"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.
III. The Minutemen
"My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."~Robert Frost
Shadows were hiding behind trees, and crouching secretly on the back-sides of hedgerows. They stuck to the broad sides of houses, flattening themselves as prostrate criminals hiding from the mid-day spotlight, waiting for the ideal moment to infiltrate each houses cracked foundations. Will mimicked every twitch and stride of Peanut, becoming a noon-time shadow of awkward grace himself. He sulked languidly, being tentative and offering no audible reason for Peanut to transform his now inward ire into an outward expression of rage. He simply lagged, silently, and glanced every so often at the imprisoned lanterns, who were curled torpid victims of sun stroke, hiding underneath the tiny leaves of brittle golden rod, catching only a knifes edge of shade. His sorrow for them was dulled though. It seemed like he had gained an advantage with his, as Peanut referred to it "insubordinate" remark about Peanuts phraseology. Frankly, such an urge had always been lingering behind Will's cowardice, but today he had made himself become to real, expressing personal beliefs. Such a thing should have been liberating, but becoming human only showed weaknesses, which Peanut exploited with new found ferocity. Peanut did not believe in grace, everything was conditional, everything.
Will stayed in his thoughts, locked himself in the hall of day-dreaming and swallowed the key. A wise decision for the most part, but Peanut was also locked in thought, nothing he would call daydreaming though. Daydreaming seemed a trivial word for his thoughts. Peanut remained only vaguely aware of Will's presence; he could feel his partner dragging his feet, memorizing the map of cracks in the cement. Like a child holding phantom hands with his mother, not touching, but always aware, Peanut memorized Will's aura and could feel it distort with even a slight wind.
The wagon jangled and bounced on the uneven sidewalks causing the empty jars to clang together with a vibration that uttered failure into Peanut's ears. Failure echoed, the idea lingering in the open spaces, reverberating defeat. Peanut seethed. Damn that Will, and damn this sun. His comb seemed to crawl out of his pocket and into his hair. Back and forth, straightening the frizz of a summers day from his head, which fell from his comb and gathered on the sidewalk, and leaked into the gutters.
Soldier Beetle Field lay 10 minutes in their wake, bunched together in the distance with the magical dust of an estranged and alone habitat glistening in the sun. The sparkles of a snow globe that no one ever shook and rarely thought twice about. It was at least another 10 minutes to Peanuts' house, and Will's house, which stood adjacent to Peanut's and cast a large shadow that enveloped Peanuts house in the summer. Peanut was not to fond of this fact. The neighborhood was unusually quite for noon on a pristine day, but neither Peanut nor Will were bothered by the fact. They shared no alternative friendships, apart from the warped coalition they already had with each other.
Each house was separated by a nipping and frosty privacy glacier, which seemed to move an inch every year, making the gap of freedom smaller between each house. The fences barred the view of any outdoor activities and kept all pets within their own boundaries. A sort of strangled hospitality. There were boisterous flowers planted against the foundations of the houses, screaming color and vividness that the house otherwise lacked. Tiger Lilies reached their spindly hands out of the mulch and exotic ferns, grasping for clean air and blue skies. Petunias were potted, cacti were lined along doorways in the shade, Queen Anne's Lace mocked the lush, 1 inch grass blades by hovering above them, glaring down. Butterflies were shewed away with hush tones and waves of hands and birds had brooms hurled at them for perching on decoration bird houses, attempting to consort in a myriad of twitters and perfect middle C's with the wooden Cardinals and Chickadees. Porches were for scenery and yards were for lawns.
Peanut and Will strode down the left sidewalk, lost in their own troubles and dealings, Peanut remaining less aware of his surroundings than Will. All they had to show for a days work was four lousy, coma lanterns. Just the thought of it made Peanuts throat tighten and his knuckles clench. Our pride is lost, MY pride is lost. Home base must be reached before any of his rivals caught a whiff of their failure in the air. He was sure they all had their noses out the window, waiting for that satisfying stench to come wafting by. Peanut cursed under his breath. His comb still sliced through his hair, comforting him. Perhaps it was only a set back. Yes, just a set back. Napoleon lost a few, Patton didn't win everything, even General Lee lost the war. Even a genius can have a set back. So Peanut smoothed a balm of rationalization over his wounds by way of his comb, and his cunning.
A cul-de-sac of home was soon approaching, a growing dot, which incited hope in Will and Peanut. Will was walking in the world of the living again, glancing at the four lanterns, and then looking ahead to where his house sat. He cringed at the sight of Peanut, whose hands were methodically combing and then smoothing his hair. Peanut was in a state of thought, which he referred to as nirvana, even though Will had tried to tell him that nirvana was a state where you thought nothing at all. Peanut simply humphed, as he always did, and made a wise-crack about Will being in that state constantly. An unknown glare was up ahead, a blur of faces and chatter with a green back drop. Will squinted, held his breath, and then winced. The sun became eclipsed by a chimney for a brief moment, enough time to allow Will to see that it was a gaggle, or perhaps a more fitting term would be "murder" of children spread out across a nearing lawn. They all had real, genuine smiles carved on their faces, like they were waiting for someone to take a picture. Will cleared his throat, partly to fragment the sharp pieces of fear that were jutting into it and also in hopes of jarring Peanut from his state of "nirvana". It worked, thankfully.
Peanut awoke from his daze instantly, seeing the forthcoming trouble he stopped on a crack that most likely killed his mother. Will, who had had his eyes pinned to Peanut, stopped abruptly, which silenced the jars and made room for his maddening heart to pound out its rhythm of discomfort. Peanut slipped his comb into his pocket and straightened his collar, which was already straight and began dealing out instructions.
"Now look, we are dealing with Brutus here. I can feel his pompous, enlarged opinions from here. He isn't going to do anything until we show weakness, and he used to be one of us so he knows how we think, well, at least he knows how you think." Peanut took in a breath and glanced over his shoulder at the group of sheep, grazing on the lawn, waiting to unzip and become wolves. "Just don't say a word to him. We have nothing to say, after all he did betray us and forgiveness is only in our disposition facade, not in our real feelings, right?" Will nodded and felt his soul lurch. "He is a lame Godfather, with that worm consigliere Wilbur managing his schedule. Don't be scared of him, and remember, he's like the sun...don't look directly at him." Will nodded his head again, knowing his place when it came to handling their rivals, silence was his gift as Peanut told him. Peanut did his usual crisp about face, and whispered over his shoulder, "If he offers you an apple, for the love of Saint Patrick, don't take it." Will smiled and chuckled. Occasionally Peanut believed in levity, but only in the face of danger.
The tubby, over-bearing child whom Peanut had so mirthfully referred to as "Brutus" and "a lame Godfather" was their former friend and army member, Jacques. Peanut had always called him "JACK" but Jacques had insisted that it was French and therefore should be pronounced jock- quess. Peanut had smiled and said, O.K. Jack. Only a few months ago Jacques had disbanded from the Hellenic Army, commanded by Peanut, and embarked upon the gathering of a new, "more efficient" army. Within a week, Jacques had amassed every exceptional kid from the neighborhood, whom he made dissenters of and started a mass congregation of nay-sayers, or those who "colored outside the lines", as Jacques put it. Jacques had deemed them "The Minutemen", an agile fighting force that was ready on demand, and led by a fearless leader, Jacques, Paul Revere.
Peanut casually strode toward The Minutemen, stroking his hair with his comb thoughtfully, and quietly comforting Will's gyrations of panic with an idle wave of his hand. Jack did not frighten Peanut in the least. He was fat, uncoordinated, and had a mind so tightly wrapped around his pretentious thoughts, that he had no room to be clever. A confrontation would have been fine if Peanut's pride would have been intact, but this recent failure was looming over his head like a dark rain cloud. He was soaked in defeat, and even Jack was keen enough to realize it. His only hope was to distract Jacques through compliments, which he would throw out like candy. Ah yes, candy. He should keep some hard candy in his pocket to pull Jack's mind into his stomach.
The Minutemen arose from their positions and formed a wall across the sidewalk, moving double quick as Jacques pulled on their strings and made them dance and flop. A regiment of soldiers, each one slovenly dressed and blinded by ambition, their smug smiles catching the sun rays and sending them to their stomachs to digest and extract smug nutrients. Arms crossed, a waving sea of arms, undulating and lapping against neighboring waves, barring the road.
Peanut stopped, continuing to comb. Will stood alongside him, hunching over as Peanuts personal Igor, silent and devoted. The empty jars lay behind them, blocked from view, silently empty.
Jacques stood up from his lawn chair, whose legs remained bowed and rammed into the turf, even though a weight had indeed been lifted. It seemed like the lawn had grown the chair, a mutant flower that sprung up and was impervious to every and all "be-gones". Wilbur, Jack's personal planner stayed seated Indian style alongside his leaders chair, scribbling in a Mead notebook; a stenographer, who had an ear for hypocrisy and weakness.
Jacques didn't stand, he hunkered. Like all of the gravity was pushing him down and the earth was pushing back, Jacques bulged in the middle and appeared as if he was seated, even though he was standing. His face was plump, white-washed with naivety, and content with power. He looked at Peanut, not avoiding eye contact, and pretended Will was not there, which Will was also pretending.
"Nice chair," Peanut said, perhaps a little to playfully. Jack's cohorts were already up in arms at the flippancy of the statement, but Jack simply smiled, or rather kept smiling and glanced at his chair. "Yes, fit for me I think. I don't settle nowadays, ever since I left you and your measly two, well, man and a half army." Will said and expressed nothing. Peanut smiled and carefully traced a word path, as you do with unstable leaders, "We always did need a lawn chair for you. I always felt bad for the ground you had to sit on. I still fall in those holes you made in Soldier Beetle Field." Jack was already tired of the games, his outer shell only absorbed compliments, and it did not reflect irreverent jabs. He frowned and used the ground to push himself toward Peanut. Will grimaced for the ground. "Whatcha got in the wagon Peanut?" Jack pointed with a stubbed finger at the empty jars. Peanut displayed no fear, and kept his head on an even keel, which he knew Jack would balance against his predisposed plumb line. "Oh, just scouting out the field today, and brought along some jars in case we saw anything interesting." Peanut knew that Jack wouldn't buy the lie, but from his expression, he had persuaded Jack to drop the subject. Jack began smiling again, "Oh yea, well I think we are going to head over there tonight to find some lanterns. Hopefully you didn't snatch them all up." Jack laughed, and his minions snickered, respectful laughs, but also laughs that spoke of their legitimate hatred for Peanut and the Hellenic Army. Peanut laughed, and put his comb back in his breast pocket. "Nice seeing you Jack, good luck with the lanterns, we left a few lame ones for you." Jacks' face contorted at the mention of his name, such a disgusting, mangled pronunciation. The waves of arms parted, and Peanut strolled through unscathed. He could only hope those waves would envelop those Egyptian bastards if they tried to follow him. No such luck, but his pride remained intact, and he now knew the enemies plans. Tonight, Soldier Beetle Field.
"Why don't you run over to your house and get the appropriate attire for, um, sleeping at my house. I have some things we need to discuss." Will assumed his vow of silence had been lifted but only nodded his head. His lips glued together as a result of perennial silence. "Good, we are going to tempt that plump, witless, bone-head of a Judas with 30 silver pieces of our own." Will nodded again, relenting to the fact that he could not decipher what Peanut meant until he explained it.
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."~Robert Frost
Shadows were hiding behind trees, and crouching secretly on the back-sides of hedgerows. They stuck to the broad sides of houses, flattening themselves as prostrate criminals hiding from the mid-day spotlight, waiting for the ideal moment to infiltrate each houses cracked foundations. Will mimicked every twitch and stride of Peanut, becoming a noon-time shadow of awkward grace himself. He sulked languidly, being tentative and offering no audible reason for Peanut to transform his now inward ire into an outward expression of rage. He simply lagged, silently, and glanced every so often at the imprisoned lanterns, who were curled torpid victims of sun stroke, hiding underneath the tiny leaves of brittle golden rod, catching only a knifes edge of shade. His sorrow for them was dulled though. It seemed like he had gained an advantage with his, as Peanut referred to it "insubordinate" remark about Peanuts phraseology. Frankly, such an urge had always been lingering behind Will's cowardice, but today he had made himself become to real, expressing personal beliefs. Such a thing should have been liberating, but becoming human only showed weaknesses, which Peanut exploited with new found ferocity. Peanut did not believe in grace, everything was conditional, everything.
Will stayed in his thoughts, locked himself in the hall of day-dreaming and swallowed the key. A wise decision for the most part, but Peanut was also locked in thought, nothing he would call daydreaming though. Daydreaming seemed a trivial word for his thoughts. Peanut remained only vaguely aware of Will's presence; he could feel his partner dragging his feet, memorizing the map of cracks in the cement. Like a child holding phantom hands with his mother, not touching, but always aware, Peanut memorized Will's aura and could feel it distort with even a slight wind.
The wagon jangled and bounced on the uneven sidewalks causing the empty jars to clang together with a vibration that uttered failure into Peanut's ears. Failure echoed, the idea lingering in the open spaces, reverberating defeat. Peanut seethed. Damn that Will, and damn this sun. His comb seemed to crawl out of his pocket and into his hair. Back and forth, straightening the frizz of a summers day from his head, which fell from his comb and gathered on the sidewalk, and leaked into the gutters.
Soldier Beetle Field lay 10 minutes in their wake, bunched together in the distance with the magical dust of an estranged and alone habitat glistening in the sun. The sparkles of a snow globe that no one ever shook and rarely thought twice about. It was at least another 10 minutes to Peanuts' house, and Will's house, which stood adjacent to Peanut's and cast a large shadow that enveloped Peanuts house in the summer. Peanut was not to fond of this fact. The neighborhood was unusually quite for noon on a pristine day, but neither Peanut nor Will were bothered by the fact. They shared no alternative friendships, apart from the warped coalition they already had with each other.
Each house was separated by a nipping and frosty privacy glacier, which seemed to move an inch every year, making the gap of freedom smaller between each house. The fences barred the view of any outdoor activities and kept all pets within their own boundaries. A sort of strangled hospitality. There were boisterous flowers planted against the foundations of the houses, screaming color and vividness that the house otherwise lacked. Tiger Lilies reached their spindly hands out of the mulch and exotic ferns, grasping for clean air and blue skies. Petunias were potted, cacti were lined along doorways in the shade, Queen Anne's Lace mocked the lush, 1 inch grass blades by hovering above them, glaring down. Butterflies were shewed away with hush tones and waves of hands and birds had brooms hurled at them for perching on decoration bird houses, attempting to consort in a myriad of twitters and perfect middle C's with the wooden Cardinals and Chickadees. Porches were for scenery and yards were for lawns.
Peanut and Will strode down the left sidewalk, lost in their own troubles and dealings, Peanut remaining less aware of his surroundings than Will. All they had to show for a days work was four lousy, coma lanterns. Just the thought of it made Peanuts throat tighten and his knuckles clench. Our pride is lost, MY pride is lost. Home base must be reached before any of his rivals caught a whiff of their failure in the air. He was sure they all had their noses out the window, waiting for that satisfying stench to come wafting by. Peanut cursed under his breath. His comb still sliced through his hair, comforting him. Perhaps it was only a set back. Yes, just a set back. Napoleon lost a few, Patton didn't win everything, even General Lee lost the war. Even a genius can have a set back. So Peanut smoothed a balm of rationalization over his wounds by way of his comb, and his cunning.
A cul-de-sac of home was soon approaching, a growing dot, which incited hope in Will and Peanut. Will was walking in the world of the living again, glancing at the four lanterns, and then looking ahead to where his house sat. He cringed at the sight of Peanut, whose hands were methodically combing and then smoothing his hair. Peanut was in a state of thought, which he referred to as nirvana, even though Will had tried to tell him that nirvana was a state where you thought nothing at all. Peanut simply humphed, as he always did, and made a wise-crack about Will being in that state constantly. An unknown glare was up ahead, a blur of faces and chatter with a green back drop. Will squinted, held his breath, and then winced. The sun became eclipsed by a chimney for a brief moment, enough time to allow Will to see that it was a gaggle, or perhaps a more fitting term would be "murder" of children spread out across a nearing lawn. They all had real, genuine smiles carved on their faces, like they were waiting for someone to take a picture. Will cleared his throat, partly to fragment the sharp pieces of fear that were jutting into it and also in hopes of jarring Peanut from his state of "nirvana". It worked, thankfully.
Peanut awoke from his daze instantly, seeing the forthcoming trouble he stopped on a crack that most likely killed his mother. Will, who had had his eyes pinned to Peanut, stopped abruptly, which silenced the jars and made room for his maddening heart to pound out its rhythm of discomfort. Peanut slipped his comb into his pocket and straightened his collar, which was already straight and began dealing out instructions.
"Now look, we are dealing with Brutus here. I can feel his pompous, enlarged opinions from here. He isn't going to do anything until we show weakness, and he used to be one of us so he knows how we think, well, at least he knows how you think." Peanut took in a breath and glanced over his shoulder at the group of sheep, grazing on the lawn, waiting to unzip and become wolves. "Just don't say a word to him. We have nothing to say, after all he did betray us and forgiveness is only in our disposition facade, not in our real feelings, right?" Will nodded and felt his soul lurch. "He is a lame Godfather, with that worm consigliere Wilbur managing his schedule. Don't be scared of him, and remember, he's like the sun...don't look directly at him." Will nodded his head again, knowing his place when it came to handling their rivals, silence was his gift as Peanut told him. Peanut did his usual crisp about face, and whispered over his shoulder, "If he offers you an apple, for the love of Saint Patrick, don't take it." Will smiled and chuckled. Occasionally Peanut believed in levity, but only in the face of danger.
The tubby, over-bearing child whom Peanut had so mirthfully referred to as "Brutus" and "a lame Godfather" was their former friend and army member, Jacques. Peanut had always called him "JACK" but Jacques had insisted that it was French and therefore should be pronounced jock- quess. Peanut had smiled and said, O.K. Jack. Only a few months ago Jacques had disbanded from the Hellenic Army, commanded by Peanut, and embarked upon the gathering of a new, "more efficient" army. Within a week, Jacques had amassed every exceptional kid from the neighborhood, whom he made dissenters of and started a mass congregation of nay-sayers, or those who "colored outside the lines", as Jacques put it. Jacques had deemed them "The Minutemen", an agile fighting force that was ready on demand, and led by a fearless leader, Jacques, Paul Revere.
Peanut casually strode toward The Minutemen, stroking his hair with his comb thoughtfully, and quietly comforting Will's gyrations of panic with an idle wave of his hand. Jack did not frighten Peanut in the least. He was fat, uncoordinated, and had a mind so tightly wrapped around his pretentious thoughts, that he had no room to be clever. A confrontation would have been fine if Peanut's pride would have been intact, but this recent failure was looming over his head like a dark rain cloud. He was soaked in defeat, and even Jack was keen enough to realize it. His only hope was to distract Jacques through compliments, which he would throw out like candy. Ah yes, candy. He should keep some hard candy in his pocket to pull Jack's mind into his stomach.
The Minutemen arose from their positions and formed a wall across the sidewalk, moving double quick as Jacques pulled on their strings and made them dance and flop. A regiment of soldiers, each one slovenly dressed and blinded by ambition, their smug smiles catching the sun rays and sending them to their stomachs to digest and extract smug nutrients. Arms crossed, a waving sea of arms, undulating and lapping against neighboring waves, barring the road.
Peanut stopped, continuing to comb. Will stood alongside him, hunching over as Peanuts personal Igor, silent and devoted. The empty jars lay behind them, blocked from view, silently empty.
Jacques stood up from his lawn chair, whose legs remained bowed and rammed into the turf, even though a weight had indeed been lifted. It seemed like the lawn had grown the chair, a mutant flower that sprung up and was impervious to every and all "be-gones". Wilbur, Jack's personal planner stayed seated Indian style alongside his leaders chair, scribbling in a Mead notebook; a stenographer, who had an ear for hypocrisy and weakness.
Jacques didn't stand, he hunkered. Like all of the gravity was pushing him down and the earth was pushing back, Jacques bulged in the middle and appeared as if he was seated, even though he was standing. His face was plump, white-washed with naivety, and content with power. He looked at Peanut, not avoiding eye contact, and pretended Will was not there, which Will was also pretending.
"Nice chair," Peanut said, perhaps a little to playfully. Jack's cohorts were already up in arms at the flippancy of the statement, but Jack simply smiled, or rather kept smiling and glanced at his chair. "Yes, fit for me I think. I don't settle nowadays, ever since I left you and your measly two, well, man and a half army." Will said and expressed nothing. Peanut smiled and carefully traced a word path, as you do with unstable leaders, "We always did need a lawn chair for you. I always felt bad for the ground you had to sit on. I still fall in those holes you made in Soldier Beetle Field." Jack was already tired of the games, his outer shell only absorbed compliments, and it did not reflect irreverent jabs. He frowned and used the ground to push himself toward Peanut. Will grimaced for the ground. "Whatcha got in the wagon Peanut?" Jack pointed with a stubbed finger at the empty jars. Peanut displayed no fear, and kept his head on an even keel, which he knew Jack would balance against his predisposed plumb line. "Oh, just scouting out the field today, and brought along some jars in case we saw anything interesting." Peanut knew that Jack wouldn't buy the lie, but from his expression, he had persuaded Jack to drop the subject. Jack began smiling again, "Oh yea, well I think we are going to head over there tonight to find some lanterns. Hopefully you didn't snatch them all up." Jack laughed, and his minions snickered, respectful laughs, but also laughs that spoke of their legitimate hatred for Peanut and the Hellenic Army. Peanut laughed, and put his comb back in his breast pocket. "Nice seeing you Jack, good luck with the lanterns, we left a few lame ones for you." Jacks' face contorted at the mention of his name, such a disgusting, mangled pronunciation. The waves of arms parted, and Peanut strolled through unscathed. He could only hope those waves would envelop those Egyptian bastards if they tried to follow him. No such luck, but his pride remained intact, and he now knew the enemies plans. Tonight, Soldier Beetle Field.
"Why don't you run over to your house and get the appropriate attire for, um, sleeping at my house. I have some things we need to discuss." Will assumed his vow of silence had been lifted but only nodded his head. His lips glued together as a result of perennial silence. "Good, we are going to tempt that plump, witless, bone-head of a Judas with 30 silver pieces of our own." Will nodded again, relenting to the fact that he could not decipher what Peanut meant until he explained it.
II. How Narcissus Emerged
"What is dishonorably got, is dishonorably squandered."~Cicero
A bead of sweat blazed a trail somewhat haphazardly down Peanuts leg, along the smooth glistening surface of sweat clogged pores in search of uncharted territory beneath his mussed and soiled sock. Peanut eyed the bead as it swept downward, and thoughtfully peeled the elastic away from his skin as to let the bead pass into the unknown unhindered. Having done little work himself, the sweat puzzled and frustrated him. And there was no contentment in a hard days work, no one to go home to and strut about with a soaked shirt as a trophy of a diligent, "nose-to-the-grindstone" mindset. Hard work had never appealed to him, neither did the admiration of it. Gritty, back-breaking, mind-numbing drudgery was for those who weren't clever enough to manipulate the weak minded, and Peanut had honed his manipulation muscle, which flexed and bulged beneath his accommodatingly massive ego.
With thoughts of himself sowing and nurturing egotistical seedling thoughts in the fertile ground of his brain, Peanut laid back in the 3 inch grass blades. They nestled his bare arms and legs and assured him that he would not tumble to the center of the earth, or fall to China, or nose-dive to Beelzebub's "Welcome Home" place mat. The grass of Soldier Beetle Field felt secretly more secure to Peanut than the mowed, corralled blades of his house and the surrounding neighborhood, standing in neat rows awaiting daily inspections. These 3 inch grass blades stood at ease, and so did he. This time of contemplation made him withdraw his comb from his front breast pocket, which he absentmindedly began running through his already meticulously set hair. There was always a greater clarity of thought when he had his comb in hand. His mom always said idle hands were the devils plaything, but Peanut saw plenty of criminals that just couldn't sit still. Light from the zenith sun was reflecting off a jar into his eyes, like an arrow right through the iris, right into the part of his brain where he held himself in the greatest regard. The sun wouldn't let up, just kept moving with a blatant disregard, a menacing inching through the sky, pulling the moon in its wake. Uncompromising nature, it sickened him.
Peanut sat up stiffly, uncoiled and coiled his back muscles with lackadaisical ease and leaned forward to thoughtfully stroke his hair with his comb in the presence of himself, reflected in the curvature of a forgotten jar. That oaf had forgotten one of the jars. Sighing, Peanut stuffed the comb cleanly back in its cotton holder and snatched the jar with one hand out of the wagon in a seemingly effortless movement, even though he winced at the sudden movement of his arms. The unforgiving sun had dulled and weakened his resolve, and his reflexes.
Leaving his grass imprint, a grass imp, he stood up on shaky legs and practiced walking with all the unsureness of a child on undefined stubs of fat. Peanut stood on the edge of the dandelion field and knelt down to pluck one. It easily relented to his tug, and popped free of the ground, leaving its life source behind. Peanut glared at the dust of pollen falling down out of the golden locks. Without thinking, and barely moving, he beheaded the flower before all of its peers, and tossed the limp stem back into the dandelion field. Flowers, what are they anyway. Just eye candy. So brittle, so frail, and so easily mastered and if need be broken. He let the surge of dominance push him to kneel and select another flower, but a bee hummed over with an air of urgency and landed directly on the flower he was eyeing. The bee rubbed its legs together, perhaps with the same vane, absentmindedness that Peanut had just combed his hair. He humphed the bee and did an about face; he had completely forgotten Will's incompetence. That would have been a shame.
**
Will was sitting outside of Soldier Beetle Field, bitterly removing bee stingers and thirsty ticks, which were greedily glued to his socks and jean legs. The fact that only 4 lanterns crawled listlessly around the bottom of his 1 jar, occasionally lighting up out of habit, made thoughts of desertion lurch forward in his mind. Will was painfully aware, having learned out of experience, or "the hard way" as taller people referred to it, that Peanut did not respond well to failure, and no amount of excuses, no matter how plausible and altogether truthful they may be would assuage Peanut's outlook on a job half-finished. So Will had spent no time piecing together a story of absolution and had focused every fiber on searching for lanterns amidst the cob-webbed ruins of Soldier Beetle Field. The 4 lanterns he had found he had treated with the utmost care and discretion because a lightning bug in the day was a valuable and rare commodity. He had been forced to root around the dusty roots of the Goldenrod plants, in the evasive weeds where the lanterns had been contentedly enjoying their nocturnal lives. Will had shoved his diurnal fingers into their world and forced their compliance. Their sad posture in the glass coffin vaulted directly into Will's malleable heart, and started poking the tender spots he kept hidden from Peanut. But Will was to worn and numbed with dreadful anticipation of the impending tongue lashing that he shed no outward sympathy for the captives; his sweat tears would have to substitute as his penitence for now.
Peanut approached with a new found briskness, propelled by a drive to finish what he started, or what he had coerced Will into starting. He observed by Will's fidgeting with a blade of grass between his fingers, grinding it into a botanical ball and mashing a green dye onto his fingers, that Will new something was amiss and was already in an apologetic stance.
"You left a jar in the wagon, and I thought I would bring it over to you," Peanut announced with only a tint of nettled humility. Will glanced up at the jar and swallowed the entire supply of earths gravity, which crammed and suppressed his insides into a malfunctioning mess that he imagined resembled the innards of the petrified frog they had dissected in Biology. His oxygen wouldn't make carbon dioxide spell out the words, "I only needed ONE jar." Peanut sat, a statue of judement, pointing an unwavering stare in Will's direction. Boring a hole in one part of his head, like the Mona Lisa does on the opposite wall of the Musée du Louvre. Will knew that he could not outlast Peanut's stare. Peanut could have laid siege to Rome with his stare and forced them into a famine surrender. This penetrating gaze usually rendered Will useless, babbling incoherent nonsense and nervously awaiting the chastisement at the end of his incongruous and useless explanation; however, Will's spine took control and sent shocks rippling through his brain that commanded his eyes to look anywhere but the submissive ground. He glanced, at snail and slug pace at the backdrop behind Peanut. So calm, even serene. The relics of Goldenrod bending slightly in the breeze, bowing and praying to Anemoi to not break their beetle laden backs. Peanut's judgmental stance seemed superimposed on a tranquil canvas, painted by a biased individual who was partial to simplistic beauty. A Monarch lit on a perimeter Goldenrod and let its wings inch apart and unfold, like a woman letting down her hair, unveiling a new world of color. Will's lips crept into a secretive smile at one corner of his mouth, which adversely sent Peanut's lips into a downward spiral. "I think we are done for today, at least I am finished with you. Perhaps we should talk about devotion, and the importance of listening." Will's smile surprisingly stayed chiseled and he arched his eyebrows and asked in a brazen tone, "Why do you always talk like that. You sound like a book on tape. I'd like you a whole lot better if you talked like normal."
Peanut humphed and did another about face.
A bead of sweat blazed a trail somewhat haphazardly down Peanuts leg, along the smooth glistening surface of sweat clogged pores in search of uncharted territory beneath his mussed and soiled sock. Peanut eyed the bead as it swept downward, and thoughtfully peeled the elastic away from his skin as to let the bead pass into the unknown unhindered. Having done little work himself, the sweat puzzled and frustrated him. And there was no contentment in a hard days work, no one to go home to and strut about with a soaked shirt as a trophy of a diligent, "nose-to-the-grindstone" mindset. Hard work had never appealed to him, neither did the admiration of it. Gritty, back-breaking, mind-numbing drudgery was for those who weren't clever enough to manipulate the weak minded, and Peanut had honed his manipulation muscle, which flexed and bulged beneath his accommodatingly massive ego.
With thoughts of himself sowing and nurturing egotistical seedling thoughts in the fertile ground of his brain, Peanut laid back in the 3 inch grass blades. They nestled his bare arms and legs and assured him that he would not tumble to the center of the earth, or fall to China, or nose-dive to Beelzebub's "Welcome Home" place mat. The grass of Soldier Beetle Field felt secretly more secure to Peanut than the mowed, corralled blades of his house and the surrounding neighborhood, standing in neat rows awaiting daily inspections. These 3 inch grass blades stood at ease, and so did he. This time of contemplation made him withdraw his comb from his front breast pocket, which he absentmindedly began running through his already meticulously set hair. There was always a greater clarity of thought when he had his comb in hand. His mom always said idle hands were the devils plaything, but Peanut saw plenty of criminals that just couldn't sit still. Light from the zenith sun was reflecting off a jar into his eyes, like an arrow right through the iris, right into the part of his brain where he held himself in the greatest regard. The sun wouldn't let up, just kept moving with a blatant disregard, a menacing inching through the sky, pulling the moon in its wake. Uncompromising nature, it sickened him.
Peanut sat up stiffly, uncoiled and coiled his back muscles with lackadaisical ease and leaned forward to thoughtfully stroke his hair with his comb in the presence of himself, reflected in the curvature of a forgotten jar. That oaf had forgotten one of the jars. Sighing, Peanut stuffed the comb cleanly back in its cotton holder and snatched the jar with one hand out of the wagon in a seemingly effortless movement, even though he winced at the sudden movement of his arms. The unforgiving sun had dulled and weakened his resolve, and his reflexes.
Leaving his grass imprint, a grass imp, he stood up on shaky legs and practiced walking with all the unsureness of a child on undefined stubs of fat. Peanut stood on the edge of the dandelion field and knelt down to pluck one. It easily relented to his tug, and popped free of the ground, leaving its life source behind. Peanut glared at the dust of pollen falling down out of the golden locks. Without thinking, and barely moving, he beheaded the flower before all of its peers, and tossed the limp stem back into the dandelion field. Flowers, what are they anyway. Just eye candy. So brittle, so frail, and so easily mastered and if need be broken. He let the surge of dominance push him to kneel and select another flower, but a bee hummed over with an air of urgency and landed directly on the flower he was eyeing. The bee rubbed its legs together, perhaps with the same vane, absentmindedness that Peanut had just combed his hair. He humphed the bee and did an about face; he had completely forgotten Will's incompetence. That would have been a shame.
**
Will was sitting outside of Soldier Beetle Field, bitterly removing bee stingers and thirsty ticks, which were greedily glued to his socks and jean legs. The fact that only 4 lanterns crawled listlessly around the bottom of his 1 jar, occasionally lighting up out of habit, made thoughts of desertion lurch forward in his mind. Will was painfully aware, having learned out of experience, or "the hard way" as taller people referred to it, that Peanut did not respond well to failure, and no amount of excuses, no matter how plausible and altogether truthful they may be would assuage Peanut's outlook on a job half-finished. So Will had spent no time piecing together a story of absolution and had focused every fiber on searching for lanterns amidst the cob-webbed ruins of Soldier Beetle Field. The 4 lanterns he had found he had treated with the utmost care and discretion because a lightning bug in the day was a valuable and rare commodity. He had been forced to root around the dusty roots of the Goldenrod plants, in the evasive weeds where the lanterns had been contentedly enjoying their nocturnal lives. Will had shoved his diurnal fingers into their world and forced their compliance. Their sad posture in the glass coffin vaulted directly into Will's malleable heart, and started poking the tender spots he kept hidden from Peanut. But Will was to worn and numbed with dreadful anticipation of the impending tongue lashing that he shed no outward sympathy for the captives; his sweat tears would have to substitute as his penitence for now.
Peanut approached with a new found briskness, propelled by a drive to finish what he started, or what he had coerced Will into starting. He observed by Will's fidgeting with a blade of grass between his fingers, grinding it into a botanical ball and mashing a green dye onto his fingers, that Will new something was amiss and was already in an apologetic stance.
"You left a jar in the wagon, and I thought I would bring it over to you," Peanut announced with only a tint of nettled humility. Will glanced up at the jar and swallowed the entire supply of earths gravity, which crammed and suppressed his insides into a malfunctioning mess that he imagined resembled the innards of the petrified frog they had dissected in Biology. His oxygen wouldn't make carbon dioxide spell out the words, "I only needed ONE jar." Peanut sat, a statue of judement, pointing an unwavering stare in Will's direction. Boring a hole in one part of his head, like the Mona Lisa does on the opposite wall of the Musée du Louvre. Will knew that he could not outlast Peanut's stare. Peanut could have laid siege to Rome with his stare and forced them into a famine surrender. This penetrating gaze usually rendered Will useless, babbling incoherent nonsense and nervously awaiting the chastisement at the end of his incongruous and useless explanation; however, Will's spine took control and sent shocks rippling through his brain that commanded his eyes to look anywhere but the submissive ground. He glanced, at snail and slug pace at the backdrop behind Peanut. So calm, even serene. The relics of Goldenrod bending slightly in the breeze, bowing and praying to Anemoi to not break their beetle laden backs. Peanut's judgmental stance seemed superimposed on a tranquil canvas, painted by a biased individual who was partial to simplistic beauty. A Monarch lit on a perimeter Goldenrod and let its wings inch apart and unfold, like a woman letting down her hair, unveiling a new world of color. Will's lips crept into a secretive smile at one corner of his mouth, which adversely sent Peanut's lips into a downward spiral. "I think we are done for today, at least I am finished with you. Perhaps we should talk about devotion, and the importance of listening." Will's smile surprisingly stayed chiseled and he arched his eyebrows and asked in a brazen tone, "Why do you always talk like that. You sound like a book on tape. I'd like you a whole lot better if you talked like normal."
Peanut humphed and did another about face.
I. Soldier Beetle Field
"That dog is mine said those poor children; that place in the sun is mine; such is the beginning and type of usurpation throughout the earth."~Blaise Pascal
An ugly sunrise was blinding on the horizon, a selfish orb that demanded attention and respect. It hung crookedly in the sky, as if God had knocked it askew while walking down heavenly halls and forgot to tack it back properly. Fire and light rays escaped across the neighborhood, scorching corneas and driving people to the shade of porches, where they clutched glasses of sweating lemonade and rocking chair arms with a dead mans grip. Just attmepting to survive, nothing more.
Peanut also glared, becoming a sun himself, blazing on the outskirts of a field of summer golden globes, his own universe of stars, which he would pluck now and again to hold in Atlas like poses and decide what was worth saving. However, today he had no need for his universe. Every star sat atop their own miniscule Atlas stems, waiting, wishing, hoping for their sun to keep blazing, but as far from them as possible.
Peanut sat at the end of the golden globe field, watching Will zig-zag amongst the bee capped dandelions, almost in a drunken stupor, which made Peanut smile behind his eyes. But he knew good and well that no hint of happiness could seep out of his stolid features, for their was work to be done today and there was no need in exciting Will's hopes of having fun this picaresque summer morning. If any joviality somehow seeped between the cracked mortar, Will would store the leaked happiness in his camel hump, and revert back to it once Peanut began dealing out swift, and perhaps uneeded criticisms. Peanut didn't expect his friend to be focused though. Will was notorious for letting his perephrial vision drag him in different directions, which left Peanut in charge, a position he both loved and despised. But despite his shortcomings, Peanut knew very well that Will was chizzled in the most appropriate places as to fit his own, lets not say infirmities, but unpolished aspects of character. They were a two piece puzzle, very specific, and as Peanut liked to think, alone and not apart of a larger, more meaningful puzzle.
The Red Sea of grass parted for Will's feet as he darted free of the golden globe field. He promptly saluted Peanut, and he promptly dropped his faded Jets helmet in the process. Peanut smartly saluted, and then gave Will a moment to pull his eyes back into his sockets and away from the dropped helmet, which had landed in a patch of taller, whispier grass that seemed to grow up through the face mask. It was now an instantaneous remnant, discarded and permanently apart of the scraggly grass bed it was sitting in. An antiquity of sorts, the sort that lined the edges of chain link fences around the dump and are home to rich, well-to-do spiders.
"What took you so long, it's nearly 10:30," said Peanut lethargically while standing in a slightly brighter and altogether more illustrious beam of light than Will. Will dug his foot into the ground, accidentally kicking the yellow rain cap off a dandelion. Peanut glared at him, "Well, I think you realize what is at stake today Will. Does your tardiness speak of your devotion to the task ahead?" Will shook his head, and kept his eyes fixed on the decapitated dandelion. Peanut took his silence as an apology, and even if it wasn't, there was no time to squeeze a heartfelt anything out of Will.
Stocks of Goldenrod were leaning in the ground behind Will and Peanut, only held together by spindly spider webs with big, black dots stuck in the middle. Middle-aged spiders trapped in the suburbia of Goldenrod upon Goldenrod, as far as their eyes could see. The field was surrounded by houses upon houses, and seemed like stonehenge to the modernized black-top dwellers; a last remaining dwelling of the alien inhabitants who used to let plants grow higher than 1 inch grass blades. As far as diversity was concerned, the patch of field held only comatose spiders and hordes of Golden Soldier Beetles, which made each bud of the Goldenrod seem alive. Although Peanut had scowered, or as he preferred to call it "scouted" the field, he had that tingling, aching feeling of premonition that this no good patch of unbundled kindling had lanterns in it. He just knew it.
"Alright Will, lets get started. You take the North side of Soldier Beetle Field and I'll take this side. The jars are in the wagon, and as you may already have noticed there are no nets. We are searching for a more docile pet today, so two hands and a jar are sufficient." With his orders in place, Peanut dismissed Will, who stood rooted to his spot, which Peanut had easily deduced in earlier meetings as meaning Will had a question. "Do you have something further to add?" Peanut asked, somewhat impatiently. Will, drawing up courage, most likely from his happiness camel hump, pushed out a babbling question; "Sir, er Peanut, sir. I was just wondering what it was exactly, today that we were catching today. I just want to be, er absolutely clear crystal, um, crystal clear." Peanut wanted to smile, but tucked the notion away in his mind, behind his rigid drive to get a job done well. "My dear Will, we are looking for the most prized and undoubtedley most sought after pet in the summer months; we are looking for lanterns."
"Lanterns sir, er Peanut?"
"Yes, lightning bugs, lanterns." Peanut anticipated Will's next question, as he saw his partners lips parting and his eyebrows furrowing. "We are looking for lanterns now because every other pea-brained outfit around this place will be looking for them at night. I'm sure The Minutemen will swagger out here," Peanut let his hatred be outwardly noticeable, wrapped himself in it, hoping that some of it would linger over and rest on Will's shoulders. Will stood there, watching a bee zoom around his pant leg, chasing its shadow. "Besides, The Headless Horsemen, Johnny Rebs, and of course your old army, the dim-witted ones," Peanut was snapped his fingers to arouse his memory; "What is their name again?" Will was wary, he knew Peanut was on edge already, stupid sun, always made the hot-headed boil over. "Oh, we were Sherwoods Merry Men. Jensen led the way as Robin Hood. You know, rob from the poor, that whole speel." Peanut blinked, "I think you mean rob from the rich, unless you were Commies. A Commy Robin Hood, now isn't that just an interesting thought." Peanut smiled, which immediately put Will on edge, smiling never means anything good. "So who were you in this gang of ruffians Will, Maid Marion?" Smirks all around, the cleverness curled the grass blades; a teeter-totter of joy and humiliation where Will was always on the ground. "No sir, er, Peanut, I was actually Little John." He tried to appear apathetic, but his heart pushed out frustration like goosebumps, and Peanut perceived his victory imediately. Peanut rarely lost any sort of wit battle with Will, Little John, fitting.
"So, lets get to work here. If we get a good crop of lanterns now, we can leave the rest of those pin-heads in the dust. Will's face brightened and then became tentative, sweat tears stuck in his eyebrows catching and holding the sun, "Don't you mean our competition will EAT our dust sir, er Peanut."
Now Peanut released one of the limited smiles from his own happiness bump, "Yes, they will be eating our dust, yes they will."
An ugly sunrise was blinding on the horizon, a selfish orb that demanded attention and respect. It hung crookedly in the sky, as if God had knocked it askew while walking down heavenly halls and forgot to tack it back properly. Fire and light rays escaped across the neighborhood, scorching corneas and driving people to the shade of porches, where they clutched glasses of sweating lemonade and rocking chair arms with a dead mans grip. Just attmepting to survive, nothing more.
Peanut also glared, becoming a sun himself, blazing on the outskirts of a field of summer golden globes, his own universe of stars, which he would pluck now and again to hold in Atlas like poses and decide what was worth saving. However, today he had no need for his universe. Every star sat atop their own miniscule Atlas stems, waiting, wishing, hoping for their sun to keep blazing, but as far from them as possible.
Peanut sat at the end of the golden globe field, watching Will zig-zag amongst the bee capped dandelions, almost in a drunken stupor, which made Peanut smile behind his eyes. But he knew good and well that no hint of happiness could seep out of his stolid features, for their was work to be done today and there was no need in exciting Will's hopes of having fun this picaresque summer morning. If any joviality somehow seeped between the cracked mortar, Will would store the leaked happiness in his camel hump, and revert back to it once Peanut began dealing out swift, and perhaps uneeded criticisms. Peanut didn't expect his friend to be focused though. Will was notorious for letting his perephrial vision drag him in different directions, which left Peanut in charge, a position he both loved and despised. But despite his shortcomings, Peanut knew very well that Will was chizzled in the most appropriate places as to fit his own, lets not say infirmities, but unpolished aspects of character. They were a two piece puzzle, very specific, and as Peanut liked to think, alone and not apart of a larger, more meaningful puzzle.
The Red Sea of grass parted for Will's feet as he darted free of the golden globe field. He promptly saluted Peanut, and he promptly dropped his faded Jets helmet in the process. Peanut smartly saluted, and then gave Will a moment to pull his eyes back into his sockets and away from the dropped helmet, which had landed in a patch of taller, whispier grass that seemed to grow up through the face mask. It was now an instantaneous remnant, discarded and permanently apart of the scraggly grass bed it was sitting in. An antiquity of sorts, the sort that lined the edges of chain link fences around the dump and are home to rich, well-to-do spiders.
"What took you so long, it's nearly 10:30," said Peanut lethargically while standing in a slightly brighter and altogether more illustrious beam of light than Will. Will dug his foot into the ground, accidentally kicking the yellow rain cap off a dandelion. Peanut glared at him, "Well, I think you realize what is at stake today Will. Does your tardiness speak of your devotion to the task ahead?" Will shook his head, and kept his eyes fixed on the decapitated dandelion. Peanut took his silence as an apology, and even if it wasn't, there was no time to squeeze a heartfelt anything out of Will.
Stocks of Goldenrod were leaning in the ground behind Will and Peanut, only held together by spindly spider webs with big, black dots stuck in the middle. Middle-aged spiders trapped in the suburbia of Goldenrod upon Goldenrod, as far as their eyes could see. The field was surrounded by houses upon houses, and seemed like stonehenge to the modernized black-top dwellers; a last remaining dwelling of the alien inhabitants who used to let plants grow higher than 1 inch grass blades. As far as diversity was concerned, the patch of field held only comatose spiders and hordes of Golden Soldier Beetles, which made each bud of the Goldenrod seem alive. Although Peanut had scowered, or as he preferred to call it "scouted" the field, he had that tingling, aching feeling of premonition that this no good patch of unbundled kindling had lanterns in it. He just knew it.
"Alright Will, lets get started. You take the North side of Soldier Beetle Field and I'll take this side. The jars are in the wagon, and as you may already have noticed there are no nets. We are searching for a more docile pet today, so two hands and a jar are sufficient." With his orders in place, Peanut dismissed Will, who stood rooted to his spot, which Peanut had easily deduced in earlier meetings as meaning Will had a question. "Do you have something further to add?" Peanut asked, somewhat impatiently. Will, drawing up courage, most likely from his happiness camel hump, pushed out a babbling question; "Sir, er Peanut, sir. I was just wondering what it was exactly, today that we were catching today. I just want to be, er absolutely clear crystal, um, crystal clear." Peanut wanted to smile, but tucked the notion away in his mind, behind his rigid drive to get a job done well. "My dear Will, we are looking for the most prized and undoubtedley most sought after pet in the summer months; we are looking for lanterns."
"Lanterns sir, er Peanut?"
"Yes, lightning bugs, lanterns." Peanut anticipated Will's next question, as he saw his partners lips parting and his eyebrows furrowing. "We are looking for lanterns now because every other pea-brained outfit around this place will be looking for them at night. I'm sure The Minutemen will swagger out here," Peanut let his hatred be outwardly noticeable, wrapped himself in it, hoping that some of it would linger over and rest on Will's shoulders. Will stood there, watching a bee zoom around his pant leg, chasing its shadow. "Besides, The Headless Horsemen, Johnny Rebs, and of course your old army, the dim-witted ones," Peanut was snapped his fingers to arouse his memory; "What is their name again?" Will was wary, he knew Peanut was on edge already, stupid sun, always made the hot-headed boil over. "Oh, we were Sherwoods Merry Men. Jensen led the way as Robin Hood. You know, rob from the poor, that whole speel." Peanut blinked, "I think you mean rob from the rich, unless you were Commies. A Commy Robin Hood, now isn't that just an interesting thought." Peanut smiled, which immediately put Will on edge, smiling never means anything good. "So who were you in this gang of ruffians Will, Maid Marion?" Smirks all around, the cleverness curled the grass blades; a teeter-totter of joy and humiliation where Will was always on the ground. "No sir, er, Peanut, I was actually Little John." He tried to appear apathetic, but his heart pushed out frustration like goosebumps, and Peanut perceived his victory imediately. Peanut rarely lost any sort of wit battle with Will, Little John, fitting.
"So, lets get to work here. If we get a good crop of lanterns now, we can leave the rest of those pin-heads in the dust. Will's face brightened and then became tentative, sweat tears stuck in his eyebrows catching and holding the sun, "Don't you mean our competition will EAT our dust sir, er Peanut."
Now Peanut released one of the limited smiles from his own happiness bump, "Yes, they will be eating our dust, yes they will."
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