Gramps - Short Story / Parable (teenagers)

There was this guy, once. He was a really cool guy. He was this old grandfatherly type, but he wasn’t like most grandfathers. He was way better, and I’ve personally had awesome grampees.  I can’t tell you exactly how he was better; it’s just that when you hung around him, he made you feel like you were the best. Everything you thought was cool, he thought was cool. Everything you wanted to do, he wanted to do. Everything you wanted to be, he already was. And when you went on walks together, you could talk about anything. Sometimes you learned about yourself when you went on walks with Gramps. Like that one time that he asked you about your friend and why he didn’t hang around you anymore. You knew the real reason, deep down inside, but you told him the reason that you had rehearsed to yourself and that you now kind of believed. When he looked at you with such earnestness, love and concern that you looked back and your eyes met, you both knew that you had lied. To yourself, mostly. And a few days later you went and apologized to your friend and you’re still best friends to this day. Remember that? I thought you did.

Well, this guy – I won’t get into too many specifics here – but Gramps has lots of kids, and they all call him Gramps, even though they could call him Pops, or Dad or something. It’s just something about the way he looks. And you might not believe this, but he has like, over a hundred kids. Yes, a hundred kids, and you’re one of them. Again, not going to get into specifics. Nahgonnadooit.

Living conditions? Not…

Mothers? Gonna…

Age of said grampee? Do it.

Nahgonnadooit.

It’s just not important after all. When you stop to think about it, there are lots of things you don’t know about Gramps, but what you do know is so cool it just doesn’t matter anyway.

Gramps treats his kids in unique ways. He has these different little rituals and traditions that he shares with every one of you and your siblings. One of them is that when he feels you are ready, like when you’re a teenager, but when you are a responsible teenager – yes, folks, they do make ‘em – he gets you your very own car. He has to feel sure that you can handle the car before he hands you the keys, but when he hands them to you, you get to keep it and drive it whenever you want, until he wants it back, sometime way in the future. For all intents and purposes, it’s yours. What kind of car is it? Well, this is the unique part. Everyone gets a different kind of car. Well, not everyone. I mean, can you name a hundred different makes of car? But you have the Chevrolet Cavaliers, you have the Kia Sportages, you have the Beemer 7 series and you have the occasional Lamborghini. But see, when you get the car, it just doesn’t matter what anyone else got. You know it’s the best thing for you, because Gramps wouldn’t give you anything but the best for you. One of your brothers, Freddy, he like, damaged himself on an almost daily basis from the time he could walk. He was a walking stitch. He was mostly stitches, with some flesh attached, from age two to age 19 when he finally got his car. Can you guess what he got? Now use your inherited Grandfatherly wisdom here. Yes. He got a Yugo. Now there’s nothing wrong with a Yugo. I have a good friend who is an accountant and he’s had his Yugo for like 200 years. It’s on its fourth engine, and I’m not kidding. I guess Gramps decided that Freddy would kill himself in a souped up Dodge Viper like some of his siblings got, so Freddy got the Yugo. You’d think Freddy would be bummed, but nope. The first day he got that thing, he was so proud! He drove that blue puppy around the neighborhood like a Soviet Bloc nightmare. It glistened in the sun. The chrome shown and the paint was immaculate. And when he got it home, know what he did? He washed it. Got a bug on the windshield, see. The bug wasn’t even smashed. Freddy had been driving much too slow to smash a bug. That little critter was just a ridin’ along, big ol’ bug smile, antennae wavin’ in the breeze like some kind of parade girl. When he stopped, he saw it fly off, so he knew it wasn’t smashed, but he washed his brand new ride anyway, just in case that little ladybug had had an accident or something. Freddy was like that for a long time. He treasured his car and drove it whenever he could.

One day though, Freddy came home in tears. Gramps could tell it was time to spend a bit of time with Freddy so they went on a walk. There is this special place Gramps likes to go to take walks, but you have to drive there. When he asked Freddy if he wanted to drive, Freddy said no. So Gramps drove (he has the coolest car in the world anyway.) So they got to the place and it was beautiful. The sun was nearing the horizon, and the sky was all pinks and orange. A stream meandered nearby. They started walking. After a while, Freddy told Gramps why he was crying and why he didn’t want to drive. It seemed that some of the other guys had been laughing at him. When Gramps asked why, Freddy started to cry again. When Freddy finally got hold of himself, he said between sobs that some of the other guys were laughing at him because he drove a Yugo.

“Well, what did they say?”, asked Gramps.

“Well, nothing,” Freddy answered. “They just pointed and laughed at me as I drove by.”

“So they weren’t laughing at you.”

“Gramps, yes they were,” Freddy insisted. “They were laughing at me for driving a junker car.”

Gramps stopped and looked at Freddy. Freddy stopped, too.

“They weren’t laughing at you, Freddy”, he said in a slow, patient voice that we all love to hear. “They were laughing at your car, and that is completely different.”

Freddy considered this. “How is that different?” Freddy asked.

“Well, Freddy,” Gramps still had that patient tone, “they didn’t talk to you. They don’t know you, even though they are your siblings. You guys are too far apart in age to really know one another, unless someone makes a special effort. They are really great guys most of the time, but they can be a little…well, shallow sometimes.”

Freddy thought about that for a minute. “You should have seen Marvin. He was actually rolling on the ground. He has a great car, Gramps. It’s an 8 – series Beemer. It has leather, and a rockin’ stereo and it goes zero to 60 in like, one.” He took a few more steps. “It sure seemed like he was laughing at me.”

“How could he be? Yes, he may have been laughing at your car, but let me tell you something about Marvin.”

This took Freddy by surprise because Gramps seldom spoke about his other kids.

“What?” Freddy asked.

“Marvin was in to my office two days ago. Do you know why?”

A guy like Marvin in Gramps’ office? What kind of problems could Marvin possibly have? Freddy couldn’t imagine, so he just shook his head.

“Well, Freddy, he was almost hysterical because Fabio and Brooke were laughing at him for his car.”

Freddy was incredulous. “The Lotus Esprit Turbo guys?”

Gramps nodded a hint of a smile on his face. “There’s always a better car out there, Freddy. Don’t forget that.” Then he added, “And know what? Fabio and Brooke are in for a surprise. I am granting three Lotus Esprit Turbos next week. All brand new, but with twin turbos. And they will be four years newer than Brooke’s and Fabio’s.” He paused. “And know what else? Brooke just had some bodywork done on her car last month.”

“Whoa. She did?”

“Yes. The paint was getting a bit tired and she had a few dents in it, so she wanted to get it fixed.”

“Oh.” Freddy was getting the picture now. He walked for a long time in silence with Gramps by his side.

Gramps broke the silence. “Freddy, do you know why I give all my children cars?”

Freddy frowned. “No, I guess not. I thought it was so that everyone could get around, but we could do that on bikes or by walking.”

Something then occurred to him that he wanted to ask sometime. He had seen lots of his siblings walking around without cars. What was that all about? Freddy pushed this thought out of his mind and continued. “But it seems that you create a lot of problems by giving everyone different cars. Why do you do that?

Gramps smiled. “I think you know why I give you cars. So you can get away and learn how to drive. That includes taking care of the car and making good choices away from home. And part of making good choices is learning to see the driver, not just the car.”

“But why did I get a Yugo, and Jamie got a 1967 Camaro SuperSport with dual headers, twin carbs and big hurkin’ mag wheels?”

Gramps stopped to make a point. “Freddy, take a look at yourself. Is there a square inch of you that is not a scar?” He smiled.

“Nope,” smiled Freddy back.

“What do you think would happen if I gave you a car like Jamie’s?”

Gramps hadn’t finished his sentence when Freddy replied. “Yeah - I’d kill myself.”

Gramps laughed, and so did Freddy.

“But you know, Freddy,” Gramps added, “that’s only part of the reason. I know you pretty well. I knew you would take care of your car, even though it’s not the sportiest on the block. I also knew that you were soft-hearted enough to get bothered when some of your siblings made fun of you. And I knew that when they did, instead of totally abandoning your car, you would come to me for help. And because you did, I will now be able to teach Marvin.”

”Huh?” Freddy asked.

“Marvin will be back to me in a few days because after I release the new Lotus Esprit Twin Turbos, Brooke and Fabio will be looking for some way to feel good about themselves. Marvin will be their target. This will upset Marvin, and I will help him remember how he made you feel, which will, in turn, teach him to stop laughing at cars. After, all, it’s the people inside that matter, right?”

“Yeah!” Freddy exclaimed. He felt lots better, although he felt kind of silly about getting all worked up about his own car, as if that was everything.

Then Gramps added, “Earlier, you were going to ask me about the people who walk everywhere.”

Freddy was a little freaked, because he had just thought it. He hadn’t said anything. Gramps was a tad eerie that way. Freddy looked at him with wide eyes and just nodded.

“Those are people that are comfortable letting people know who they are. They don’t want to be in a metal shell, windows rolled up, in their own world. They want to be in the open because they feel that their openness will help people to get out of their cars. They feel that the world would be a better place if more people walked. Less loud music, less pollution, easier interaction. No traffic lights, more hugs. There are lots of advantages.”

“Well, if cars are bad,” Freddy frowned, “why do you give them out?”

Gramps stopped. Freddy saw that they were back at his car, which he just then realized Gramps seldom drove. He looked deeply at Freddy, put both hands on his shoulders and pulled him close. “They’re just a tool to help you, Freddy. A step. And for you, it looks like you are moving in the right direction.”

Freddy smiled. He would try not to worry about cars too much in the future.   

Go Towards The Light, Sucka - Short Story

Most people don’t realize that when you go towards the light at the moment of death that the light you see is really a big ass projector beaming down on you. It really messed me up the first time it happened. Here I was, just freshly dead from an overdose and I go towards the light like Great Gramma always told me, but there weren’t no “being” in it. I just all the sudden found myself squinting into this blinding projector light, standing on an otherwise dark and empty stage, spare dust floating through the glare.

It appeared at first that the theater was empty. Like I said, the light was in my eyes and they hadn’t adjusted yet. Hell, they was probably still dilated. And then I heard a door close and a shuffle of feet and then someone up towards the light walked in front of it for just a second and the light blinked when he did it. I followed the sound of the shuffle over there to the left and here he comes, God Almighty in an overcoat and Dockers. An older white man, kind of important looking, but for hell’s sake, an overcoat! I wasn’t sure if I should genuflect or laugh. He stopped short.

“Hello, Marvin…again,” He said with a look of disdain.

“What?” I was dumbfounded. I thought this was where I was supposed to feel all the love and acceptance and “it’s gonna be alright” stuff that Great Gramma said you feel. I felt more like “why the heck are you here?” coming from this guy. I immediately wanted to kick him. Or Him.

“Well, you’re back again. And earlier this time than last. And this one was an overdose, no less, and…”

I interrupted the Almighty berating.

“Wait, wait, wait a second, there, buddy,” I said. “Last time? What do you mean “last time”?”

I hadn’t gotten the sentence out when not only my last life had flashed in front of me, but five others, all starring me. None of them were too good, I have to admit. But no one was ever giving me a decent start, neither. I was about to point this out, that it seemed I was being born into poverty a lot when I saw them, all seated in the theater right in front of me. My family! I had heard of this from Great Gramma lots of times, how you go to the light, and then God comes to you and gives you a big hug and then you see all your dead relations comin’ at you to hug you and it’s this great reunion.

Strike three, gramma.

They were there, all right. But they weren’t smiling. I saw my favorite old uncle Bernie that died in a shootout a few years before and his arms were crossed and he was frowning and looking all perturbed. And there was Aunt Betsy that died of a heart attack at twenty seven and she was as big as always. I think she took up two theater seats. Her arms were crossed, too, and each arm looked like a dragster tire it was so big.

I couldn’t see much cuz that damned light was still blaring at me, soft ticking sound coming from I guess the film room from whence God came. That’s when I heard my favorite cousin Riley. He had been seated somewhere in the middle of the theater, maybe ten or twelve rows back. It wasn’t a huge theater, and when he stood up I could barely see him through the haze. He was sitting there with Keenan, another cousin, dead after a party in South Central L.A.

“What’s UP with you, man? You OD yourself?” He actually said, “youseff” like he always did. Guess he hadn’t changed much. “What’s up with dat?” His arms were flailing for emphasis. He did not sound friendly. I looked at God.

“That’s right, Marvin. He saw it all. They all did.” He said it kind of like he was sad, like I was the worst guy in the world. I scowled at him. “The time you stole that car? They saw it. The time you beat your mother? They saw that, too. They, we, saw it all.”

Now I was getting pissed.

“What do you mean, they saw it? Hell, they was there, man! Keenan was with me that night I stole the car, and Riley held my Mom for me when I beat her! So, yeah, they saw it, but they was there, too, so why am I getting all the rap?”

That was a good point and I figured I had God by the tail so I crossed my arms and raised my chin in my best Eastside pose.

Riley who had still been standing just let his arms go limp with a slap on his thighs. I heard a soft “damn” and he sat down heavily in his chair. God just stared at me like he was a teacher and I was a student he didn’t like much. I knew that look pretty good. He raised his bushy eyebrows.

“Marvin. See that projector?” He pointed to the light and I squinted into it. “It’s a special one. These people, your family, are here right now. This,” he dramatically raised his arms, “is real.” He dropped his arms and looked at me. “The life you lived was not “real”, as you define it. This projector puts you into a world with all these people, your family, but you are the only one truly in it. The projector is a special invention of mine that puts the world around you. It’s the ultimate virtual reality, son. These people have been dead since your first life and they did alright. They’re waiting for you.”

All I could say was, “Huh?”

God snorted at me. “Marvin. Your last five lives, as you call them, weren’t lives at all. You stand on the stage, we run the little film, and there you are. It interacts with you. Your family was all together in your first life long ago – in the 1700’s to be exact - and they passed the test. They lived correctly under those terrible circumstances. You, on the other hand, did not, as you saw in the flashback. I invented this projector as a way to give slow learners like you another chance. The souls of the people in this theater, everyone in your family, is in the “movie” with you, but only as props now – they didn’t want to go back. Why would they take a test twice? So you are the only live “actor”. You call all the shots, in reaction to what I allow to happen in the movie.” He paused and regarded me in a disgusted glare. “Are you following me here, Marvin? Am I talking slow enough for you?”

I was kind of getting it. “So, that night I beat up my mom, I did it ‘cuz she raided my stash. And you’re telling me there weren’t any stash, and Mom weren’t ever there? It was all this movie?”

“Score Bozo here a point,” he said to the crowd and everyone chuckled. I frowned.

“And here’s the rest of it. They’re waiting for you to get it right. Until you do, these people have to stay here in this theater. And worse yet, you’re the last one. You, Marvy, are holding up the whole works. They’d all be in heaven now if it weren’t for you.”

Now I was pissed.

“What kind of messed up…and don’t call me Marvy, man!” If I’d had my .45 I’d a "offed" him.

“Yes!” he yelled now. “I have to explain this to you every time, Marvy!”

Now God was thumpin’ me in the chest! I was gonna rip his finger off his hand but he made my arms not move. It went something like this.

“Everyone did fine on their first life EXCEPT (thump) for you. You’re in a group we call a family, and families don’t go to heaven until EVERYONE (another thump, dammit) passes the test. That’s the way it is,” he enunciated dramatically. “And it’s not messed up.” he sniffed, “It’s a good system and it works for most people.”

“Ok, so how many chances do I get? You gonna shut this thing down if I don’t get it right? And what’s with that damned overcoat, anyway?”

He just looked at me. He bit the inside of his lip and kind of sucked on his tooth.

“You have until your time’s up, and that ain’t long,” he said quietly. His voice was not friendly or warm.

He started walking backward from where he came, his eyes on mine. “Get it right, Marvy.”

I watched him disappear into the glare and heard his footsteps growing dimmer to the back of the theater. My dead relations still just stared or shook their nappy heads.

A door closed way in the back and I heard a muffled command.

“Roll ‘em!”

Footsteps - Short Story

The night was chill, and wrapped me in its dark embrace. I had just retired from the community hall and, not being one to linger behind to talk of trivial matters with people for whom I had no affinity, walked out into the cold.

I hunched my shoulders and tightened my scarf against the chill. I, a solitary man and the last remaining MacDonall in the hollow, began my slow walk back to my home. Some called it a shack, but no matter. I needed none of the comforts of softer people. I know who I am.

I looked down at the dirt road as I walked. My lazy left foot made a scraping sound against the dust, for the late autumn rains had not begun to fall. I approached the edge of the false light thrown by the hall and plunged into the darkness of the forested path, which was only slightly lit by the presence of a full moon.

I had been on the path from the hall to my cottage in the woods hundreds of times in my life without any of the effect of what was about to happen to me. Being raised in this hollow and along a path of such familiarity there is ought to see but that which appears for a moment, and to one given to imagination, as a specter or a ghoul or devil. Upon further examination it is nothing but the phantom movement of a branch, or an owl taking flight or one of the myriad creatures that inhabit such places throughout the night which, upon hearing my disruption, my uneven gait, take further into dark recesses.

On this deep night, the moon riding high now, the travel was no different. I had jumped several times, the last MacDonnell in the hollow, the terror rising with the widening of the eyes and then the chest releasing as I see the owl take wing, or the deer crash through the underbrush. Twice a panic began when my clothing caught on an unseen briar and I imagined it to be fiends from hell, my departed infamous ancestors, coming for me in the night. I, breathing hard after the second occurrence, began again to walk in the direction of my home.

In the absence of company, one’s thoughts are free to meander, much like the path I occupied at this time which wound through this deep forest through which, in this section at least, no light was allowed to penetrate. In parts of one’s mind also are tangled, impenetrable thickets through which no sane man would pass. A sane man must find his way around such thickets, knowing that only lunacy would follow a pass there through. Still, one’s thoughts are prone to take water’s way in the absence of companionship, generally speaking, wandering through the ruts and furrows of the forest path of one’s experience. That is, unless some pressing thought, be it sane or no, makes a special cry that insists upon one’s more cognitive focus. And then may God help him, for that thought may take him far into brambles from which he may never emerge.

Such were my thoughts on this painful night. For as I walked unevenly – scrape, thump; scrape, thump – my mind caught hold on a rodent of a thought and would not let go; an occurrence of that very evening. It was the face of my departed uncle, a man hated and feared in this county, who, in the shrill community gathering from whence I had just left I saw staring at me from the corner of the room, a sinister sneer an his face. I saw it for no longer than a second divided, just before a crowd of my peers passed in front of him, and then when they continued on their way, he was gone. I jumped up and, staring in the direction I had seen him, succeeded only in making titter a group of pretty young women in front of whom he had been standing. In my astonishment I had not considered what I must have looked like; a charlatan at best, staring at them as though I had them in mind. I had stayed at the party only long enough to push the nervous thought from my mind and to spill a fruit concoction on my lapel. I had left soon after, with the rising generation laughing and staring. But in the deep forest of my mind, he visited me again; the same sneer, the evil visage, the deep black eyes, and bid me follow him off the path through brambles impenetrable. Why was he here? Why had he been there? He had been dead seven years and had gone after a long disease, punctuated by mental illness. His maniacal laughter continues to echo in my mind.      

The frosted full moon now followed me, hid partially behind thinly veiled clouds. Occasionally a cobweb across the face or a rustling in the bushes would pause the uneven rhythm of my gait. The walk should have taken no more than an hour. I knew now that it had taken more than two.

I was lost. After living 40 years in this very hollow and walking the path hundreds of times, I was lost. But that was not why I stopped. I stopped because of the noise I heard behind me; an echo. It mimicked my own false gait. I took a step and heard it again, not a second behind mine. Someone was playing a trick on me, following me on a night as this!

I called out with all the venom I could muster.

“Fool! Imposter! Reveal yourself!”

My voice sounded strained and raspy, dead and without echo in the deep woods.

A slight breeze rustled the underbrush. Other than that, there was nothing.

I took a few more steps; each one mimicked perfectly a few seconds behind mine. I began to walk faster and the echo quickened. I turned and looked and saw nothing. When I brushed bushes and briars the clothing I wore made a sound, but my pursuer made none – like a ghost he, it, traveled, behind me. I hurried my pace as I could, such as it was. Eventually I stopped, panting, and the footsteps did again. I looked back and, seeing nothing, turned again to the trail and saw where it should not be, my home in the clearing, the light from the moon illuminating.

The footsteps followed me as I hurried frantically towards my home. My key fumbled in my hand and finally found the keyhole. As I began to turn it I looked into the glass on my front door and that’s when I saw him again for the third time that dark night, reflected in the glass behind me, my departed and evil uncle, a look of devilish glee on his wrinkled visage!

I wheeled around even as I pushed open the door to look behind me and, seeing nothing but still fearing for my life I shut it again quickly - but he had me! I let out a scream and pulled with all my might but he had me tight by the coat! I turned to put both hands on the caught garment to wrench it away…and that’s when I saw that it was merely caught in the door. I wrenched it away anyways, disgustedly. The discovery was of small consequence; I fell back to the couch, my breast heaving.  

I looked at my pocket watch. I had left the community hall nearly three hours before. The walk had taken me treble the time it should have. I could not account for the error, the path heretofore being to me among the things I have known best in my life.  

As I walked through the house that dark night, I noticed that the footsteps that had followed me were not present. Chuckling to myself for my apparently overactive imagination (although I had never been accused or thought this of myself before now), I readied myself for bed. I slept fitfully, once dreaming that I saw my uncle peering into my bedroom maliciously from outside my window.

When I awoke, the sun was high and the church bells rang. I felt no desire to face the hypocrites in the town at a church meeting, so I stayed away as I always had. However, I did have to leave the house to get wood for the fire.

It was with disdain that I realized that when I stepped out, the echo started again. Where I went (once the last MacDonnell in the hollow, but apparently no more), he followed. I never saw him again, but to this day he is always there. Day and night, weeks, months and now years, where I walk out of doors, he follows.

For a while I tolerated it, but no more. I have not been out of my house now for eighteen months. The hypocrites in the community bring me my meals and warm my home. I hate them for their condescending glances, their insincere salutations, but I accept their charity, if you can call it that, out of concern for their fragile and their weak society that requires them to assist a man that will not leave his house for fear of the footsteps that will never go away. But they do go away; as long as I am in my house, they are not. In the unknowable mathematics of the underworld, he cannot get me in my home - or so I thought. For although there are no footsteps as long as my feet stay in my abode, today I heard for the first time in my home, breathing…just behind me and to my right. 

--Eric Marley, 2005