Novelization.
There was a blackbird that had a nest in a large oak tree. Everyday I would watch it fly to and fro, collecting delicate grass bit and fragile twig so that it could make itself a sturdy home. The bird would hop along, cock its head with a nervous little twitch, and look at me, it was like the insipid thing was grovelling for my approval. Then it would fly off and go on building is nest.
I watched the nest grow from a humble pile of kindle to a large, misshapen half sphere. It was better than listening to another burned out teacher's tenure lecture. The bird always fascinated me, much more than the nest did. It could make its home wherever it pleased, it answered to not man nor comfort nor convenience, only instinct. It could fly away: it was tethered to nothing. When it was frightened or threatened or even if it felt like it, it could simple flap its wings and be gone into the cold October sky.
But yet they always came back to their haunts. Their instinct called, it whispered, it crooned in their little bird ear: come back, come back, dear heart. During college, year after year, a blackbird would build that same nest in that same spot and in the spring there would be little blackbirds opening their little maws wide, hungry and starving for food and for life. And then one of those little blackbirds would be back, building the same nest their parent built.
Maybe I was a bird in a past life. Maybe I had bird bones, hollow on the inside, and a tiny little fluttering heart that was always on edge and made me prone to fast, illogical reactions. Maybe it was my instincts calling for me to return home, to haunt the streets I had long since abandoned.
Either way, I set foot in Hillwood for the first time in five years. Bob and Miriam were waiting for me near the luggage claim, where it took me all of five seconds to pick up my lone checked bag. I had a habit of travelling light, as unlike most women my age, I never did much in the way of face-painting. That save me rather a lot of room.
Anyway, Bob and Miriam. They looked a little older, little greyer, and Big Bob was bigger and balder. They had long since accepted that I wouldn't call them Mom and Pop except in rare instances when I felt it prudent to regard them as parents. So when I gave them the obligatory hug and said, "Hey, Bob, Miriam," they didn't bat an eye. Like they ever did, really.
Big Bob graciously took my carry-on and we all walked out to the hummer.
"So, Helga, who's the guy?" Miriam asked, twisting around in her seat and blinking at me slowly.
"What! Miriam, do you see a ring?" I stuck my left hand up in her face.
"Oh no, honey, no. I just thought, you never tell us anything, so, I thought, maybe you'd found a nice guy like Olga did and you were going to settle down..."
"Leave the girl alone, Miriam!" Big Bob barked. "Criminy, she just got off the plane, let her settle in or something first."
I just slumped back in the seat and tuned them both out. I had really become quite adept at doing that over the years.
Like I was really going to tell them the real reason I had returned to Hillwood. If they didn't like me going to college for a degree in English instead of business, like they were going to understand why I wanted to write a novel or why I needed to grace the place that gave me so much inspiration with my presence again.
It's not like I came back expecting to find football head returned and acting as my muse again. No. Of course I still felt fondly of hair boy but he wasn't exactly what I'd call "novel" material. I wanted to write something serious, something so much more complex than the longings of unfulfilled love. I wanted to write the story of my youth. Maybe not an autobiography, but something more allegorical. Something that people could relate to. Yeah, because people can relate to Helga G. Pataki.
Big Bob finally made it home. I took my bag up to my room. The room was slightly dank and oppressive when I stepped in, no one had opened a window years. It had regained that cold, impersonal smell of a room not lived in. Firstly, I opened a window, even though it was November. Then I looked around. My room looked exactly as it did when I left it, which meant it was still pretty childish and pink.
I didn't plan on staying with my parents long. I already had a job with a publishing company lined up, I just needed to save up enough dough to have a nice cushion before renting a flat. Yeah. That wouldn't be too hard. I mean, Christ, my parents alone were enough motivation to get me out of the damn house as quick as I could.
After I laid out my clothes in the dresser, I sat down on my bed and pulled out my laptop. I didn't feel like doing any serious writing, so I went to see if anyone felt like meeting up. Of course, I couldn't meet up with anyone I actually wanted to talk to, since Pheebs was off cavorting around in medical school and Rhonda had been drawn to Paris and its fashion like a moth to a flame.
Hell, I didn't even know who had stuck around in this two bit town. I'd find out shortly. I updated my facebook, saying I was back in Hillwood. Stinky, of all the godforsaken people in the world, replied. Stinky, the stupid southern hick. Criminy, he even typed like it, saying, "I reckon, Helga. I didn't think ya'll would ever come back here. If ya'll feel like doing some catchin' up we could go out to a bar I know, it's real good." It wasn't my idea of a Friday night to go out drinking with Stinky, so I didn't reply after that.
When an hour of aimless internet browsing didn't offer me any better prospects of what to do with my night, I grabbed my coat, black book, and a pen. Miriam was in the kitchen burning dinner, so I told her that I wasn't going to be home, then high tailed it for the door before she could slur why.
Once I was outside, I turned up the collar of my coat against the bitter wind and set to walking. The sullen sky was starting to darken, so I tried to hit all the places with important scenery before it was too black to see them properly. I was already starting to get haphazard fragments of memory clawing their way from wherever I had hidden them away. That must have been a damn sight: a tall, fierce looking blond girl scowling at you as you jogged by the bench she was sitting on, all the while scribbling in a notebook. Those saps must have thought I was writing a hit list for God's sake.
Eventually it was too dark to see what I was writing. I heaved myself from the bench and walked from the park to the middle of town. I was absolutely faint from hunger but none of the restaurants were appealing in the least. In the end I found myself in some no name bar, nursing a gimlet and writing alcohol inspired prose about the bar patrons, which I'm sure thrilled them.
For example, there was a guy sitting at this table all by himself. He had a beer in his hand and all he did was stare down the neck of the bottle. I mean, the Sam Adams was completely full, he didn't even have the heart to take a sip. Maybe he was already too drunk to care. The man was an ugly chap, with a high, thick brow, prominent beak nose, and no chin so to speak of. He had let at least 3 days of stubble build up along his hollow cheeks and non-chin. I let my imagination run wild and wrote a whole 11 page short story about how he was a war veteran who had fallen in love with a farmer's daughter during the war and had a bastard child that he would never see again. Yeah, I'd go and shoot myself in the foot if that was actually true, but inspiration's inspiration.
I was so focused on writing I hardly noticed the southern drawl calling my name. So when I looked up from my book to watch my current muse, I looked straight up the nose of none other than Stinky.
"Jesus, Stinky! I should punch you in the face, scarin' me like that!" I gasped, slamming my notebook shut.
"Gee, Helga, what a coincidence, runnin' into you! I don't reckon I mentioned the name of the place," Stinky laughed.
"No. You didn't," I said shortly.
"Whatchoo writin'?"
Stinky made himself right at home, draping his lanky frame all over the chair next to mine. He really hadn't changed much since the last time I saw him. Bastard was still tall as hell, but he lost the buzz cut in favour of some shaggy, in his eyes type style that looked damn stupid. He was growing a ridiculous goatee. Good thing I didn't have my Swiss Army knife or I would have shaved that wicked thing right off. That's how bad it looked.
"Nothing, Stinky," I said.
"Oh, well, what have you been doin' with yerself?" he grinned and took a sip of his beer.
"Graduating college, enjoying single life, the works. Yourself?" I rolled my eyes. That was understating a lot, but I didn't feel that Stinky needed to know every minuscule detail of my personal life thus far. For crying out loud, I don't think I even gave the kid an inkling that I enjoyed his company back in high school.
"I'm workin' on becomin' a mecahnic. It ain't what I want to do, but you know how gettin' jobs is." Suddenly, I snorted into my gimlet. Stinky just looked down his nose at me like I was crazy. Of course, he probably always thought that I was crazy, so it didn't really matter. "What's funny like alla the sudden?"
"Nothing, I just remembered... remember when I dressed up in that ridiculous son of a bitch southern belle dress and forced you in a tuxedo?"
"Oh Lord, that was... we had to be ten. Oh Lord, I do. That was the ugliest dress, Helga."
Stinky got another insipid grin on his face and we sat there for a few minutes chuckling and snorting like two reminiscing fools. I decided it was in my best interest to abandon the gimlet and drink water instead. Stinky and I traded some tales, I told him of my more interesting sections of college life, he told me the going ons of this two bit town. Most of it I couldn't give two flying fucks about, but at least some of it was mildly interesting. Saved me from falling asleep. Criminy, that southern drawl was about as good as a sleeping pill. I nearly made a mental note to call Stinky the next time I got struck with a case of insomnia.
Finally, I had all I could take of that, so I left Stinky at the bar. The night life was in full swing now; I wasn't all that keen on seeing all the gussied up club girls which meant I hopped a bus and rode back home. Big Bob was asleep in the living room with the TV blaring and I had no idea where Miriam was. What a night, what a day. I slunk up the stairs and went in my room. I threw off my coat, then sat down on my bed to flip through and review what I had wrote. Some of it was good, but I swear, what I wrote at the bar should be burned as soon as possible.
I saw that I had left my laptop running. I was all awake again after the bus ride home, so I opened up the laptop, to check my facebook page. And criminy, I nearly had a damn heart attack. Because of all the fucking people in this population of 6 billion, football head, Arnold Shortman, had sent this message: "That's funny, I'm about to leave for the airport right now, to take a plane back to Hillwood."
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My first HA! Fic evar. I forgot how much I loved the show and how great it actually was.
Of course, only after I started writing this did I check the FF dot Net archives and saw that Helga and Arnold coming back after college is only the plot of HALF THE STORIES.
Great minds think alike, rite?