You ever wanna just leave? I mean, pack up and leave … Fill a suitcase and take a train out of that place. Of course, it’s only natural. A day hasn’t gone by for years where I don’t.
See, out here in Iowa, there ain’t much to do as you might imagine. Endless miles of rolling hills and cornfields, a boring beauty as some say. It’s a place where creativity and some friends can do wonders, only, I never really had either of those things. My childhood was tolerable … I was painfully average at best. I always managed to stay right in the middle, to coast just above the surface. I didn’t get bullied, but I also never seemed to be welcomed by anyone or their friend groups. I felt like a discolored pixel. On occasion, I’d overhear my mother telling the next boyfriend how much of a “good kid” I was and how I’d never cause them any trouble. God, how sometimes I wish I were that kid, someone with a personality at least, albeit an unpleasant one.
I downshift from third gear and into second as I approach the light ahead, the lake is just around the corner. I should tell you guys about the lake … See, after I drive to my community college and sit through a few lectures that I’ll never internalize, I usually head down to this park a few miles from our house. There’s a small lake there, probably about 70 meters or so across. I’m not sure if it has a name, it’s kinda one of those parks you just walk by, as there was nothing else to put there. The headphones go on, the synthwave music erupts into my ears and then I begin… I take a carefully selected stone from my satchel and I encase it meticulously with my forefinger and thumb. I raise my arm back and swing it forward, flicking the smooth stone towards the water. One bounce… Then another, and another. The stone teases the lake, never telling when it’ll give in, probably never knowing. For that brief period, I see myself, coasting along. Life becomes explainable.
So … I like to skip stones. It’s the one thing I found out here that I’ll do no matter what, almost every day. I started in my sophomore year of high school. I had this nasty argument one evening with my mom’s ex-boyfriend, Henry, and took a long walk right over here to this lake. I had picked up a stone and threw it angrily at the lake, but it skipped a single time before plopping into the water. I tried again and again and finally, managed to do it once more with intention. I’ve been hooked ever since.
I’m onto my fifth stone now. Usually, I only carry about 10 that I’ll hand-select from the day before in my bag, but will start looking for more after I exhaust my supply. I don’t always find the nicest stones off the bat, but this lake has some pretty good ones if you know where to look.
Today there’s this man sitting across the lake from me on a bench. I can’t really make out the details of his face, but he’s wearing what looks like a cool flat cap and a puffy black winter coat. His legs are crossed, and he has a newspaper in his hands. I don’t quite remember when he got here, or if he was even here when I arrived. He’s watching me though, despite the newspaper act … Nothing too off about that, if anything I’m the odd one out.
Now that I have a spectator, I almost feel like showing off a little. Eight stones down and I palm the ninth, assuming the finger configuration for launch. This one smacks the water and skids off promisingly. I count 30 skips, almost matching my personal record of 32 skips. It nearly clears the entire diameter of the lake.
As surprised and happy as I had been, the euphoria soon dies as I realize that among the best, it wasn’t anything of note. An average throw, if that. I crouch down and robotically grab another. As I palm my 10th and final stone, I hear over my music, a loud applause from the other end of the lake. I look up and see that man, now standing and clapping with his gloves off. He gives a playful cheer, and I can hear the smile embedded within it.
“Thanks.” I say with my best outside voice as I stand up awkwardly and remove my headphones.
“Say kid …” said the man, bearing what seemed like a thick and raspy Brooklyn accent. He put his gloves back on and placed his hands in his coat pockets. “How many was that?”
“Uhh … Like 30 I think.” I said casually, trying to play off the effort.
“See, that’s something else. You do this every day?”
“Just about.” I responded, again awkwardly raising my voice, while trying to keep it below a yell. Funnily enough, the one conversation I have naturally with someone, they’re across a lake.
“Tell me, what’s the most you’ve ever hit?” He further pried. “By the way, I’m Angelo.”
“Good to meet you, I’m Samuel—most I’ve ever done was 32.”
“Sheesh! Are you going for a record or what?” said Angelo.
“The record’s almost triple that.” I laughed. “Probably not.”
“Have some confidence sir! Here, I like you Samuel, you come out here every day and try to get better. If I see you skip one of your stones across this lake, I’ll get you whatever you want. Sound good?”
A few things here. One, this guy became a genie out of nowhere. Two, he really does have a cool hat. But most importantly, even if this guy is out of his mind, maybe that’s what I need. Something to try and … reach for. Heck, maybe I’ll get a free slice of pizza out of it or something.
“Deal.” I say back, offering back a faint smile.
Angelo gave a double thumbs up, walked back to the bench and folded up his newspaper, before making his way up the pathway and out of the park.
It was also about time I left, as we don’t have those summer daytime hours up here yet. I skipped the last stone and quickly selected my roster for tomorrow, before heading back to the car. My mood dips again as I end my daily dose of pleasure and head back home.
“Whatever I want” huh? That’s a weird way to offer someone a favor. Angelo has no idea who I am, or what I might ask for, so why make such an open-ended offering? Best not to think about that. Who knows if I’ll see him again anyway?
I pull into the driveway and see my stepdad, Brian, sitting on the porch. Brian’s not my favorite human being. See, Brian is an alcoholic that’s twice my size. Game day? Cool, he’s getting wasted and shouting at my mom. Did a stranger stare at him weird earlier? Fantastic, he’s getting drunk and shouting at my mom. The list seems to grow. It’s gotten worse ever since he had a stroke and went on disability last year.
Remember that ex-boyfriend, Henry, I mentioned arguing with at times? Yeah, this guy is his evolved form, only, he also argues with my mother. Nearly every morning, almost like clockwork, I hear them start up. Sometimes a dish gets thrown, usually a door gets slammed—you get the idea …
“Hey slim!” says Brian.
That’s another thing, I’m quite skinny and so he took the liberty to start calling me “slim”. Creative and wholesome.
“Hey.” I respond tepidly and make my way up the stairs to my room.
“That you, Sammy?” I hear my mom yell from the kitchen.
“Yeah! I’m just going to bed.”
“Alright, food’s in the fridge if you want, hun.” she said.
“Thanks.”
I’ll never understand why a sweet lady like my mom puts up with these chumps. I set my bag down and hop in bed, before putting my headphones on and passing out. This is the only method to get sleep reliably in this household and I usually start the process pretty early.
The next few days persisted as per usual. I didn’t see Angelo at the park, but I tried extra hard to beat my record. I packed about 15 stones instead of the ordinary 10 and really went at it. I hit 35 skips on Wednesday, but I was a few meters short of the other side of the bank.
Feeling rather confident yesterday, I skipped my afternoon political science class to see if I could catch Angelo, but he didn’t show up yet again.
It’s now Friday morning and my iPhone alarm starts up. It’s a calm 8 AM, the sun’s already out and I think today’s supposed to be pretty warm.
“I said I didn’t want that!” Booms a man’s voice from downstairs. Lovely, Brian’s already losing his shit.
I sit up, but then sink back down into the bed and set my alarm for another 15 minutes. Might as well wait this one out before I try getting down there and showering. Then I hear the slam, followed by my mom letting out a cry.
I jump up and race downstairs to the kitchen. My mom is on the floor, it looks like Brian pushed her across the room. Her forearm is bleeding. Brian looks at me as though I’m a fly that just pranced into a window he opened for only a few seconds.
I can smell the alcohol in the air. I feel the anger in my neck sharpen and the fear flicker within my legs as I lunge at Brian and swing my right arm toward his temple. He deflects my hand like I’m a toddler and pushes me to the ground.
“You’re both parasites! I pay the damn bills and I’m on disability. Where’s a good meal? Where’s the help around here!?”
“I’m calling the cops!” I threaten, as Brian grabs the keys to his truck and drunkenly exits through the kitchen.
“Mom … Are you okay? What happened? Do you need an ambulance?” I say softly as I run over to her. My lower back aches from the shove.
I can see the fear and hopelessness as she meets my gaze, soon mutating into a look of disgust I have never witnessed from her.
“Where the hell were you!?” She spat.
“I—”
“I shouted for you and you never came. You’re always out by that damn lake, I never see you around.”
I knew then that there was nothing to be said. I realized that my mother felt no security around me, that she couldn’t trust me to be there for her when I was needed. That I was probably too busy wallowing in my own solitude to put in the effort around the house. Perhaps this has happened before, and I never would’ve known.
I stood slowly and ran to my room, I grabbed my bag and fled to my car. There was only one thing I wanted to do. I raced to the lake and paced over to my spot. There he was … Sitting on the same bench, wearing the same clothes, probably even reading the same newspaper.
I don’t say anything to him as I reach into my bag and pull out a stone. This one only goes for a measly ten skips, not good. I only feel the frustration rise as I grab another one, this one’ll go further, surely? I flick it and watch it give in after only seven. Attempt after attempt, I flail my arms at the cursed lake and watch as I fall below expectations. Down to my last stone, I stop caring about the goal. What use is a goal if I’m the one kicking the ball?
“Hey Samuel!” Yells Angelo across the lake. “A piece of advice from someone who’s never skipped a damn rock in his life …”
I look over towards him, he’s standing up, posturing just like last time. Confident, nonchalant.
“Angelo, I really don’t want to talk right now.”
“Yes you do, you just don’t want to use your mouth. Talk through what you’re doing.” He responds firmly.
I was expecting some cliché speech or lecture, but he’s right. This is my outlet, not something I just do as a pastime.
I eye the last stone and carefully wrap my forefinger and thumb around it. I caress the smooth sides, it’s perfect and flat. As I raise my right hand behind me, I close my eyes and swing it forward. I think of all the shit that happened this morning and what my mom would think of me if I just landed that punch on Brian and sent him flying from the house.
One … Five … Seventeen … Thirty … Forty and … The stone leaps proudly from the bank’s edge and lands just next to Angelo’s right foot. It’s done.
The gloves come off again and I hear the applause sound from across the lake.
“That’s my guy!” Says Angelo.
I feel something leave my body. Some blend of fear, inadequacy and self-contempt.
“Wanna go grab some pizza or something?” I ask Angelo.
“Is that what you want?”
I pause for a moment. A pizza would be nice, but the words “I’ll get you whatever you want” reverberate in my head. Obviously, I wouldn’t just use a wish on a pizza if I really had one.
“You said … whatever I want. You can give that to me?”
“Yep.” Angelo says matter-of-factly. “Here, just write down what you want and leave it on the rock behind you. I always deliver.” Angelo grins.
There’s no way this guy can give me whatever I want, but this felt like one of those afternoons where the Powerball is just so insanely high that you walk into a gas station and buy a ticket. I felt as though I needed to indulge, however unlikely it’d be to score big. Why the hell not?
I reach into my bag and grab my journal and a pen. I think for a moment … and I have it. I slowly write “To take care of Brian” on the top line of the page, before ripping it out of the journal and leaving it on the rock behind me.
I don’t have the greatest sense of humor, but I thought it’d be funny for Angelo to pace around the lake after I leave and read that journal note. Maybe it’ll spark a conversation next time I see him about who this Brian is and why I want him gone. For now though, I feel good. I feel able.
“Hey Angelo, it’s right over there for you. I’ve gotta head to class, I’m a bit late.” I say, waving as I make my way up from my side of the lake.
“Alright, Samuel. See you at the crossroads!” Says Angelo, with the trademark smile in his voice.
I drive back to my college and sit through the remaining half of my Calc 1 lecture, before speeding home. I need to ride this wave. If I see Brian I’ll set him straight. I need to make things right with mom, most of all.
As I pull into the driveway, my headlights now on from sensing the onset of dusk, I see a hooded figure jump over the fence of our yard. It looked like he was running away from my house … Weird, he looked familiar somehow. I pull out my keys and grab my bag, heading inside.
I hear shrieking from the kitchen, it sounds like my mom. I scramble into the kitchen and see my mother bent over a figure. It was Brian. She was embracing his head, blood was staining her gown and hands. He was motionless, I was able to see two puncture wounds in his t-shirt, one over each pectoral muscle.
My mother looked up and screamed.
“Mom! What the hell happened?” I shouted.
She looked at me with bewilderment, a crazed fear.
“You monster! Get away, you killed him!” She cried, scrambling towards the other end of the kitchen.
“I—Wait, what are you saying? I just got home.”
“You bastard!” She repeated, grabbing for the house phone on the wall. It slipped through her bloody fingers and smacked the floor, lifting off and dangling from the wire.
I … killed Brian? No. No! How can she say that to me? Something’s not right. I look over and see a knife on the floor, stained in Brian’s blood. I take my hoodie off and place it over Brian’s gruesome wounds. The hoodie … That green high school graduation hoodie my mom bought for me a few years back. That man leaving the house. What color was his hoodie again? I swear it looked exactly like mine!
“Hello!? Hel—Yes, I want to report a murder. Yes! My son, he killed my husband.” My mom alleged, staring at me menacingly as she spoke to the operator, following up with our addresss.
I stared back at her blankly, this all felt like a fever dream. Whatever happened here, apparently, I—or someone who my own mother thinks is me—did this.
I think back to the note I left for Angelo. T—There’s no way he could’ve caused this … is there?
I get one of those sinking feelings, like when you’re being sent to the principal’s office or something stupid like that. The feeling of inevitable retribution. I knew that somehow, I’d never get out of this.
I turn around and run back out the front door and start up my car. There’s a half tank, where do I go? No clue, I just need to drive … Down the back street I turn. About 10 miles down the road I pull over swiftly and get out. I recognize this place, a busted open fence leading to some old train tracks. I used to walk these tracks all the time back in the day.
I squeeze through the opening in the fence and stare down in each direction. Oh man … How did this all come to be? I make a left and begin to walk further away from the house, adrenaline still holding the trauma at bay. They’ll probably catch me, and it won’t be good.
Is this what moving on looks like? On to the next realm of bullshit, the next thing? How much further can I walk before I see those red and blue lights? How long until the surface tension betrays me?