The Transmuted (Chapter 5)

By the time the bell had rung for the last time that day I was outside, thankfully beating the crowd that was descending like locust on the hallways, all fighting furiously to escape. Donald and Camila were with me walking out to the Senior parking lot. They truly were both beautiful people walking, hands interlocked, with the self-assuredness of people who had figured something out that others chase after forever. Besides the sporadic surges of loneliness, I felt, hanging out with them was pleasant. They were both intelligent, and had all the unpleasant knowledge of the world that comes with that, but remained at least somewhat positive despite it all.

“So are you going to play football at State?”

“I’m not really sure yet, the coach wants me but I might just focus on what I want to do after college I’m not sure yet.”

“Oh O.K. that’s cool.”

“But this girl here,” he paused and looked tenderly into Camila’s eyes, “she’s going to be a track star.”

Camila laughed a little while continuing to look into his eyes,

“Yeah, I’ll be doing hurdles. It’ll be really fun.”

Their look lasted for a second longer and then they both looked to the ground then forward, cheeks slightly flushing like a couple that's just found each other. I could see understanding through that gaze, so close that I could almost touch it and not having that hurt faintly.

“I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun at North Central,” Camila continued with her fading Spanish accent.

“Yeah, I’ll know some people at least.”

“Yeah, Anthony, John, Beatrix, Tommy, Rachel, Mary, Zack-”

“Mary and Zack?”

“Oh yeah I was talking to Zack about it and they said they made the decision today,” Donald interjected, “said that they both came to the decision individually.”

“That’s good.”

The two nodded as we reached the lot.

“Alright see you tomorrow Michael,” Donald said stepping in.

Camila waved and I waved back at the two as I traveled deeper into the lot to find my car. The prospect of having the two of them at North Central didn’t bother me as much as the fact that she didn’t tell me, but it did bother me nonetheless. North Central was large enough for me to distance myself from them, but since it was Mary and I’m myself I knew I would want to remain in touch, and I despised myself for that. I’d expected to brave out these last few weeks in silent pain and then get on with my life, occasionally reminiscing on Mary as a girl from my past. That dream was over.

I finally reached my car, a dark gray 2002 Ford Escape, and slid in, laying back against the seat for a moment. I pulled out my phone, opened my messages, and scrolled down to Mary. We hadn’t spoken in about two weeks and the last time we did it was about nothing. I began to type a message but decided against it and started the car.

Before I went back home I decided to stop by Taco Bell for a slushie, as was my custom of Wednesdays. The drive was about five minutes from the school and I threw on my usual car mix to pass the time and started on my way.

I wanted to obsess about this new development but decided against it and tried to focus on something else. My day as a whole had been relatively normal, the languor of spring semester becoming more prevalent by the day. School was increasingly becoming just a place I got up early to go to and then wasted the day inside. As students, we no longer had the mutual hatred of school or the occasional intriguing lesson, but only apathy for the present and longing for the future.

‘Maybe that’s the real world,’ I thought turning a corner, but I quickly pushed the thought out of my mind, knowing beyond a doubt that I was bound for great things or at least not bound for the mundane. I stopped at a stop sign and turned my attention to the short story idea I’d thought of in last period.

I’d been inspired by The Trial and the feeling of complete hopelessness that was expressed through the story. Instead of having that fear and hopelessness being directed against the social system, I had the idea of writing those feelings against the backdrop of the meaningless day-to-day work of life, probably having a young housewife paralyzed by dread and simply unable to do the menial work that fills her days. As she considered further, she would find that much of her life is this work and realize all the anxiety that comes with that realization.

I tried to write something, a short story, a poem, a journal entry, something every day. I’ve had the dream of becoming a writer for as long as I could remember, and even if it doesn’t work out I’ll always enjoy it. My more practical future occupation is becoming a civil servant, so I guess I’m like Goethe in that way.

A loan office and a Jack in The Box stood near the Taco Bell, the three creating a beautiful cross-section of America, which I admired as I turned into the parking lot. The sun was now weary and slowly losing fire as it quietly fell to its daily rest. The road, however, was anything but as cars packed the streets rushing to beat one another to their destinations. I cursed myself silently for not beating the rush hour traffic but knew my qualm would be appeased once I had a cold drink in hand. I pulled the door open and a high-pitched ding declared my entrance. I took a second to breathe in the air, a neutral smell desperately fighting back a diverse army of odors led by the overpowering scent of refried beans. The restroom, located to the immediate right of the door, opened rapidly and released a bulky middle age white male who pushed past me on the way to his seat. The back of his jean jacket read, “It’s my right!” in embroidered letters surrounding a gun with angel’s wings. His fragrance joined the army of the refried beans on the front lines.

“Hey what can I get for you today?” A cheerful man asked from behind the counter when I finally reached the front.

“I’ll have a regular Baja Blast Freeze.”

“O-K,” he said making a few swift punches on the register, “anything else for you today?”

I took a ceremonious look back up at the menu to communicate that I’d weighed all my options. The cashier looked on expectantly, fingers ready to make more swift and decisive punches.

“No, I think that’ll be all.”

“Allll-,” he punched in the last of the punches, “-right, that’ll be one dollar and eight cents.”

I handed him my card absentmindedly and peered into the back where about six people worked diligently grabbing readymade food and sliding it into packets.

The cashier handed me back my card,

“There you go sir, your drink will be out in a second.”

I nodded to him and he receded to the back to join the six, leaving the register unattended in a near empty eatery. Besides the workers and I, only the winged pistol and another older man were inside. The other man sat at the back and took periodic bites of a quesadilla. His skin was a dark, almost coffee brown and he stared with a direct gaze straight ahead as if he was focused on some problem and was trying to will it away. His clothes symbolized him, no-nonsense and gritty but underscored with integrity. His blue jumpsuit, clearly weathered but useful, had his identification sewn into it and I tried to decipher his name but was thrown out of focus by another ding at the door.

Tristian, one of two male members of the Sniveling Sycophants, walked in. His finely tailored jeans and crisp shirt coupled with his slicked backed black hair gave him an air of dignity, but the clothes mixed harshly with his face, with somehow childish features but meticulously threaded eyebrows, giving him the look of a thoroughly professional adolescent like his mother had spent hours making sure her little boy looked perfect for school every day. He surely wasn’t an unattractive person but he’d groomed himself past any appealing look.

Tristian waved at me when his narrow gaze had finally landed on me and I nodded my head in his direction. He ordered then made his way towards me, holding a large grin on his face as he approached. I suddenly wondered what was taking my freeze so long.

“Hello, Michael!” Tristian chirped.

“Hey, Tristian.”

“Do I have some good news for you?!”

He talked in the way all the Sycophants talked, excessively and superfluously, carrying their SAT words on their tongues like badges from war.

“Oh, what is it?”

“We, on the board of the Trinity High School Literary Society Board, have decided to use your story, The Pleonast, for our Spring Edition!”

“Oh wow that’s great,” I said plainly.

The Pleonast was a story about a writer who’d locked himself in his room until he could write a whole novel on the singular action of waking up. He did this because he thought that by keying in on one universal human action, he could understand all there was to know about that action and translate it to others truthfully if not clearly. Against all odds, the book becomes a commercial success with critics praising it for a variety of things, but no one seemed to understand exactly how the author felt about waking up. The story ends with the author setting out on his story again with plans to make it three times as long to get his meaning across.

“Yes everyone absolutely loved every second of reading it,” he said the grin on his face growing larger, “we didn’t even mind the lack of plot and the absence of a twist ending that was outlined in the prompt. But no matter! We simply thought it was much too good not to be published so well done Michael Cooper!”

“Thank you, Tristian Torres,” I mocked through gritted teeth.

“Oh thank you so much for using my full name some find it too wordy to say it all but I do love when people do say it,” Tristian went on, my slight unnoticed, “and to that, I always say ‘it’s consonance doesn’t it just flow off the tongue!’ But thank you for saying it most people aren’t so kind.”

I nodded and for a quick, beautiful moment silence was resumed. Then he continued,

“It’s Filipino you know? I simply love the name ‘Tristian Torres’ it just flows off the tongue so-”

“Baja Blast Freeze,” The cashier finally said holding up my cup in triumph.

“Oh, that’s mine. I’ll see you later,” I said curtly, mercifully grabbing the cup.

“Oh Ok, see you later Michael Cooper!” Tristian called after me as I escaped.

The door closed behind me and I made haste to get back into my car and shut myself off from the world. The traffic had increased in my absence and the occasional horn was honked at a domineering truck trying to switch lanes or a phone-obsessed teen unaware of the newly green light. I sighed, turned the ignition, and resigned myself to a long ride into the dipping spring sun.