| |
Despite the checkered kitchen floor, Timothy moves unlike any known chess
piece. The floor has never liked this, and has become bitter. Timothy
rummages for the necessary components in the warm glow of the open refrigerator.
The kitchen walls are decorated with floral wallpaper; a flat garden silently
dreaming of rice paper butterflies and cutout bumblebees.
Timothy closes the refrigerator door with his sneaker and caries the ingredients
over to his make-believe laboratory on the kitchen counter. He struggles
to keep anything from falling on the floor, leaning up on his toes to
safely reach the shelf. Jackson watches from the doorway, keeping an exit
close by. Fear keeps him hung in orbit, like a pendulum in a broken clock.
As Timothy plugs in the blender, Jackson stretches his eyes wider than
the custom seats in Marlon Brando's ‘87 Camaro. Timothy stuffs olives,
marshmallows and mixed greens into the blender. He adds maple syrup, milk,
and left over pasta to thicken the cocktail, adding electrolyte-loaded
Gatorade for a thinner. He presses a small button labeled ‘purée.’
That's his favorite button on the blender because it sounds like a cheese.
For the very same reason, it would be the least favored choice of Jackson,
who thinks purée should be a cheese.
Needless to say the kitchen quickly becomes a mess, but Timothy is satisfied
with the result. He pours a tall glass and carries it to the doorway where
his younger brother waits in earnest.
"Eight ounces of bioelectric fluid. It's not going to taste very
good, but that's just the programming." Timothy taps his head and
smiles after those last words, handing the glass to Jackson who needs
two hands to support it.
"I gotta drink all of it?" He looks up at his big brother as
though he had been four (not two) times bigger.
Timothy replies with a solemn nod and his brother closes his eyes and
drinks the glass to the very last drop. It takes a few good goes, but
he manages to wipe his mouth in triumph.
Jackson asks a question he thinks he knows the answer to, "so am
I going to be alright now?"
"Oh, no I don't think so." Timothy shakes his head as he continues,
"That's just bio-electric fluids. They don't come with a charge."
Jackson begs, "But where do I get a charge?"
Timothy let's his brother cry for a minute before interrupting, "Don't
worry Jack. I'm not gonna let you run down."
"You're not?"
"Nope. Lucky for you, I have an idea."
Just then the storm snaps its fingers and strikes a frog's tongue of 6
million volts into the telephone pole at the end of the Shoemakers’
driveway. The kitchen lights leave with the rest of the power in the house.
The dishwasher lets out a slow sigh and the wallpaper stretches a crumbling
tongue to wet its mouth in the dry desert night.
[B]
BACK | NEXT
Dedication
Chapter 1 - Two Bookends
On A Couch
Chapter 2 - Battery Fluid
Chapter 3 - Whose Fuse Is The Muse
Chapter 4 - Why Widows Sing The Blues
Chapter 5 - Welcome to Sears
Chapter 6 - Fortress of Solitude
Chapter 7 - Rite of Passage
Chapter 8 - Letters of Arrival
Chapter 9 - Keeping Busy
Chapter 10 - You Can’t Teach a Gorilla
to Golf
Chapter 11 - Satellite
of Love
|
|
