The Boy and the Man
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On the day the man died, the boy stroked the man’s soft gray hair, combing through tangles he could no longer sort out himself. The man’s hair was long and thin, and it tickled the back of his knees when he walked from his cot to the bathroom. He didn’t get up to do anything else anymore, not even to sweep the floors or go to the country store to get the groceries. That was his boy’s job now. Every other morning, the boy would wake up when the sun emergedfrom behind the horizon and the light peeked through the cracks of the wooden walls. He would slip out of his nightgown and comb his wild red mane that was almost as long as the man’s. The tattered nightgown was short on him, revealing chicken thighs covered with little tomato colored hairs.
As the boy gently braided the man’s hair, they shared memories of the times they spent in their small home, the home the man built for the two of them when he was young and strong. It didn’t have windows, but the outside world was not nearly as beautiful as the one they shared together within the walls. The only door was small and the boy had to duck under its frame each time he came and went. He remembered when the door seemed to tower over him, back when it was locked. The lock was removed a few years ago, but he only ever left to go to the country store. They didn’t like leaving their home, it was their special place.
They remembered the happy times, like when the boy went on explorations through their home. He counted the rusted nails in the unpolished oak floor and carefully plucked out splinters as evidence. He watched the way the light from the single bulb flickered around the room as he danced and played. Dancing made the boy happy so he kicked his feet and swung his arms around as he hummed an original tune. Sometimes the man would join in too, and they’d always fall over laughing hysterically. Once the boy tripped over his own awkward foot and crashed on the floor. He laid there as thick blood leaked out of his head. The man rushed over and sewed up his wounds and they both cried and expressed their love for one another until the boy felt better. The man made a promise to never let his boy get hurt again even though he knew this was unavoidable. The man knew everyone must suffer in order to thrive. Without an ache in the chest, how can one truly understand joy?
Goosebumps covered the boy’s arms and the tiny red hairs stuck up as they remembered all the days they spent learning science and math. The boy multiplied and divided with ease at the age of nine. Numbers and formulas became companions to him, especially eight times eight.
“I ate and I ate and I got sick on the floor, eight times eight is sixtyfour” his squeaky voice repeated over and over. The man laughed, proud as he watched his boy get smarter and smarter. They practiced geometry and stoichiometry, but never history. This was, of course, before the door was unlocked, before the boy knew about the outside world.
The boy studied the man’s features over and over in a desperate attempt to remember every detail. While they lay there, he watched the way the light from the crack in the wall illuminated the man’s bony features. The boy remembered the first time he discovered that little crack. The man was off getting groceries so the boy was dancing around foolishly. While he was dancing he noticed a teeny light brighter than he’d ever seen coming from the wall. Curious and frightened, he approached the hole. He began picking away at the wood with his long curly fingernails making the source of light shine through more and more. He pressed his eye right up into the hole. It hurt him at first so he turned away, but the light’s seduction called him back. He stared and stared and stared until he heard footsteps approaching the door. He jumped back away from the hole, nervous the man would be upset with him.
Every time the man left their home the boy would peek through his hole, only to be reminded of the pleasant burn that the light provided him. He saw the fuzzy green strands on the ground and imagined how soft they must be. Dreams of rolling around in those green flakes comforted him when the man was gone. The boy’s favorite thing to look at were floating magical creatures. The first time he saw one took his breath away. It was an exquisite blue creature that flapped it’s arms and soared way up above their home. He wondered why he couldn’t be that graceful.
Picking away at the wood became addictive. When his hole became too noticeably big, he began to pick away at a new hole on the adjacent wall. Soon enough his holes were all over the walls of their home and the light flooded in from every angle. The boy loved his man very much but he did not want to share this secret. He worried the man would close up his holes and his eyes would never experience that tempting sting again.
One day, the boy was so invested in looking through his hole that he didn’t hear the man approaching him from behind. The man spun the boy around and struck him in the face, leaving a red imprint on his cheek. In a state of shock, the boy just stood there. He didn’t know what to do or say or why his cheek hurt him so badly. The man was also in a state of shock but began to bawl. He collapsed to the floor and choked on his tears as though he was the one who was hit. The boy began to apologize immediately and laid down on the floor next to the man, their bodies pressed closely together so tightly that they were almost one.4
The next day the holes were sealed up with some gooey material, and the light bulb was the only source of brightness in their home once again. The man didn’t leave as often and worried more. He watched his boy every moment. He didn’t want his boy to love anything except for him.
It wasn’t long before the goo crusted up and cracked off bit by bit. The man knew in his heart that keeping the boy locked up would only create resentment, and that the boy’s innate curiosity would eat at him. At first, the man just let the boy look through the holes. The boy peered through his holes for hours at a time, never getting bored of the unpredictability of nature.
The lock came off the door and the man and the boy explored their isolated world. With time, the man explained grass and birds and rain to his boy and he marveled at their resplendency. They rolled around together in the grass, laughing and inhaling the clean air.
They remembered sad times too, like when the boy was scolded. He ran around the room, flapping his arms, looking at dust bunnies and splinters from up above. He wanted to be a like the birds outside, but the man warned him that he could not fly. He was a boy. He was the man’s boy. Boys do not fly. He shook his red hair in apology. He understood. The man patted his back and told him to be sessile like a flower. The imaginary wings took off and in place beautiful pink petals sprouted from his arms as he swayed back and forth making sure he didn’t move from his spot.
The boy stared into the man’s dull eyes and imagined his own eyes looked the same. There were no mirrors in their home, no way of seeing the intimate details of his face. He avoided reflections in the grocery store windows, abashed that he may come off as vain. The thought of looking into the glass and seeing something he didn’t like was also too overwhelming to bear. The boy continued braiding the man’s grey hair, being careful of the long strands that fell out. Ever since the man fell ill, his hair fell out more and more. The collection of locks piled up under the boy’s pillow and he played with them as he fell asleep each night. He wished there was something he could do for the man other than patiently watch him die. When the man screamed in agony there was nothing to do except sit by his side wait for the pain to subside. If only he could stitch up a wound and everything would be okay. If only he could take away the man’s pain. He loved the man.
When their whole backyard had been explored and rediscovered a thousand times, the boy began asking questions about what else was out there.
“What’s over that hill?” he’d ask.
“Where do the birds go?”
“Where’s our food come from?”
The questions pounded in on the man’s head until the burden of withholding information caused him to break down. The man shook the entire walk to the store and held onto the boy’s hand tighter than ever before. They trudged through the woods and over hills for miles. The boy thought his feet were going to fall off and his mind was going to overflow with new sights and smells.
“What’s this?” he’d ask.
“What’s that?” he’d point.6
The boy came to a sudden stop when he saw a green creepy crawler contracting and expanding its way up a teeny tree trunk. He looked at the man for approval before letting the creature crawl all over his fingers. The man explained that it was a caterpillar and that someday it would germinate delicate wings and fly away, but not for a very long time. The boy giggled at how much it tickled. The boy couldn’t fantasize the caterpillar taking on wings but was jealous nonetheless.
After the hour long trek, the country store appeared from the distance like a mirage. The store was almost as desolate as their own home was. Bells chimed when they opened the door and a funky old tune spat out from retro speakers. The boy was shocked looking at all the foreign food. He wanted to reach out and touch everything like the lumpy avocadoes and spiky pineapples but the man’s hand restricted his own.
“You brought your boy!” a raspy voice interrupted the boy’s fruit fixation. The man nodded in response and looked away from the eyes of the speaker. The little boy glanced up and took a step back. A big man no shorter than six feet tall towered above the boy and trapped him under the shadow he cast. The boy stared in horror and questioned what illness this man had. His bald head glistened and lacked the length of the boy and the man’s hair. His belly was round and poked out of his tshirt making their frail bodies appear weak. His skin was covered in something the color of the dirt the boy played in. The boy thought the man might’ve had a giant freckle covering all his exposed skin. Whatever it was, the boy felt bad for the man and hoped he would get better soon.
As the man got sicker and the boy went to the store more and more, he became accustomed to the store owner’s terminal illness and contemplated when his time would come and how he’d get food without him.
As the boy lay there, his body pressed close to the man’s, he tore at the blisters covering his palms. The white liquid oozed out and slowly dribbled down his wrist like silent tears. He could feel the blisters forming as he shoveled the other day, but the searing pain didn’t stop him from completing his job. The pickaxe broke the uneven earth as the boy cried, remembering when all he wanted was to be a flower. Upon completion, he crawled into the deep hole he created and laid down to prepare it for its newest resident. He thought about having to tuck the man in here, and wondered if the cold dirt would seep through his skin. Images of critters crawling over limbs and into closed eyes sent shivers through his whole body. He lay there for hours, until all his tears ran out and the pain in his heart became a bit more numb. He reached his hand out to the sky and looked at the way his pinky fingers stuck out awkwardly to the side. The scar on his left arm stretched from the meat of his thumb down to where the veins began to trail off on his forearm. He couldn’t remember if it was from the time he got pushed or the time he fell. It’s strange how memories fade and rearrange themselves. If the boy could remember every detail of his life he’d be a lot happierall the smiles and laughs would make the man’s death that much easier.
A spider joined him and he was thankful for the company, thankful that he could share his sorrow. Eight legs tickled him as they walked all over his chest and up his neck. When the spider finally departed, the boy was lonely once again. This only made the pain worse and the boy decided he would never let the man experience this excruciating loneliness. Within seconds the boy was up and clawing away at the terrain making space for another body. He didn’t know how he would close the hole with him in it but decided he’d figure it out when the time came. He breathed in the scent of dirt and accepted the fact that his lungs would be filled with this smell until they gave up. He wasn’t scaredthe man would be there the whole time. He loved the man.
On their last day together, the man admired his boy. He stared at the freckles that formed constellations on his cheekbones and dotted his nose. His own skin was wrinkled and was freckleless. It lacked the liveliness of the boy’sthe promise of longevity. The man could not eat or drink, and shifted in and out of consciousness. Each time his eyes drooped he fought hard to push them open, but at times he gave up. His boy would soothe him, caressing his cheeks and kissing his sweaty forehead. The quilt was flung on and off as the man’s body temperature rose and fell but the boy did not mind. The boy did not care about his own discomfort; he was not even bothered when the man soiled himself. The stench of the secretions would waft through their home and slowly crawl out through the holes in the wall and the boy wondered why anything would ever escape from there.
Their eyes glistened with tears, knowing that these were their final moments. The boy loved the man. The man was almost free from the burden of emotion and pain, but even so, the man loved his boy. Every memory they shared filled their bodies with a tingling warmth. A grin crept across the man’s thin lips as he soaked in that warmth, letting it soothe his weak body like a bath. Hours of reminiscing passed, but he didn’t tell every story. There were some he kept to himself, some he wanted to die holding onto. It made his heart thump when he thought about sharing about the time his boy had a nightmare. When he was just two years old, shrieks filled their home and hot tears poured down his little face. The man wept too, worried that the cradle would fill with tears and his boy would drown. The following weeks, the man sat by the cradle and watched the boy sleep. His chest rose and fell, matching the way his boy’s chest rose and fell.
The man also didn’t mention the first time they saw each other. The moment he knew in his heart that he would be his boy. How their eyes locked for a second in the shopping mall. How the woman foolishly turned her back from the stroller. How the boy didn’t cry, not even when the sirens wailed as they departed. The man loved his boy so much, and he knew his boy would love him right back.
