The Ups and Downs of Being Invisible

Although I wrote this story over the summer, it is seasonally appropriate, as several of you pointed out, so enjoy!

My best friend is invisible.

No, he’s not a ghost, and he’s NOT my imaginary friend, whatever my parents used to say. He’s just invisible, and he always has been.

Once, a green frog sang about how it’s not easy being green. Well, it’s not too hot having an invisible best friend either. It’s like when you wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and you maneuver around your furniture in the dark so that you don’t stub your toe or bruise your shin, only to habitually turn on the bathroom light and blind yourself.

No, having an invisible best friend is not easy. When we were kids, Wendall and I would take our evening bath together. We sailed the seven seas in our bathtub pirate ship. We surfed the waves of Hawaii on our bars of soap. We became weather gods who created a tsunami to drown the peaceful settlers on the white tile beach next to the porcelain ocean.

When my mother would come to scold me for getting bathwater on the floor, Wendall wouldn’t confess his part in the flood. He stayed silent, the little bugger, and I had to endure the entire punishment. At least I had company in time out; Wendall follows me everywhere, for I am older.

Sometimes, having an invisible best friend is great. On principle, I do not eat vegetables that look like summer or winter trees in miniature. My mother, however, loved to serve minuscule flora. Wendall has no aversion to tiny trees, so whenever Mom served broccoli or cauliflower, I gave mine to Wendall. He ate over at our house a lot, which was good because Mom served broccoli and cauliflower a lot.

As we grew older, Wendall and I forsook our nautical adventures in favor of braving the land beyond the borders of my house. We explored the mysteries of the box hedge until every branch and every leaf had been assimilated into our kingdom. We ventured passed the wrought iron gateway into unknown territory. We exchanged grassy paradise for hellish asphalt, and we found that we enjoyed the escapades the asphalt gave us better than the pleasure paradise provided for us.

We wandered farther and farther from the front yard until our feet beseeched us for mercy. We promoted ourselves from feet to roller skates to bikes. Wendall and I would wheel ourselves to the park where I would watch the birds and the people while Wendall walked to Wal-Mart across the street. Wendall haunted Wal-Mart. He considered it a second home. (My home was Wendall’s first home because he spent so much time there.) Because Wendall is invisible, he used to steal us sodas and snacks from the store until we were banned from ever entering that particular Wal-Mart ever again. Somehow, the security guard discovered our scheme and came after us in the park one day.

Actually, he came after only me because he couldn’t see Wendall. When the security guard caught me, he blamed me for shoplifting. Just like when we were kids playing in the bath, Wendall didn’t confess his part in the crime. The security guard banished me from Wal-Mart, and I, in turn, banished Wendall. If I couldn’t go there, then neither could he. Wendall disappeared for a while after that because I made him scared when I yelled at him.

I didn’t actually know that Wendall was gone, of course, because Wendall is invisible. He could have been sitting next to me the whole time giving me the silent treatment, and I wouldn’t have known it. I’m fairly certain he was gone, though, because the empty space off of my left shoulder was just a little emptier than usual.

Then, I turned sixteen, I earned my driver’s license, and my parents bought me a car. Wendall can’t resist cars, so he appeared again. He didn’t have his driver’s license, so he sat in the passenger seat and seduced me to speed while he turned the radio up too loud.

There’s nothing quite like driving too fast with the windows rolled down and rock blasting out of the speakers. The wind dries out your eyes so they water and make the road blurry, and it numbs your hands so that they don’t feel like a part of your body anymore. The music pulses in your veins alongside your heart and fortifies your mind against any other sound. It’s bliss, until the cops pull you over.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” the cop asked.

“No,” I replied, and I really didn’t.

“You were driving in the carpool lane, and you’re alone,” said the cop.

“No, I’m not,” I said.

I explained about Wendall, but the cop didn’t listen, and Wendall didn’t speak up, like usual. One ticket later, I yelled at Wendall again, and he disappeared again. This time, I knew he was gone. Not only was the empty space next to me emptier than usual, but Wendall’s pillow and blanket disappeared from my closet (his honorary room as my best friend), and chills stopped running up and down my body as they usually do when Wendall enters a room.

I missed Wendall more this time than the last time he disappeared. I felt like you do after watching something intense, like a fireworks show. As the white light streaks into the sky, leaving behind a trail of smoke, and explodes in white, red, blue, and green, every muscle tenses unintentionally, waiting for the BOOM that reverberates into the grass beneath your feet and travels up into your body. After the show finishes, you feel hollow exhaustion, and you are not sure why.

That is how I felt when Wendall disappeared.

Luckily, he returned quicker than last time, and he came back with a request: he wanted to drive my car. I was so happy to have my best friend back that I agreed to Wendall’s entreaty. I spent that afternoon teaching Wendall how to drive. We laughed at his mistakes and wrestled when we disputed.

That night, Wendall drove out of my neighborhood and onto the freeway. He drove faster than I do. He drove us to a party. I remember that night only in flashes: a blue front door with a knocker on it. Writhing bodies on a dark dance floor. Red Solo cups. High cut shorts. Low cut shirts. Messy hair. Running makeup. Music. Music. Music. The front door again. Stumbling to the car. Wendall driving. Laughter as we drove in S’s down the road. The road no longer in front of us. A house. A jolt as we made a hole in the house. Red and blue flashing lights. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

I don’t remember what we told the cops, but my punishment was community service and paying for the damage caused by my car. Wendall totaled that car, and my parents did not buy me another one.

I turned eighteen, and I did not go to college. Who needed college when I could support my lifestyle by working at the factory? And what a lifestyle it was! A two-room apartment with a TV and plenty of time to muse about life. Pop tarts and ramen and re-runs of the Simpsons. And Wendell.

He didn’t contribute to our household. He ate all of the pop tarts. He was hardly ever at home.

Until one day he returned and interrupted one of my musing sessions. He announced that he was covered in blood.

“What?!” I exclaimed. I dropped the last pop tart on the carpet and did not pick it up again.

Wendall again announced that he was covered in blood. When I enquired whose blood it was, he said in a sassy voice that it wasn’t his.

“We have to get you cleaned up, man,” I said, panicked.

I took Wendall to the bathroom and turned the shower on for him. I climbed inside with him and helped him to wash the blood from his body. I saw it spiral down the drain and I felt sick for two reasons. One was because it is unsettling to see blood in your shower, and the second was because it is unsettling to see blood in your shower without seeing where it comes from. Eventually, the water turned from red to clear, and I knew that Wendall must be clean again. He still wouldn’t tell me whose blood it had been or how it had gotten on him.

I soon found out when the police arrived.

“You’re under arrest for the murder of the Wells family,” they said.

I expected Wendall to speak up, to confess, but of course he didn’t.

I’m in prison now. Sometimes, I get a chill, and I know that Wendall is nearby. Sometimes, he leaves me pictures of hangman’s nooses. He’s a little grim, but that’s probably because he’s invisible. I asked him to bring me a razor. After all, since he got me into this mess, he should be able to get me out of it. I’m confident that he will bring it for me.

That’s what best friends are for.

THE END

***

What did you think? The next one won't be as creepy! Don't worry. Happy Halloween. And Happy 500th Year of Martin Luther pinning his 95 Theses on the door of Wittenberg!

The Fire Alarm Fiasco

In last week's post, I mentioned writing a short story about evacuating my dorm room in the early morning hours, and I thought I'd share it this week! Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.
Without further ado... The Fire Alarm Fiasco:

Saturday, April 22, 2017, 3:40 AM.

A high-pitched screaming.

Cowering under the covers, hoping that it will stop.

My roommate shouting, “Guys! It’s the fire alarm! There’s a fire!”

This whole year has been leading up to this moment.

***

August 2016, Orientation week.

Rrrttt says my keycard as I swish it in and out of the lock on my dorm room door. I enter to find my two roommates talking excitedly by the window.

“Guess what happened?” Sarah exclaims.

“What?” I ask, setting my backpack on the floor.

“The fire alarm went off and we had to evacuate to the parking lot!”

“Wow! Was there a fire?”

“No, but three firetrucks came,” says Annie.

“What happened?”

“Someone on the boy’s floor boiled the water out of a pan of eggs.” Sarah’s posture and tone of voice say that she thinks boys should know better.

“I can’t believe I missed the excitement!” I say.

“Oh, I’m sure there will be another fire drill, Abbey,” reassures Annie.

She hasn’t a clue how prophetic her words are.

***

November 2016

We were going to watch a movie, but I can’t get the DVD player on my computer to work.

And then the loudest, the annoyingest, the shrillest noise attacks our eardrums. Silver flashing lights drive away any thought I had about my DVD player.

My heart starts beating quicker.

“The fire alarm,” says Sarah.

“Hnnnngg!” says Joseph.

“Should we go?” says Rebekah.

We gather our shoes and coats and Joseph’s keys and join the throng of students exiting the building.

“Let’s go to my car,” suggests Joseph.

So, we do.

The four of us huddle in Joseph’s car. Some of us are slightly annoyed. Others of us are slightly scared.

We hear the firetrucks before we see them, and we see their lights before we see the actual machines. The night is tinged blue and red. Three fire trucks arrive. Members of our bro-sis hall keep letting out the cozy bubble of warm air in Joseph’s car. They get in to talk with us. They get out to take pictures. Finally, Joseph—one of the annoyed ones—locks the doors and seals our bubble. We huddle under his backseat blanket.

Someone sounds the all clear and people walk back to the building. Had it been a drill? Had another boy made a gregarious cooking mistake? The mystery remains unsolved.

***

February 2017

“All I want to do is curl up on my bed with oreos and peanut butter and watch New Girl,” says Sarah from inside her black coat. She wears its faux fur hood over her hair.

“That sounds perfect. I’m going to join you,” I reply.

We trudge up the stairs, key ourselves into room 332, and lackadaisically drop our bags on the ugly, looks-like-the-80s-what-were-they-thinking-when-they-made-this-a-color carpet. We hurry to tear our coats off in our sauna-like room. Next, one boot off. Two boot off. Sweater off. Let the pit stains dry.

Then, a high-pitched, shrill EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

“NO!” yells Sarah.

The dreaded fire alarm.

One boot on. Two boot on. One arm back in the coat. Two arm back in the coat. We don’t zip ourselves up as we hurry out of the room and down the stairs. I had grabbed my backpack because homework is important, even in a fire.

But, it’s not a fire. It’s just a drill.

***

Saturday, April 22, 2017, 3:40 AM.

A high-pitched screaming.

I awake, thinking that it’s my alarm. I hit my clock a few times and figure that it must be one of my roommate’s alarms. I plug my ears, hoping the sound will go away. I’m in the process of sticking my head under my pillow to hide from the noise when Sarah says,

“Guys! It’s a fire!”

Immediately, I’m awake.

Of course it’s the fire alarm!

I don’t remember climbing down from my bunk. Somehow, I’m on the ground, shoving those sweat pants that my mom told me never to wear out of the house onto my legs. Shoving shoes on my feet. Shoving a jacket on over my oversized Walk MS sleeping shirt. Shoving my laptop in my backpack. My novel is on that laptop.

“Come on! We have to go!” Sarah urges. She has turned the light on so that we can see.

I grab my Star Trek blanket, and we leave the room.

Sleepy students rush to the stairwell and out of the building. Everyone is in their pajamas. Once outside, I drop my backpack in a patch of grass and go to Annie. She’s shivering. I am, too. I share my blanket with her. We look at our home, scouring the building for flames. I don’t see any smoke… Maybe the building is not on fire? The longer we stand in the freezing air, the more it seems like that is the case. I still shake. Partly because of the cold. Partly because of fear. My heart has not returned to a normal pace yet, but that could be because crush-worthy Peter is standing near to where I abandoned my backpack on the grass. My novel is on that laptop. I try to think of a way to get it back without having to interact with the boy from room 232.

“Where’s Joseph?” Sarah says suddenly.

He has not come out of the building.

She tries calling him. I realize that I left my phone in the building.

I see John, our RD, come outside with his newborn wrapped in a blanket. He deposits the baby in his car. His wife and young son join him. Groups of shivering, pajama-ed dorm-dwellers stand discussing the alarm and telling nervous jokes as firefighters (they only sent two firetrucks this time) examine the building.

The all clear is called. False alarm.

The next day, we learn the truth.

Someone on the boy’s floor burned orange chicken. At 3:30 in the morning. Orange chicken. ORANGE CHICKEN!

So, the year ends as it began: with boys trying and failing to cook.

The circle of life, indeed.

THE END