*Hey all, been writing for some time and trying to push myself into seeking publishing. Feel free to give me any feedback, good or bad, I don’t really have a friend group that reads for pleasure so I’m eager to know what works and what doesn’t.*
A man sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair in the seventh row of an auditorium, the kind of chair that made you wonder if they existed solely to keep you from relaxing and nodding off to sleep while you were stuck at your kid’s talent show. Parents of all sorts filled the large room, all presumable feigning interest in the performances onstage, eagerly awaiting their child’s turn so they could do their time and get the fuck out.
This man in particular was in his late thirties, well-built, good-looking, and just recently over what he considered a midlife crisis. Realizing the toll that age had started taking, he, over the last two years, hit the gym, got in shape, spent more time at the bar while managing to drink significantly less, and picked up some self-help audio books that helped him pick up on the fact that there was a whole lot of life left to live if he could get out there and live it.
The divorce had been rough, but he had a great job, a ton of cash, a lot of time, and a willingness to put all these factors to work to have a good time. Now, certainly, his kid’s talent show wasn’t the easiest place to seize life by the horns, but he’d make do. He took a deep breathe and closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of children crying, parents arguing, and teachers trying to maintain a semblance of order. It wasn’t so bad, he thought. He opened his eyes and looked around. In the first row, a toddler was throwing a full-on temper tantrum, and the little boy’s parents had to take him outside, as they kept their eyes on the ground in embarrassment. As he followed their path lackadaisically, he saw them pass a young boy pushing his grandfather in a wheelchair. Good kid, he thought, then noticed the blonde mom in the fifth row.
He spent the next few moments thinking of all the things he’d like to do to her if he could chat her up before the end of the night. As if she felt his eyes on her, she turned and noticed him staring. He hadn’t been looking at her eyes; men weren’t the only ones who bought themselves new things when they hit their thirties, he thought, blushing slightly when she noticed his line of vision. She gave him an entertained look, then turned back to her daughter tugging on her arm, and paid him no more attention. He spent the next few moments regretting the missed opportunity, and then moved on, laughing at himself for even imaging trying to pick up a woman at a school function.
On the stage, a girl played piano, some classical piece he knew by ear but would never be able to name. A child knocked over a bag of popcorn, the kid with the vegetable granddad made a little more progress down the aisle, and some parents were waving at each other with that look that said “shit, I made eye contact with someone I know, what do I do now?”
The man thought about how far his running had taken him. Two weeks from now he’d be taking on his third marathon, and he relished the challenge. If you told him in his twenties he’d be as addicted to the thrill of exertion as he was now, he’d had laughed. What was good for the body was good for the mind too, or so his self-help books told him. The hard work helped him process the divorce, made him realize life was just a journey with ups and downs. There was an analogy with that and his marathon, but he didn’t care, he was staring at the blonde again.
The clamor in the auditorium was almost relaxing, in a ridiculous way. The sounds drifted by him as he passively appreciated the woman two rows down, then turned when he heard a shrill shriek from the entryway. The kid having a fit hadn’t completely calmed down yet, it seemed. The boy pushing the grandfather was really putting his back into it about fifty feet away, for all the notice the old man could give him. A line of drool dripped down the old man’s face, his eyes vacant and far away. As the wheelchair hit a bump, he imagined they locked eyes for a moment, and he thought he saw a glimmer of sardonic humor mar the old man’s thousand-yard stare. Laughing to himself about the absurdity of having a staring contest with a geriatric in diapers, the man checked his watch, wondering when his kid would be on.
He thought about the raise he just got at the office. When he and his wife were still together, they were always worried about money. It wasn’t long after they split that everything started to look up. He wasn’t sure if it was all the changes he’d made in his life to try and be a more assertive person, but things started to change, and life was good. It would be a good Christmas for his boy, that was for sure. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smells of the world around him. Popcorn, fruit punch, and that singular bad smell that children managed to exude, a mix of dirt and cheetos, all vied for his attention. He didn’t mind, life was good.
There was a different smell too, not as strong and prescient as the others. It was the sickly sweet scent of age, vague hints of rot and neglect, the tang of dried piss. It wrinkled the man’s nose, but wasn’t strong enough for him to really place it. It was so faint that it took him some time to associate it with the old man in the wheelchair, who was slowly growing closer as his fatigued grandson made slow progress across the auditorium. The middle-aged man was annoyed, without knowing why. He’s just trying to relax and do good by his kid by coming to this shitty talent show, and he keeps coming back to this near-corpse being wheeled around by a kid that really shouldn’t have to be responsible for this old man.
Taking another deep breathe, the man counts to ten, focuses on the sensation of the air on his skin, the cool spots and the warm spots, like his self-help book says. He thinks about the new car he’s going to buy next year, the sound system it’s going to have so he can blast some top forty hits and pick up some younger girls. He has no shame that way, when you get a new lease on life and detach that old ball and chain, you start to think differently. Life is for living, right? On the stage, a little boy is rocking a grossly off-time drum solo, but it’s fucking adorable. The man claps and cheers with everyone else when the little guy finishes.
He feels good again. Seeing kids having the time of their lives tends to do that. He’s genuinely excited to see his boy do his thing on stage, whenever and whatever that thing is. He doesn’t always pay attention to what his boy says, he’s at that young age where it doesn’t always make sense to adults. The parents sitting to his left are smiling his way, the general feeling of mirth reaching out into the audience. He smiles back and nods towards them, and the smile of the wife starts to slip a bit. She’s still looking pleasant, but it’s forced now, and her husband rubs her shoulders and draws her attention to the stage, where the principal of the school is introducing the next act.
The man turns to where she was looking. The old man in the wheelchair is close now. His boy, shoving that chair with all his little might, just fell on his knees, and no one moves to help him. There’s a part of the middle-aged man that wants to get up and pick the boy up, ask where his parents are, find out why he’s alone with this decrepit old thing that should be in a nursing home, but something stops him. The old man is leering at him, he’s sure. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing up, he can feel the goosebumps rising.
Did the principal stop talking? Everyone’s staring at this poor boy slowly picking himself up off the floor, because for this rotting old corpse, this row isn’t enough. He can’t communicate in any way, for all intents and purposes he’s only alive in the technical sense, his mind is fucking gone and his eyes are a million miles away, but this little boy that isn’t shedding a single tear is up and shoving on that chair again, because he knows grandpa needs to be right up front. The boy knows it, grandpa knows it, and grandpa wants this middle-aged guy that just came to see his kid perform in a talent show to know that this is how it fucking is.
Are they even staring at this poor kid and the thing in the wheelchair? Or are they staring at him? Did the principal stop mid-introduction so the whole auditorium could stare at this middle-aged man that isn’t lifting a finger to help this little boy that is, for some reason, solely responsible for shoving this drooling, emaciated skeleton to where he needs to go? He looks up to the stage, and the next act is on, a little girl singing a Shirley Temple song.
He takes a deep breathe. What the fuck was that? A few more deep breaths.
In. Out. In. Out. In.
The little boy is still shoving away, but no one is looking anymore. They’re watching the girl on stage, and everyone is having a great time. Did he imagine the whole thing?
In. Out. In. Out. In.
The old man gets wheeled right past him. The middle aged man’s eyes are locked forward, he’s willing his periphery not to exist. His nice clothes, the ones he subconsciously chose because there was a chance he’d pick up a woman at his kid’s talent show, are soaked in sweat. Something’s happening, he’s not sure if it’s optical or if it’s in his mind, but he can’t see to his left. He doesn’t know where the old man and the little boy are. He’s panicking, but there’s a part of him that knows this is in his mind. Mind over matter, that’s what the self-help books say. Breathe in and out, confront your demons and you’ll realize they’re self-made, he tells himself.
He turns to the left. He stares into the unfathomable, lightless void of the old man’s eyes. The old man sees nothing, has seen nothing for years, decades maybe. His ancient body has been the victim of innumerable strokes and heart attacks, he’s nothing but a husk. Still, his lips start to tremble, then twitch, then turn up into something resembling a mocking smile.
A faint, almost imperceptible moan emanates from the old man’s body, starting in his rotted lungs, up his dry throat, through his black hole of a mouth and into my face, inches away. Spit is streaming down his sunken cheeks as he wheezes. He’s laughing at me.
The boy pushes on. He looks at me without recognition. There’s a sadness in his eyes, a profound loneliness matched only by his grim determination. I can see his hands are rough and red from gripping the wheelchair tightly, and he’s bleeding from beneath his fingernails. In this surreal moment, I reach out to him, but he grunts and shoves his back into the chair, sending the old man inexorably onwards.
The girl onstage finishes her song. The crowd cheers, and she bows and exits the stage. I’m not sure what’s happening to me, but when the principal introduces my boy, I remember why I’m here. Proud feelings of fatherhood fill my heart, washing over the terror that threatened to consume me. I’m eagerly watching the wings, looking for where my boy will enter. I can’t for the life of me remember what his act is, but he’s a good kid, I raised him well, gave him everything I could. He’ll be great.
A spotlight flares overhead, and stops on the boy pushing the wheelchair. The crowd cheers madly, and the boy, sensing the end of his journey, allows himself to smile. He pushes onward, the principal keeps saying my boy’s name, but he’s nowhere to be found.
The heat from the lights is intense as the boy, my boy, pushes me on stage. In this moment, I’ve never been more proud. I wish I could tell him, but somehow he knows. With a flourish, he bows and wipes the spit from my cheek as I try my best to smile. The crowd erupts, people are standing in their seats to applaud my boy, my talented boy. The spotlight lights up my dead, lifeless eyes as the curtains are drawn, and my world fades to black.