Throwaway

He entered her world wrapped in arms that smelled like cotton candy with a hint of sweat. After hanging from a small white hook in the carnival barker area, he heard the pop of one, two, and then finally three balloons. As her father’s index finger swiped the air, he could only hope that this would be his chance for freedom, and more importantly love. The carnie reached up and grabbed his neighbor and as the disappointment of another night in the air settled back into its permanent home, the yell of the girl, Annabelle, pierced through the sound of buzzers and bells from the nearby rides.

“Not that one!” she exclaimed. “I want the orange one.”

Weightlessness engulfed him as he was freed from the hook and slowly lowered down into her waiting arms. She squealed with delight and wrapped herself around him.

“What’s his name, honey?” her father asked.

“Leland,” she replied, and so he had a name.

The rest of the night was a blur. Leland accompanied Annabelle on the “Love Ship” and at one point was almost lost to the night sky after a sharp turn on the “Roller Cart,” but as she fell asleep strapped into her car seat at the end of the night, he felt at peace to finally have a home.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Five years passed, and Leland is now where most of his kind ends up. After a few weeks of pleasantness, he began to be forgotten. He sat unplayed with on her bed and at times was remanded to the floor. Soon, he was moved to the closet to join the other “throwaways.” That is what they called themselves, those unloved toys. There was the bulldog from the crane game, the Happy Meal bean bag dolphin, and the knock off Snoopy from some theme park. Their stitching wasn’t as strong, their fabric more flammable.

All had been something she had “had to have” and so her parents relented. That is to say her father relented. Everyone had stories of how the mother was always saying, “She doesn’t need another stuffed animal,” but the father just went and got her what she wanted anyway. In a way, the banishment to the closet was proof that the mother was right. They weren’t needed.

Light entered through a sliver between the closet’s double doors. Lately, there was more activity on the other side of the dark. Sure, they got to see the room once or twice a day, but mostly they sat in darkness marked with the occasional days where the closet light was left on. However, now there was a constant breaking of the sliver as some small thing kept walking by the door. It couldn’t have been more than a foot or two tall, and it would sometimes stop and sniff the bottom of the door before walking away. The throwaways became frightened.

It was a few days before the shadow was identified. The door was opened, and a small dog ran across the room. It looked similar to the bulldog but less wrinkled and was, clearly, not purple. It seemed the family had gotten a new pet for Annabelle, and the throwaways could see that while they were in the closet, being outside of it was even worse. The dog had one of their comrades in its mouth and was greatly thrashing it about. Worse, it didn’t seem to bother the family at all and they even found it to be cute. What was once a happy sound now held to it an eerie quality, those “ahs” they exhaled.

“Were they next?” thought the throwaways. It was only a matter of time. What could they do, stuck in the closet like this? Luck was the only thing that saved them from their fate. A week later they were all thrown into a cardboard box marked “Garage Sale,” and on Saturday they spent the entire day outside under the blistering sun. One by one, grubby hands reached in and pulled them out for inspection before being brought to someone to ask: “Can I get this? It’s only $1.” Invariably the purchaser would haggle until each of the throwaways was gone, all except Leland.

As the sale dwindled down and the family began to pack up the unsold refuse, Leland felt sad. What did this mean? Would he return to the closet or possibly be donated to someone? As his box was lifted, the father realized only Leland resided inside and decided to just remove him. He was carried into the house where Leland saw the new pet and a premonition flashed across his felt eyes. He knew his fate, even before the father did.

“GEORGE! Dammit, I told you not to chew on the newspaper! Why do you insist on tearing it up? Here, if you are going to chew on something, chew on this.”

Leland felt that three foot fall as if it lasted for days. As soon as he hit the ground the mongrel was on him. This George, as he was called, began dragging Leland around the living room. Leland’s last visit to the living room involved hugs and kisses; now teeth and paws tore at him. The dog grabbed hold of Leland’s neck and began thrashing him about and tossing him into the air. At one point, Leland was sure the suffering was over, but the dog returned from the kitchen with water dripping from his lips and the attack commenced.

As the hearing on his right side vanished, Leland realized his ear had just been removed. Slowly, his peripheral vision began to pick up white stuffing. He was being pulled apart. A light headedness overtook him, and as he lay in a puddle of his own stuffing, the most unlikely of saviors arrived. The mother swept in and picked him up. She began yelling at George, and when the father started laughing, she turned her attention to him.

“Why did you give this to him? Look at this mess? God! There is stuffing everywhere. “

The back door opened and the mother carried Leland outside. He was not sure what else could be done to him but he was still happy to be away from the dog. He saw that she had gathered his stuffing up in her other hand and was surprised to see so much of it. Had he really lost that much of himself? The mother exited the back gate and walked Leland out to the garbage can. He realized at that moment that the name he and the other forgotten toys had given themselves had become reality. He had become a real life throwaway.

The above story was inspired by the image below.

Written by Trinity Vaughn

TBWYCL Day 312 - Write about now

I had an interesting task today. Pick a letter and write it on a page and just begin writing whatever you think of. I find I can be more creative when I have an iced tea and fluorescent lighting in a fast food booth so I went to my safe place at the Whataburger and took my composition notebook, and here is what I got.

The shake more closely resembles chocolate flavored sand then milk. It is cold as it hits the tongue before dispersing with the heat of the mouth and melting. There is a chill to the shop, five degrees cooler than it should be in an effort to stop patrons and bums from taking up permanent residence in a booth to take advantage of the free refill policy. The smell of bleach rises from the tables as they dry to a sticky film.
The Collective meets every Sunday, except on holiday if their kids are visiting or on two different occasions when medical issues kept one of them from attending. Maurie and Clifton started the Collective 17 years ago. Both had retired and on the first Sunday they didn't have to work, they each went to breakfast at The Punch Buggie and after an incident involving hot coffee and shared love of blueberry pie, they became friends.
Clifton had joined Maurie at his table and as they got up to leave, the waitress asked, "Did you solve all the world's problems?" Clifton said, "Not yet but we knocked out a few" and Maurie added, "There's always next week."
In 17 years they had only solved a mixture of the New York Times Sunday Puzzle, the punchlines to half a dozen dirty jokes, and what the doctors really meant when they said things were 'fine' which meant 'fine for now.'
James joined the Collective about a year after it formed. His wife passed away a week before and after running through the bread, milk, and the last of the potted meat he finally ventured out of the house and into The Punch Buggie for his first outing as a widower. After hearing a ruckus from another booth, he asked his waitress what the commotion was and she told him, "They're over there solving the world's problems".
"Do you think they could solve mine?" he asked.
"I don't know, but I bet they'd be willing to try. Hey dumb butts! You want some company?"
"Only if you mean you" Maurie replied.
Somehow James was invited over, he always suspected to settle a bet, and the two became three.

Today they were tackling slow drivers.
"What we need are pods," Clifton explained. "They would have computers in them, and you would just say where you wanted to go. Then it would link onto a track and, using a giant computer, it would know how to get you there fastest and then you just sit back and read the paper or play with yourself or whatever."
He looked over at Maurie when saying the last bit. It was a running joke between the three men that one of them was the smart one, one the lucky one, and one just played with himself all the time.
Maurie grinned at him and began to play devil's advocate. "So you're in your pod and you're going along. What happens when you have a heart attack?" His hand reached for his chest as if reliving the event of six months ago. "Would it know to take you to a doctor?"
"I suppose it could, or there could be an emergency button you hit that automatically reroutes you. With these new computers anything is possible. What do you think James?"
James sat in the corner of the booth looking over at the register. A new girl had started that caught his eye and the boys knew it.

"James, pull your head out of your ass!" Clifton's gravelly voice snapped him out of the daze and brought him back to reality. "She's 30 years younger than you, you old pervert."
"A guy can dream can't he? If Hefner can do it, I don't see why I can't."
"I'm gonna guess it has to do with your shrivelled pecker and your empty wallet," chimed in Maurie. "She wouldn't give you the time of day."
"Yeah, you're right," said James, "I guess I will just have to go back to playing with myself," which caused the three men to bust into a cackle that drew the attention from the entire restaurant, including the cashier.

That is all,

Newt

Possibilities

She chatted up a patron old enough to be her father, discussing "The White Stripes" and explaining to him the bands popularity and her love of them. Her 1950's retro garb was illuminated by the florescent lights bouncing off the Formica counter tops. She was cute, maybe 17, her face still holding on to that last bit of baby fat as she blossomed into a young woman. She took my drink order and got it wrong but I couldn't get mad. I instantly fell in like with her. She stirred up memories of my past and our similar experiences.

Verging on 9 p.m. her shift came to a close. She walked past me, knowing I was someone else's problem now. Entering the bathroom, she disappeared and I went back to my book. Five minutes later she emerged, a butterfly from her pressed linen cocoon. She wore tight jeans, considered fashionable from the eyes of the high school crowd, those fighting for a letter to accompany their generation. Her hair had fallen from the bun do she chose to wear for her shift. It now dangled awkwardly, attempting to touch her shoulders but coming up just short.

Her pace quickened and I saw why. A blond haired boy sat at the front counter waiting. Not what I would first have suspected as her type, he kept his hair short, almost to the scalp, and appeared athletic. Memories flooded into me of a time where I would visit the restaurant where my first girlfriend worked. Finding a table in the back and hoping she would make the rounds to wipe stale bleach water on the tables so I could catch a smile, or a kiss if the manager wasn't around.

I didn't see her exchange with the boy. It was clear they were to leave together. Why the longing for a simpler time entered my heart I don't know but I felt a great deal of envy for these young love birds. At 26, I spent the night with a burger and a book while their night was just beginning. They have all the time in the world, or at least until curfew, and can be content sharing a drink in a car and discussing the mundane as if it were interesting.

I went back to my book and looked up one last time and discovered she had gone. The end of her shift meant the beginning of her night. Oh the possibilities.