Finally, the week had ended. Saturday morning settled upon the
neighborhood, bringing with it a damp summer heat, that sunk itself into
rooftops and beds of grass, and reflected ambiguously off every car on the
block. Heaving himself out of bed, his blanket hanging lazily, half off
the side of the bed, Gordo extended his arms above his head and let out a
heavy yawn. He could hear the vague sound of dishes clattering together
and running water. 'Oh, no,' he thought brisky. 'She's cleaning'. This
always meant his mother was angry. Probably at his father, but she always
took it out on Gordo. Still, he shrugged it off and decided to just stay
very quiet, tightly locked up in his room all day. He began the day with
an hour or so on the computer, downloading music and digitally editing a
new video project for school, tv production class. Eyes glued to the
screen and fingers tapping away, his gaze was never broken, even when
taking sips out of his 3 day old bottle of Mountain Dew he kept stashed in
his cabinet, and only tearing his fingers from the keyboard to use the
mouse, which was actually a continual transition. Eventually, he tired of
the digital world and shut down his friend. Swivelling in his chair
playfully a few times, he then leaned over- exerting the smallest amount of
effort possible- and reached out a hand to grab a book off his shelf. This
was a blind decision he made occasionally. He loved every book on that
shelf and had read them all at least 4 times a piece, so it really didn't
matter which one he chose. This particular time, it was "Nine Stories", by
J.D. Salinger. Every short story in this collection was an amazing wonder.
He opened to the first story, "A Perfect Day for Bananafish", and began to
take in each of it's 18 pages, savoring each line like a fine chocolate or
a passionate kiss from an exotic stranger. Delicately flicking each page
back to reveal a new passage, Gordo's eyes flicked from line to paragraph,
barely pausing for periods. Occasionally, he would break for a moment to
take a sip from his drink, but for the most part, his eyes never left those
pages. Eventually, he turned to the final page, the end of this one soon
approaching, while the begining of the next one stood there, staring
ambiguously up at him. Proceeding on, he moved cautiously into the final
paragraph. "Then he went and sat down on the unoccupied twin bed, looked
at the girl, aimed the pistol, and fired a bullet through his right
temple." This last part. This surprise ending to a beautiful story,
always gave Gordo this sinking feeling. A drowning, suffocating feeling,
too powerful to describe.
Gordo then got out of his chair. No, fell, out of his chair, too depressed and tired to lift himself off the beige carpet. He managed to suck in a quivering, painful breath, and then, after a moment lying still on the floor, he pressed his hands against the ground beneath him and felt his body lifting forcefully upward. With drops of yellow sunlight carefully decorating his walls, he looked around, and then made the somewhat painful decision to venture downstairs.
Taking each step silently, Gordo rested one hand on the banister and kept his eyes on the floor as he traversed the stairs leading into the living room. The room was silent, which was strange. He had expected to see his mother, dashing around the house, busy cleaning away her troubles. Yelling at him, to eat a good breakfast and come help her do yard work. However, he couldn't see her or hear her, anywhere. He chanced a trip into the family room to watch some television. When he entered the room, his eyes were glued to the maroon couch, covered in beige pillows that matched the carpet. It looked so comfortable, so inviting. With his mind set on this destination, he didn't even notice that his mother was sitting on the edge of the coffee table directly in front of the couch. Then, he smelled something he hadn't smelt in this house since he was five. Smoke. Immeadiately jetting his eyes up toward the scent, he saw his mother, dressed in a tight pink shirt and dark pair of blue jeans. Her legs were crossed tightly together, with one arm tightly holding her side, draped across her lap. The other hand held a sleek white cigarette. She pulled the thin smoke stack into her lips, which had been painted crimson. The rest of her face was done up in thick make up as well. Blowing white fog out her nostrils, Gordo saw his mother as he had never seen her before. Her dark eyes were fixed straight ahead. She didn't look at him. Her hair was dirty blonde, with obvious dark brown roots. It had grown stringy at the ends and her bangs had grown out a little too long. Half her hair was up in a bun, while the rest of hit hung heavily, framing her face. Gordo could see the creases in her face more than ever now. Her shoulders slumped forward, very slightly, from years of bad posture. She took another long drag on her cigarette, this time, holding in the smoke a moment longer, then simply opening her mouth as the pallid smoke dripped out of her mouth. Gordo stood, his mouth agape, with a shocked look on his face. One had clenched the remote control, as he had grabbed for it, right before he saw his mother. He felt the need to say something, but no words would come out. His mother solved that problem for him. "Sit down," she said, in a deep, brooding voice, her eyes still fixed. Gordo obliged, that same shocked look still glued to his face. There was a long moment of silence, while she intermittently took swigs on her smoke stack. Finally, she spoke again. "David, I have something to tell you." She didn't smile. Her lips were pursed in a defiant position. Her eyes never wavered from their stare. "I love you," she said this casually and Gordo wished she'd sounded more convincing, "and your father, but, I think you are smarter than he or I give you credit for. I think you know what's been going on. I'm not happy, David." When she said that last sentence, she leaned down to tap a few ashes off the end of her cigarette. Gordo's astonished look had faded. Now he looked scared, confused and sad. His eyes were fighting to look anywhere but at his mother. He was terrified at what she would tell him. Her voice was so defiant. So uncaring, unflinching, unloving. He winced as she continued. "I'm leaving your father." Gordo's heart sank into his stomach. He had no voice to speak with, otherwise he would have said something. Anything. "It's not your fault." She said this as though it were a script she were reading, not something coming from her heart. "I'm leaving today. You'll stay here. You need a home. I just, have to go. I'm not happy, David. You want me to be happy, don't you david?" This time her eyes found their way to him, lingering there for a response. Gordo could not speak, even if he had something to say. She obviously took his silence as acceptance. Lifting herself off of her seat she walked over to him. His head was still turned away from her. His eyes seemed to spasm, in an attempt to find a way out of this world of discomfort. She pulled one hand up to his face and touched his cheek, her long painted false fingernails pressing against his cheekbone. Then, she turned away and walked over to the stairway. Gordo immeadiately turned his head toward her back which was facing his way. He hadn't seen them there before, but now he could plainly see three suitcases, varying in size. His mouth fell open again. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Turning forward he watched the smoke dance up from the ashtray where she had carelessly dropped her cigarette. He was determined not to look around again. She wouldn't leave him. If he didn't see her go she'd be back here making him breakfast. The heavy greasy scent of bacon and eggs would fill the room, instead of that thick smell of smoke. Just while he was begining to believe these hopeful thoughts, the loud thud of the front door slamming shut resounded through the house. It was followed by a car starting, and the screech of it driving away. Silence filled the room, as Gordo fell onto the couch, squeezing his eyes shut tightly.
Gordo then got out of his chair. No, fell, out of his chair, too depressed and tired to lift himself off the beige carpet. He managed to suck in a quivering, painful breath, and then, after a moment lying still on the floor, he pressed his hands against the ground beneath him and felt his body lifting forcefully upward. With drops of yellow sunlight carefully decorating his walls, he looked around, and then made the somewhat painful decision to venture downstairs.
Taking each step silently, Gordo rested one hand on the banister and kept his eyes on the floor as he traversed the stairs leading into the living room. The room was silent, which was strange. He had expected to see his mother, dashing around the house, busy cleaning away her troubles. Yelling at him, to eat a good breakfast and come help her do yard work. However, he couldn't see her or hear her, anywhere. He chanced a trip into the family room to watch some television. When he entered the room, his eyes were glued to the maroon couch, covered in beige pillows that matched the carpet. It looked so comfortable, so inviting. With his mind set on this destination, he didn't even notice that his mother was sitting on the edge of the coffee table directly in front of the couch. Then, he smelled something he hadn't smelt in this house since he was five. Smoke. Immeadiately jetting his eyes up toward the scent, he saw his mother, dressed in a tight pink shirt and dark pair of blue jeans. Her legs were crossed tightly together, with one arm tightly holding her side, draped across her lap. The other hand held a sleek white cigarette. She pulled the thin smoke stack into her lips, which had been painted crimson. The rest of her face was done up in thick make up as well. Blowing white fog out her nostrils, Gordo saw his mother as he had never seen her before. Her dark eyes were fixed straight ahead. She didn't look at him. Her hair was dirty blonde, with obvious dark brown roots. It had grown stringy at the ends and her bangs had grown out a little too long. Half her hair was up in a bun, while the rest of hit hung heavily, framing her face. Gordo could see the creases in her face more than ever now. Her shoulders slumped forward, very slightly, from years of bad posture. She took another long drag on her cigarette, this time, holding in the smoke a moment longer, then simply opening her mouth as the pallid smoke dripped out of her mouth. Gordo stood, his mouth agape, with a shocked look on his face. One had clenched the remote control, as he had grabbed for it, right before he saw his mother. He felt the need to say something, but no words would come out. His mother solved that problem for him. "Sit down," she said, in a deep, brooding voice, her eyes still fixed. Gordo obliged, that same shocked look still glued to his face. There was a long moment of silence, while she intermittently took swigs on her smoke stack. Finally, she spoke again. "David, I have something to tell you." She didn't smile. Her lips were pursed in a defiant position. Her eyes never wavered from their stare. "I love you," she said this casually and Gordo wished she'd sounded more convincing, "and your father, but, I think you are smarter than he or I give you credit for. I think you know what's been going on. I'm not happy, David." When she said that last sentence, she leaned down to tap a few ashes off the end of her cigarette. Gordo's astonished look had faded. Now he looked scared, confused and sad. His eyes were fighting to look anywhere but at his mother. He was terrified at what she would tell him. Her voice was so defiant. So uncaring, unflinching, unloving. He winced as she continued. "I'm leaving your father." Gordo's heart sank into his stomach. He had no voice to speak with, otherwise he would have said something. Anything. "It's not your fault." She said this as though it were a script she were reading, not something coming from her heart. "I'm leaving today. You'll stay here. You need a home. I just, have to go. I'm not happy, David. You want me to be happy, don't you david?" This time her eyes found their way to him, lingering there for a response. Gordo could not speak, even if he had something to say. She obviously took his silence as acceptance. Lifting herself off of her seat she walked over to him. His head was still turned away from her. His eyes seemed to spasm, in an attempt to find a way out of this world of discomfort. She pulled one hand up to his face and touched his cheek, her long painted false fingernails pressing against his cheekbone. Then, she turned away and walked over to the stairway. Gordo immeadiately turned his head toward her back which was facing his way. He hadn't seen them there before, but now he could plainly see three suitcases, varying in size. His mouth fell open again. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Turning forward he watched the smoke dance up from the ashtray where she had carelessly dropped her cigarette. He was determined not to look around again. She wouldn't leave him. If he didn't see her go she'd be back here making him breakfast. The heavy greasy scent of bacon and eggs would fill the room, instead of that thick smell of smoke. Just while he was begining to believe these hopeful thoughts, the loud thud of the front door slamming shut resounded through the house. It was followed by a car starting, and the screech of it driving away. Silence filled the room, as Gordo fell onto the couch, squeezing his eyes shut tightly.
