P.B.W.

(Author's note: The following short story was written in moments of caprice, about a year ago. I don't recommend reading it if the reader has things preoccupying his/her mind. I've tried and it didn't work.)

PBW
by Andra

…but it was so sticky, it wouldn’t flick. Panicked, he looked to the brick wall, the paintings, frames, glass, and the polished floor. There wasn’t a tissue or a garbage can in sight, or anywhere to wipe it. The perfect solution was two steps away. He looked right, left, behind, and reached for the very last frame in the row.

He grabbed a business card from the corner of the frame and used it to wipe his index finger. A nearby potted plant was the perfect place to stash it. Nobody but the pickiest janitor would find it there. Breathing a sigh of relief, he absently wiped his fingernail on his belt loop. The sigh turned to a cough.

As the cough subsided, a tall girl in a purple shirt hurried past him. Her dark hair shined and her eyes sparkled like the ring on her finger. He watched her until she disappeared around a corner. Leaving the cool of the building, he unbuttoned his shirt to feel the breeze, and brushed away a fly.

Squinting his eye against the sun, he looked down to his left and watched his shadow undulate over the small square patterns in the sidewalk. Several tall boys in hooded sweaters and purple shorts passed him and told him to “watch where he was goin’ ” among some other words he didn’t understand. He tripped into the flowerbed.

As he came to the bridge, he stopped to watch the water splashing gently under it. A short girl wearing a hat had been looking into the water also. She gave him a brief smile, got on her bike, and pedaled away. An empty water bottle floated past, stuck to two leaves.

The sun made him scratch his scalp, but he feared his hair might thin more, so he hurried on to the next building.

Two tall men were deep in conversation just inside the doors. One looked like a teacher. The deep voice of the other halted momentarily. The teacher turned and raised his eyebrow. Perhaps this teacher would ask, “May I help you?” So many helpful teachers at this place… maybe someday he would become a student, he thought.

As he passed the rock display cabinets, he realized that this building was much superior to the one next door where they said he wasn’t allowed anymore. Who needs all those books, anyhow?

A friend had told him that he could use the computers in this building and he didn’t even need to have a student ID card. “Just leave collateral,” the friend had said. The student at the table waited expectantly as he signed the paper on the clipboard. Then he reached into his pocket so he could leave his house key on the table. “Other pocket,” he muttered, as he noticed that people had left sunglasses, driver’s licenses, and keys. No key was in either pocket. He realized he may have to climb through a window to get into his house tonight. His landlord was on one of his long business trips to Mexico or Florida again.

The student shifted uncomfortably on her bench, obviously waiting for him to leave something. So he reached to his right eye, popped the glass eyeball from his head, and left it between the clipboard and someone’s keys so it wouldn’t roll off. He took the plastic cup with #9 taped to it, and found his computer. He sighed deeply and kicked off his shoes as he typed “facebook.com” into the address bar.

When the student came in to announce the lab was closing for the night, a very tall teacher helped her turn off all the computers. Observing this teacher’s thick thatch of light brown hair, he thought, “This man must not EVER scratch his head.”

He retained his eyeball and left the building. The little round lady exiting at the same time shivered and pulled her sweater up around her neck until it brushed her thin orange hair. It was a little chilly that evening, he realized, as he stepped out into the light of the rising full moon and a cool breeze swept through the holes in the knees of his pants.

The next building was just across the road. A few people were playing pool in the lobby. He went toward the vending machines. A couple sat expectantly on chairs outside a door, all dressed up and holding hands. The girl’s blond ponytail swung as she turned her head to look at him. The red-haired boy watched him as he walked past.

The vending machines were of little use to him without change. So he stuck his fingers in the “Coin Return” holes. Nothing. He retraced his steps past the couple and straight down a darkened hallway.

He got a drink at the fountain to steady his nerves. He reached for the phone on the wall. He dialed “9” and her number, and held his breath. “Hello?” said her cheerful voice. He didn’t answer, but imagined her blond hair and pretty green eyes. “Hello?” she repeated. “I can’t hear you, so you’ll have to call me back.” The line went dead.

“Oh, I will call you back,” he thought. She had asked him not to call again, and she never answered his calls unless he phoned from a location other than his house. He never spoke. It was enough to hear her voice.

As he crossed the street again, he walked behind the rear bumper of a pickup that was parked in the middle of the road with its lights on and its engine running. The driver was leaning out of the window talking to a couple of girls. “Someday,” he thought, “I will own a red Toyota,” as he heard the driver’s low voice and the girls’ giggles.

He thought of her as he walked, and how he first saw her in the computer lab in the brick building. She was in the adjoining room helping a student write an essay. He overheard her give her cell phone number.

His walk had now taken him to the forbidden building. He looked around himself, hurried to the door, and sneaked into the foyer. He quickly stepped around the corner, grabbed the phone, and dialed.

This time it was her voice mail.

He hung up the receiver and sat for a minute adjusting the duck tape that held the sole onto his shoe. The chilly air swept around him as he walked from the building. The moon had risen above the trees. “There’s always tomorrow,” he thought.

The end.

Dedication:
To my alma mater.

Disclaimer:

Any resemblance to persons living or dead is more or less coincidental.