Entropy

SOS

I count the cracks in the sidewalk. I don't avoid them, or step on them on purpose. It's not this weird OCD thing (I don't think). I just like to notice them. Notice the fissures, the places where the smooth concrete is buckling. Breaking. Wearing down. Like everything wears down.

Anyway, I was counting cracks the first time I saw it. Maybe it had happened before and I was too busy looking at my feet. But I felt a raindrop and glanced towards the sky involuntarily as I pulled up the hood of my bright orange windbreaker. And then I noticed that the street lamp I was standing next to was still on, even in the middle of the day. It was overcast but not that dark, and up and down the street, all the other lights were dark and blank. Except for this one. I thought it was kind of weird and kept on walking. But I looked back and stared at it over my shoulder, and as I watched, the lamp flickered and went out.

I'm the only son of Molly and Dr. Theodore Benson and we live in a three bedroom apartment near the MAX downtown. My dad likes everyone to know he has "doctor" in front of his name, but he's not like a physician, he's a scientist or something. I honestly have no idea what he does, but I know it has to do with research and labs and he works a lot.

When I get home from the chess club after school, my mom has a casserole ready and steaming on the table and three plates set out with cups and silverware and napkins, like this is a fancy meal and I'm a guest. My dad is home from work, his hair combed back and his glasses perched on the edge of his nose. My mom has this frilly polka-dot apron on and her blonde hair in a bun and she looks like the perfect 1940's housewife or something. They both give me these enormous smiles and wait for me to put my school bag by the door, and then we all sit down like a clockwork family and Mom starts serving casserole.

Most teenagers I know don't have dinners like this or parents like this, and they might think something was, like, wrong if they came home to find both parental units smiling expectantly and waiting for you to join them for dinner. But this is pretty normal for my family, and I never really questioned it. I sit down and pick up my fork and wait for the usual interrogation.

"How was school?" My dad steeples his fingers and looks at me over the rims of his glasses, a pleasant smile pasted to his lips. The steam from his still warm dinner fogs up the edges of his glasses, tempering the intensity of his stare, but I still can't help but feel like he is always a scientist, analyzing and filing away observations inside his mind, can never truly leave his "doctor" persona behind. His subject today? The post-pubescent sophomore teenaged male. In other words: ME.

I smile back, because I know my parents like it when I smile. When I seem happy. When I'm not counting cracks or dwelling on the Law of Entropy. "It was a good day. I beat Rami at our chess match today. I also got on A on my biology test, and we had pizza for lunch in the cafeteria."

"Wonderful, honey." My mother positively beams. She is wearing makeup. I don't know why she bothers, because I doubt me or my dad usually notice or care. The only reason I noticed today is because her red lipstick is smeared on her canine tooth and it looks so much like blood that it makes my stomach turn over. 

I put down my fork. My dinner suddenly doesn't look as delicious as it did a few moments ago. Now it just looks like a mushy blob of overcooked food that sat in a casserole dish in the oven for way too long.

We make more small-talk. My mother asks my father about work. He gives her vague answers about employees, deadlines, research, some partnership with some research/tech/ science-y company or something, blah blah don't care. Unsurprisingly, he is returning to the lab after dinner.

"Are you not eating, Tanner?" My mom's smile has faded, a worried groove appearing between her perfectly waxed eyebrows. (Once again, don't notice, don't care, but I heard my dad complaining to her about how much she spends at the waxing parlor).

I force a smile, curl my fingers around my fork. "Still full from that pizza I guess," I say.

I don't tell her that food sits like a rock in my stomach, that anything but liquids make my stomach acids churn, that I was barely even able to choke down a slice of pizza. She nods, satisfied, as I force a few mouthfuls of casserole down my throat. Chew. Swallow. Repeat until my plate is mostly clean.

A clockwork boy in a clockwork family. Smile. Nod. Act like everything is fine.

The next day on my way home from school, I stop counting cracks long enough to look up at the streetlamp, the one that was on in the daytime when the others weren't. It's a mild spring afternoon and there isn't a cloud in the sky, but there it is again, the streetlamp that was on. And it's on again, almost too dim to notice in the glare of the sun.

So, I'm not dumb. I know it's probably just some weird glitch or problem with the sensor that governs how the lamp responds to the ebbing of the daylight. But gazing up, my neck craning until it aches, I can't help the weird shiver that coasts down my spine. And as I keep watching, the light starts blinking. I think it's going to turn dark, like it did last time, but it just flickers. On and off. On and off. Blinking. Staying on. Turning off. Long, short. Dot, dash... Again the shiver, pooling in a shard of ice at the base of my spine. It's blinking like a code.

It's probably a good thing I'm standing on a quieter side street in a residential district without a lot of foot traffic. Because I'm glued here like a freaking statue, staring up with my mouth open like an idiot, and anyone walking past would probably think that's what I was. An idiot, I mean. And something in my brain knows this isn't reality, this isn't a thing, this lamp isn't, like, talking to me. But I feel heat rushing to my face, an excitement like a little kid that's just stumbled on some unexpected mystery. I fumble for my phone, pull up the Morse code alphabet. My hands are clumsy, my fingers shaking. I zoom in on the alphabet. Glance back up at the light. It's still flickering wildly, pulsing, urgent.

A burst of blinks, three in a row. Then dark. A flash. A pause. A flash. A pause. A flash. Then three more in a row, so fast I almost miss them. And then, like it was never on in the first place, the bulb goes dark and stays dark and silent, like the rest.

My hand is frozen, my fingers curled around the phone. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it against my ribcage, the pulse warm and frantic against my skin, like my heart is trying to bore its way out of my chest.

SOS. The lamp just clearly spelled out SOS.

I look all around, like someone will just be standing there in clear distress, waiting for my assistance. The street is empty, the houses quiet. A dog barks in the distance. I pace the sidewalk, even peering behind the hedges of a nearby house, like some secret streetlamp operator will be lurking there. But nothing.

My phone buzzes, and I know it's my mom asking when I will be home, to tell me that dinner is waiting for me. I start to shuffle away down the sidewalk, in the direction of home. My sweat feels cold against my warm skin. My heart is still thundering a ragged rhythm, like it's beating to a code only it knows. I suck in a breath. Look back. The lamp stays off, just like the others.