Jack -Short Stories

The First Moment: The Coloring Book

My name is Jack Nolan. I was born the first of September in 1977 at 3:47 in the morning. At least that is what I remember reading on my birth certificate.

Ronald and Mary Nolan are my parents. However, I don't really consider them my parents. Yes, they are the people who gave me life, but I consider a parent to be so much more than that. My mother raised me for the most part and my father? He was a miserable son of a bitch. What more can I say?

My mother was a beautiful woman but only in the superficial sense. Her long dark hair was always done up in a well thought out coif and she never left the house without a stitch of makeup. Everyone would always comment on how lovely she looked but I knew the truth that lied deep within her.

She clothed me, she fed me when I was hungry and looked over my shoulder when I was doing my school work.

I can remember from a very young age when she would take me to school. Before she would let me out of the car she would say, "Jack, do well in school so you can get a respectable job and your father will be proud of you." She would never really glance at me during our goodbyes and the way that she spoke, it was as if she was giving me some sort of final farewell.

Nonetheless, I would nod my head and reply, 'I will.'

Early on, I believed that my soul purpose in life was to gratify my father. I couldn't understand how I was supposed to please this man. In all my life I can clearly remember three distinct interactions with him that have forever changed my opinion of him.

When I was only six years old, my mother would sometimes allow me to have a bit of free time where I could do whatever I wished for an hour. These free hours were so very rare and special to me.

I remember that I always wanted to color. I loved to color. I had one animal coloring book in my possession and only a handful of broken crayons. My mother would not buy me new crayons no matter how many times I had asked. She would shake her head, cross her arms over her chest and reply that too much artistic freedom was the breeding ground for rebellion and back talk. Now at the age that I was, I had no clue as to what she was referring to and after a while I gave up asking her.

When told of my free time, I would run to my room and gather my book and crayons and lay on my bedroom floor. It was the only time my mother was alright with me sitting on the floor.

I would spread my crayons out on the carpet and flip through the pages of the book. Most of the pages had been colored in but there was one page that I had saved. It was a picture of a lion. He was standing in an empty field, the edge of the wild jungle could be seen in the distance and the lion's mane was blowing gracefully in the wind. I can see it vividly in my mind and remember just how proud the lion looked with his head held high.

I had saved that page for when I knew I was confident enough in my coloring to not go outside the lines. The other pages in the book had only been practice for this particular picture. I looked over at the fragments of crayons and then back to the picture trying to get a clear image in my mind of how I wanted the lion to be completed. When I was ready, I picked up the green piece of crayon and set to work.

My small hand flew across the paper as I filled in the picture. At that age, I couldn't help but feel as though my choices were guided by some 'higher power'. Looking back, I recognize how silly my thinking had been. I can't recall exactly how long it took me to finish but I do remember how my hand was tired from the frantic movements of my coloring. The lion was finished and I held him up to look over his bright mane, a pleased smile spreading across my face. In my mind, it rivaled any famous painting that hung in any art museum around the world.

I had a thought just then as I was gazing at it and my heart started to pounding in my chest. I was going to show this to my father. Yes, I knew he would be proud of me for creating this beautiful masterpiece. I had a glimpse of my father standing in front of the refrigerator with a real smile on his face as he hung my lion on it, a magnet at each corner of the paper. It was all so clear to me that I could feel his hand on my shoulder as he praised me.

With a nod of my head I jumped up from the floor, my book clutched tightly in my tiny fingers, and I made my way down the long hallway to his office. I was surprised when I found the door open. Most often than not, my father would come home from work and lock himself away in that dark cave of an office and only come out long after my mother and I had gone to bed.

I didn't enter right away. I stood just outside the door, taking deep breaths as my heart was racing. Finally, I poked my head around the frame to see my father hunched over his desk. His head was in his hand and he was deep in concentration, writing something on a sheet of paper in front of him. He didn't take notice of me as I spied on him and he didn't look up as I took my first steps into the room. Hell, he didn't even see me when I was standing just on the other side of his desk looking up at him. The wooden desk was so massive and I could just barely see over the top of. I was small for a six year old boy but I cannot forget the size of that office desk.

I cleared my throat to announce my presence and waited for him to look at me. Only he didn't. "Father," I addressed him, my tiny voice barely audible over the scratching of his pen across his paper. His hand paused only momentarily and I could see his jaw clench and unclench. "I told you to never come in here," he spoke. My stocking feet shifted where I stood and I glanced back down at the coloring book in my hands. I looked over the lion once more, hoping that I could somehow manage to gather some of the strength and pride that he possessed. "I know," I replied softly, "but I wanted to show you what I colored."

The silence between us seemed to last an eternity as I stood there in front of him. Then I lifted the book, placed it gently on the desk and slid it into his view. My father's eyes went up to look over the picture, his head coming up from his hand as he smacked his pen down onto his desk. He looked at me, "god damn it Jack. How many times do I have to tell you that when I am in here, you are not to bother me?" I watched his face as he questioned me but I could not reply. He had told me only once before never to bother him but in that moment I could not get my brain and mouth to cooperate quickly enough to give him the correct answer.

My head shook slightly from side to side, hoping that would satisfy him enough to calm him, but it wasn't. He acknowledged the lion once more, his lips pursing as his eyes examined it. For a brief second, I thought I saw a smile starting to form on his face and a small flutter of hope ran through me. That hope was quickly shattered when he took hold of my precious coloring book with both hands and proceeded to tear it in two. "No!" I cried, my hand went out to try and snatch it from his grasp but he was too fast and that damn desk was just too large for my short arms to reach across. In one swift movement, my father had destroyed my beautiful artwork and what little pride I had at such a young age.

My face flushed with anger and I could feel hot tears building in my eyes but I did not allow them to betray me and I forced them away. "I told you to never bother me, did I not?" My father asked after he had stuffed my coloring book into the trash bin behind his desk. I nodded my head. "I can't hear your head rattle Jack." That was his favorite remark when I could never find my voice to answer him. I swallowed the lump in my throat, "yes, you've told me not to bother you before Father." He sat back in his chair and looked from me and then to his trash bin, "let that be a reminder never to set foot in this room ever again Jack."

He never looked back up at me as he picked up his pen and began to scribble on the paper in front of him, filling the room with the sound of his writing once more. Slowly I turned and exited the room and found my way back to my bedroom. I had no idea where my mother was during this but I was certain she had heard everything. She could have intervened and protected me, but it wasn't like my mother to help me during times like those.

I fell onto my bed and buried my face in my pillow but I did not cry. Did I want to? Of course I did and what small child wouldn't have? As I lay in my bed, doing my best to stop the sobbing that was building up inside me, I could hear my father's voice clearly in my head, 'only sissies cry and no son of mine is going to be a sissy.'