Fall 2022

Okay, I get it. Cigarettes are bad for you, but that sure as hell isn’t going to stop me from lighting one up every now and then. I even smoke them in my cramped apartment, thoroughly coating each room with a little bit of cancer.

Taking a drag of a cigarette is usually the highlight of my day, including right now. I’m perched on my bedroom window and blowing chemicals into the night. The only thing detracting from my bliss is the sogginess of my socks.

It never seems to stop raining in the city. I’m tempted to shut the damn window and try sleeping off my midnight woes before the water seeps into my boxers, but my search for sleep would be meaningless. My body knows the routine by now.

This is about the time that I decide to get dressed, step out of my apartment, and grab my bike. It’s less about wearing myself out and more about my incessant need to eat a fresh bagel at an ungodly hour. So, I prepare to do just that.

Peeling off the wet socks is the worst part of the whole ordeal. I have an aversion to some tangible sensations, and wet cloth wrapped around my toes is definitely one of them. I can’t even shake the feeling of disgust when I put on a fresh pair along with some jeans and a shitty sweatshirt.

What is wrong with me?

“Shut up, Boyd. Get a move on,” I tell myself before continuing my nightly routine.

We all need someone to give us a push in the right direction. I just so happen to give myself most of them.

I slip through my apartment and into the night without any further issues. If I can keep track of my wallet, keys, and bike for the remainder of this short journey, I’ll be golden. But this is New York City, so guarding my possessions is largely a difficult feat.

I pat my pockets as an extra security measure to ensure everything is in place before hopping onto my old bike and pushing myself into the rain.

The city is breathtaking during spells of bad weather. Fewer people frequent the streets and most of the litter is swept into storm drains. It’s a period of rejuvenation for the restless environment, allowing small creatures to claim precedence for a short amount of time.

I discovered my love for this kind of weather when I first moved to New York three years ago. I was twenty-two and riding the high of graduating from college. With a degree in journalism and an ego big enough for two, I thought I had a chance at getting a decent job in my field as soon as I arrived.

I was wrong, of course. My first week in the city was a slap in the face as rejections came from every direction. After three weeks, I started to believe that the hot dog stands down the street from my apartment complex wouldn’t even hire me.

So, I did what most devastated people do and decided to lie down on the sidewalk in front of my complex on a rainy day. The falling drops of water served as a therapeutic device, melting away my fears of failure and hopelessness. The hard ground was an anchor, digging into my skin as a reminder of the pain I must endure before achieving success.

I paid no mind to the passerby as they stared at me from afar.

Unfortunately, not much has changed since that eye-opening day. I managed to find a position as a personal assistant for some mid-grade photographer in Brooklyn, the same borough I have chosen to call home for these past three years. It’s good work, but I still pick up shifts at my local convenience store to afford rent.

It’s not like my mom could—

“Hey, kid! I told you to stop riding your bike in the rain. I don’t want that water all over my café!” Ms. Linda shouts as I approach my destination, but there’s a warm smile on her wrinkled face.

She’s the owner of the 24-hour establishment that I have chosen as my favorite place to buy late-night bagels. Its orange-hued exterior and authentic café menu drew me in when I first stumbled upon it a year ago, and I’ve been coming back ever since. Ms. Linda typically haunts the door of her café in pursuit of her valued customers. She works the night shift and claims that it’s when the best clientele comes around.

On second thought, she may have just said that to flatter me.

“I always clean it up! What else do you want me to do?” I joke.

I slow my bike and lean it against the front of the building, running under the cover of the café’s awning to offer Ms. Linda a hug. She quickly shoos me away, prompting me to look at the clothing that has become drenched during my short ride.

The water falls from my clothes and puddles around my sneakers, and the longer I stand outside, the sicker I feel. I can’t believe I willingly got my socks wet again.

“You’re making an awful face. Go inside and grab some of my husband’s clothes! You know he doesn’t mind,” Ms. Linda offers while pushing me inside.

I nod but keep my head low, incapable of voicing my thanks as my mind sorts through the unease of experiencing an unsavory sensation.

I worry about my contradictory actions sometimes. It’s like my body craves discomposure, and I have no say in the matter. At least I can eat a freshly baked ring of dough when all is said and done.

I quickly run to the private bathroom in the back of the café, determined to shove on the clothes located in a corner cabinet and walk back out without a meltdown. This plan works well until I step out to find a girl ordering food at the counter. Her black hair serves as a severe contrast to the background of the café’s yellow walls and orange seating, drawing all of the attention to her instead of the cozy surroundings.

“Hmm… I think I’ll take a plain bagel with strawberry cream cheese, please,” the girl says to Robert, Ms. Linda’s husband who works behind the counter.

He smiles and nods before turning around to start her order.

This interaction is simple enough. The girl shouldn’t prove to be too much of a problem, so I get in line behind her and gaze at the pastries in the display case by the counter.

Somehow, the dark hair still drags my eyes away from my intended visual target.

“Huh, another night owl. I’ve never seen you here before,” the girl suddenly mumbles, focused on grabbing cash out of her crossbody bag rather than turning around to face me.

Is she even talking to me?

“I could say the same about you,” I choose to reply.

It’s better to provide a response than to leave a person awkwardly grasping for conversation. Trust me, I would know.

“Ha, funny. You’re funny. Come sit with me after you order. We should talk,” she says as she hands over the cash and takes her bagel from Robert.

She finally turns toward me while taking a big bite out of her food and offers a grin filled with pink cream cheese before heading to a table near the front window. I find myself involuntarily gasping at the sight.

Her cheese-filled mouth isn’t the startling part though. It’s her missing eye that leaves me speechless.

Now, I’ve seen people with missing eyes before, but the scar that spans across the entirety of this girl’s face tells me to be wary. It appears to be an old wound from something sharp, crossing horizontally from ear to ear. It’s amazing that she didn’t lose both of her eyes in whatever fight she was involved in.

Okay, that’s it. I need to order and leave.

“Uh, alright. Robert! How are you?”

“I’m good, son. How about you?”

“Sure, I’m great! I’ll take the usual,” I say, plastering a smile on my face.

“It’s already done, son. Everything bagel with scallion cream cheese. Since you took care of the shop for an hour last week, we’ll call this one a freebie. Deal?” Robert asks.

“Oh, thank you! I’ll see you tomorrow then!” I rush to say, grabbing my bagel and making a beeline for the door.

“Wait a minute—”

“Sorry, Rob! Gotta go!”

I don’t find relief from my abrupt anxiety until I’m back on my bike and speeding away from the café. Poor Ms. Linda didn’t even manage to slip a goodbye in.

Luckily, the rain has lessened after my short time inside, but I had chosen the chilliest pieces of clothing from Robert’s cabinet to slip on in the bathroom. So instead of water, the biting wind of the fall season attacks my senses.

“Such a loser,” I mutter.

I shouldn’t have been afraid of the encounter in the café. It was just a brief conversation with nothing particularly suspicious happening. There was no need to act so sporadically, but I must face the consequences of my actions and eat a cold bagel in the comfort of my apartment.

Upon my arrival, I take a quick look around to make sure I wasn’t followed. It’d be a shame if I did all of this “running away” stuff just to get caught at the finish line, but everything looks normal, so I lock up my bike in a nearby rack and head inside.

It’s nights like these that make me question why I chose to live on the fourth floor of a building with an eternally broken elevator. My legs are wobbly from the quick-paced journey home, and sweat is beginning to gather on my brow from overexertion.

I guess everything will be worth it once I get to settle down and eat.

So, I enter the apartment, trudge over to my bed, and pull off the borrowed attire before getting underneath the covers. The perfectly wrapped bagel doesn’t leave my hand throughout the entire ordeal.

When I’m pleased with my upright position in bed, I take my time unwrapping the food, enjoying each second of the process. The smell of the scallions hits me first, and my mouth begins to water. Its pungent notes are dancing on my tongue before I can even take a bite of it. Then, the luxurious texture of homemade cream cheese overwhelms—

*knock knock*

“Goddammit!” I shout.

If this is my neighbor asking for milk in the dead of night again, I’m going to report him. This will be the fourth time he has done it this week.

I place the unfinished bagel on my bedside table and prepare to answer the door in my boxers. Late-night visitors are not worthy of getting redressed, so I do not hesitate to turn the lock and swing the door wide open.

That quickly changes when I realize who is standing at my door.

“Well, hello there. Boyd, right? You forgot to stop and talk to me!”

It’s the girl from the café minus a mouthful of cream cheese.

How is this even possible?

“Did you follow me here?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Let me inside and you’ll find out,” she teases, stepping close enough to feel her breath on my face.

I take one long look into her singular eye and then allow her into my apartment. I don’t want to think about what will happen if I refuse her advances for a second time.

As she enters, I can hear her sniff the space like a dog. It’s unsettling, to say the least, but it’s not the worst-case scenario. Other than that, she only spares a few glances around the room before her eye settles back onto me.

“So… want to tell me your name?”

“We can save the talk and cut to the chase if you’d like,” the girl says.

She puts her hands on her hips to indicate her level of annoyance.

“Listen, I don’t know who you are—”

“Oh, shut up! You’re the one who let a complete stranger into their home! Just do me a favor and press my stupid eye. Then, we can call it a day. My job will be done, and we can all move on with our lives.”

“…Press your eye?”

“I said shut up! Ugh, I guess I’ll do it myself,” she declares before making her way over to me.

The girl snatches my hand from my side as I struggle to comprehend the situation unfolding before me, and she presses one of my fingers into her eye. The eye seemingly sucks into the back of her skull with a sickening squelch as my finger makes contact.

A scream escapes me as I attempt to wrestle out of her grasp, but her grip is far too strong for me to combat. I can only watch in horror as I watch the girl twitch in minor discomfort as the scar across her face begins to rip apart, slowly opening and peeling back like the top of a can. Meanwhile, my finger remains within the confines of her eye socket.

“Holy shit, y-yo-your head is OPENING!” I shout uselessly.

A smirk crosses the girl’s face as the upper half of her head splits opens a few inches, revealing a glimpse of what lies within.

It’s not a brain that I can see. It’s two rows of huge, pearly white teeth and a giant tongue. It’s a mouth. She has a mouth on the top of her head, and my hand is hovering right in the middle of it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I squeak.

The giant mouth mimics the smaller one’s smirk before it snaps shut on my hand, crushing the bones in my wrist and tearing open my skin as I finally black out from the insanity of this night.

I didn’t even manage to eat my damn bagel.

CHARACTERS

Christopher - 25 years old. Short fuse, but works very hard.

Nicole - 25 years old. Smart and quick.

Inside the Cabin, daytime

In the great tundra of Yukon, just north of Faro, a modest log cabin stands against the endless assaults of snow and wind. The cabin is comfy, with a bed in one corner, and a wood-burning stove in the other. A hearth burns in the center of the one-room home, surrounded by a couple of chairs and various other tools required for a life in the middle of nowhere. There is a table with a chess board not too far from the door, with an incomplete game waiting to be finished.

Milling about the room is Christopher, with strong movement and direction. Nicole stirs in bed.

CHRISTOPHER: Please get out of bed, Nicole. It's afternoon already.

NICOLE: What does it matter? We can't see the sun anyways.

CHRISTOPHER: It matters to me. We have to keep up the fire and keep out the cold. It's February. It's not like the weather will stay in bed with you.

NICOLE: Jesus, Chris, I know. February second. 

CHRISTOPHER: February second. Dad's birthday.

NICOLE: What was that?

CHRISTOPHER: Nothing. It's my dad's birthday, that's all.

NICOLE: Oh. I'm sorry.

CHRISTOPHER: Yeah. Almost five years since I've seen him.

NICOLE: You never talk about him.

CHRISTOPHER: I don't want to. He was terrible.

This gets Nicole out of bed. Sometimes, her big heart for others overpowers the small heart for herself. She holds him, and there is a moment of serenity inside the small cabin.

CHRISTOPHER: I'm about to go out and check traps.

NICOLE: Hey, before you go, let's finish out the game.

CHRISTOPHER (jokingly): You think beating me will help me feel better?

They sit at the chess board and begin playing. Nicole, white, moves first. They continue playing while speaking.

NICOLE: No, I'm hoping that eventually you'll get good enough for it to be fun, though.

CHRISTOPHER: I'm sorry that I wasn't a child prodigy chess player.

NICOLE: Hardly a prodigy.

CHRISTOPHER: You won tournaments! I hadn't even played until we moved out here!

Chris makes his move. It's exactly what Nicole wanted him to do.

NICOLE: Checkmate.

CHRISTOPHER: Jesus. I guess trying to learn your strategies isn't gonna work for me.

NICOLE: It's not just about strategy, it's about adapting. If something bad happens in the beginning of the game, you can't just ignore it. You have to take it into account, and then figure out how to win even while down.

CHRISTOPHER: That's where you and I differ.

NICOLE: Hey, it's ok! Chess is really hard. I don't expect you to be some champion after a couple years of playing-

CHRISTOPHER: Stop. Please.

Something about that really set Chris off. What was friendly banter is now curt and defensive.

NICOLE: Hey, babe, I'm sorry.

CHRISTOPHER: It's fine. I'm going now.

NICOLE: Ok, be safe! I love you!

The door slams shut, but not before a bit of snow blows into the house. Nicole grabs a towel to clean it up.

NICOLE (to herself): What the hell was that about? I was just trying to make him feel better. I didn't think he was gonna blow up on me. 

She looks out the window, then makes the bed. 

Chris comes stumbling in from the cold, holding a single dead marmot.

CHRISTOPHER: It's getting bad out there. I could only check a couple of the traps before I couldn't stand the cold. Do we have plenty of wood for the fire?

NICOLE: Not really. We will need to chop some up in a few hours.

CHRISTOPHER: Jeez! It's cold. It's really cold.

NICOLE: Come here.

Nicole takes Chris' hands into hers to warm them.  There is a moment of tenderness between them. The moment of animosity from earlier has been completely forgotten, it is just Chris and Nicole together in their cabin. Nicole reaches up and kisses Chris.

NICOLE: Let's talk about earlier.

CHRISTOPHER: Please. Let's not.

NICOLE: Chris, this isn't the first time you've reacted to something like this. This can't go unchecked.

CHRISTOPHER: Nicole, I love you. But it's been a long day. It's cold, I'm tired, and it's a hard day for me.

NICOLE: Why? What makes it so hard?

CHRISTOPHER: Nothing. It's nothing.

NICOLE: It's something! It's your dad's birthday!

CHRISTOPHER: Let's play a game of chess or something.

NICOLE: Fine. But we aren't finished talking about this.

Nicole sits while Chris ignites the stove to start cooking. He goes back and forth from the chess board and preparing the food.

CHRISTOPHER: How should I cook this?

NICOLE: I don't know, just cook it.

CHRISTOPHER: You're helpful.

Christopher goes to season the marmot with salt and pepper.

NICOLE: Hey, you start that way every time. Try something different this time. 

CHRISTOPHER: Yes ma'am.

Instead, he squeezes a lemon onto it and throws it on the pan.

NICOLE: Okay now, settle down. 

Chris forgets about his dinner cooking for a bit and focuses on the chess board.

NICOLE: Hey, that's not bad!

CHRISTOPHER: Don't kid me.

There is a moment of concentration between both of them as smoke rises from their dinner on the stove. After a few more moves, Nicole finally sees the smoke.

NICOLE: Oh! Chris!

She jumps up, throws open the window, and tosses the contents of the pan out into the snow. Chris buries his head in his hands.

CHRISTOPHER: Dang it. I'm sorry, Nicole.

NICOLE: Chris, honey, it's alright. We can have some of the stuff we saved from yesterday.

CHRISTOPHER: I should have been paying attention. One of the only nights that I cook and I messed it up.

NICOLE: Chris. Cooking is hard. It takes practice.

Chris snaps back to his defensive mode from earlier.

CHRISTOPHER: No. Not this again.

NICOLE: What?

CHRISTOPHER: Don't talk to me like that. Don't act like you're better than me.

NICOLE: Chris, let's talk about this-

CHRISTOPHER: I'm gonna chop some wood. Something I can't screw up.

Chris slams the door. 

(NOTE: the following can be done off-stage and solely with sound)

He grabs the only log left in their pile and sets it on the stump. He goes and picks up the axe.

Chris winds up to swing and comes down hard, but misses the log. His anger builds.

He prepares to swing again but misses once more. He is fuming.

After a momentary pause, he begins repeatedly hitting the log, each time with more force than the last. The wood splits and begins to splinter. 

Chris continues to chop, curse, spit, and cry.

After a few more hits, he drops the axe and falls to the ground, crying.

Nicole hears Chris crying and rushes outside.

NICOLE: Hey, hey! Chris! What's wrong?

Chris can't even form words from his muffled sobbing.

NICOLE: Let's go inside. Come on, now. It's gonna be ok.

Nicole helps Chris inside and into a chair by the fire, but it's barely smoldering now. There isn't any wood inside. Chris sits, trying to compose himself for a moment.

CHRISTOPHER: I'm sorry about the fire.

NICOLE: It's ok, Chris. I promise.

There is silence in the room for a few seconds. It feels like an eternity.

CHRISTOPHER: I can't go on living like this.

NICOLE: What's going on?

CHRISTOPHER: I'm no good. I'm no good at anything. I try to play chess, I'm terrible. I try to find us dinner, I get one rabbit. I try to cook, it goes up in flames. I try to chop wood, I miss or I obliterate the log and make it unusable. Everything I do moves us backwards, not forwards. 

NICOLE: Chris, it's-

CHRISTOPHER: And don't give me that crap about "these things are difficult". They're basic skills. I shouldn't be struggling to accomplish daily tasks. I'm just not of any use. We're out here freezing to death because I can't keep a stupid fire burning for a whole day. 

Nicole sits in stunned silence.

NICOLE: I- I haven't heard you talk like this in a long time.

CHRISTOPHER (lashing out): Would you rather have me just shut up!?

NICOLE: No, Chris, no!

Beat.

CHRISTOPHER: I'm sorry.

NICOLE: It's ok, Chris. I love you.

CHRISTOPHER: Why?

NICOLE: Why? I don't know, we've been together for 7 years! Every day for the last 5 I've been with you!

CHRISTOPHER: Then why do I cause you so much pain?

NICOLE: Because I hurt when you hurt!

CHRISTOPHER: Maybe I'm no good, then.

NICOLE: What are you talking about?

CHRISTOPHER: If I'm hurting you so much, maybe I'm the bad guy in this.

NICOLE: Don't say that.

CHRISTOPHER: Am I a bad person?

NICOLE: No!

CHRISTOPHER: I feel like a bad person.

NICOLE: Chris, look at me. You are not a bad person.

CHRISTOPHER: Then why is everything I do bad?

NICOLE: Not everything you do is bad!

CHRISTOPHER: Oh yeah? Well, it sure feels like it today!

NICOLE: Everybody has bad days. Being human doesn't make you a bad person.

CHRISTOPHER: Being human. Isn't that inherently bad? We all strive for perfection but can't ever get there. Eventually, some people wise up and stop trying. I'm close. I feel like I'm getting close to giving up.

NICOLE: I'm sorry, Chris.

They sit in silence. After a few moments, Nicole breaks the tension.

NICOLE: Can we try something?

CHRISTOPHER: Sure.

NICOLE: Close your eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in, and feel the breath in your lungs. Breathe out, and feel it escape your body. Breathe in, and feel the breath in your body. Breathe out, and know that you are here. Breathe in, and calm your body. Breathe out, and release the tension. Breathe in, you are present. Breathe out, you are here.

In, 2, 3, 4, hold, 2, 3, 4, out, 2, 3, 4, hold, 2, 3, 4.

1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4.

They sit in silence, breathing in and out together. In their silence, the room dims. The sun is set. The fire is now completely out. 

CHRISTOPHER (laughing): My nose is like a faucet.

NICOLE: Hey, that's ok! Mine is too when I cry.

They keep breathing and Christopher slowly begins to calm down.

NICOLE: Can you drink some water?

CHRISTOPHER: Yeah. Thanks.

NICOLE: You're doing a great job.

CHRISTOPHER: You're helping me a lot.

Christopher has stopped crying by now. 

CHRISTOPHER: Thank you.

NICOLE: Of course, Chris. It's our job to help each other and to love each other well.

CHRISTOPHER: Yeah. Yeah, it is.

NICOLE: I love you.

CHRISTOPHER: I love you too.

You can view this play on Youtube as well! Click this link: https://youtu.be/EbvHAOUFF7Q

I made her stop on the drive down.  I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in a month, or for however long I had been in the hospital.  Time slips away easily when you feel trapped and caged like a rat.  I snuck over to the side of the convenience store and pulled a cig from the leftover pack.  “They would probably be stale by now,” I thought.  As I lit up, I also thought how stupid I was.  I wasn’t really craving nicotine, but still I wanted to smoke.  Would I ever kick the habit or was this my slow suicide?  

I tried to simply take in the pleasant spring day, but my mind couldn’t help but drift towards the past and the future at the same time.  Anxiety for what I had been through over the past couple months and fear for what would come next.  I stomped the cigarette out and began walking back to my ride.  

I can’t remember her name.  I’ve never been good with names.  And although I could have made up a name for this story; I wish to convey that these memories are difficult to recall, but at the same time so vivid and clear.  I do remember that she was the perfect companion for this trip.  Our conversation was natural as she spoke of her family and life in general.  She didn’t prod me too much with questions, and I was content to listen.  She had a kindness to her that refreshed my hope for humanity.

~~~  

She had picked me up from a hospital in Petersburg, Virginia, where I was a patient in their psychiatric ward.  I had come to Petersburg after wandering around Culpeper, Virginia, homeless and in a state of psychosis and mania.  The death of my best friend Lucy startled me from my psychosis.  Lucy was a chihuahua and terrier mix.  She was my shadow.  After spending the night in a park, I began roaming up the sidewalk with Lucy by my side.  I didn’t have a leash with me.  She bolted into morning traffic as I screamed her name.  That night I walked into the hospital in Culpeper, realizing that I had finally reached the bottom of the pit.  I told the nurses that I felt suicidal, but that wasn’t really the truth.  I simply knew that it would get me a bed in a hospital and would help me towards a road to recovery.  Lucy saved my life through her death.  I knew I had to go on, or her death would be in vain.  

~~~

The conversation died down as we approached my destination near Virginia Beach.  A young social worker at the hospital in Petersburg had recommended the place.  The Union Mission in Norfolk, Virginia.  I had got the impression that they knew I was coming, but in the end, they turned me away.  I had no I.D. with me and so there I was on the streets of a bustling city I knew nothing about.  I realized that I was on my own, and although my situation was dire, I didn’t feel afraid.  When faced with living on the street there is no time to be afraid, although fear was surely there in abundance under the surface.  All I knew is that I wanted to survive this ordeal and get off the dangerous path I was heading down.  I asked one of the men congregating outside the shelter to use his phone and called my mother.  

At the time nearly all my relationships were frayed, and my relationship with my mother was no exception.  We had been in contact since I arrived in Petersburg, so she was aware of my current predicament, but was under the impression that I at least had a place to go.  And although I knew she wouldn’t bail me out, I still felt obligated to call.  Perhaps to let her and my family know I was walking into the realm of God.  Everything felt out of my control and safety didn’t seem guaranteed.  The only help my family would give me was through their prayers and the only thing I knew to do was walk.  

~~~

I was twenty-two years old when I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.  More specifically Bipolar 1 with psychosis.  I was in my senior year of studies at Radford University when I experienced my first bout of psychosis or mental break from reality.  In this first episode I felt as though I was going through some kind of spiritual awakening.  My perspective on the world was completely skewed and I harbored strange delusions within my mind.  There was however a sense that my mind was completely open, and I was seeing the world for what it truly was.  

~~~

It felt good to move, helped to clear my mind.  I actually felt a sense of adventure build inside of me.  Although I couldn’t predict how this night would transpire, I found within me faith and hope.  I meandered along city roads and soon realized I was in no way alone on the streets of Norfolk.  I felt somewhat deserted by my family, but I was being welcomed into a new kind of family.  A young black man with a quite peculiar stride crossed my path.  He pointed me in the direction of a Starbucks.  His simple gesture made me feel at ease.  I returned the gesture to an older white man who asked for a cigarette.  I didn’t have many to spare, but I was willing to share. 

It was getting darker as I found my way through the back streets passing familiar chain restaurants and businesses, finally arriving at Starbucks.  I love coffee.  No morning seems complete without coffee.  But decaffeinated coffee, which is all we could have at the hospital, just doesn’t quite hit the spot.  Some may argue that Starbucks isn’t real coffee, but I must admit I am a fan.  A cup of Starbucks and a few cigarettes sounded perfect.  I made my way up to the counter fully aware that I had no money for coffee.  But I tried my luck, asking if perhaps I could have a complimentary cup since I was new to the city.  Not at Starbucks, but they did offer me a cold water and there was free Wi-Fi.  I didn’t have a phone and I didn’t have a cent to my name.  I did however have an old laptop with me.  It was this old laptop that perhaps saved my life.  But perhaps I’m also getting ahead of myself.  

The folks at Starbucks let me hang out until it was time to close.  With the laptop I was able to connect to Facebook where I was able to exchange messages with my mother.  It was beginning to become apparent that if anyone in my family was going to help me, it would be my mother.  Even as her son was 31 years old, her time as a mother was not yet complete.    

Starbucks was closed.  The night was illuminated by passing headlights, overhead streetlights, and the still lit signs of countless businesses.  But it felt dark.  I walked among the shadows of the night, looking for a place to hideout and perhaps sleep.  I came across a section of pine trees scattered to the right of the road.  It was much darker underneath the trees, but I felt at ease as I walked beneath them.  There was a ditch as well, and long grass grew down the sloping earth.  I continued to walk on but made note of the tall grass.  I could lay down a blanket from my bag and hide amongst the growing weeds.

I came out from under the shade of trees and continued along the sidewalk.  I realized that I had made a circle of sorts during my evening stroll.  I was now heading back in the direction of the Union Mission.  I could see the sign for Royal Farms; a 24-hour gas station that serves food.  The Union mission was just a bit further along the road.  As I walked, I began to put together a plan for the night.  I would spend a few hours at Royal Farms, and when sleep began to take hold, I would make my way back to the ditch with the long grass.  Tomorrow I would try my luck at the Union Mission once more.  

~~~

Accepting the reality of my homelessness was much easier than accepting the reality of my mental health.  Finding myself alone in an unfamiliar city with nowhere to stay had a way of simplifying things for me.  The only thing that really mattered at this point was making it through the night.  When I was first diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, I couldn’t truly grasp the severity of the diagnoses let alone accept the diagnoses.  To be honest, I hadn’t given my mental health much thought before Bipolar.  I was a successful student-athlete, but there were visible signs that all was not well.  

The experts are still not sure what the cause of bipolar disorder is.  Perhaps the easiest way to understand it is as a chemical imbalance in the brain.  Medication is available, which is said to help restore balance to brain chemistry and prevent the highs and lows of mania and depression.  It is not impossible to live a normal life with bipolar, but it should also be noted that it is considered a potentially life threatening illness.  One out of five people with bipolar disorder commits suicide.  

~~~

I pushed down the cool damp grass and laid the blanket from my bag on the ground.  I had spent time outside the Royal Farms and then 7-11, talking with other men on the streets and bumming cigarettes.  The conversation passed the time and left me feeling like things would be alright in the end.  I was still new to the area, but the people I had the chance of meeting were friendly.  As I pulled the blanket around my body, I poked my head above the tall grass.  Although I felt at ease, there was still the fear that comes with spending the night on the street.  I knew I wouldn’t have the best sleep of my life, but if I did dose off, I wanted to be sure that no one could see me.  I finally laid my head down and listened to the passing cars until I drifted into a light sleep, ears wide open for the slightest hint of trouble.  

~~~

Looking back at my first night spent in Norfolk, Virginia I’m grateful that I was able to keep my wits.  Grateful that my mind hadn’t slipped back into a state of psychosis.  I get the feeling that bipolar is a different experience for each individual afflicted.  For roughly the first 10 years of living with bipolar I was able to work and earn a living as well as maintain a relationship.  However, I was poor with medication compliance and often missed therapy appointments.  I found it difficult to juggle my everyday life and keep my mental health a priority, but overall, I was happy.  It is hard not to look back with regret at my inability to grasp the seriousness of the disorder.  I quit jobs on a whim when psychosis would veer its ugly head again and would inevitably end up back in the hospital.  All of this turned into a life of chaos and instability for me and the people I cared about.  Finally, my psychosis had literally driven me into a ditch on the side of the road.  Yet, as I lay there, I know I still felt grateful to be alive.

~~~  

The night drifted slowly by, and I felt relief when the sun began to rise.  I rose and packed up my dew-soaked blanket and made my way back towards the Union Mission.  I explained my situation again to the gentlemen behind the desk.  This time they had a bed for me.  It could have been a phone call from the young social worker at Petersburg that helped me land a bed, but regardless of the reason, I was grateful to have a place to stay.  

Three meals would be served each day, but I would have to leave the building in search of work during the day.  There was a curfew, and I would have to be back to attend a Church service each night except for Sunday, when the service took place in the morning.  I would also be assigned a case manager.  As I took a seat in the lobby to wait for orientation I was greeted by a familiar face.  An older man named Tim Anderson.  Tim was my roommate for a few days in Petersburg’s psychiatric ward and now we would be roommates of sorts again here in Norfolk.  

The place was packed full.  There didn’t seem to be an open bed.  Each room contained as many bunk beds as space would allow.  There was a large locker room with showers, as well as a storage area to safely stash our belongings.  There were men of all ages and races, the great American melting pot. 

Things settled down, and for a few weeks I fell into a kind of routine.  I spent most of my days walking around Norfolk with Tim.  We made great friends, and we would pass the days sharing our stories with one another.  Unlike me, Tim actually had a bit of money to his name, as well as a cell phone.  He would treat me to coffee, bought me tobacco, and sometimes we would share some cheese tots at Hooters.  I would play music from my laptop and helped him set up a Facebook page.  Just two guys enjoying a summer in Norfolk, Virginia.  Tim claimed he could do this for the rest of his life, and I think he was right.  Sometimes a friend is all you need.  

I learned to take each day as it came and tried to find joy in each passing moment.  However, in the back of my mind I knew I was still a long way from safety.  How much longer could I stay here at the Union Mission?  I dreaded the daily Church services, and many of the preachers left me feeling guilty concerning my homelessness.  I knew I had to find work but had real doubts that I could pull myself out of this place.

All of my bouts with mania and psychosis have felt like spiritual or religious experiences.  To write them off as nothing more than a chemical imbalance doesn’t do justice to the effect that they have had on my spiritual life.  I consider myself a spiritual person.  I am someone who often considers the divine and even prays for my loved ones.  But I am not religious.  For me there is certainly a God, if only deep inside my own being.  However, listening to people talk about the God of the bible gets me all worked up in the wrong way.  It’s just not how I see or have experienced the divine.  One night, while doing my laundry, I decided I was leaving.  It was certainly a manic decision, but at the time I longed for the quiet of the streets again.  I had heard the preacher’s message enough and I would walk back out into the realm of God.  

Nothing really changed except I was sleeping in the weeds again and I didn’t have to be at church each night.  I could still get a shower at the mission, as well as meals.  I spent time at the beach and met new friends along the way.  I was just surviving each day and night.  This lasted a few days until I decided to write a Facebook post. 

I wanted to try to make my way back to Culpeper, Virginia.  The city was much smaller, and I knew some people in the area that I thought might be able to help.  But I needed money to fund my travels back north.  On June 4, 2019, while sitting at Starbucks, typing on my laptop, I posted this to my Facebook page: 

The Life of a Goalkeeper 

Over the last few days, it feels as if I’ve finally got some alone time to look at my life and the ups and downs that have come over the years and even hour to hour.  It is difficult at times to think that the guy who had it all on the soccer field and classroom is now struggling to find a place to live, but no more difficult than the bipolar diagnoses I have been dealing with for almost ten years.  I want to develop a way to save myself from this medical curse, but not unlike a rocket to the far corner, I know I’m beaten.  I have dived, flailed my arms, reached for the top corner to tip the problem over my bar, but no more.  Caught flat footed I just wait for the sound of the net to ripple as the ball sails beautifully into the goal, it’s impossible to save your own shot.  Impossible to be the goalkeeper and the striker.  However, picking the ball out of your net doesn’t have to be the end of the world.  

I haven’t heard it said on television lately, but goalkeepers have always been labeled as crazy.  I was never really sure which part of being a goalkeeper was so crazy to the rest of the players, coaches, commentators, and fans.  Perhaps it is just the willingness to do what the job entails that they find insane.  I do find it somewhat ironic that I have been officially diagnosed with a mental illness.  Bipolar disorder was once referred to as manic depression, which I think describes things a bit better.  Bipolar sounds like a nice nickname though.  Manic depression could also be used to describe the life of a goalkeeper during a match.  The depressed state being most of the time when you’re not called upon and the manic side that moment of pure brilliance like a shooting star as you fly across your goal to preserve your team’s clean sheet.  

I have bipolar 1 with psychotic features and episodes.  A simple Google search shows that, “Bipolar psychosis happens when a person experiences an episode of severe mania or depression, along with psychotic symptoms and hallucinations.  The symptoms tend to match a person’s mood.  During a manic phase, they may believe they have special powers.  This type of psychosis can lead to reckless or dangerous behavior.”  I can’t say I fit perfectly into this definition, but medical doctors still don’t quite understand the brain, let alone the mind.  So, defining the experiences of people such as myself can be extremely difficult.  For instance, I have never truly felt as if I have special powers, however I know most people would agree that we are all unique and gifted in our own ways.  But can we allow one’s self to be one’s self?  Can I relax in the worst moments of mania and depression and simply be one with it all?  Can I relax and position myself properly as the star striker bears down towards my goal? Or will my thoughts take over and confuse my ability and training?  

I received kind messages from old friends, and even got one donation.  But what I had inadvertently done was put my family on blast.  I’m not sure if my mother received any messages due to this post, but it was only after posting this that my family stepped back in to help me.  The next day my sister picked me up at that same Starbucks and I moved into a small room in the basement of my mother’s house in Winchester, Virginia.  

It’s now been nearly 3 years since the Union Mission and the streets of Norfolk and Virginia Beach.  With the support of my family, a deeper focus on my mental health, and probably a bit of luck, I have been able to avoid mania and the psychosis that comes with it.  I receive disability benefits due to my bipolar disorder which has helped me to get back on my feet.  I have my own small apartment in Winchester these days, and I am finishing my first semester back in school at Shenandoah University where I’m studying English and writing.  

I often wonder how Tim and all the friends I made that summer are doing these days.  How many of the men at the Union Mission, and streets all over America suffer from mental illness?  Numerous studies have reported that mental illness is more prevalent among the homeless, with bipolar disorder being one of the most common psychiatric disorders.  Some studies have shown that bipolar affects over 40% of the homeless population.  Will they be as lucky as me and receive the help and support they need?  For most, I fear the answer is no.

It’s funny, the things we remember.  The lessons learned and then forgotten.  Each memory like that single drop of water falling from the faucet of the bathtub.  

I was sitting in the bath, and my mother had just shut off the tap, but there were still a few drops left in the spout.  The final drips were thunderous in the suddenly quiet bathroom.  She slowly closed the door, leaving me to play for a few more minutes before returning to wash my hair.  My Batman action figure dropped through the depths of the soapy water.  I picked up the t-shaped piece of plastic sitting on the edge of the tub.  Imagining myself much older, I began stroking my upper lip with the razor.  Confusion swiftly drenched me when the white soapy water below mixed with burgundy.  I lowered the razor and gaped at the blade.  Where was the cap?  I was amazed that I hadn’t felt pain as I sliced off thin layers of skin from the top of my mouth.  I can’t recall my mother’s reaction, but I can imagine she felt the same sort of guilt I would later identify with.    

I plucked at the scab as it healed and didn’t know what to say when grownups would enquire about my wound.  I was acutely aware of my appearance for the first time.  Not unlike the gashes on my lip, this memory doesn’t run deep.  Yet it’s there, one drop of many that I can pull back out of the ocean and gaze at for a while.

It was in that section of trees that separated one side of the parking lot from the other.  The neighborhood gang of children made every inch of grass theirs.   We would congregate wherever the wind would push us that day.  Except of course for the lawns of the folks who didn’t have kids of their own.  We felt the dwellers of those lonely households were strange and cruel.  This small divide in the center of the parking lot was a lively place full of good sticks, dropped from branches of the towering pine trees.  We got excited when we would happen upon a good stick with which we could poke around or even turn into a sword for battling the demons of our imaginations.  A tall lamppost stood at the edge of the circle where the grass fell away to the curb.  For us, it served as an alarm clock.  The light came on and everyone knew it was time to meander on home before mom or dad came calling.  

R.J. was one of the youngest boys in the neighborhood along with my brother Raymond.  These two weren’t really part of the gang due to their age.  R.J. was sort of a crazy or overly hyper child who didn’t quite fit in, although my younger brother attempted to make good friends with him.  R.J. lived with his grandmother who owned a small mangy dog who would often have shit stuck to small ringlets of fur on his back end.  The grandmother was a quite scary figure with short curly hair, a mean face, a plump figure, and a shrill voice that she used often.  Most of the time screaming for R.J. to come home from her doorstep.  It was this woman’s shriek almost every night that would also remind us that soon the night would be upon us, and we would have to get home.  

The other boy and I were near the streetlight.  I remember the exchange of a couple of sentences.  

“Santa’s not real, you know,” the boy told me.  

“Yeah, I know that” I lied.  

It wasn’t even close to Christmas, so Santa wasn’t at the forefront of my mind, but nothing prepares a child for the death of a beloved saint.  It was blasphemy.  What made it worse was the fact that I knew I couldn’t tell anyone close to me.  I was a big brother.  It was my duty to protect Ray’s innocence as long as I could, and I dared not ask my parents about it due to fear that my haul of gifts would shrink.  I tried to hide my dismay, but I could see in the boy’s eyes that he was pleased.  He found someone to dump this secret on just as it had probably been dumped on him.  He had got what he wanted and soon drifted off, leaving me to my misery.  My thoughts continued to race.  Maybe he didn’t know what he was talking about, but it didn’t matter.  The doubt that now filled my mind was enough to kill off the Santa I once knew.  

I staggered beneath the trees on that little stretch of earth and stumbled upon a small piece of timber.  Upon closer examination, I noticed a nail pushed through one side and out the other.  I kicked the board around with my foot being careful not to catch the nail as I continued to contemplate Santa and the coming Christmas.  What other secrets was I unaware of?  I slowly made my way out from beneath the trees, across the blacktop, then climbed the hill of our front yard rather than taking the steps to my left.  The world took on new color as I made my way to the front door; the streetlight had yet to flash on.  

It was only a townhouse.  Very similar to most of the other houses in the neighborhood, but even today I have yet to find a place where I felt so at peace.  It was home.  The front door opened directly into the living room with a staircase to your left leading up.  I can still remember sitting on the bottom step learning to tie my shoelaces.  The place was three floors and covered with carpet, except for the kitchen and basement which were slick linoleum.  In just my socks, I’d get a running start and jump from the living room into the kitchen; landing on the well-swept floor and sliding a few feet, all for a bit of fun.  

The living room had a decent sized fish tank against the left wall below the stairs, and to the right there were two brown couches with a glass coffee table in between.  Against the right wall was a hutch with a turntable on top, along with other stereo equipment connected to large speakers on the floor.  My father would boom a variety of music out of these speakers on the weekends, and I would let my imagination drift to the sound of the lyrics.  There was music by artists such as Pink Floyd, Todd Rundgren, and Peter Gabriel.  

Upstairs, there was a bedroom for my brother and I to the left, my parents’ bedroom to the right, and straight ahead after climbing the stairs was a bathroom.  There was another room adjacent to mine which my father turned into a kind of office or study.  A small chamber stuffed with books, artwork, and more of my father’s albums.  There was just enough room for a couple chairs and a desk.  I remember sitting in the study with my father as he read aloud from Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.  A wooden pipe hung from his mouth as he read, and the pleasant smoke drifted throughout the room.  I often wonder if it wasn’t the smell of the burning Cavendish which enables me to remember my father so vividly as he spoke of Jim and Huck’s adventures down the river.  

A doorway near the threshold between the kitchen and the living room led to the basement.  Rushing down this steep stairway had resulted in quite a few adrenaline filled falls.  Turning left at the bottom of the staircase brought you into a short hallway with the unfinished laundry room off to the right and our toy closet further down to the left beneath the stairs.  The hallway then opened into what functioned as our T.V. room with a couple uniquely gold-colored couches.  I can still feel and smell the velvety fabric.  On the weekends, I’d often wake before everyone else and quietly tiptoe to the basement where I’d drift off into the world of Robin Hood or Batman brought to life on the screen.  

At the right corner of the room was the back door leading out onto a small brick patio my father and uncle had put in.  The backyards of the townhouses led out into a larger field which turned into undeveloped land, or as I knew it, the woods.  My father would take me and our dog Rundgren on adventures through the woods, which I pictured as a dense forest where Robin Hood and his merry men lived.  I imagine you can guess who my father’s favorite musician is by now.  Rundgren was black all over except for a drawn-out patch of white on his chest.  He had only one eye, but that didn’t stop him from snatching a frisbee out of midair.  He was a good friend.  The first friend who I could trust completely.  He never had a foul word to say, and he always listened.   

I was a bit downhearted after losing Santa, so the next day I stayed in, probably playing with my action figures, or numbing the pain with cartoons.  Honestly, I don’t remember what I was up to when I heard my brothers screams.  

“Raymond! Raymond! What’s wrong? What happened?”  My mother shouted frantically.  

“Mom, what’s wrong with Ray?” I muttered worryingly as my brother limped through the front door.  

Ray was beyond words and tears dripped steadily down his cheeks.  Mom embraced him and carried him over to the couch.    

“Did you fall down?” 

His cries continued, but between wails he managed, “My Foooouut!” hysterically pointing to his left foot.  She quickly but carefully began untying his laces before slipping off his sneaker.  The blood streamed onto the carpet below.  She did well to shield my brother’s view and contain her own emotions as he continued to cry, albeit at slower intervals.  I stood in awe as she peeled off his sock revealing a small puncture wound in the arch of his foot.  My heart sank as my mind raced back to yesterday afternoon.  I bolted upstairs to my room and flopped down on my bed, burying my face in the pillow.  

My mind couldn’t contain itself.  Guilt rushed over me.  It was surely an accident, but I couldn’t ignore the image of my brother stomping down on the board with the nail through it.  Innocently playing with R.J. under the trees where the good sticks lay.  Hadn’t I pushed away a thought as I kicked the small board?  Yes, it had briefly risen to the surface of my mind, but I was too concerned with Santa to pay it any interest.  Maybe it was more a feeling than a thought, a bit of intuition perhaps.  The simple knowledge that someone could step on that nail.  I couldn’t deny the truth.  I had kicked that board into just the perfect position.  Like a hunter I had set my trap and my brother had sprung it.

The thoughts and emotions were too big for a kid my age, but I was forced to face them.  Without fully grasping it in concrete terms I understood that everything I did, even my very thoughts, made ripples in the world around me.

Tommy and his friends whizzed between houses in an intense game of tag; their young voices and laughter filled the summer air as adults in the neighborhood wistfully recalled their childhood summer days. The kids had sunburnt cheeks and rosy noses, appropriate for a summer day well-spent outdoors. As their fun continued, the sun was slowly lowering from the sky as a cooler stream of air flowed in and dampened the seemingly impenetrable heat that had taken over the early afternoon just several hours prior. Tommy and his friends had just one hour left to play outside until a tranquil sheet of darkness would blanket over the town—which meant it would be time for bed. 

Tommy had just finished first grade and proved creative, lively, and amusing—for a 7-year-old. His hazel eyes, cool brown hair, and freckles lining his nose made him a cute little guy, fit for a commercial. His best friend, Scotty, spent every summer day with Tommy after he moved in a few houses down. Scotty’s blazing green eyes and dark coffee-colored hair resembled his Mom, Jovie, who called out their front door to let Scotty know that he had less than an hour left to play until he had to come inside for the evening. 

“Alright how about we finally go on the other side of the block- for just a few minutes,” Scotty remarked to Tommy as deviousness and excitement lined his voice. “We’ll run over there, check it out, and then come right back!”

“You know that my Mom wants us to stay here, Scotty!” Tommy’s Mom required that he stay on their side of the block, where she could always see him from the windows in their house. Their house had no view of the other side of the block, which meant Tommy couldn’t play over there—until he was older, at least. 

“Come on! We’re about to be second graders—don’t be such a baby!” And after a minute or two of convincing… and some friendly taunting, Tommy agreed to check it out… but just for a few minutes. Scotty and Tommy began to make their way over to the edge of where they were usually allowed to play, and as they crossed the line and rounded the corner to get to the other side of the block, they felt sophisticated… and cool, as the devilish smiles on their faces proved.

As they investigated the houses and the trees on the other side of the block, they realized that it was nothing too exciting, in fact, it looked exactly like their street. “Hey! Look at that!” Tommy shouted as he began running. Scotty followed as Tommy led them to a playground—complete with swings, slides, a wooden fire truck, monkey bars, and a rock climbing wall. Both boys immediately hopped into the wooden fire truck, complete with a fake steering wheel, and began playing.

“What’s that?” Tommy asked after a few minutes of playing, sounding slightly spooked.

“What’s what?” Scotty replied nervously, as he had caught the hint of fear in his buddy’s voice.

Tommy jerked and let out a yelp before screaming, “THAT! COMING TOWARDS US!”

Tommy and Scotty huddled together closely and closed their eyes tight in fear as the ominous figure bolted toward them and quickly blanketed the world around them.

After a few minutes, the boys opened their eyes to discover it was pitch black outside—the only light that existed was coming from pink and purple neon lights that surrounded the playground as if to encapsulate the half acre as its entirely own universe. The world outside of and around the playground was completely gone, for as far as they could see. All that existed now was what stood inside the lightly illuminated square perimeter of this otherworldly playground. As the boys took in their surroundings, in pure awe, they noticed a formless figure which stood tall and intimidating by the swings. The boys remained in shock as they didn’t know whether this world they had entered was terrifying or so majestic that it would make them the coolest boys in second grade. 

“Maybe we should go touch it,” Scotty suggested.

“Dude are you crazy!” Tommy echoed back.

Scotty ignored Tommy as he began making his way over to the figure, the pink lights reflecting off of his green eyes as he made the trek. His short stature was no match for the figure if it proved dangerous. As he neared the figure, he reached right out and touched it. Tommy froze with panic as he watched—uneasy to see what would unfold.

Suddenly, and all at once—all of the boys’ favorite things began to fall from the sky. First a big feast of tacos, spaghetti, and burgers on a large mahogany table—there was enough food to feed 20 grown men, nevertheless two little boys. And then—a circular dessert table landed on the woodchips of the playground, flaunting an abundance of goodies including: a chocolate fountain, strawberry iced donuts, chocolate chip cookies, pies of every flavor imaginable—pumpkin, apple, and blueberry, candy bars and Oreos, cinnamon rolls, brownies and cupcakes, even a raspberry cheesecake! But that wasn’t all—quickly, a large and cushiony sage sofa, exhausted with soft and furry blankets, situated itself on the ground, along with a 75-inch flat screen TV which currently played The Lion King movie, the boys’ favorite. Not to mention, an Xbox sat next to the TV with a storage tub, as big as a room, full of games. As if that wasn’t enough—a giant trampoline appeared, along with a pool right next to it so that the boys could jump and flip high into the sky before diving in the pool. But what pool was complete without a hot tub? The boys noticed a hot tub spring up out of the ground, bubbling up as powerful jets made for a jacuzzi-like appearance. The boys’ eyes marveled at everything they had just witnessed. 

And just as they thought things were done, they heard something above them, and then—their favorite superhero - Spiderman—came down from the sky and settled in front of them with a nonchalant and confident stance. 

As the boys began to approach Spiderman in total bewilderment, the formless figure that had spooked them earlier spoke up. “Stop. Do you boys wish to enjoy all of the gifts that have been presented here to you?”

“Yes!! Yes!” both boys eagerly replied, aching with impatience as their hero stood right in front of them. 

“You may enjoy your gifts on one condition,” the figure smugly remarked.

“Okay! What is it?” the boys innocently reciprocated.

“As soon as you indulge in the gifts in the world here, you may never return to your world.”

The boys looked at each other. As temptation stood all around them, they had no idea what to think. “Staying here wouldn’t be so bad,” Scotty remarked to Tommy. “I mean—look at this place! The spaghetti, the Xbox…the pool!” Tommy’s hazel eyes looked at all the treats around him—maybe Scotty was right, he thought. It might be worth it to stay here. Strawberry iced donuts were his favorite, and he had always wanted a trampoline.

“What is your decision,” the figure demanded.

As the question was asked, reality began to hit Tommy. If he stayed here he would never get to see his Mom or Dad again, or his Sister, or his buddies from school, or his first-grade teacher, or his new second-grade teacher, and what about his crush? Tommy immediately turned to Scotty, “Scotty, we can’t stay here. My parents. Your parents. Think about your brother! You’ll miss him!” Tommy cried out his plea to Scotty as he began to become fearful at the thought of never seeing his family again. Scotty still didn’t look convinced as his eyes joyfully continued scanning all of the treasures before him, but Tommy decided to make the decision for the both of them. At this moment, he really didn’t care if Scotty thought he was being a baby. “I WANNA GO HOME, I WANNA GO HOME, I WANNA GO HOME,” Tommy yelled out in pure unadulterated terror.

***

As Scotty’s Mom stood in their kitchen cooking spaghetti, Scotty and Tommy told her all about their experience. In reply, she giggled while remarking, “I just love you, boys. What a great imagination you all have.”