In the waiting chair

         With autumn leaves falling to the ground, turning that red moon color, the harvest moon is what you think of when you see these falling leaves, the grass below them is already turning brown and people have lost hope and abandon any type of landscaping for the season.  The  trees baring themselves leaving the scenery  looking some what bleak and stressful. Already are people setting up décor for this seasons holidays, which’s on broomsticks, black cats, skulls and the superfluous exercise of the color black. Barren, is the best way to describe  the hopelessness face of this town.
         Oddly enough this is where our story begins, a story of love. It’s not your original Shakespeare tune, but it’s just a modest story of two people, two people who believe in the undying fathomable faith of a single entity that drives these two people together, that entity is love. In this story you will see the drive of one boy, through adventures of back ally bars and intoxicated nights to countless work hours and sleepless refuge leading him to what could possibly be or has been his very reckoning, if only he wasn’t a fouled mouth drunkard, he might have been able to spot it. You will be introduced to a young girl with high expectations with a powerful will to success, thoughtful love and high morality only to be challenged by her un-wielding ability to question situations and at times an over bearing mother who, at times, creates what could be explained as a love-hate relationship ultimately being the cause of to much stress. In this story you will see these two people conquer depression, alcoholism, drug abuse and mistrust. Along the way they will be riddled of situations of challenging morality, they will be torn between friendships, trust, relationships, trust, and beliefs will be in question. Eventually this will lead to a matter of not trust but choices. Time, time is a prevalent influence on the choices these two make…

         Our story opens with a young boy who graduated high school but never made it to college. With inked permanently splayed across his body he brings his hands to his head running his fingers through brown hair, lightly tinted with scarlet he gingerly rubs his scalp for a bit before leaning forward and wallowing out of bed. Still garbed in his favorite pear of jeans he stumbles to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror he begins to relinquish the embarrassing events of the night before, a result if imbibing to much alcohol. Walking through the two bedroom apartment he stops at his room mates door and peers in. His partner in crime is still passed out, a can of keystone light rests in his hand, how he managed to not spill baffles this young boy. Continuing his trek to the kitchen he stops at the table and grabs a bottle of apple vodka, he brings the cleverly designed container to eye level to inspect the contents, just enough to cover his tracks from last night.
Take a shot, “no I never hit on that girl”
Take a shot, “Nope, didn’t embarrass myself buy explaining what really happened with the Kennedy assassination and how it’s directly correlated with the theory of evolution”
Take a shot “Finally, I don’t miss her. I don’t miss her one bit. She has her new boyfriend and I couldn’t be happier for her.”
         Starting to regain limber and feeling a bit happier about his choice of actions he questions taking a shower. Walking through the living room to begin his morning pace and to start the debate of “to shower or not”  he passes the little love seat couch that parallels the television, pausing he realizes that they have a unknown guest. This unknown guest is not asleep, but just waking. This unknown guest kinks his neck up and in a side ways look of confusion gives the boy a  quizzical look, a look that asks a few questions. The young boy bows down to Mr. Unknown for further interview…
         “You’re wrapped in my throw, why?” questions the young boy
         “Uhmmm, what? Throw? Who are you and where am I?” replies Mr. Unknown
         “My name is Spartacus and I lead you here. A throw is much like a duvet but for a couch, it’s a covering…not a blanket. You, my kinked neck friend, lay within my apartment walls.”
         Mr. Unknown, now a wake and more alert can smell the sweet vodka scent coming off the breath of someone who apparently thinks of himself as Spartacus. Standing up and unraveling himself of the throw, not to be confused with a blanket, he awkwardly motions to the door.
         “I..I guess I’ll be leaving now. Uhm… good bye Spartacus?”
         Mr. Unknown feeling a bit confused and a little puzzled walks to the door and before exiting is stopped by a gentle hand on the shoulder. Slowly turning to face, who he is now sure to be an intoxicated person, he listens to what this young boy has to say.
         “Hey, you be careful out there. That world is confused and lost. You just be  careful.”
Taking in what the drunken young boy has just said, Mr. Unknown snorts a nervous laugh and quickly exit’s the presence of Spartacus.
         Early on this morning an explosion of reds and oranges erupt over the mountains that protect this town, the flares that are being launched from this sunrise begin to beat down on the frosted glass ware of the city allowing the windows of one dorm to tear up and cry condensation. Inside one particular room a finger rises to the window and traces a heart into the melting frost. A tiny shrill of an alarm clock begins to go off and the hand of the finger reaches across a warm body trying not to wake him, picking up her cell phone that also works as an alarm clock, a calculator and calendar she flips it open and dismisses the alarm. She gently places her head on his shoulder and her arm around his chest. Taking note of the atom like explosion of the sunrise, she draws the curtain closed and tries to postpone the starting of the day because for this moment her world is right, this moment while she lays with the man she has put so much love into, there is not poverty, fathom, warfare, there is no hurt, homeless and depression, there is only right, there is only her and him, the way it should be. Her aspirations of never leaving her bliss quickly come to a halt when the man slowly stretches himself alive, he exhaustedly extends his arms and rolls over to face this young girl, without an exchange of words they talk to each through their eyes, eyes that spill sentences of great emotion, love, caring, friendship and companionship. She runs her hand through his black hair and pauses peering into his mind. Even though this young girl could see that he loved her she yearned for him to say it, re-enforce it this morning, with real words, with real sentences, not these phantom glances, because, she knows that once he excuses himself from bed she wont have another chance to hear it for most of the day, for classes and work will take her time up. Maybe though, just maybe, he will send flowers a surprise note, maybe.
         Leaning over, the man gives this young girl a quick kiss on the cheek and rolls out of bed, wandering off to the bathroom to change and go to class, leaving the girl alone, lost in thought. Becoming more like a morning ritual the girl begins to question what’s going on with her life, her love, her religion even her self. With each day passing she starts to feel separated from everything, she feels like it’s all slipping away, but she continues to salvage everything, refusing to give up and quit. She feels the vibration of her phone go off, snapping her out of her paralysis train of thought, she is quickly put into a sour mood, only one person would call this early. Her mother. Picking up her phone she mutters, “Not now mom. It’s just to early.”  Leaning up, she swings her legs around and introduces her feet to the cold carpet. Giving a quick stretch she stands up and finds some socks to warm her feet. Gathering her things, she readies her self for the day. Slipping on some shoes she walks to the bathroom door and gives a gentle knock, “I love you, I’ll see you later, have a good day” only to hear a muffled sentence drowned out by the sound of running water and blaring music. She tiredly walks to the door and glancing back once more she gives one last whispered, “I love you” pulling a sweater over her head she disappears outside.                    
         Taking his early morning walk, a walk which he liked to call “I’m hung over and need fresh air walk” he slowly turns it into a skip and heads himself towards the store to grab a bite to eat. Deciding not to shower he covered himself in spray on deodorant and hoped it would fool anyone he happened to come by, his hair still a mess he neglected to care.