The Anomalous Existence of Percy Wallace

two : extensive tension and eyes of fascination

- - -

TENSION: A THICK CORD to its victims, and a thin string to side characters. Tension, tension, tension. It loved me beyond words. Here I was, yelling curses at the variety of information stocked up beyond my blanked, paled expression because they are of little usage. I was demanding my brain for an answer, but those evil, blood red words appeared, screaming ACCESS DENIED at me.

Doing this internal battle was totally useless - my brain would not succumb to the task I had previously asked. It was simple. Answer the question the Indian dude asked: DESCRIBE THIS TABLE IN TWO MINUTES. A minute had already passed, and still, the enemy of my battle - which is, my brain - continued to succeed in defeating me. Of course, the table was indescribable - it was regular, boring, and useless. But as a lit enthusiast and a soon-to-be radio deejay, it shouldn't be. For some reason, my mind currently pushed away the 'lit enthusiast' and 'radio deejay' persona.

The tension string had to be clipped. I needed a side character - a savior - to help me out. In my case, it was Madonna. Of all people, it was Madonna. Like a Prayer was certainly like a prayer to me, but answered. Thank God. The bearded man snatched his wall-smashing, beat-up Samsung from the table and held it to his ear, shutting Madonna up. He held up a hand and temporarily shunned me.

I gleefully grinned and prepared for an epic answer. Which only arrived three minutes later.

- - - 

"So, how'd it go?"

"Weird," truthfully, I replied.

Apparently, I believed my compelling creativity and humorous sarcasm were enough to grab the profession of radio deejay. My mind declined the fact, scoffed at my try-hard personality, and decided to fail the interview. Thanks a lot.

"Did you get in?"

"I don't even know, dude."

"I'm not a dude."

"I know."

Listening to the steady beeping of the payphone, I groaned, trampling on a bronze leaf beneath my sneakers. Pulling my gray beanie over my ears, I walked across the concrete, absorbing the city's elements in my skin.

As I walked, the cityscape around me quieted and shrunk into a slightly more peaceful neighborhood with a couple of skyscrapers dotting the town and quaint shops blending into the place. Tightly gripping the map in my hand, I found my way to Warren Street, which stretched across so far in a narrow line that seemed like it had been traced by a child.

A wooden sign above me creaked as I wrapped one arm around myself, shivering in the brisk winds that grew stronger with every whistle in my ears. With the other hand, I analyzed the map, which was hastily scribbled on by Em, but even her scribbles were beautiful when set beside mine. The wind started to get bad. The wooden sign flipped and pivoted in circles.

Out of sheer curiosity, I pushed into the shop, instantly welcoming the heat of the room. Different smells wafted around the shop - some of cappuccinos and some of old, unused books. Carefully arranged on the shelves stood miniature figurines of children and adults, eerily giving me the horror movie aura. Another customer, a boy, was blowing dust off the pages of a book rather loudly in the corner.

"Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love," he quoted loudly, as if he was reading to me.

Almost too abruptly, he ended his little speech and snapped the book close, slightly startling me. My apparently furtive actions were deemed futile.

The perfectly-accented British accent continued, "That was from Hamlet. Shakespeare is quite an admirable dude, but he's dead."

I nodded, more to myself than to him. I proceeded to examine a clean, ancient typewriter. It was normal and regular-looking, with its slick, black wooden pieces fastened together and its white buttons that each represented a letter. The price tag on it screamed its evidently-cheap price in thick red marker.

I contemplated on buying it. One of the nuns at Miss Eloise's had one before, and she used it to work on her stories - ones she let me read - until she died.

"Hello, I'm Percy Wallace," a voice startled me as an outstretched arm motioned for me to shake the hand.

"Irene Camomile," I replied hesitantly, after TENSION took over my senses for what felt like forever, and then I accepted the hand.

Looking up at the Londoner, I couldn't help but notice the familiarity in his features. A quiff of raven hair sat comfortably on his forehead, his pale-ish skin was dotted with freckles, and his eyes were as dark as his hair.

"Hey. I'm sort of marooned here. Will you talk to me?"

Well, that was an awkward way to make friends.

"What do you mean - you're marooned here?"

He pressed his lips together in annoyance. I didn't understand if he was annoyed at me or at his 'marooned' state.

"I mean that I'm Tom Hanks, cast away on this freakin' shop, with not even a volleyball to talk to."

I had no idea who Tom Hanks was or how talking to a volleyball had any relation to being castaway, so I unconsciously strained my eyebrows in confusion.

"You haven't seen Cast Away?"

Must be a movie or something.

"Of course I have!"

"Pfft. You lie."

"I do not!"

"You do."

- - - 

The friendly bickering ceased, and Percy laughed, the sound of happiness escaping through his rows of pearl whites. A giggle escaped from my throat and soon, both of our laughs circulated throughout the room.

"Okay, okay," he continued in between chuckles, "my grandmother took me here and forced me to work for her while I'm in this - this blasted town in a foreign place, selling creepy figurines and dolls! The people who visit are twice my age. Until you came in, and I spotted a possible ally."

"Really?"

"Really."

Then tension slipped in again. It filled every inch of the store like a liquid oozing into its container. As unmistakably cliche as it was, I found myself studying him - sensing a certain sad feel in his dark eyes. And as I studied him in awkward silence - as I had never before examined a boy up close - I soon noticed his similar curiosity in me. While the tension seeped into my soul in slow motion, two pairs of fascinated eyes looked into each other's souls.