"For years I pulled my own existence out of emptiness.
Then one swoop, one swing of the arm,
that work is over.
Free of who I was, free of prescence, free of
dangerous fear, hope,
free of mountainous wanting."~RUMI
The road that led to every childs Rome ran seamlessly into a cul-de-sac, shaping the pendulum of the neighborhoods grandfather clock. Time heaped piles of change and alteration, pushed some people over the hill, and took the training wheels off many bicycles. The pendulum had swung smoothly, disregarding friction and years of aches within its joints, but now the swinging hand died. It hung limply from the face of the clock, a muffed tie hanging off a tired and worn old man. Cogs and wheels rusted into each other and ceased to tick, while the bent and decrepit hands were spotted with age and made the pale face behind them seem all the more pallid. A death of weariness, and a death mocking the futile efforts of man who kept oiling up the gears.
There were two unvarnished blots on the head of the pendulum, novice dabs of time's grease that had been recently dropped on the gold veneer. They stood aside each other, oblivious and yet, sharing the same woe's of men before them.
Peanut stared at the plastic dog door that was unprofessionally installed in the back door of Will's house. It was as if someone, most likely Will's blathering, unbearable father had chopped a jagged hole in the bottom of the door with a hatchet. Peanut did not look forward to seeing their dog; poor, wretched thing must have splinters permanently stitched in its back. Damn sympathy, crept up on him sometimes. Just looming somewhere waiting to prick him and make him bleed red, instead of the black blood he had coolly running in his veins.
"This is how I get in my house, I like to think of it as my own personal secret window, er, or something of that sorts, Peanut, sir." Will glanced a reticent glance at Peanut, who let one eyelid droop and the other one shoot straight up, like the puppet master holding his strings in the clouds had a hand cramp. "Well, I'll just go in first and make sure Bob Barker isn't guarding the door, he likes to lie on the mat on the kitchen floor," Will said and knelt down so very slowly to enter through the ripped, drool encrusted piece of plastic. Bob Barker, Barker, how very clever. Will's parents must be Oscar Wilde and Lucille Ball. Peanut shuddered and said airily, "Why don't you go through and then open the door in a civilized manner? Why should we both get all mussed?" Will let his soul creep into a frown, which nodded his head perfunctorily. Peanut watched as Will shimmied his slender torso through the jagged hole with an experts ease, and exactitude. Will's feet vanished with a sudden yank, as if he had fallen to the bottom of a well. The nob turned and ached, letting out sighs of discontentment but finally making its way around.
Regularity smacked Peanut in the face as he entered. Ordinary, humdrum salt shakers and tea pot wallpaper smothered him and pushed him down; an oval wooden table that held a vase of wilting Irises, like a Van Gogh painting, pulled him in with their own gravity. The entire kitchen held a glare, a melange of red and yellow fading that blurred the happy faces in old photographs. Everything seemed out of date and covered in dust that grandparents kept in their ears and referred to as "good ole day" dust. A cookie jar with smiling bumblebees sulked on the counter next to the sink, which was stacked with dishes; each dish precariously placed on the other, leaning in odd ways, food glued to the sides and noodle stalactites drooping from pans. The kitchen was a still life, painted and dead. Bob Barker was lying right where Will had said he would be, on the mat by the door, ears falling down over his eyes and growing old atop the tuffed carpet.
"Just, uh, let me go get something to sleep in and my toothbrush. Um, do i need a, uh, sleeping utensil." Will replayed his question in his head and before Peanut could respond, realized the absurdity of it, and without notice, burst from the room in search of a "sleeping utensil."
Where was that dumb bastard going? Why didn't he take me with him? Now I'm alone in this wretched Norman Rockwell painting, with girls in frilly dresses, and Scottish terriers just being downright pests. Peanut seethed. He took a quick scan of the room, being assaulted by triviality. A girl with blond curls set immortally blowing in a painted breeze was holding her skirt from being brusquely blown from ankle length, while still attempting to keep a tight grasp on her lolly pop, which stood out in a resplendent and over all fabricated shade of red. Oh no, not my lolly pop! That's fantastic, heart wrenching. Peanut was south to this kitchens north, and the polarity of the aura was practically shoving him into the next room. Lands! There are more rooms.
"Hey sport!" Will's father stood in the center of the doorway that led from the kitchen to the next room; a polo dam to block the crashing waves of goddy knick-knacks and water color paintings that were undoubtedly waiting on the other to send Peanut to a watery grave. The father was painfully describable, almost so definable that he looped back into the realm of an enigma; he had all the makings of a fictitious character. His hair was parted, and its thin layers lay perfectly set in a parabola curve at the peak of his creased, dam sloped forehead. His ears were perfect ovals, and had the appearance of virginity hovering noticeably around them. Bright ivory tusks lay in perfect symmetry below his upturned nose, which spoke volumes of his hubris. Personality billowed beneath his pastel polo, and made the insignia of the man on the horse above the left breast pocket appear to gallop. The pastel shirt dulled his khaki shorts, of which his shirt tails were tucked in fastidiously, leaving no loose ends untied, only revealing a slim alligator belt that swam around his somewhat plump stomach.
He had his faced pulled into a smile, as if someone were behind him yanking his cheeks into a grin that involved every muscle and enveloped his entire face. A true ear to ear smile, a smile that connected in the back of his neck. With one hand stuffed in his pocket, and the other wildly swaying about, Will's father advanced on Peanut with large, precise steps that sent the plates in the sink into a nervous panic of barely audible clanking.
"Hey, long time no see bucko. What you been up to? Been getting into trouble I bet; painting the town a good ole shade of red I bet." He punched peanut in the arm with a seemingly slow motion, arc of a hay maker. It connected, which sent Will's father into a bout of hysterics, coughing out laughs that swirled in the air, and immediately perished to become mundane phantoms that haunted the splintering cabinets.
"Gotta stay on your toes around here buddy." He mime punched Peanut's nose, and grinned foolishly. Peanut stood stolidly, growing gnarly roots into the linoleum and patronizing Will's father's absurd form of conversation by simple nods. The talking never ceased, he droned, driving each point into the ground with brass tacks of colloquialisms like "son" or "youngun". His speech was preordained and meant for little league baseball games and kindergarten graduations. His shallow, cursory knowledge of the human condition was stifling, and yet he talked as if he didn't believe a word he was saying. Couldn't even fool himself with his insincerity.
"I found everything I need." Will's voice sliced up the air, palpable with phoniness and left room for some reality to creep in and multiply, a welcomed cancer of genuineness that divided and conquered. Peanut broke his silence, "Fine, now let's get over to my house before the uh, lanterns get to restless, ahem." Peanut choked on his words, and Will perceived a dolorous tone in Peanut's speech, which mystified and only slightly frightened him. "O.K., let's get going. See you tomorrow dad."
"Alright then sport, if you could be home by 2 tomorrow that would be just aces, have fun you two hooligans." With a double slow motion hay-maker to one arm of each boy, Will's father sent them on their way with his one hand still cemented to his pocket and the other one zooming in sporadic waves, like a balloon that had the air released. Neither of them waved back.
"Sorry about my dad, he can be a little strange sometimes. He is caring overall though." Will looked at Peanut for some iota of forgiveness to leak out, but all the orifices were plugged, and it appeared that Peanut had not heard him.
Will held his sleeping bag and backpack jammed with toiletries under his arms and dutifully followed Peanut toward his house. It was peculiar, Peanut asking him to come over, much less spend the night. Awfully peculiar, even disconcerting. Memories of The Minuteman's plans crept forward in Will's brain, reminding him of Peanut's smug, almost apathetic attitude toward the whole situation. Thoughts of a ruse were percolating in Peanut's lop-sided mind, Will was certain of that fact; the only aspect that worried him was how these plans would be carried out. The actualization of plans always ruined Will's latent joy in creating them. People are people, but unfortunately, people can also be just ink, and that was why Peanut was commander and he was a simple contriver. Peanut could whittle people away until they were nothing but bones tightly bound in skin, mannequins standing in the way of his progress. So Will remained a lowly contriver.
Peanut stopped, holding up his hand to inform Will to do the same, even though Will continued to shuffle around in one of his few moments of liberating insurrection. "This is my house. Don't expect to be treated like a guest or anything; once my mom has seen someone once they become only another family member, which means she doesn't bother with niceties." Peanut methodically counted the jars in the wagon, a moment of silence to gather his thoughts. "Alright, let's go in. Don't consort with my parents unless they try to speak to you, and if they do, try to not be to..." Peanut searched in a overhanging Elm branch for the word he was looking for. Will let his mouth hang open a moment and then offered a suggestion; "Nice, is that the word you were looking for sir, er, Peanut?" Peanut kept his eyes on the tree limb and then yawned, pushing out muddled words, "AHHH, I was thinking more along the lines of pleasant, but nice will do. Understood?" Will saluted. Peanut lazily returned the salute, crisply did an about face and dragged the wagon of jangling jars toward his front door.
A wicker rocking chair was slowing swaying on Peanuts front porch, its shadow ran along the cooled cement until it was immediately reeled back with a definite yank, as the chair fell back. Peanut left the wagon by the steps of the porch, and snatched the one occupied jar, which had it's vacancy sign glowing warmly in neon lights that sent Peanut into a rage once again. He motioned for Will to follow him into the house, and Will obliged him, tentatively. There were a pair of oblong, red clown shoes with mud crusting on the bottoms and green stains along the sides, like someone had been mowing in them sitting on the porch. They sat on the porch where a father might place his work boots, or a soiled lunchbox that would cause his wife to blow a fuse if brought into the house. Will couldn't remove his eyes from them, it was comical, those shoes being anywhere within a mile radius of Peanut, who was slithering out his own shoes by putting his toes on the heel and pressing, avoiding the tedious bending it would take to untie his laces.
"Take your shoes off, dirt is not welcome ever, no matter how many times my mom has met it." Peanut took the door handle and shoved, causing the door to swing open with ease; a portal into a world where Peanut presided, although he found no comfort there. Will easily slipped off his shoes and placed them next to Peanuts, both of which were diminished and amusingly magnified in stature next to the giant boots of a man who must have a cup over-flowing with confidence, or a demeaned since of self-worth that propelled him into apathy and ultimately a life where joy was no longer in the question or the answer.
Will followed, keeping up as the caboose of a two trolley train, the caboose where no one of importance ever slept or even visited. Hardwood floors scattered like cockroaches underneath light beams, scurried off into adjacent and adjoining rooms, crawled up the railing of the stairwell, and shimmied toward the ceiling by means of door posts. A chandelier above the doorway broke, and punished light into streamlined beams that were intermittently burning white holes in the ceilings and walls. The room contained a sort of mangled homeliness that was lacking from Will's house; he liked it very much.
"I really like your house sir, Peanut. It seems really homey." He had tried to be as sincere as possible without nudging Peanuts ego to far along, it was already on the brink of a cliff, peering over the side and calculating the chances of surviving the fall. Peanut's eye's perked, and his nose twitched, like a cat whose whiskers had just been tampered with. "Thanks, you don't have to say anything, we don't make small talk in the house. My mom says that is for outside affairs. The bigger the room, the smaller the talk. Inside talk is about big things, important things, like religion or talking about people who talk about politics. My parents never talk about anything directly, all they will do is talk about someone they know who talks about a certain subject. It's stupid, but all of day talk is stupid, and tedious. Now.." Peanut kept his lips moving, but no words were being said because an obstreperous voice had become the forte of the room. Knocking aside light and sound, encasing the entrance and stairwell in the well crafted lyrics of a romantic, and produced from a barrel chested individual, who should have been behind a pulpit, or on a street corner shouting threats about the end of the world being IMMINENT.
"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day..." a dramatic pause, where the sound of running water and a sloshing sponge could interject their two cents about the previous sentence. "To the last syllable of recorded time..." the last note was blackened with a almost inhuman low note, a note that Will thought should have been higher. "And all our yesterdays," a theatrical elongation of taking in a breath, which whistled through the singers lips, "have lighted fools to the way of dusty death."
Peanut grimaced, one of the handful of times Will had seen Peanut express any type of emotion that was pure and unadulterated by scheming. "Don't worry about that nonsense, it's just my mother. She's a nutcase, and not very sensible at all. Pay her no mind, she will be quite once Jeopardy comes on." Peanut coerced his legs into moving and stood on tip-toes, which made it seem to Will like he was going to promenade over to the stairwell and sprout fairy wings. In actuality, Peanut was keeping a snakes low profile, only looking to slither toward his home and be done with the rest of the wretched, vile inhabitants of the wood. Will wobbled over to him on his tip-toes, and followed Peanut quietly up the stairs, with Shakespeare pushing him up up, onward to the belfry, save the damsel! "Out, out brief candle, life's but a walking shadow..."
The stairs were normal, not to steep, broad enough to get a comfortable toe hold on. Peanut and Will conquered them in no time at all, which left them at the top, peering around corners, for only Peanut knew what.
"My room is at the end of the hall, all the way at the damn end," Peanut grew annoyed at the fact but elbowed the feeling aside quickly. "Anyway, let's be quite, my dad is home early today, he never works all day Saturday." Will pondered inside, he didn't know Saturday was a hard day for clowning. Interesting. Peanut continued, "His study door is always cracked, so be quite, be an Indian."
The duo crept down the hall, static storing up in the toes of their socks, patiently awaiting an opportune time to shock them. Peanut slipped past his fathers office, waving for Will to follow, but Will could see through the door and was intrigued. The deviant pleasure in gawking at the condemned.
A glass of whiskey was sitting on a table that was the sidecar to a mossy chair. The glass had white lip imprints on the side, hybrid lipstick stains as markers of indulgence. A cigar sat extinguished in the tepid mess of whiskey and ashes, little renegade wisps of smoke floated to the ceiling and then disappeared. A wig, comprised of a motley of repugnant, vibrant shades of the rainbow hung on a hat rack that was keeping watch over the glowing T.V. set. It hung next to a earth toned cap, one which respectable business men wear to keep the shade in their eyes. A study that was comprised off all that was in opposition to books, an anti-study. A bulk, a defeated shadow lounged in the chair, let the moss strings grow over him in the hopes of revitalization. Will could see the red face makeup peeling behind the mans ears.
Will felt Peanut spring forward and grab his wrist. He gave Will a reproachful eye, and eased the door of the study closed. "I said don't bother with looking in, we aren't hiding conspiracy plans in there, jeez, the one time you are anxious to look at something." Peanut turned around and walked toward the end of the hall. Will rubbed his wrist and took one more inquisitive glance at the door, which had a sign hanging from the door that read, "Red Skelton." Will shrugged and ran after Peanut.
Peanut was standing in front of his door, turned sideways, letting his eyes scan a printed page that was tacked on a neighboring door. Will let his eyes run over the page, "When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you." Will puzzled, what abyss? "Sir, er Peanut, what does that mean, what abyss?" Peanut let out a lead sigh, that plunked on the ground in front of the door. "That is a quote from Friedrich Nietzsche. My brother started putting Nietzsche quotes on his door a few years ago, around when he entered high school, he claims to be a nihilist." Will frowned, "What is that, I think I have heard of them." Peanut shrugged, "All I know is you can't talk about anything important with him, he just shakes his head and doesn't say anything. My parents told me he doesn't believe in anything, but that doesn't seem to likely." Will agreed, what was the point in believing in nothing when you are surrounded by somethings. He hoped that life didn't have to get so complicated.
Peanut withdrew a key from his breast pocket, where he kept his comb, and unlocked his door. Will wondered why he had a key. "You can put your sleeping equipment by my bed, don't touch anything though. I have to go get the phone, we have a call to make. We need reinforcements for tonight." Peanut walked out, and then popped his head back in before the door had closed, "Don't meddle." With that he closed the door, which gently sighed against the door jamb, the whole room seemed relieved. The paint on the walls drooped slightly, and the tautness of the bedsheets loosened.
There was not much paint showing; some red peeked out from behind posters in a few spots, but overall the room was plastered with paintings and laminated renderings. However, there was no variety, no men throwing a football, or extinct reptiles baring enlarged canines. Everything was elephants, elephants stampeding the walls and ceilings, sleeping on the desk and the bones of poached elephants resting in the wastebasket by the door. One poster was the center point, the hub of all the immortalized gray skinned mammals parading around the room, a beating heart of inspiration. Will inched toward the painting. Two elepahnts towered above a sandy, barren desert; rising into the red sky, becoming two gray moons. Their bodies sat delicately on spindly legs, that thinly shot down into the grown, like the legs of a mutated insect. Will gaped at the painting, nothing else existed, just the two elephants preparing for an epic battle upon brittle legs. There was a signature flowing out of the frame near the bottom-left corner. Will squinted, trying to decipher the hurried etchings of an artist who obviously flaunted conventiality. Dali. Will did not know who that was or if that was even the name, but he knew that this painting was his, and he intended on remembering it.
