Stale

Chapter One

My alarm blares at twelve p.m. on a fine Tuesday in an attempt to stir me from a deep slumber. The whole idea behind a mid-day alarm is to honor the first day of summer. I sleep in to show a newfound freedom where I can waste as much of a day as I want without consequences. I'm big on symbolism. It's part of my aesthetic, to put it in simple Internet-kid terms. Anyway, back to my representational wake up. It's a step-by-step process.

1. Sleep for five more minutes.

2. Check my phone and see I slept for thirty.

3. Reply to the annoying group message texts.

4. Attempt to detangle my abnormally long limbs from my sheets.

5. Fall back down and groan upon failure.

By the time I put in the effort to get dressed, feed my rabbit Fallout, and eat a nutritious breakunch, it's three o'clock in the afternoon. With my bag thrown over my shoulder, I stroll out the empty house. My parents are at their dreadfully important jobs that bring respect to our family name, and my sister is at her ballet practice. I make a mental note to pick her up at four as I lock the door behind me.

Upon arriving at July's, a local burger establishment, I order an August Burger meal, pay the bored cashier, and light a cigarette once I'm out the door.

I don't have a tragic back-story for why I murder my lungs every day. The friends and family I surround myself are dead center of the 'all right' rating scale, and a state university is just enough for me. My life on the grading scale would be a solid B. The truth is, I smoke because it's boring in my town. Everything is connected. Streets branch off of streets, connecting houses with houses and shops with shops. Even the schools are linked in the same small squared area. Anything worthy of any interest can be found in the cities and towns surrounding mine.

I fling my bag down on the pavement before flopping down myself. With the cigarette dangling out the corner of my mouth, I pull out my camera and take in my surroundings. One of my many hobbies includes documenting the hoi polloi and creating interesting backstories for their otherwise dreary lives.

My eyes land on a tall, lanky boy across the street putting all his weight on the pedestrian crossing light. A mess of black hair shields his face from view, but he is quite obviously angry. Nothing says pissed off at the world like clenched fists and rage-shakes. I snap the picture and pull out my scrapbook and a pen.

'Jordie Johnson, traveling circus man – He was forced to leave the circus because he makes an angry clown, and his face causes children to scream. So now he's trying to contact the producers of Klown Killers. Unfortunately, Mr. Director Man cast the part of Larry the Lunatic to an even bigger nobody.'

Satisfied with my outrageous assumption, I shove my camera and scrapbook back in my bag and focus on my smoke.

When I get to the butt of my cigarette, I toss it on the ground and put it out with the heel of my boot. I munch on my fries and mull over smoking another, but before I can decide, a loud voice disrupts me. I glance up and see Clown Guy.

"No! Dad, I don't want to- no. Sorry. No, sir. Yes. I'm sorry. I will. All right."

Viciously, he ends the call and shoves his phone in a pocket. "To hell with you too."

"Problem, buddy?" I call out for the sake of my sanity. Like I said, boring town.

Clown Guy glances over at me. "Who, me?"

"No, the other fellow who cursed his imaginary dad to hell."

He pushes himself off the post and crosses the street. "Funny."