Levi’s Folly (first two chapters)
1
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Cackling. The sound my half-present friends make every Saturday under the overpass. Just outside town, we meet beneath the overgrown birdsnest that must once have held the weight of hundreds of cars and trucks in the hustle and bustle of rush hour traffic. No longer. Now it stands as a crumbling aftershadow and a place to hide our illegal escapades. As my friends cackle, I watch. Their faces morph into grotesque figures reminiscent of innocence and void of sorrow. Yet, through these artificial veneers, eyes don’t lie. Their eyes will speak for them when their faces won’t. Jason, a boy I call my friend. While his face is contorted into a cheshire cat smile, his eyes are yelling. His mother swims in her bottle and his father won’t stand off the couch. Stephen, a boy I call my friend. Even when his body shakes with the tremors of his laughter, the windows into his soul cry out. He can’t live up to his Princeton parents and Yale sister with his C+ average. Everyone here is the same, but me. These boys whom I call friends all share the same tale, hidden behind drug-induced facades, their eyes all share a harrowing account; but I am an outsider. What is my troubling narrative? What awful circumstance have I lived through to belong among these gentlemen? I can safely say thank God there isn’t one. Am I alone then? Perhaps I am lucky, I can sit here and judge my friends, but it is lonely on this high pedestal. I sometimes envy them. They can live without regret, buying into the off-the-shelf ecstasy. I cannot take part, I can only observe. I’m almost amused by their pain. They so wish to be rid of it, they try anything to forget.
(They never can.)
I ask myself often why these are my only friends. These unlucky few who devote themselves to the church of fraudulent joy are the only people I call friends. I have no buddies, no chums, no comrades outside of this select group. Only in the recent past have I come to realize why: it’s easy, it’s simple. With these boys, I can rely on them without any fees. No matter what I do, so long as I come to the weekly conference, they will happily sing their drunken chanties alongside me. I have no obligation to confide in them my secrets, no need to share with them my feelings, beliefs, emotions. I show up, and they do too. If one of them were to die a tragic death, though, would I cry? Would any of the others cry? I never answer this question. To answer would call into question my entire existence, and that would be too complicated. So I remain, perhaps friendless, perhaps alone, but not forgotten. Not yet.
“Such kind people.” What all the teachers and all the classmates and all the friends say after meeting them. I don’t disagree. They are indeed kind people. Interesting word choice, though. There is a difference between person and parent. I, for instance, am a kind person, but would without a doubt make an awful father. Such are my parents. I don’t fault them for effort, they try hard enough, but if all was measured in effort, the fools and the ignorant would be emperors.
It seems, though, that they have given up on their attempts to parent. I get a brief “afternoon” when I walk in the door and maybe a “have a nice day” in the morning. Then I tread up to my room and seldom do we speak again. I pretend not to care, but that my own parents have forgotten me is a bright neon sign flashing I am worthless; even they who bore and raised me seem not to care enough to try anymore. Granted, much of it was my fault not theirs. Before, they were always enthusiastic, too enthusiastic. It was strained. After the twentieth or so time I screamed for nothing at their blank, unknowing faces, they lost hope. At that point, I guess I did too.
My friends are simple. I’m too tired of complex and difficult, I just want easy. My pothead friends smile at everything, so I smile with them. It’s fake, but it’s sincere in its falsehood.
I fell asleep once under the overpass. I woke up to smell of cigarette smoke coming from the back of the gentlemen’s club behind me. Such gentlemen there. I stood up on weak legs with a sore neck and looked at the early morning surroundings. The stars were hiding as they always do, averting their faces from us on low, as if disgusted by us; they have a right to be.
My friends deserted me, perhaps they saw me sleeping and felt it best to leave me at peace, but more likely, they forgot I was even there or never knew in the first place. The smell of skunk still lingered in the air even hours after the source fled. I walked around the block and observed. The mailman making his rounds. The hooker finishing her last shift. The bakers placing their carefully crafted dough in the just-lit ovens. The piercing morning air chilled my nose and throat. It was an awful and refreshing feeling. I walked the two miles home in the cold with no coat, my friend Robbie was my ride. But like I said, he didn’t want to disturb my sleep.
2
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Ever heard of the butterfly effect? One butterfly, given perfect conditions, flapping its wings can cause a typhoon thousands of miles away. One stupid mistake and the whole of life takes a wrong turn.
“Good morning,” I say with my practiced smile.
He responds with a confused look, as if not understanding what I had said. Maybe he doesn’t speak English. But he probably does.
“Good afternoon,” I say with my practiced smile.
She steps in, swipes her card and keeps walking. I don’t think she even noticed.
“Good evening,” I say with my practiced smile.
It’s a beggar. He steps in with an unkempt, white beard, one glove with holes at the fingers, and a torn jacket. He had a plastic jug taped to his shoe. He faced the floor, but I could see his eyes. They longed.
I said he shouldn't pay, just to sit down. Now he looks up, notices me, said good evening and sits down. I guess that’s what it takes.
The bus lot is depressing at night. Bus after bus after bus lined up while they sleep. I park mine in the lineup and get in my car to start the thirty mile journey home. My eyes get so tired each day, it’s a miracle I haven’t drifted off during my endeavor home yet. Perhaps it’s a shame.
“Hey. Hey, kid. Need a ride?” I roll down my window, stop the car, and greet the teenager walking home with no coat in the october cold.
“I’m sorry?”
“D’ya need a ride?”
“From a stranger in the middle of the night on the side of a country road?”
“Yeah”
“Fuck it. It’s better than hypothermia”
He climbs in the back of my car. It’s probably just a reflex from his parents driving him everywhere, but what does that make us. Him the passenger and me the chauffeur? Him the master, me the servant? I’m a bus driver, I guess that’s part of the deal.
“Why’d you get in my car?”
“What do you mean. You invited me.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re supposed to accept. What if I was a–I dunno, child molester? What would you do now?”
“I guess I’d be getting molested.”
I chuckled. “True enough. Where do you live?”
“Why would I tell a child molester where I live?”
“Because that child molester’s giving you a ride home.”
“Keep going for a mile, then turn right.”
There was a pause for a while, but neither of us were uncomfortable. Or at least I wasn’t. I can’t speak for him.
“Are you high?” I asked once I realized there was no skunk outside the car.
“Why’d you think I am.”
“I have a keen sense of smell.”
“I’m not, but my friends are.”
“So you go with your friends while they get high and you just sit and watch.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“They’re simple.”
“Simplicity is boring.”
“Complexity is tiring.”
“Do these simple friends have cars?”
“Yeah.”
“So why’re you in mine.”
“I fell asleep and they left.”
“Sounds like they really care about you.”
“Fuck off.”
Another bout of silence. This kid intrigued me. I still didn’t know why he got in my car. So I asked him.
“Why’d you get in my car?”
“Why’d you let me?”
“I’m too trusting.”
“Maybe I am, too”
“Liar.”
“No more than you are.”
“You really wanna know why I stopped and invited you into my car?”
“Yeah.”
“Because even if you took out a knife and stabbed me through the back of my chair, threw me out, and let me watch you drive away as I bleed out on the asphalt, all I’d be losing is a crappy job driving around the high and mighty with my badge that says “Bus Driver” sewn onto my bright blue button down shirt, a rundown apartment with rats and roaches and water that scalds when my neighbor flushes the toilet and freezes any other time, and a life of underachievement and overqualification. I might even consider it luck. That’s my answer, what’s yours?”
“You know, I walk everywhere. I don’t have a car, I crashed my bike two years ago. So I walk. I’ve probably seen thousands of cars, thousands of people driving those cars. You’re the only person who’s ever thought me human enough to deserve a ride and break for my legs. I thought I’d give you a chance.”
“You’re still lying.”
“Maybe I’m just not as open as you are. Stop here, I can walk home.”
I stopped the car and let him out.
“I never caught your name.”
“What’s in a name?”
“Who are you, Shakespeare?”
“If I ever see you driving a bus, I’ll say hi.” He closed the door and walked away.
“I doubt you will,” I said to the ghosts that haunt me.
Title: Levi's Folly
Genre: Realistic fiction
Age range: 15+
Word count: 1716
Author name: Michael Frim
Why your project is a good fit: These two chapters are only the beginning of a much longer work. Additionally, I am a flexible writer with an open mind and am willing to listen to and implement any criticism.
The hook: "Cackling. The sound my half-present friends make every Saturday under the overpass."
Synopsis: An brilliant man forced into a the life of a bus driver befriends and mentors a teenager who reminds him of himself. Their relationship blossoms as he shares his observations of the world and the people around him.
Target audience: Anyone who wants to read (what I think is) a good story
Your bio: Michael Frim is currently enrolled in high school where he has one the honor of having his own works adapted into play format and showcased in the theater as well as having a poem in the literary journal. He writes avidly as well as studies music and of course his works hard at his work in school.
Platform: My school could act as a wonderful platform
Education: Currently a Junior in high school
Experience: Published in a poetry anthology, won a showcase award where my work was adapted and performed on stage, and two works were submitted and accepted into a literary journal.
Personality / writing style: I think I have a relaxed but diligent personality and my writing style is one that emulates the great authors whom I have read.
Likes/hobbies: I play violin and viola, I'm interested everything from science to archaeology, and I (obviously) enjoy writing
Hometown: Skokie, IL
Age: 16