Kenny McCormick arrives at his house a little after 5pm. Technically, the house isn't his, it's still his parents, but he pays all the bills and takes care of what little yard they have left. Not to mention he hasn't seen either parent in a few days..
It's hot summer days like these that make Kenny wish he was still in high school. If he were still in high school he wouldn't need a job to support him and Karen. If he were still in high school his friends would still be in South Park, ready to hang out. If he were still in high school his parents would get enough money from the government to make it worth their while to stick around.
In Kenny's opinion, Karen should be worth their while.
There are some days that Kenny doesn't check the mail. Sometimes he lets all the bills pile up until the corners of the envelopes stick out of the mailbox and the postage stamps begin curling due to the changing of weather from day to night. The mailman used to stack them neatly, giving him a few more days to fill up space, but now he just shoves them in, sometimes even ripping a few during the jamming process. When there are at least a few bills wet and damaged from the frost Kenny decides to check the mail.
Today is one of those days. Kenny throws his thin winter jacket over his shoulder and grabs the overflowing mess of envelopes from the middle, trying to make sure he has at least a finger on every envelope. It's like when Kenny is too tired to try to match his socks at the laundry mat, so he just quickly palms them into a pile and tries to grab the core of the newly formed sock ball.
Bills, every bill, have the same feel. Their envelopes are tightly sealed with very little width to them. This is how Kenny knows he has something in his hand other than a bill. His second clue was the handwritten print the addresses were in. Kenny never gets anything in the mail besides bills. There is the occasional court notice for his parents or Kevin or maybe a card from his grandma or Kyle, but those letters stopped coming months ago. This was neither a court notice nor a letter from grandma, but this was definitely not a bill.
Bills aren't addressed by handwriting, bills aren't sealed with open with caution tape, bills aren't addressed from Wyoming State Prison.
Kenny's thoughts immediately turn to Kevin. He's not sure where the oldest McCormick is, but he doubts Kevin would wander that far out of South Park.
No McCormicks do.
The envelope is addressed to solely Kenny, bringing him some relief that it's not his mom or dad who somehow got into that much trouble in what short amount of time they've disappeared this time.
Usually the return address is topped with the name of the sender, usually a social worker or relative, looking for money.
This sender is PM#224750.
Kenny quickly dumps the envelopes on the kitchen table as he grasps the cream colored envelope alone. He searches for his pocketknife in his pants pocket. Kenny is not allowed to carry a knife in the factory, but Kenny doesn't risk the long walk home without some small form of defense.
He doesn't recognize the handwriting on the outside, but his heart stops at the sight of the actual letter. He knows he doesn't need to read the bottom of the letter to know the writer.
If the square handwriting didn't give it away, the heading definitely did:
Ken,
Only one person really called Kenny Ken. That person's reasoning was that Kenny sounded too much like a little boy's name. They both knew their days of being "little boys" ended a long time ago. Even in the 5th grade when the boys ran into each other one school night at Stark's Pond. There were many other run-ins and meet ups at the Pond after that.
Kenny didn't want to believe that person was at the location of the envelope, so he read on.
Happy Birthday. I think you had one recently. I heard fireworks a week or two ago I think, so I knew it was sometime around here. I asked Smee what the date was when he delivered lunch today and he told me February. I don't believe him. Smee is a dick head that likes to act like I'm some kind of animal that needs to stay in a cage. I guess the whole state of Colorado thinks that. Wyoming, too. Can you tell me the date? The next time Smee is out and Loretta delivers me lunch I'm going to ask her. She'll tell me, but that could be weeks from now. I'll make sure to keep track next time.
I can tell its summer from the size of the bugs that fly through my window. Wyoming is a lot like Colorado. The big bugs only come out in the summer. I have one window, more like a hole. There's no glass or even bars. It's so high up, I'd have to be like 15 feet tall or something to reach it jumping.
Sometimes I sleep standing up with my back against the door just so I can watch the stars at night as I fall asleep.
Remember when we went to Stark's Pond and we talked about the stars? We were high off our asses and you started climbing the tree we all jumped off of when the water wasn't freezing. That night I bet it was.
When I asked what the fuck you were doing you told me you were trying to grab a star. I think about that a lot when the stars are nice enough to angle my way. Ken, you can't hold on to a star in your hand, but at least you can hold onto another plan, another day, you know?
My mind is shutting off. My mind shuts off more frequently now days. There is nothing to keep it going, keep it growing. We both know how much I like not doing anything, so you might think I'm in heaven, but it's hard. Even for me its hard.
It's hard sitting in your cell 24 hours a day.
It's hard doing nothing all day.
It's hard to fight your thoughts.
You try to drown them, you know Ken? Drown them in your sea of guilt but they keep floating to the top.
My toilet doesn't even have enough water to drown myself in.
It's try-to-sleep time. I'm not allowed to have a candle yet, so the sun tells me when its time to try-to-sleep.
How are you, Ken? Please tell me you made it out of that hellhole like we both promised we would. I only hope you made it out not like me. I hope you made it out free.
Write. They provide you with a stamp, so all you need is an envelope. You can steal one of those in the post office.
-Craig Tucker
PS- I just re read this, I sound like a fucking poet, besides maybe the toilet part.
PSS If this isn't Kenny McCormick then Fuck You for reading this.
"I can, tell it's, Summer,
from the, size of,
the bugs that fly,
Through my window….
…You can't hold on,
A star, in your hand
Though, at least you can
Hold on to another plan,…"
-Silversun Pickups, Rusted Wheel.
So, I have a few more chapters written, just needs transferring to the computer and all. It feels like a good winter story.
Let me know what you think. Any questions you have will hopefully be answered in other chapters. I got this plan in my head, man….
