If he let his nerves get the best of him, then his nerves would get the best of his team.
Don Carlton reminded himself of that as he watched the bubbling sludge of liquid chocolate in the pot under the stove light. It was like shaping up for a million-dollar sales pitch tomorrow. In his old company days, he had stiffly stepped out of conference room after 10-minute pitches, wondering, what hand motions did he misuse? Did he flub anything? Was his breath too heavy? What he too quick, too slow? If only he rehearsed a moment more! What could he do, done better, next time? Dah. Small errors could cost him a raise or a promotion.
Don rubbed the O.I. label with the back of his palm on his lucky mug, a souvenir that had sat at his old office desk for three decades. It was a gesture of good luck in Oozmanian Industry, a habit that somewhat derived from a minor fad where co-workers who would pat their O.I. mug label before making a sale. Now the label was a phantom of words, faded by the wear and tear of his palm's gentle friction. He always drank hot liquids out of that mug to relax his throat for a pitch.
The cocoa sizzled, beads of tiny bubbles frothing to the surface. Just about done. He poured it right into his mug. The chocolaty aroma steamed into his nostrils. Now this better ease his nerves. Now he would take the hot mug and let it cool at his bedside. It had been a habit of his to keep cocoa at his nightstand for occasional sips.
Someone sang in the living room. A female voice faintly hummed the unintelligible lyrics too fast for him to comprehend or enjoy. Ms. Squibbles? Sheri? He hadn't counted on her being around at this hour! But how could he forget her laundry nights? He snapped off the stove light, ready to dive himself into the Swift Maneuver behind the counter.
She wouldn't be mad at him for sneaking a snack past the curfew. He knew her better than that. He figured this little chance would be a brief impromptu rehearsal, a challenge to avoid detection. A rehearsal.
Aside from that, he hadn't really spoken to her much since the start of the Scare Games. He didn't know if he had the right words to say. Part of him wanted her to open the door, catch him, and maybe exchange a humorous word or two. Maybe he won't hide. Maybe he'll wait and let her come to him.
Then something faintly screeched and hollered from above.
Thumping noises scurried from the ceiling. Mike? James? Practicing at this hour? Their nerves must be tense too.
Then Ms. Squibbles's footsteps faded. Don channeled his sense of Noise Inference, as Mike taught him, when it came to listening for parents approaching the bedroom. Ms. Squibbles was climbing the stairs to investigate the noise. He could tell by the soft padding of feet and its creaks of ascension.
Her fluttery voice scolded Mike and James. Her scoldings were laced with affection. One felt so guilty to upset her.
A door above opened and closed. Footsteps on the board. How his hearing had amplified since his training. Not in the sense that his surroudings were louder, but rather, he could detect the tinniest and most precise of specific minor noise like the gentle hum of electricity in the grandfather clock.
He could hear the muffled bantering of Sheri and Scott. She had gone to Scott's room, he deduced.
So coast was clear. For now. Time to slip to his room. He had to go before Sheri emerged.
His hand closing over the mug handle, Don slipped out into the living room into the sound of the grandfather clock ticking. It would be a minor obstruction to his hearing senses. Now to place his foot on the stairs. It creaked under its weight. Standing on it for long would prolong the creaking, so he found himself, pacing himself up the stairs, swiftly so his feet would brush the floor like a five pounds of feathers, until finally, his feet reached the carpet of upstairs. Great, and not a drop spilt! Now he could slip into his room and get som-
Scott's bedroom door opened.
Out rolled Art, who rapidly shut the door with the deft movement of his foot. His limbs brushed Don's elbow, unfortunately startling Don into stumbling forward.
Although those handy suckers secured his grip on the mug's handle, he had tipped the mug enough so that drops of cocoa splashed on the floor.
Art's halted his wheeling, unfolded, and eyed Don.
Peering down, Don noticed, to his dismay, that a splash of cocoa had not landed on the cleanable hardwood floor, but instead one of Ms. Squibbles's carpets, soaking into a large spot on its floral patterns. No trick of the dark or his glasses. His nocturnal vision wasn't failing him. Mike had made sure that everyone, including old Don, sharpened their nocturnal vision for that last Hide-And-Sneak event with darkness drills.
"Sorry dude." He nearly forgot that Art was there.
"It's quite all right. Mai 'reaction timing, 'as Mikey calls it, needs fine-tuning." Better avoid slip ups like these when he performed his Scare. Slip-up like this could wake the child too early, ruin the atmosphere... cost his Oozmas their Scaring future.
Art stared forlornly at the stain. "It's my reaction timing that needs works. Totally crashed into ya'."
"It's ok, sonny, I'll get the washing rag."
"No, no, dude, I'll get it."
The whispery exchange went on, until Don realized they had debated too long about culpability and the stain had sunk in. Son of a... mustache, he cursed in his head. His late Pa' Carlton raised him to hunker down to a safe word before blurting out something filthy, even if it was inside his head.
He reminded himself to deal with the durn stain later so not to be tired for Mike's morning training regimen. He shouldn't stress. No heartburns. No back cracks. He needed sleep. "Well, good night, Art, I'll deal with it later. Don't-"
But Art had peeled off his woolen OK cuff and started mopping at the hardening stain. "Art. Don't soil yer lucky cuff. Let me handle this."
"Dude."
But before his could answer, the knob to Scott's door rattled, which jolted up his Scarers instinct.
Instinctively, they sprung up, just as they rehearsed for Hide-and-Sneak.
From the corner of his eyes, Don spied the flutter of the cuff disappearing at the corner of a hallway. Art had slipped off the corridor. Hearing no door slam, Don realized that the fellow was hidden off somewhere.
He was about to dart to his left when he realized that he couldn't risk spilling his cocoa again. But his bedroom was yards away. The quick maneuver was impossible with that risky object in his hand. He hadn't perfected Prop Scaring, something Mike bothered less with due to the rare circumstances of that technique even during Scare Games events.
He heard someone utter something, he spun around. Ms. Squibbles had just closed the door to her son's bedroom. Their eyes locked right in the dark.
Jeez, he was still surprised at how much liveliness there was in a lady her age. She had the scent of fresh laundry.
In a shouty whisper, Ms. Squibbles uttered, "Ah-ha." Her eyes fell onto Don's mug. "Thought I heard someone sneakin' about the kitchen."
She was just being good-natured, but Don froze, caught red-handed. He found the courage to mutter, "Just needed a dash of sweetness to calm mai nerves for tomarrow."
She seemed at a loss for words. A lull in the conversation. He could hear his three hearts thumping.
"How's Scott?"
It would be a somewhat silly question as he hung out with the kid, but he valued Sheri's input on Scott's welfare. If only more kids like Scott were around campus. They were brave enough to appreciate their maternal comforts.
"Scotty's fine, though a bit nervous about tomorrow." Poor Scott. "I reckon now he's gonna sleep like a baby once I leave him alone."
Don glanced at his mug and rubbed the O.I. label with his other hand, trying to position it so that it would look like the causal action of balancing the cup with both hands. "Um, Ms. Squibbles. I have a conf-
A serene look formed in her eyes. "Please, again, call me Sheri, Mister Carlton." This was the umpteenth time she teased this request like he wasn't aware of it before.
Could she see him blushing in the dark? Did she have good nocturnal vision?
Don tightened his grip on his mug before muttering, "I owe you an apology."
Perplexed, she blinked, so he clarified, "I... I hadn't had time to walk with you."
"Oh." Sheri's eyes lit up. "You were so busy, and Mikey said I couldn't ruin your focus. Lil' Mikey kept you all to himself, coaching you away."
True. It wasn't a bad thing, but it was a tad shameful to admit, that the freshman was even more intimate with his knowledge of Scaring.
"I know Mike's been keepin' me all to himself, and I hadn't had time to have walk with you anymore. But I can't wait to see ya' cheering on for us."
Her eyes were wide. She was looking forward to what else he had to say.
"Ms. Squibbles." After all the walks, cups of cocoa, and conversations they shared together, he still held onto the businessmonster precaution of formally addressing her as "Ms. Squibbles." But now it was growing more difficult to maintain a tenant-landlady relationship with her.
"Again, I cannot stress enough how grateful I am for you, Missus... for everything." Like a good businessmonster, he extended his hand for a handshake of gratitude. She blinked at his symbolic businessmonster gesture. At that moment, Don knew that they both silently agreed that a handshake was too simple for this moment. She clasped her mitt-like palm against his. Don flushed, hoping his tentacle-arm suckers wouldn't be bothersome. He shook that obligatory handshake. But then, she laid her other hand on top of the handshake. "I just want to say," she said with her voice as low as a breeze, "I do miss our small-talks."
With the warmth of Sheri's hands upon his own palm, Don found his nerves tightening. A confession nudged at him. The cocoa must be running to his head. He would rubbed the O.I. label if she hadn't been keeping his other hand prisoner. His three hearts chugged in his chest so firmly that he was sure she could feel his blood churning through his palm.
What he blurted out next was unintentional.
"Sher...- I, I spilt some of mai' cocoa on ya' rug. So there's a glarin' stain on it now. Sorry." Don flushed so hard that he was sure she could see his cheeks turning scarlet. Not that he expected sweet-tempered Sheri to ever be disappointed at spilt chocolate, but that was far from what he wanted to say now. "Sorry... again."
He thought he heard the hint of a muffled snicker. Art? But then again, it might have been just the wind of the air conditioner.
Sheri looked down. She must have good nocturnal vision to see that stain. "Oh dear." To his relief, she didn't stop smiling.
Don didn't move because her hands were still on her palms.
Silence. Then a giggle. "That's all right. You got a Game to worry about tomorrow." She giggled so hard that her head did a dip, and Don felt her hair rollers brush his forehead. "Don't worry about it. Accidents happen."
He realized then she wasn't uttering these words as a you're-a-guest hospitality obligation. She was speaking to him as if he was a decades-long resident under her roof.
Don found himself taking a long sip of his cocoa to fill in the silence, an excuse for not saying anything more until he found the time for the correct words. "I'll deal with it later." He wanted to add that he'll take her out on walks again, to make it up for her, not just for the stain but also for lost time.
Wishing him good night, she gradually plucked her hand off the suckers of his hands as she walked passed him to the door next to Scott's room. He watched her retire to her bedroom, and as her door closed, he saw her peeking through the closing crack of her door. His nocturnal vision was good enough. He did really see her stealing a look at him. So he smiled, hoping she could see his smile from the distance.
Her door shut, leaving Don in the dark, shaken and elated.
He allowed a pause, waiting for the sound of Sheri going to bed.
Then that giggle sounded.
"Art. Yer still there?"
Art emerged from the corner of the hallway with a wobbly smile that seemed to congratulate him. How could he nearly forget that Art was there, probably tuning into his chat with Sheri? His awareness needed fine-tuning. Art bore that goofy grin with the shines of tears soaking the fur below his eyes. Art. What in tarnation gave him cause to cry tears of joy? Oh, son of gun, son of gun, how much did he hear?
"I'm just so touched, Don. That was just so cool of ya'." Tears welted down his face. "It's just so sweet."
"Art." Why was he so wary at the notion that Art listened to him and Sheri? He was just talking to her. What could that mean to Art? "Keep yer voice low."
Art rubbed his eyes. "You covered for me, Don. You took the rap for me. Always there to stick up for me."
Don had to smile. "We've been over this, it's my fault. I spilt da' cocoa." Art wasn't culpable, but Don had to appreciate that he was sorry about it anyway. "Guess I'm jittery 'bout tomorrow."
"Me too," Art sighed. "I'm... sorry."
Sorry? "Sorry what?"
"I'm apologizing in advance." He sighed.
"For what, fella?"
"Cause' I might bring down the team tomorrow." His eyes and brows were drooped.
"Sonny, don't fuss over split cocoa." Don chuckled at his own hypocrisy.
Art poked his finger at the stain, hardened by then. "This isn't spilt chocolate. This is everyone else I'm talking about." Art drove a good point. It wouldn't be grown-up to downplay what everyone had at stake here.
He was at a loss for the right words. Heck, he loved the fellas but sometimes felt distant with them. He felt too old sometimes, but that was the boundary that would have prevented his friendship with them. He had to bend the barriers sometimes. He played along in their last amusing initiation ceremony. He joined them at arcades though he never played much himself. For a moment, he wished he had his own children so he could be a little more experienced at reaching folks like Art. Maybe he had been looking for too much in common with the youth in trying to keep up with them. True, their failure brought them together. That was his shortcoming as a mature student. Sure, he was glad to be united with them, but to see and savor their diversity was the real joy. Or maybe his age was just some illusion he imposed upon himself.
Or maybe he was irrationally embarrassed about his lack of youth. Or really, that he still retained some part of it. Heck, he'll mull about this later...
If he could find some of the right words, the way he did with Sheri.
"Art, yer can't just pay up in advanced when ya' unsure of the product. Yer don't know that." When Art looked perplexed at the sales metaphor, he clarified, "What I'm tryin' to say, Art. Yer don't know if yer da' one. Could be me who could fail ya'." He meant for this to be humorous but didn't like to disclose this insecurity. His policy was that his problems were his own. He could not inconvenience the boys with his issues, especially when they needed theirs dealt with first. They were top priority.
And now that distressed expression melted in Art's face into a curious and concerned one. The comment had not cheered him up but rather shifted his concerns elsewhere.
"Um, so, how are you feeling, Don?"
"Hunky-dory, Arthur." Of course, Art wasn't really Arthur. It was a humorous private name-gag between the two. When the fella first had given Don his name at the O.K. sign-up, Don naturally assumed, oh, nickname, fella's an Author, until corrected.
Art had a funny way of lifting his brow. "Dude, you fussed over that little carpet stain like me. What's the matter? Now tell me?" Art might have slipped into some psychiatrist-mode.
With a deep breath, he admitted, "Sonny, same case as yours. Just some nerves."
"If we don't make it... My amateur therapy service, is open to everyone, including you." He winked. "Don't be a stranger."
Cheerfully, Don replied, "And free is the best. I ain't sure there's a cure for my nerves. But this cocoa is my medicine."
"You can't cure nerves, but you can calm nerves."
"True, true. "Don chuckled. "Well, what's your prescription then, mister therapist?"
"Crying."
"Eh, any alternative medicine?"
"Breathing."
"Heh, heh, that's an obvious one." Don was no stranger to breathing techniques. He had an exercise of inhaling and exhaling before a pitch, making sure his breaths weren't too audible. The principle was the same for job interviews or the clients.
"I mean, you breathe aloud. Like a sush." Art inhaled and went shhhhhh, letting his serene eyes close in peace.
After a long pause, Art, opened one eye, a face in a frozen wink, and added, "And when you do it, you pretend that you're sushing out all the bad things in life. And it's best done alone when you're not worrying about anyone watching. Try it."
Don sucked in some air, then exhaled, and in those seconds, his mind cleared like a fog fading away. He exhaled that sigh until his lungs felt hollow.
"...sush out all the bad things in life."
Within the duration of his sush, Don thought of the academic adviser's odd glance when he announced his intention to complete a Scaring Major. He thought of the snapping pain on his back when he first stood before the scream simulator in front of Professor Knight and Dean Hardscrabble three semesters ago. That disappointing performance score tacked on the wall of the Scaring School. Every constant insult from campus passers-bys whenever they attempted to add new brothers. The campus that he was proud to be a part of celebrating their woes in the wake of the cruel incident at the ROR house.
His three hearts settled down and beat at their synchronized, regular intervals. But the memories didn't fade. He still heard the laughter of ROR. They just settled down, dormant, waiting to fester again. The memories were muted, like how Novocaine numbed the jaw. He couldn't think of the good things now. He would envisioned himself as Scarer, but he couldn't pretend the future will be positive and perfect.
Before he knew it, Art's comforting hand patted his back. "If you need me, I'll be next door and we can talk about our feelings, Pops." Normally, Don would oppose the nickname "Pops," as it was the third most common derogatory terminology from campus passer-bys next to "Grandpa" and "Old Man," but Don appreciated the connotations that Art said with utmost endearment rather than casual insensitivity.
They wished each other a goodnight. Don stood in the isolated darkness. He heard the squeak of a mattress, a soft murmur (presumably a "goodnight" to the twins), Art settling in his bunk bed. And then. Silence.
The walls weren't soundproof, so the virtual quietness disturbed him. He couldn't hear anything but the softening throes of his heart, and the ticks of the clock downstairs. He had endured the nightly ruckus of the boys, something he considered to be the cons to the pros of the housing deal. Perhaps because he tended to go to bed an hour or two earlier than everyone.
Now somehow, he pined for all the familiar sounds - Art's philosophizing to the twins, the twins thumping tentacles as they danced, Sulley's and Mike's extra roaring rehearsals, Sheri's racket of Heavy Metal - that cacophony that kept him awake and caused him to thrash about the covers with his tentacles suckers plugged over his ears.
And Don hadn't forgotten Mike and James. He stood before their door, lifted his fist to knock. So quiet. No shouting. No roaring. Michael and James were asleep. He surreptitiously recoiled from their door, chiding himself for being intrusive by questioning their private thoughts. But part of him wanted to acknowledge the pains buried in their minds and come to their aid, the way Art slyly did for him. Maybe they were awake but not to be disturbed.
So he slipped away in the dark, quietly lugged himself to bed, with what was left of his cocoa on standby on his nightstand, in case his nerves ached again.
His room seemed so empty, like his apartment back on Dark Avenue, which reminded him, he hadn't even tidied or swept the place in months. His apartment had been reduced to some weekend home since his stay at the Squibbles's house during his late school years, but now it had became some vacant estate he owned. Ever since the first round at the Scare Games, going back there would be counterproductive. He needed to train. He needed Mike's criticism at proximity for maximum improvement. He needed Scott's encouragement. He needed those rare grins from James too. Art's bizarre advice. The twin's dance exercises. He wanted Sheri's joyous hollers from the crowd. He needed to be around everyone to remind himself that he really wasn't fighting for an employment prospects in the first place.
His head sinking in his pillow, he sighed out to fill in the silence because the lack of noise from his fellow residence was making him feel awful lonesome. As the air exited from his lungs, he felt drowsier and lighter.
He'll have the morning ruckus to look forward to.
A/N
As soon as I take a break from M.U. fanfiction and complete an "Inside Out" piece, I'll do the next follow up, a 3-chaptered Don-centric story.
Teaser for followup: "Don admitted to himself though that he was a little too eager to pounce at the opportunity and forgo-ed his sense of reality - the consistent probability of disappointment. Perhaps he assumed that the universe would compensate for all the troubles that it had to be perfect, smoother road. He always knew hard work was required but, son of gun, forgot about the pain it would involve. Like the strain on his back and chest and knees. He questioned whether it was worth the impending success. But soon, his back, his chest grew sturdier and the strain subsided into resistant muscles. To become less repellent and more adaptive to the pain was the challenge."