled him forward. The door behind him lay open letting the beeps and buzzer sounds of the TV liven up the fossils.
"You choose a category now Lean."
"I'll take Famous Rivers for 200 please."
"This river ran red with blood in the Old Testament book Exodous."
Will heard the powerful voice of Peanut's mother stir at the question, confidently answering Mr. Trebek’s answer, while scolding the contestant for being such a dullard.
"You pick Famous Rivers when romantic poets are on the board. I swear, in this world you can either be smart or hip, not both." Peanut's mom quieted to hear the answer, which she had already stated as being The Nile.
A buzzer beeped in, "What is the
Another buzzer beeped, "What is the
"No, I'm sorry. The correct answer is the
Peanut's mother burst in, "Shit! These people don't know the Bible from Hamlet. Disgraceful!"
Will chuckled. He had known that one; how do these people get on Jeopardy? That is the sign of disintegrating times; stupidity of Jeopardy contestants. Changing his approach, Will looked for any object in the garage that gleamed at all, anything that maintained even the slightest shine he examined. He glanced around the room and saw soiled jars set in rows at the base of the paint cans. Timidity gripped him; he remembered Peanut's closet graveyard. He would have ignored the jars except a type of thick picture frame leaned against a neighboring box that reeled in his gaze sharply. Will walked over to it, feeling the dust stick to his feet, trying to escape.
Colors were trapped and pressed to glazed plastic, distorting the once brilliant shades of black and orange, meshing them into a jumbled mess. The butterfly had a pin through its abdomen, holding it firmly to its Styrofoam world. A sick feeling arose in Will's stomach as he remembered the same type of butterfly, a Monarch as the label described, letting its wings open in the sun giving him the strength to talk normally to Peanut; it was as if the Monarch had an innate understanding of it's territory and had radiated a lack of intimidation toward Peanut that Will had somehow used.
This made him hate Peanut, hate him all the more for ruining something innocent. Raising his head, he averted his attention to something that was keeping the naked light all to itself in a corner box. A navy jacket, subject to an ungodly amount of starch leaned in the box next to a pair of spit shined shoes, still reflecting some hints of immaculate days in what Will assumed was the Navy, and as the lapel of the jacket stated in loose red stitching belonged to The Red Skelton, gunman in Vietnam on the U.S.S something or other, the name of the ship was gone. Curiosity pulled Will down into the box by the front of his shirt. He picked up the objects that had been catching the light; a medal of honor was dulled and eroded, but still vaguely recognizable; purple hearts and silver stars sat in a plastic bag air tight with valor. The bars on the breast of the jacket seemed to tell a story that kept flowing from chapter to chapter down to the end of the fabric, a novel of one time importance and courage. Will hurriedly placed the symbols of lives saved into their unfit burial place, honor and courage collecting mildew in the dusty past. Feeling exhausted by the simple look at an accomplished mans past, Will pulled his head out of the box and conveniently and perhaps appropriately, the pellet gun sat directly in his sight, a guardian.
Gratefully, Will swiped the gun and yanked the string by the door which extinguished the light. The door shut, and Will saw some bits of dust spring through the crack at the base of the door. He sighed and sat on the stairs waiting Peanuts arrival.
Jars of all sizes lay in a twisted line on the kitchen counter; all the labels running together and creating one gigantic word conglomeration comprised of peanut butter, dressing, jam and numerous preservative fruits floating in their transparent goop; JIFRANCHSMUCKERSPEACHESPEARS. Peanut steadied himself on a makeshift ladder, constructed of a kitchen table chair and three stale boxes of Cheerios that his mother used for alternative bird food. Every morning she would wander outside with her house coat hanging open and whistle “Candle in the Wind”, which see believed as having some all-powerful hold over birds, a sort of avian enchantment to grab her winged friends attention. She sprinkled moldy Cheerios on the grass and waited, still whistling. Most birds remained perched on the telephone wires, glaring down, unimpressed. Most days it was “Candle in the Wind,” but occasionally if the mood took her, she would launch into a jive hum rendition of “Helter Skelter.” This sent the birds into a frenzy of squawking.
"Don't mind me son, just came down for some ice." Peanut's father had slipped in silently and was bent over, keeping his head fresh in the fridge, moving around heads of lettuce and countless ketchup packets in search of the ice, which was in the freezer, naturally. Peanut froze, and then realizing his fathers drunken state, relaxed and made a humble suggestion, "Sir, I think they are in the icebox, above your head." His father pulled his head from the meat drawer and turned around with an annoyed look on his slender, red face; it was a redness of rigorous scrubbing and the dirtying of numerous wash cloths to remove the red paint which he wore more or less everyday. He traded one red face for another, it never left him. He appeared eternally frustrated.
"Oh, I think you may be right son. And don't call me sir; you know how I hate that. Just say dad, that's what I am, after all." Peanut nodded, accidentally saying "yes sir" in his mind; he scolded himself. Ever since his father graduated from the clown academy, he had insisted that the term "sir" be banished from all his relatives’ vocabulary, especially the ankle biters and pipsqueaks. Peanut admired the term, clung to it with hopeful arms; placing it on a pedestal where it blinded him with anticipation. Sir was a term that Peanut secretly enjoyed being called but lightly scolded Will for.
Peanuts father had his glass of ice and whiskey in a firm grip, in whitening knuckles that seemed to carry the chill of the glass throughout his body and stiffen him as he walked away. He ricocheted off the door jambs and shot stumbling over to the bottom of the stairs where Peanut could see Will nodding off in his palm. A simple task, place one foot on stair and repeat. Will was dazed, drifting in and out of reality, leaving Peanut's father staring up the stairs dumbly and trying to coerce his brain into flipping Will's person upright in the backs of his eyes. One foot lifted onto the edge of the stair, to the side of Will, held for a moment and then slipped back to the floor sending a slosh of whiskey onto the crown of Will's head that trickled an alcohol rivulet down Will's forehead as a drunkards sweat. The whiskey drops tight roped the thin
Startled, Will rubbed his lips furiously with his sleeve and cast a perplexed look at Peanut's father who towered above him in an inebriated pleasure that set his face into a grin that spoke not of attrition but of fools pleasure in others pain. Will rubbed until he was sure the burn was coming from cloth against skin and not whiskey prodding at his raw nerve ends.
"Sorry about that William. For some reason I can't seem to the stairs climb. So if you could step aside little man, I would appreciate it much, a lot." All through his half-hearted apology and slurred explanation Peanut's father had been pointing his glass in random directions very pointedly, which sent streams of whiskey flying from the glass to hit carpet and wooden floors and a nervous Will who was attempting to avoid each whiskey missile.
"That's alright sir. I was just waiting for Peanut and I could use a bath anyway." Will watched his pitiful attempt at levity float over Peanut's fathers head. "Bathe? In whiskey? That doesn't make a bit of sense to me Will. Are you some sort of alcoholic?” Peanut’s father pointed the whiskey glass at Will and widened his eyes, awaiting an answer. When he received nothing but a blank stare, he continued as if nothing had occurred. “I think you have something loose in the head. And why is everyone calling me sir?! You just call me Red, OK Will? There is no formality in this house; I'm death to sick of it!" With his rant completed, Red looked up the stairs, blinked, and sighed; then sauntered upwards, carefully avoiding the hand-rail as if it were a snake charmed to lay still. Consequently, his whiskey glass contained only melted fragments of ice at the end of his journey and the stairs carpeting smelled of drunkards in cardboard boxes.
Peanut stood between the door jambs of the kitchen watching Will rub his forehead and check his breath into his hand. Cheerios lay dead in erratic spots across the kitchens linoleum floor like little islands floating in the white foam of the sea. The now decapitated boxes remained on the kitchen chair and the rows of condiments sat stolidly on the counter, blurring underneath the electric lights of the kitchen making it hard to differentiate them from the preservative jar wall-paper border that sprinted around the kitchen walls. Peanut glanced back at the mess and tossed the bag of sugar in his hand, feeling it hit his palm gently, like a pitcher with the bag on the mound, trying to make a decision between the screw ball and the slider.
"Will, let's go. Light is waning and I told Nite we would meet him by the lamp post outside of my house as soon as the sun set." Will sighed; light is waning, what does that mean? Peanut flicked a switch by the kitchen door and the lights choked for moment, uttering a few electric hiccups before they let darkness settle in the cracks of the cupboards and slither behind the refrigerator and crouch underneath the stove.
Will complained openly while following Peanut out the front door, the pellet gun slung over his shoulder crookedly and upside down, "Why are we meeting by the lamp post? I feel like this is the civil war again; meetings by lamp posts and bringing in third parties to fight off our own men." Peanut swiveled, a few handfuls of sugar escaping the bag only to find that freedom was to live amidst 1 inch grass blades. "These are not our own men. We are fighting a just battle Will, and there is no shame in it. The field and the lanterns are worth fighting for, do you not agree?" Peanuts tone was sharp, and Will felt like Peanut's words had poked holes through him, deflating his will to complain. So he merely nodded his head. His mind drifted back to the lanterns that were stuck in the holes of jars in Peanut's closet graveyard. Will shuddered.
Peanut continued to lecture, pedantically stamping justifications wherever they would fit on the loose leaf sheets of Will's conscience. "I don't want that illiterate, rag-tag group of Minutemen trouncing on my field of dandelions and shoving all the lanterns into shabby mayonnaise jars. Someone has to stick up for nature Will; someone has to make a difference and The Minutemen think they are the guardians of that field, and so do Sherwood’s Merry Men, and The Headless Horsemen and the whole lot of them. But who watches the watchmen, Will? I do, we do; we are watching the watchmen. The Minutemen will come to find that the lanterns and Soldier Beetle Field do not belong to them." Will leaned against the lamp post, outwardly agreeing with Peanut, using slight nods at the end of each rhetorical question but inwardly letting the words carve up his scruples. His morals had been twisted and contorted, turned on their head. His censoring system had been modified allowing vileness to slip through incognito. Right was down, left was up but Will nodded to appease Peanut and thought about the weather, and how he was hungry for a milkshake.
