A Short Story for You

The Decline and Beauty of a Lonely Man

KelpTek’s favorite employee meandered out onto the concrete walkway in front of his house. His manner of walking was different this morning. Mr. Milton Evans threw each leg in front of him, staggering, paused for a second, and then proceeded to methodically trudge in the correct general direction, in this case, fifteen feet forward, twenty to the right, and then a thirty foot diagonal through the driveway. He was aloof and paid no heed to the way he moved, a rare occasion for someone so rigid in structure and purposeful in action. His eyes were milky and his hair, brown from his mother and faintly lustrous from his shower, bounced up and down with every disjointed step taken towards his garage. It was parted just above his left eye, methodically and deliberately combed over to the right and forward ever so slightly, just as it was yesterday, the day before that, a year ago, and twenty years before that, at age five. Milton’s hair had stoically withstood the onslaught of cultural phenomena and popular trends, weathering even the most desperate attempts of Milton’s friends to coax it into being a little more flamboyant, to have a little more attitude. Milton never took pride in his hairstyle. He never, as most who dislike a part of themselves so often do, brought upon himself the unnecessary, unrelenting burden of insecurity, a prudent move. Milton walked to his garage separate from his actual house, to his vibrantly red Mustang, his absolute favorite four bluebirds overhead paid no attention, perched upon the gutter on the garage, one tall, one short, one scrawny, and one missing an eye. Nothing was special to the bluebirds about today. The strange creature, six feet in height, wearing a solid blue tie, solid black socks, a tattered brown belt, brown leather shoes, and a discreetly stained pair of black slacks was of no more interest to them than he was the day before. The four bluebirds carried on their day as always. For Milton, today had been more traumatic and therefore more interesting to the rest of the world than any day he could remember since his father’s death at age fifteen, and for a similar reason. To the bluebirds and the trees and the sidewalk, Milton’s hazy eyes and unbuckled belt meant nothing. To Milton, they, as symptoms of a complicated and subtle emotion, signified something quite traumatic.

That morning, Milton Evans walked down the cream colored carpeted stairs with his favorite coffee mug in hand, almost ready for work. Milton briskly walked across the room and into the kitchen, stopping in front of the sink, and swallowed the remaining coffee in his mouth. Milton did not feel the familiar sensation from the warmth of the liquid on its way down, for he was nearing the bottom of the cup. Milton tilted his head downwards slowly and deliberately until he was staring directly into the mug. His eyes fixated for a brief moment, he observed the sloshing coffee as it settled. Milton sighed. “Probably one gulp left,” Milton thought. There are three scenarios in which people estimate the remaining time left in an activity. The first is when one worries about when something beautiful will come to an end before he or she is able to enjoy it. An example might be the original owner of Milton’s mustang. The second and third are both when one fears the end of something, such as someone’s life or a time limit. This may happen before or towards the end of the object or idea’s useful period. Milton drank to the bottom of the cup although it brought him no pleasure. Now the time was seven thirty A.M., and it was the start of a new day. Milton heard a ring.

The idea of a day starting with such tragic news is unsettling, but days cannot start with a bowl of your favorite cereal or a cup of your favorite coffee. A day cannot truly begin until fluctuation takes place. Deviation from the ritual, the blip in the radar, the mildest unexpected happenstance… dreaded or eagerly awaited, these are what distinguish reaction from cognition. These are what create the memorable out of the menial. Today begins when the collage of yesterdays cannot encompass all of one’s existence. Today may begin with an ignored alarm, or it may begin with a wreck on the way home. For Milton, today had begun for the first time in years. He answered the phone and talked for twenty-five seconds to an innocent and indifferent relayer of the news that Milton’s mother had passed away. Passing away, however, is a euphemism that does not apply, for it is too subtle. Her death was more violent. Mrs. Evans had been run over by a truck, her head splattered, her right leg crushed into hundreds of pieces, and her eyes both squished. The driver was a murderer whose story is far too long to tell here, but more importantly, there was no human element to her death, little or no remorse. Her blood slicked an entire road. Milton stopped buckling his belt.

Now in the homely garage, which was ironically better furnished than his actual home, Milton’s hand grasped the handle on the door of his brick red Mustang. The fresh wax coating the hood shone brightly enough to nearly cause three accidents that morning from rubbernecking, but Milton’s eagerness for today’s drive to work can be primarily attributed to the new stereo system, which he had painstakingly installed just the day before. In spite of frugal spending habits and a distaste for excess, Milton owned and cared for an automobile capable of drawing as much attention as any other sports car, for his mother, a gentle woman with a humble personal fortune, had purchased the machine and the necessary tools for its tinkering and reinvention some years ago. Milton poured his imagination, which had been lacking a sufficient outlet at the creatively explosive age of ten, and his undying work ethic into every aspect of the vehicle. Milton knew all too well that he was still years away from being able to legally drive his gift, but nonetheless he spent the majority of his free time reading books and seeking out experts (ranging from auto-mechanics to lifelong tire salesmen) to learn everything possible about restoration, painting, and anything that could make his car a little more beautiful. Milton performed all the maintenance on his car that his schoolwork permitted, for Milton often suffocated many aspects of his life with the intense studying that so many believed to be his sole function and only delight. Over the years of one’s life considered by most to be turbulent or unbearable, Milton’s world encompassed two activities: tinkering with his brick red Mustang and perusing any book that offered a greater understanding of the subjects Milton felt his school explained unsatisfactorily, his car and his curiosity. Milton never felt the pressure so regularly associated with his age, and his parents never could decide on a reason why when conversing about their only child and smiling softly at their fortune. After years of sporadic discussion on the topic, they had amassed a slew of hypotheses, but they never could find anything definite (they once theorized the fumes from his Mustang had affected him somehow).

“Dear,” Mrs. Evans inquired late one Tuesday night, already under the covers, looking up from her novel, “what do you think Milton sees in that car of his?” Mr. Evans never had really paid too much attention.

“Well… every kid needs something to work for. I think that it’s a blessing that ours is doing something constructive instead of wasting away watching television or chasing girls,” spoke Mr. Evans in his usual bombastic manner.

“He’s only eleven, Mitchell, he won’t be into girls for a while. And it’s not like he’s in danger of running a drug ring, either,” responded Mrs. Evans. “And you didn’t answer my question, I’m not worried about our son… it’s just… I don’t know what’s so fascinating about that car of his.”

“Maybe…” began Mr. Evans, after a pause, “it’s something deeper than the car…”

“Oh, honestly! It’s never simple with you, is it? It’s always something big and important, never just a straight answer.” Mrs. Evans then chuckled to herself.

“Please, don’t insult me in the middle of a simple conversation! If you wanted to insult me, then the conversation beforehand is hardly necessary, why don’t you just come out and say it?”

“See? You’re doing it again!”

“That’s it, I’ve had enough!”

Mr. Evans left the room. Perhaps such meaningless distractions are what kept them from ever finding the answer.

Perhaps, this narrator assumes, the answer to just what Milton’s car meant is more simple, yet harder to see. Milton never drowned himself in the frustrating tasks that we consider to be imperative for our happiness and well-being. Milton never tried to attract the attention of his asinine peers through inane gimmicks such as petty crime, buffoonery, excessive drinking, partying, or even the type of falsely outlandish personality adopted by so many (as a matter of fact he was notorious for his lack of notoriety). Milton also never took it upon himself to convert others to his religion or ideology, which are both irrelevant and have nothing to add to the story at hand and therefore will not be discussed further. Milton’s activities never hurt him, for they were his, and he took great care to ensure they remained harmless. Surely, one cannot commit suicide or cry at nights over the broken spine of a book or a cracked mirror that would not reflect anything other than the garage door for years. Regardless, Milton was a happy boy (his adoring parents surely deserve some credit, as well), and he continued to be a happy young man in spite of a momentary blip in the form of his father’s murder at the tender age of fourteen. It should be noted that Milton was in no way immune to grief or sorrow. Milton’s father had been humble and caring enough to avoid burdening his loved ones through campaigns to be remembered and insistence on a tragic death, and he was content to love while alive and rest while dead. Nights were spent alone, oftentimes. His mother would insist on socialization and normalcy, believing that perhaps interaction would distract his mind. The love of Milton’s parents was more than returned, however, and while he could bear the loss of his father, that was expected. His mother’s death was another story entirely.

The bumpers shone brighter than most hoods, and the hood shined brighter than any car Milton had ever seen. In conversation, Milton seldom looked at one eye to eye for extended periods of time. Rather, his pupils would skitter and scamper across his eyes until settling momentarily at a point considerably lower than the eyes of the speaker. He spoke softly and deliberately, pausing between words to avoid stuttering. Milton’s mannerisms were neither terribly unusual nor unsettling, and he was too kind hearted to have been disliked or disparaged by his fellow cubicle workers. His demeanor, clothing, countenance, and spectacles conveyed such a compelling image of him that one could not help but to imagine what his daily routine consisted of. Upon seeing his immaculate Mustang, most people dropped all preconceptions and completely rethought his persona, usually mentioning his car in passing conversation with a spouse or significant other, just to think it over. However, Milton’s persona was not different than his day-to-day behavior, for it was merely betrayed by his beloved, brick-red Mustang. Today, however, Milton’s affection for his automobile, unruffled for nearly twenty tumultuous years now, wavered, if only for a day.

Milton, now properly situated on the slick leather driver’s seat, slid the key into the side of the steering wheel. The car, parked masterfully inside a garage furnished more lovingly than most of his neighbors' bedrooms, showed its appreciation for the life of luxury and attention so lovingly provided with an obedient roar. Four bluebirds perched upon the gutter overhead twitched, startled by the muffled roar of Milton’s engine, gripping tightly with their craggy feet or repositioning accordingly. Milton’s eyes sagged lackadaisically. Milton’s left hand lazily dangled from the bottom of the wheel by the tips of his middle finger, which by pure coincidence was the same way Milton observed sports cars to be driven by posturing teenagers mimicking their favorite movies, but this was for a different reason. Milton was distraught. His car, the same vehicle of his mother’s grim demise, was his best friend, his only reliant. After an exasperated sigh, he rested his head on the wheel. Milton shut his eyes as hard as he could. Then, Milton slammed the accelerator. He sped backwards, jerking his head into the wheel, but stopped while obliquely positioned in the middle of the road. Skid marks ran through his driveway, and his lawn was streaked by muddy tire tracks. Milton breathed deeply as the neighbors didn’t notice, lowered his head and softly cried.

The End


Thank you very much for reading this, it took a lot of time to write (three months, to be exact), with a lot of scattered ideas being brought together, truncated, then expanded on. It was difficult to touch on subjects I wanted to without either being verbose or digressing and not actually accomplishing anything. However, reading through it, I think I did a decent job knowing what I'm capable of. Please, any feedback is not only welcomed, but encouraged.... begged for... please? Thanks again, if anybody gives a crap about this, then I might post future and previous stories that I consider at about this level (this is the best thing I've ever written though... so it will have to be future).

About the Author: Daniel dun wrote this blog, foo'

COPYRIGHT ME... sorta... I'll hunt you down if you steal it, at least

Award time

And the award for blog post of negligible quality at an ungodly hour goes to: Me

at 2 fucking AM

Done with a paper

going to bed

need to blog more.... but cannot.... alas............