contra vim mortis non crescit herba in hortis

Lucas laid on the futon in the back room of the theatre, waiting for sleep to come. But it didn’t. It wasn’t nighttime, but he was tired, too tired to sleep. He looked across the room and saw something he hadn’t thought about in a long time. His typewriter. Ever since he became the owner of the Sawmill Theatre, his focus on writing declined. Who wants to put on their own play? It seems pitiful. Anyone could see that. He thought about writing again, just for the hell of it. He enjoyed it. Or at one point he did. There was no point to it anymore, all the casting for plays was done by a separate company, so writing plays for certain actors was feckless. He was so tired, but at the same time he was restless. He decided to take a walk. He exited the theatre and passed Margaret, who was sitting close to the stage, reading.

He walked down H. Street and turned on Poplar Avenue, and as he passed the clinic his hair stood on end. Something was terribly wrong. The next moment he heard an awful scream come from the clinic. It wasn’t the kind of scream that comes from seeing a rat, it was guttural, sick. It was a scream of terror and fear, it cut cleanly through the air, and it stopped. The silence following the scream was almost as loud as the scream itself.

He debated rather to run in, or run away, and he chose the latter. He sprinted back to the theatre and crashed through the doors. Margaret had left, he was alone. Alone with his fear that was passed to him by that scream. He paced and let his nerves calm down, then found his bottle of bourbon and drank his thoughts into oblivion.

By nightfall the bottle was empty and he was full of liquor. He couldn’t feel his face and his thoughts themselves slurred. Margaret entered the front door quietly, with a worried look on her face. She tried to tell him something but he couldn’t comprehend it, she helped him to the back room and on to the futon where he quickly passed out. He had no dreams that night, only swirls of bad feelings, of anger and fear.

The day started with three light knocks on the door. Lucas lazily crawled out of bed, every part of his body screaming, his mouth parched and his head pounding. Margaret entered and sat down on the bed. “Why did you drink so much last night?” she asked. “I had a lot in my head that I needed to clear out.” “I wish you wouldn’t do that...did you even understand me last night? There was a murder. A woman named...Sile? I think her name Sile N’Bhrsomething...anyway, she was killed, the details are still unclear.” Lucas’s heart began to pound and his head swirled.

That was the scream. That scream was the kind that accompanies death, the fear associated with dying by someone else’s hands. If he wasn’t such a wimp, he could’ve prevented it. It was his fault, all his fault, that’s all he could think.

“Lucas...Lucas...” someone was calling his name “Damnit Lucas wake up...” there was sobbing now “Luke...” and he opened his eyes. He was slouched down in the chair with a bottle of bourbon next to him, Margaret had been shaking him for minutes, trying to get him to rise from his drunken state. “Is she dead?” he asked. “Who? How do you know?” “It’s my fault...it’s my fault...” he slurred. “Lucas what did you do?” But he couldn’t answer, he slipped back unconscious, left to deal with his feelings of guilt and disillusionment in his own head, as always.

XVII

It was hot. Sticky hot, the grossest kind of hot. Not a comforting warm that welcomes sleepiness and lethargy, but the humid, awful temperature that is so reminiscent of sweat. Lucas waited at bus stop 17, his back too sore to walk the small distance to the Casa de Waffles. Sleeping on a futon was not the way to get a proper sleep. He was bored at stop 17, so he began to think about that number. 17 was always a favorite number of his. Track numbers on CDs, jersey numbers, all his favorites fell on 17. His full name, Isaac Lucas Shaffer, had 17 letters in it, and his girlfriend’s did too. When he used to teach, he was in room A17, where he taught 11th graders who were mostly 17. It was as if everything he liked or loved involved the number 17. 


The bus arrived and he rode his way to breakfast. He ordered his regular breakfast, coffee with sugar and a waffle with a side of hashbrowns. After eating, his back was feeling better, so he decided to walk back home, or his temporary home at least. Lucas was tragically distracted, and as he was crossing the street, a horn blared and the next thing he knew he was lying on the ground. He got up slowly, inspecting himself, nothing was broken, and the only thing that hurt was his leg where the car had hit him. The car was nowhere to be seen. He checked his leg, and saw an imprint. Half of an “A” and a backwards “7” followed by a “1.” “17” he thought. A number he liked nearly killed him on the road. 


He half-limped back to the Theatre where Margaret was taking down the sign for “The Producers.” “Oh my gosh are you okay?” she asked. “Yes, yes I’m fine, I just got bumped by a car, that’s all.” “Just bumped by a car? Are you serious? That’s not nothing! You could’ve been killed! Were you paying any attention?” “I was just walking, it came out of nowhere.” “Well we should call the police” “No. No we shouldn’t. They’ve never done me any good and they won’t now. We’re not getting anyone else involved in this...especially the cops.” “But-” “No,” Lucas interrupted, “it’s not up for discussion, they’ll just make things worse. They’ll try to pin the guy and then I’ll get my name on..on..a..a..list or something.” “Fine, we won’t go. Just be more careful.” “Yeah.”

ex unitae vires

Sitting in the shitty back room of the theatre, Lucas thought about how long it’d been since he’d left the city. It was his father’s funeral, halfway across the country, in the middle of nowhere. But it’d been ages since he’d been to a place with a different climate, with different air. He wanted to go to the mountains, in a place that would remind him of a simpler time. He wanted a vacation, and since he no longer had a home, and the theatre was currently on stage hiatus, he had nothing holding him back.

He dreamt about a vacation to the mountains, going to his aunt’s old cabin which had long since been abandoned, and living in isolation for a few sweet days. Or weeks. Or maybe months. Perhaps he would never return, he had nothing to live for in this dump of a town. Except for Margaret. Lovely Margaret. Leaving her would break her heart, but taking her with him would rob him of the sweet solace he would find in isolation.

Margaret walked into the room and noticed that he was staring at the wall. “Lucas?” she asked, “Lucas, what are you thinking about?” “Oh, um, nothing, upcoming plays, lights...you know.” “Well, okay...are you sure you’re alright?” “I’m fine...I’m...I’m going on a walk.”

Lucas walked out of the theatre doors and was immediately knocked to the ground. “Oh I’m so sorry,” said a man, “are you alright? I didn’t see you there.” “Yeah, I’m fine, it’s my fault I guess I walked out in front of you, I wasn’t looking.” “Hah I guess we’re both at fault then.” “Yeah,” replied Lucas. “...I’m Robin,” said the jogger. “Hi, Robin. I’m Lucas” he said as he made a mental note of a new play to produce in the theatre. “Well, I’m sorry I knocked you over.” “It’s all good, man,” said Lucas, “continue your jog, and come see a play sometime!” “Maybe I will!” said the man, then he waved and took off jogging again.

Lucas walked around the block, realizing how immature he was being by not inviting Margaret to the cabin with him. He walked back into the theatre. “Margaret? I have a question for you.” “Of course,” she replied. “Will you...go on a vacation with me? To a cabin, in the mountains. Just you and me,” he said. “For how long...when?” “Today, and I don’t know for how long, until we get bored, or sick or tired. Until we die.” “You’re acting very strange, Luke.” “I...I just need a change of pace, I need to get away from the awful place, and I want you with me.” “Okay, we’ll talk about it, we can’t leave today, that’s just not possible.” “Okay Margaret, not today, but soon. Very soon.” “Okay, then soon it is.”

As Lucas tried to drift off to sleep that night on the uncomfortable futon in the back room of the theatre, he thought about the last time he went on a real vacation. It was at the beach, with his mother and father, his sister and brothers. His father was so proud of what they had become, and Lucas was still writing plays and chasing ghosts, he wasn’t yet ready to give up like his brothers and fly. The beach was never as great as he thought it to be. Low tide smelled bad, and high tide made the sand disappear. A sunburn was inevitable. That’s why he liked the mountains. It was peaceful, no one was there. No crowds. No expectations.

de mortuis nil nisi bonum

Lucas sat in the park bench gazing at the water for a long time. A very long time. The sun was just beginning to cast a pale glow on the sky when a voice startled him from his almost hypnotic state.

"You seem troubled" said a man from behind him.

The voice immediately sent chills down Lucas's spine, because he recognized it as a voice that he hadn't heard in years.

A shadowy figure appeared in the peripheral of his right eye and proceeded to move on to the bench. What was odd, however, was that the bench didn't move at all when the figure sat, as if it was weightless.

"You...uh...okay?" mumbled the figure, in an almost shaky voice, with a hint of apprehensive tones.

Lucas turned his head and his heart sank, sitting next to him was his father, or something resembling his father, because his father had died two years  ago (of perfectly natural causes). He didn't believe in supernatural things like ghosts or monsters, because those are illogical, and his mother and father never addressed anything but the concrete facts of life with utmost seriousness.

"No! You're not there, I'm not seeing you! This...this is a dream! I fell asleep on the bench and I'm making this up!" shouted Lucas.

"You've been troubled, Luke. I can't do anything about it so let's...let's just be happy? Right? Because some things you can't fix."

"That's always been your philosophy, if you can't fix it, no one can!"

"Don't say those things to me!" said his father.

"Why are you always been disappointed in me? Should I have just been a pilot like Mark and John? Maybe then you'd have thought I was something."

"Lucas? Lucas what the hell are you doing?" said someone as they shook his shoulder. "My...my dad is here." "Your dad? Matthew? No, Lucas, no one is here other than me." Lucas turned around to see Pink standing over him, a perplexed and worried look held his face. "But I–" he turned around and looked at the bench, it was empty. "Come on man, let's get you back home." "I was evicted." "Oh...then where will you stay?" "The Sawmill Theatre! I've spent plenty of nights there before." "Well, let's get you some coffee then, come on.

Lucas got up and shuffled alongside Pink to the coffee shop, still shaken by what he had just experienced.

Lapsus Memoriae

As he stared out over the water, he slipped into a daze. He remembered going to that lake as a young boy, maybe 5 or 6, with his father one weekend. He hadn't thought about that day in a long time, but no matter what he did, he was about to think about it now. He remembered getting out of the car in the late summer haze and walking down the dirt path to the lake with his father (it had yet to be paved at that point). When they got to the lake front, Lucas noticed a herring standing on a small bank in the middle of the lake. He pointed to it and tried to get his dad's attention, "Dad! Dad, look at the bird there, in the water!" He didn't know the name of the bird yet. His father however, didn't see it, no matter how much he looked for it. Lucas grew frustrated and gave up. Then, the herring took flight and headed to the other side of the bank. "Look Lucas, a herring," said his father. But Lucas didn't want to notice it, because it was his herring to see, not his father's.

As Lucas sat staring at the water with the twilight fading, he came to a sudden realization. His relationship with his father now was very influenced from that day. His father's obliviousness, and his own eagerness to entertain him, weren't compatible. They would never be compatible.

The awkwardness between the two of them led to a lack of attention on his father's part. Slowly Lucas began to feel like he, although he looked like his father, wasn't his son, but rather a person who was raised by him. This lack of attention led to Lucas's need for attention, and his immediate attraction to anyone who paid him any mind.

And that's why, today, he was anti-social and awkward. That day when he couldn't explain himself, when he couldn't convey his feelings, reflected the way he would act to this very day. Simply because that's how his father was, and that's how he learned to be.

Extra Donum

"Dammit" Lucas thought as he furiously stormed out of his apartment and down Poplar Avenue. "Just damn it all." He had returned from cleaning up the set of "The Producers" to see an eviction noticed tacked to his door. "That good for nothing landlord, I bet he can't even count..." With the mild success of the show, he now had money, but it was too late. He hardly had any possessions in the apartment, so he didn't care about being kicked out, other than having nowhere to go.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets as a cold gust of wind blew past him. The early March weather was never his favorite, always warm in the day, but very cold in the evening. As the sun sank and the colors faded, he wandered into Sherwood Park, heading towards the lake, trying to clear his mind.

He shuffled his feet now, feeling less rage and more depression, "I suppose I can sleep in the Theatre..." he thought. Suddenly he heard cries for help, though he could not tell from where. Following that was the sound of rapid footfalls, someone was running. Towards him! "Please God, just don't let me get mugged, let him kill me, but don't let me get mugged." Just as he finished this thought someone collided with him, sending his body and the other hurdling to the ground. He smacked his head on the slightly damp pavement that ran through the park. While his vision blurred he heard the shuffling of a man in a hurry collecting things off the ground, then rapid footfalls again, getting up in time to see a man sprinting away. "Hey!" Lucas shouted, "what the hell?"

He quickly connected the dots, the man who slammed into him was probably the one running away from the cries for help. He could've stopped the criminal, but he was too slow to react.

In the twilight, he wasn't sure, but he thought that the man might have been Devon Tresp, a DJ for WTF. He been standing in line in front of Lucas at the coffee shop a few days ago, and Lucas instantly knew who he was when he spoke with a British accent. In those passing moments when the man was running away, Lucas could've sworn that it was Tresp rapidly fleeing the scene.

Lucas got up and brushed himself off, quickly patting around his face to feel for any cuts while searching his mouth for broken teeth with his tongue. A small welt was on his forehead, but he was otherwise okay. He continued his walk, now slightly shaken up, to the lake, where he sat on a bench and stared blankly at the water. Watching it move like fabric over a bed of soft breezes.