Welcome to Gaia! ::

I finally have a clearer goal with what I am doing with this snippits of thought. Itis going to be a first person chornology of a survivor of the apocalypse in one of the bomb shelters scattered throughout the country. I do not think it will dirrectly tie into the post-apocalyptic rpg at all, but you never know. Anyways, here is what I have so far:

School buses suck. Crappy padding hauling you to a learning internment camp in the noisiest, and least climate controlled way possible. After budget cuts to the bussing service, we had to pack in like sardines. I don’t know if we actually broke any safety codes, but I swear there were five people to a single seat. So, as you can tell, coming home from the first day of school in the hottest summer on record wasn’t that fun. I had to literally climb over a couple people to get out of my seat. After the cramped conditions of the bus, the outside was barely any better. I was a five minute walk from the bus stop to my house, but in a hundred five degree weather, with high humidity and no wind, it was practically murder. I think over a hundred people were hospitalized for dehydration or heat-stroke. What was really bad was that it hadn’t let up. That was the norm for the entire week, and ended up being the record highest month average.
I sweat more than I think I had in my life and stopped more than once to drink from a sprinkler or a hose someone had left running in their lawn. For once I was overjoyed when I finally got home.
Home. It was an oversized, soulless monstrosity sitting on more land than we ever could have used alone, my mom and me. The way I describe suburban living is “four car garage”. There is no was my mom needed four places to park her one SUV, and getting a car was a blip on my radar about as far off as college. So why did she need the extra space? So she could fill it with stuff. Particularly, stuff that she needed because there was space to fill with stuff. When my dad had his midlife crisis, he bought a Harley Davidson. My mom, on the other hand, solved her problems by tripling the size of our house. They got a divorce last year. I was staying with my mom because, as the court saw it, she was the one who bought the house, not the motorcycle. That and she was working for the government, so she had friends in high places. What got me was that she didn’t want custody of me because she cared, but because I would be almost a trophy. A victory to put on the mantle, with all the other stuff in our – her – house, and remind her that my father would have one less possession in the world. It didn’t bother me much because neither of them had spent that much time with me in the first place. I was left alone, for the most part. My mom worked day and night, sometimes didn’t come home for days at a time. I got up, ate cereal and fruit that our maid had picked up, went to school, came back, ate a frozen diner or Mac and Cheese, then went to bed. This house was just a symbol of my mother letting me survive but not really letting me live. That’s why it was a wonder when I was glad to be home.
First, I was struck with concentrated air conditioning, then I put my head in the sink and drank until my stomach hurt. I went upstairs and took an ice cold shower that lasted almost an hour. Having a loaded mother who spends frivolously and devotes herself to her work has its perks, but I still don’t think it was worth it.
After I forgot how hot it actually was outside, I climbed out of the shower and put on my clothes. It was actually a little chilly inside the house, so I even had my wool socks on. When I went over to my computer, I tried checking my email and found the internet was out. What was strange is when I tried to call the repairman, the phone was dead too. I shrugged, wrote a note to the maid and stuck it on the fridge, then settled with playing video games.

The next week, school was the same boring mess it usually was. Cramming meaningless, predigested facts into note books, then spitting them out for a test at the end of the week, month, and year. Lots of busy work, remedial material and, probably the worst, no air circulation. The air conditioner was broken so we settled with a fan for every class room. In addition, some bug was going around and practically everyone who wasn’t already having trouble breathing the thick, muggy air felt like warmed crap because of a cold or something. Fortunately, that meant none of the teachers were going to be doing much. Everyone was coughing and had a head ache, and they were no exception.

(interupted. will continue)

School buses suck. Crappy padding hauling you to a learning internment camp in the noisiest, and least climate controlled way possible. After budget cuts to the bussing service, we had to pack in like sardines. I don’t know if we actually broke any safety codes, but I swear there were five people to a single seat. So, as you can tell, coming home from the first day of school in the hottest summer on record wasn’t that fun.

The bus rumbled down the road, turning this way and that while occasionally letting off kids. That freed up a little space, but I still had to literally climb over someone to get out of my seat. I got my face firmly crushed by a backpack as the person in front of me was shoved backwards by the kid who climbed out of his own seat, directly in front of him. Eventually, the steady push of bodies made their way to the door and I was outside.

Even from the cramped conditions of the bus, the outside only seemed marginally better. It was a five minute walk from the bus stop to my house, but in a hundred five degree heat, with high humidity and no wind, it was practically murder. I think over a hundred people were hospitalized for dehydration or heat-stroke. What was really bad was that it hadn’t let up. That was the norm for the entire week, and ended up being the record highest month average.
I sweat more than I think I had in my life and stopped more than once to drink from a sprinkler or a hose someone had left running in their lawn. For once I was overjoyed when I finally got home.

Home. It was an oversized, soulless monstrosity sitting on more land than we ever could have used alone, my mom and me. The way I describe suburban living is “four car garages”. There was no way my mom needed four places to park her one SUV, and getting a car was a blip on my radar only a little closer than college.

So why did she need the extra space? So she could fill it with stuff. Particularly stuff that she needed, because there was space to fill, with stuff. When my dad had his midlife crisis, he bought a Harley Davidson. My mom, on the other hand, solved her problems by tripling the size of our house.

They got a divorce last year.

I was staying with my mom because, as the court saw it, she was the one who bought the house, not the motorcycle. That and she worked for the government, so she had friends in high places. What disgusted me about the whole thing was that she didn’t want custody of me because she cared, but because I would be a trophy. A victory to put on the mantle, with all the other stuff in her house, and remind her that my father would have one less possession in the world. It didn’t bother me too much because neither of them had spent that much time with me in the first place. I was left alone, for the most part. My mom worked day and night, sometimes didn’t come home for days at a time. I got up, ate cereal and fruit that our maid had picked up, went to school, came back, ate a frozen diner or Mac and Cheese, did my work, then went to bed. This house was just a symbol of my mother letting me survive but not really letting me live. That’s why it was unusual when I was glad to be home.

After relishing the noticeable difference concentrated air conditioning makes, the first thing I did was put my head in the sink and drink until my stomach hurt. I went upstairs and took an ice cold shower that lasted almost an hour. The blast of AC was nothing compared to the shock when the water first hit my body. In that instant, I completely forgot the sweltering heat outside, the sweat dripping from my face and the rest of my aggravating day. I didn’t think about any of those things that were dragging me down, just how terrifyingly wonderful hypothermia was going to feel. After almost an hour of wonderful shivering, I climbed out of the shower and put on my clothes. It was actually chilly inside the house, so I even had my wool socks on. Then I went over to my computer and tried to check my email but found the internet was out. What was strange is when I tried to call the repairman, the phone was dead too. I shrugged, wrote a note to the maid and stuck it on the fridge, then settled with playing video games for the rest of the night.

The next week, school was the same boring mess it usually was. Lots of cramming meaningless, predigested facts into note books, then spitting them out for a test at the end of the week, the month, and the year. Lots of busy work, remedial material and, probably the worst, no air circulation. The air conditioner was broken so we settled with a fan for every class room. In addition, some bug was going around and practically everyone who wasn’t already having trouble breathing the thick, muggy air felt like warmed crap because of a cold or something. Fortunately, we weren’t going to do any work in class. Everyone was coughing and had a head ache, the teachers being no exception were content being paid to let us talk, or play cards and read quietly. That meant we got stung with an extra hour of homework a night.

At the time, it seemed worth it.

Lunch was about as bad as class, except it didn’t last as long and the cafeteria had more circulation than the classrooms. There were a few kids I ate with, but on the whole I preferred to eat alone. Don’t get me wrong, I get along great with other people. Not saying much, but if I wanted to, I could have been class president or something in line directly after star quarter back. It’s just that every time I started talking or dealing with other people, I realized how futile it was. If I actually said something that conveyed a minute gram of thought, people look at me like I was speaking Swahili. They might talk for an hour but not really say anything at all. Its that kind of interaction that made me stop caring when people said “Adam and me are seeing a movie” or “like, whatever, I don’t know.”

I guess we really were speaking different languages, but I didn’t want to learn theirs and they could never learn mine.

“Erin, I saved you a spot.” Luis said to me.

“Thanks, Mac.” I said, sitting down in my coveted spot by the wall.

Luis was this fat Spanish kid who wore a striped shirt the first day that, to the one of the older kids, made him resemble a Big Mac. He never wore the shirt again and he turned out to be a pretty nice guy so attention shifted else where, but the name stuck. He had to admit, it was better than El Lardo or McFat-a**.

“So how’s Mr. Parson’s class?” Luis started, always initiating the dialog.

I shrugged. “Same as it always is. A little noisy, that’s all. I have the seat next to the fan.” I replied indifferently. I do not like substituting conversation for recantations of trivial fact.

“Lucky s**t,” Luis burst out, throwing a fry at my face. “Mrs. Ryans turns the fan off ‘cause it blows papers around.”

He seemed to care a little too much. Luis always had a problem with how cold it was, even in the summer. I think he was trying to get a reaction out of me.

I picked the fry off of my shirt and popped it into my mouth. It left a ketchup stain on my shirt. I made a mental note to put it in the laundry when I got home.

“It is not the end of the world, you can live with it.” I said absently.

“That’s just like you, with your spot next to the fan.” Luis said rather bitterly, again with more subtle undertones than I think he was aware of. He had no air conditioning in his house and was painfully quiet when he had first seen my house. I am not an idiot. I can recognize animosity when I see it.

“You should try and get Mrs. Ryans to set the fan in the corner. That way her desk papers will be safe and you might be able to get away from the front of the room.” I said, with more of my own undertones than intended. I quickly changed topics before I got out of hand. “Hey, how was the game last night? I didn’t get to see the end of it.”

That did it. Just as Luis was starting to think about what I had told him, he was off on a tangent about a text-book play or some botched pass. It was better that I switched mindsets, before I said something that Luis would get truly offended by.

I still wonder if he ever realized I looked down on him.

The next day, the internet was still down, the sun was still hot, but the bus was less crowded. Enough kids were out sick that we practically didn’t have class, or even homework. Sooner or later school would close maybe even for two or three days. If only the internet had worked, that would have been nice.

At lunch it was actually harder to sit alone. Luis was sick, but everyone else’s friends were also sick. So rather than eat alone, they gathered together in mixed-matched groups. One of them formed around me. It was decent enough, since the book club was around.

The president of the book club was this girl who looked like she would fit better with the popular girls or cheerleaders, but was just not pretty enough, or enough of a slut to pull it off. How she got interested in the book club is anybodies’ guess, but after working her charm on a few of the guys, she was made president. It didn’t mean that much, considering it was a club that gathered to read books from the library. I am not even certain there was a position of president before she showed interest, but she seemed happy enough thinking she controlled something.

Even a deluded whore needs to think she is important, right? Fortunately, she was out sick which left people to act naturally instead of trying to suck up to her.

The book club was a weird thing. Most of the people involved were smarter than the other kids, or at least saw a problem with the social structure, and preferred the company of like minded individuals. Ironically, other people thought they were being clever and used the great book club as a sort of dating scene for cute girls that might do their homework. Not that many of the girls fell for it, but in turn used who ever they thought was cute. It’s not like they were hurting anyone. There was only one guy who seemed to think he was actually fooling someone, and he stopped showing up at the meetings after a week. I think he mistook the directions one time and realized the jig was up.

The book club was similar to running with safety-scissors, but in a weird, twisted way, exactly the kind of social structure that the members of the book club had sought to avoid. It was only apparently different because the deceit was disguised under civility, but without the malice of the rest of the school.

Technically, I was an honorary member, but I rarely cared enough to read the books, or re-read the books. I already had made my own conclusions about the messages and meanings behind the characters and events. What was the point of talking to other people about them? Then I usually remembered the purpose of the book club and stopped trying to find any deeper meaning in it.

“Erin, what are you doing after school?”

I didn’t expect that. I looked up from my prized chocolate milk and noticed one of the girls in the book club, talking to me.

“Nothing.” I said matter-of-factly. Something played across her face, but I was too busy enjoying the sweet and creamy chocolate to care.

“Do you think you could come over to my house and help me with my Algebra homework?” She asked.

I shrugged. I guess she knew I was taking Trigonometry and figured that I could help her, which I could, and she probably needed the help. Her house was close to mine, too, so the walk home would be pretty short.

“Sure.” I agreed.

That seemed to make her happy and she kept smiling for the rest of lunch. On the way back to class, I asked one of the other kids what her name was, for reference.

I really should be better at remembering names, but I have a tough time attaching a name to a face. To me, a name is like the cliff notes to someone. You say the name and someone thinks of everything they think and feel about that person, or object. I realize it is useful, but I just can’t attach a trivial set of syllables to the complex description that is a person. If I think about someone, or something, I think about everything that it is. It is not like leafing through some scrawled smudges in a note book, or a How To guide. I open up the biographic encyclopedia and start ranting. That is why I can’t remember a name. Tall, arrogant, good-natured, simple minded, athletic is how I think of the quarterback, not John.

Funny that thinking too much about something could end up being a handicap.

Frank sat nervously at the bar, staring down at his plate full of eggs and sausage. Pam’s sausage links was the best in town. She made them herself, always juicy, always fresh, and she always knew how to spice them just right. The problem that morning was that Frank didn’t feel like sausage, or much food at all for that matter.

With a shaky hand, he plopped a spoon full of sugar into his coffee and tried to suck down a gulp of the scalding stuff, trying to get his mind on something else. It didn’t help. He only became more aware that he really was disturbed.

“Is something wrong, Frank?” Asked a weathered voice from across the bar. Pam knew him as a regular and this nervousness wasn’t like him.

“Ah, nothin’, Pam. Just a little out of it today, I guess.” Frank said, staring down at his sausage and eggs, which stared back at him accusingly.

“Well, alright, hun. Tell me if you need anything.”

He heard her walk away, and then Frank glanced up at the middle aged waitress with sandy blonde hair and crows feet like a mother about to burst at the seams with love. He wished he could say something to her, but it wouldn’t do any good. She couldn’t help him, not this time anyway. He had screwed up so much, and he wasn’t sure anyone could help him. Almost to torment him, he overheard a bit of a discussion with Pam and another customer. After a little prodding from Pam, Frank thought he heard something rather unflattering about the man’s love life. Pam laughed it off easily and gave her years of experience.

That was Pam, an angel in disguise. She cared with no limits and had seen it all- well, about all of it- and had knowledge and experience that made someone unshaken by even the worst sights. She was the kind of woman that could look at a grown man naked and say, “Well, what’s the matter, now? Gone and lost your clothes?” In fact, it had happened.

It scared Frank that he couldn’t tell this woman what was bothering him. While she might not be phased, nothing she could say or do would help him.

“Miserable weather, huh?” said the man to his side. “Why just yesterday I swore I thought we were gonna have a fine day for the church hayride.”

Frank nodded politely and attempted to manage small talk until thankfully the man got up to use the restroom. The other customers had left which meant that Frank was alone, staring face to face with his plate of sausage. He had finally eaten the eggs, but he just couldn’t bring himself to eat the sausage. He should have ordered something else, maybe bacon or an omelet. He might have been able to stomach that.

After a while, Pam reappeared from the kitchen and topped off his coffee, even though Frank had barely touched it.

“Thanks, Pam.” He said quietly to his sausage and coffee.

She nodded and was about to walk off, but paused, staring at him. Frank felt her eyes on him and looked up.

“Now your sure there’s nothing bothering you?” She said with a caring look that made Frank want to break down and cry.

“It’s nothing, really.” He said, cutting a piece of the sausage and sticking it in his mouth. He didn’t chew. Pam stared at him, blankly, gazing into his eyes for what seemed like an eternity, probing into his being, trying to find what was wrong. She blinked. For a moment longer she stared at him before nodding and walking off again.

Frank breathed a sigh of relieve and spat out the lump of spiced ground meat back onto his plate. He couldn’t taint its memory by eating it now. He heard steps coming back from the bathroom and walked straight past where he was sitting. By the time Frank looked up, the door was swinging shut and the man was gone without paying his bill. He shook his head and looked over to see the empty plate with syrup smudges and sausage grease. He dug out his wallet and left money for the man before Pam saw. She came back and picked up the dirty dishes and utensils, taking them into the back before scooping up the bills and change Frank had left as a tip without a word.

“With the weather and all, I was going to close up early, if you don’t mind.” Said Pam regretfully, pushing the drawer back into the register with a ka-ching. “It’ll take me a bit to get everything turned off and locked up, but you can stay until I leave.”

Frank fought back tears hearing yet another, more subtle, offer for advice, but nodded and played the sausage around on his plate. If she only knew.

Pam went to the door and flipped over the Open sign, then went back into the kitchen. The lights went off and Frank was left in the dark, illuminated by the weak sunlight coming through the large windows to his back. He thought he heard something at the door, and looked up to see who was there, saying, “Sorry, we’re closed.”

A heart beat after he looked back at his coffee, Frank heard to door ease open and foot steps coming inside.

“Sorry, the place is closed,” Frank said, turning back around to face the intruder.