Turtles

 

                                                            By Kyle N. George

My girlfriend of three years, Kelsie, had found this guy online who was giving away his futon. So I’m standing in the doorway of our newish (about five weeks, new building and everything) apartment, waiting for her to finish dolling herself up in the bathroom. And I’m getting irritated because she’s taking forever, and we need this futon; we were sitting in lawn chairs to watch TV.  A placeholder coffee table. Just a rectangular wooden slab on four pegs, really. Plus, we had yellow daffodil-patterned drapes from Kelsie’s old place. She had called them “fucking dope” the day she put them up. And I liked them, too, but could not seem to muster any excitement for them at the moment. More like I wanted to rip them down, if I’m being honest.

“Come on. Let’s go,” I said.

Kelsie’s blonde head popped around the corner of the bathroom. Her emerald eyes met mine, like whirling copper fires in a hurricane. “Just a few more minutes, Joe.”

I tried to sound urgent. “He’ll give it to someone else, babe. Other people out there want free futons, too, you know.”

She dismissed the notion with a quick wave of her hand and retreated into the bathroom. “No, he won’t do that. I spoke to him through email. He knows I want it. Two seconds, Joe. Two seconds.”

Overwhelmed by the boredom of standing there with nothing to do, I threw my arms out and hung my head to one side like it weighed too much. Then I leaned back on the doorframe and moaned.

The problem was, if I started doing something to pass the time, like checking my email, Kelsie would walk around the corner, ready to go. But if I did nothing, she wouldn’t. But then if I took out my phone and pretended to check my email, she would stay in there. So it was a cruel joke by the universe with no way to win. You had to accept it or let it ruin the relationship. Simple as that.

But can’t she just not give a shit about how she looks this one time? I actually thought this as I checked my silver wristwatch. Six-eleven PM. We had less than thirty minutes to make it across town in Saturday traffic.

We’re moving furniture, for Christ’s sake. And she’s worried she doesn’t look good. Am I immature for wanting to leave on time? The guy we’re going to see is probably going to be on time. I want to be patient but at the same time . . .

“Kelsie, let’s gooooo.”

“Two more seconds, Joe. Hang on.”

I rolled my eyes so hard they ground against the rims of my eye sockets. I sighed and put my hands on my hips, something my father used to do.

Then a blue jay landed on the windowsill. Very difficult to spot the difference between a male and female blue jay. But it was pretty big, so probably a male. It looked at me and cocked its head and then flew away.

I wish more birds were blue.

Kelsie walked out of the bathroom, wearing a pink sunflower dress. She pranced toward me, her lemon-colored shoes, with their little straps that had bitsy pink belt buckles on them, tapped against the hardwood floor. Her shoulder-length blonde hair bobbed slightly as she walked until, suddenly, she stopped, looking around.

“I’m forgetting something,” she said.

I sort of shrugged and glanced around. “What are you forgetting?”

She looked at me incredulously. Her dark eyeshadow. Glossy pink lips. Fair complexion. “I can’t remember what it is, that’s what I’m saying.” Then she moved slowly around the room. Her purple purse dangled on its thin shoulder strap whenever she bent to look behind something, a still-unpacked box or a trashcan. She kept mumbling to herself, “What is it, what is it,” seemingly reaching out with her thoughts to commune with the apartment for an answer like a sage.

But after a few seconds, I’m standing there, worrying about the futon, and I tell her—I say, “We’ll lose this futon, Kelsie.”

“Shit.” She deflated. “I don’t know what it is, but I know I’m forgetting something.” She was moseying over to me. “We’ll be in the car, and halfway there, I’ll think of it. I know it.”

“Fantastic.” I motioned for her to walk out the door.

Kelsie tromped past me, frowning, and then, finally, I shut the door.

***

          In my Rav4, Kelsie had her smooth bare feet on the dash, wiggling her yellow-painted toes. Change rattled in one of my cup holders as we hit the edge of a pothole. I was usually good at dodging them, but I was in a hurry and distracted. A new song I had never heard was playing on the radio. Fast tempo. In-your-face lyrics. A hummable melody.

          I looked at Kelsie, who was bobbing her head and feet in time with the beat.

          “Is this new?” I said. “Do you know who this is?”

          She shook her head no.

          I stopped at a red light and turned the volume up a little. It was a rock-pop-techno abomination. A weak yet overproduced drumbeat. A “computery” sound to the whole thing. Fake. Corporate. Soulless. Designed to be in a car commercial someday. Talking about all the right things, rebelliousness and the movement and the love all that, but not saying anything. Not really. Deceptive. Greedy.

          A song like that probably would have worked on me for a summer in my preteen years. But now, at thirty-seven, it didn’t sound very good.

          I turned off the radio. “I think I’m getting old.” I stared at the red traffic light with both hands resting on the steering wheel. “Like . . . in mind.”

          “Isn’t that how growing up is supposed to be?”

          “Sure. But it’s the tiny realizations along the way about what it all entails that tend to get to me. Like, when I was a teenager, and a new, big song came out, everyone would sing it at school. I got it by osmosis, you know. And by the time I actually heard it, I basically already knew the whole thing by heart; I sort of miss that, the feeling of being connected to it all. Culture and whatnot.”

          Kelsie got out her phone, smiling. “Nobody gets to stay a kid forever, babe.”

          I looked at her as if to say, “I know that, sweety,” but she was engrossed in her phone already.

          Honk. Honk.

          The light had turned green.

***

          We reached the end of a cul de sac, and I pulled to the curb in front of a lime-colored house. I cut the engine, noticing the front yard was overgrown. Long grass drooped, veiling a stone walkway. Each stone a flat gray octagon with a turtle shell pattern. The walkway forked to connect both the sidewalk and the driveway to the front porch. And at the center of the yard, partially blocking half the house, stood a majestic red oak. Its branches outstretched over the sidewalk, over the curb and my SUV.

          A rusty white pickup truck, half-covered by a brown tarp, sat, up the driveway, looking untouched for years. Rear right tire missing. Left taillight busted. Missing tailgate. Dented bumper, half-falling off.

          Kelsie and I strode up the turtle shell walkway, toward the burgundy porch in the warm summer rays. The cool breeze breathed on us and whispered through the leaves of the red oak and the other trees. A yellow bird tweeted from one of them and then darted away, flying fast to another part of the neighborhood.

          The loose wooden porch steps groaned under our weight. We reached the top and approached the white paint-chipped door. Two rattan chairs to our right and a small round table with tempered glass surface. The aroma of fresh marijuana lingered beneath the awning. A welcome relief, I thought, from the abhorrent stink of manure wafting from the neighbor’s yard. I could see over the border hedges the five recently laid patches of shoveled dung. But that sweet, overpowering scent of cannabis made it mostly bearable.

          Kelsie knocked three times on the door, then backed away and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me.

          As time went on, and no one came to the door, I got impatient. I stepped forward and knocked eight times. Louder than Kelsie had. Then I backed up, and we waited, but still, no one came.

I checked the time on my wristwatch. Six-thirty. Right on time.

          Kelsie folded her arms, tapping her toe on the uneven boards of the decades-defeated porch.

A dingy metal windchime hung on the far side of the porch, jingling in the light breeze.

Kelsie knelt on one side of the door. She peered through the lower half of a smudgy window into the shadowy house.

          My eyes widened at the sight of it, and I snapped, “Kelsie. No.”

          She waved me off without turning to look at me. “I’m just checking.”

          “It’s dangerous, though. What if someone thinks you’re trespassing and shoots you?”

          She fired a skeptical look at me. “Joe, stuff like that doesn’t happen here.”

          “Idiots can be anywhere, babe. I’ve been one my entire life. I know how they think.”

          Kelsie rolled her eyes. She moved away from the window and back to the door. Again, she knocked three times, then backed up next to me. But when no one came, I turned away.

          Kelsie asked me where I was going.

          I walked down the steps, out from under the awning, and looked up to recheck the address.

          “We’re in the right place?” It was as much a question in Kelsie’s tone as it was a statement of fact. She knew it was right. We both did.

          I nodded, indicating what we both already knew.

Kelsie pursed her lips in thought, then spun to face the door and stared at it.

          I put my hands on my hips, looking around at the overgrown lawn, unsure of what to do now. Bored.

          I couldn’t help it, really. Life just got boring to me on a dime. Suddenly, I couldn’t care less. It was a real handicap, if I’m being honest.

          I stood on that first turtle shell stone and looked up at Kelsie, who was still on the porch, staring at the front door. The lime green grass blades, bending in the calm breeze, stretched long and proud around me while bumble bees buzzed about, their wings gyrating with frenzy. The birds chirped their hunting songs; they perched in the trees and darted down to the ground, seeking out their next meal among the insects. And in the distance, a dog barked, a rough and tumble sound that echoed down the road, like drum beats in this symphony of nature.

          A bee buzzed past my ear, startling me. “Ah!” I swatted it away. “Bastard.” I swatted all around me as a warning to others.

          Kelsie was walking down the creaky steps. “He must not be home.”

          “You want to just wait in the car for a bit?” I indicated the SUV behind me with my thumb.

          She nodded, walking toward me gloomily. And I could tell she was worried we wouldn’t get this futon, after all.

          And I was, too, if I’m being honest.

          So I put my arm around her and kissed the top of her head. We walked back to my Rav4, got in, and waited, waited, then waited some more.

***

          Her bare feet were up on the dash again, her chair leaned all the way back. And with her eyes closed, she hummed that melody that Ariel and her evil clone hum in The Little Mermaid.

          I sat in the driver’s seat, listening, and started tapping a drum beat to her humming on the steering wheel. It was involuntary. I was bored and couldn’t help myself.

          “Babe!” Kelsie shouted.

          “Sorry.” I stopped.

          “I’m trying to remember what I forgot at home, and humming helps me think. You know that.”

          “I know, I know. And drumming distracts you. I’m sorry.” I leaned back and sighed, resting my head against the window.

          Kelsie started humming again.

          Across the street, on my side, a little girl with auburn pigtails walked a beagle puppy on a pink leash. She wore jeans and a blue shirt with a big pink heart on it. And she waved to me, her pup too busy sniffing around to notice me.

          With my head still against the warm window, miserably, I waved back at her. Smiling a little to let her know it wasn’t all bad. Life, I mean. That it was only a little boring sometimes.

          Kelsie stopped humming.

          I turned away from the window to look at her, and she was still lying back with her eyes closed.

          “Did you have a dog when you were a kid?” I said.

          Kelsie didn’t open her eyes. “I had a gerbil. You know that.”

          “Mr. Muffin Top, right?”

          She nodded, looking relaxed as she lay back with her fingers interlocked over her stomach. Her bosom rose and fell with each gentle breath, and the tiny blonde hairs on her arm glimmered golden in the tangerine sunlight.

          “Never any dogs, though?” I asked.

          “No. My dad is allergic to them.”

          “Oh, Jesus. Is Phil allergic to everything?”

          Kelsie grinned. “Not everything; just some stuff, you dick.”

          “Dogs, peanuts, cats, apples . . .” I started drumming on the wheel again, continuing to list Phil’s allergies in rhythm with the beat. “Mold, latex, insect stings, penicillin and sulfa drugs; shellfish, soy, milk and eggs, metals such as iron or gold . . .”

          Kelsie was guffawing and slapping my arm so hard I had to stop.

          Chuckling with her, I noticed through my side-view mirror that, still, no one was coming down the long road that led to the cul de sac. And I couldn’t believe that the guy was late after all.

          I groaned. “Did you try calling him again?” I looked up and down the sidewalk, but the little girl and her puppy were gone.

          “I tried twice already.”

          “And it went straight to voicemail?”

          Kelsie nodded, busy on her phone.

          I checked my side-view again. A few houses down from us, I spotted a tall, elderly man, dressed in all black, out for a midday stroll.

          He walked with the confidence of a man who strolled daily. His legs were so long it almost looked like he wore stilts. And he had, except for his shiny dome, short silver hair.

          The man crossed the street, and I kept watching him because he was so tall. I didn’t often see tall elderly people. Most got shorter as they aged.

          Then the man tripped and fell forward. He faceplanted on the asphalt and lay motionless in the middle of the road.

          “Oh, my God,” I whispered.

          But Kelsie was too involved with her phone; she hadn’t heard me or even seen the man.

          I glanced around to see if anyone else in the neighborhood had seen the man fall and was, perhaps, coming to help. But it didn’t look that way. I didn’t so much as see someone standing by a window.

          I reached for my door handle to get out and go check on him, eying him through the side-view. But then, suddenly, he moved. First his legs. Then his arms. And he used them to lift himself off the ground. Slowly, he got back on his feet. He dusted himself off, took a look around, then continued across the street, around a corner of hedges.

          I wasn’t sure if he was okay. I hoped he was. He’d probably feel it worse, later on, I thought. Hopefully, he didn’t have any broken bones. Falling like that had to suck worse and worse the older you got. I’ve never even broken a bone before. I don’t think I could stand learning what that feels like for the first time at seventy.

          A maroon sedan turned onto the road and drove toward the cul de sac. It got closer and closer until it slowed as it passed us.

          The driver, a scraggly gent, eyed me from behind circular dark sunglasses. His long brown hair and graying goatee flowed in the breeze coming in through his open windows. He pulled ahead of us and then turned into the driveway behind the old pickup.

          “Babe.” I nudged Kelsie. “Babe, look.”

          She looked up from her phone, and I indicated, with a nod, the maroon car. And she perked up, putting her phone back in her purse. Then Kelsie slipped her feet into her shoes on the floor in front of her while I opened my door, cleared my throat, and got out.

***

          We carried the wooden futon, with its dark green mattress, Kelsie and I did, up the stairs from the basement. The guy, who’d said his name was Floyd Cooper, didn’t have many good lights in his house. Even once he turned them on, there wasn’t much light for seeing. Most of the curtains were drawn, too. I feared I would trip, walking backward with my end of the futon in a solid underhand grip.

          The whole place reeked of weed. And there were blankets bunched up everywhere in odd places, on a shelf, behind a recliner, under a lowboy. Shitloads of them. I had never seen so many blankets in a private residence.

          I just wanted to get out of there, if I’m being honest. I didn’t trust this guy.

          Kelsie and I reached the front door. But when we tried to go through, the futon got caught on the doorframe. It wouldn’t fit.

And Kelsie motioned with her head to her right and said to roll it left.

          So I did. I rolled it to my left, which didn’t altogether do the trick.

          We kept trying, saying things like “Steady, steady” and “Woah, hey, watch it now” as we tried to force it through the doorway.

          Finally, on the last push, the futon went through, scraping the doorframe a little. We carried it, with elated expressions, past the rattan chairs, and down the noisy porch steps.

          “Don’t trip, babe,” Kelsie said.

          “I got it. I’m good.” I eased down the steps, not wanting to twist an ankle and immediately be proven to “not got it” and “not be good.”

          Reaching the bottom, I breathed easier. My heart beat steadier.

Then we hauled it over the turtle shell walkway, toward my Rav4, into the shade of the red maple.

I had to open my trunk with one hand while still holding the futon with the other.

Floyd Cooper watched us from his porch as we loaded the futon in. He wore a dark blue Led Zeppelin shirt and black jeans with gaping holes. Lighting a blunt, he walked down the steps to us, blowing out a long stream of silvery smoke along the way.

Kelsie shook his hand. “Thanks, Mr. Cooper. Trust me, it’ll have a good home.”

Floyd smiled warmly under his dark mustache. Adjusting his sunglasses on the bridge of his bony nose, he said, “I believe it.” Then he offered us the blunt.

Kelsie accepted it and smoked and passed it to me. And we all started shooting the shit for the next minute or so.

A massive flock of birds, hundreds strong, crossed the cloudy sky above the cul de sac. Like a giant black alien spaceship hovering over the land. A clatter of chirps that didn’t stop. Myriad fluttering wings. A legion of avians with no end in sight, blotting out the sun.

“Goddamn,” Floyd said, face upturned.

“Look at them all,” Kelsie said.

And while we did, I imagined what it would be like to be one of them, one of the birds, flying in the middle of the group. Birds above, around, and below you. I wasn’t sure how I’d like it since I got claustrophobic in crowds, but I figured I might feel differently about that as a bird.

But, eventually, the group lost interest in the birds, and the conversation resumed. We talked about liberal politics and conservative politics. Religion. Mass shootings. The war in Ukraine. Gandhi. Nirvana, the band. And a new radio telescope NASA was putting in orbit around the moon soon. Floyd knew all about it.

          “It’ll be able to see into other galaxies. It’s nuts.” He puffed on the blunt, then made mention of his overgrown lawn, apologizing for how it looked.

          Kelsie waved her hand, making a face as if to say, “Oh, don’t worry about it. We hardly noticed.” Then she hit the blunt.

          “The guys who cut it are really fickle,” Floyd said. “I never know if they’re gonna be here on the day they say they are. And then they never are. So you just got to wait. Be patient. But I’m hoping they’re coming today.” He motioned to his lawn. “I’m getting tired of looking at it myself. I’d mow it myself if I didn’t have this damn grass pollen allergy.”

          “My dad has that,” Kelsie said.

          “I used to mow lawns as a kid,” I said. “Maybe there’s some neighborhood kid that would do it for a few bucks.”

          “Nah, nah, nah.” Floyd shook his head. “They’ll be here eventually. And if I use their service five times, the sixth one is free. And the next one is number four, so I’m, like, almost there, you know?”

          I nodded. And my head tingled from the heady effects of the ganja. Good shit. Mostly a mental high with mild physical effects.

The sun looked amazing and felt extra warm in the now birdless sky. Correction, one bird flew over. Late. Far behind the others. Struggling to catch up. Flapping its wings as hard and fast as it could.

          The blunt was small now. And when I passed it to Floyd, he waved it away.

          “You guys finish it. I got more inside.”

          We thanked him again for the futon, and for the weed and the pleasant conversation. Girlishly, Kelsie waved goodbye as we walked to the Rav4. She took the blunt from me, wetted her fingers with saliva, and pinched out its cherry. Then she reached into her purse and started rummaging for something.

She stopped and looked at me. “I just remembered what I forgot at the apartment.”

          Standing in front of the SUV, I looked at her quizzically, expecting her to say what it was, but she just sighed and went back into her purse. She pulled out an empty cigarette box.

“I’ll just use this,” she mumbled and put the roach inside. She closed the box and put it back in her purse. Shaking her head slightly, she went to the passenger-side.

And I could tell she was being hard on herself about having forgotten something, which she often did. But, I realized, that was one reason we made a good team. She was great at socializing, and I never forgot anything.

About the author: 

K.N. George’s lifelong love affair with the arts began long before he attended The Art Institute of Washington for animation. But it was there that he began to focus more on creative writing. His passion for storytelling stems from a youth spent acting on stage in community theatre, drawing, and playing music in rock bands.