It was a small cake. The type of cake a lonely and forgotten old man like Creighton bought once a year to remind him that he was born on this very day a long time ago. His unflinching eyes stared at the cake, their color dieing as he observed the cheap frosting dripping off the sides of his cake.
       He did not plan to eat the thing. It was just a souvenir of this uneventful day in his life. A reminder to cross out that day on his yellowing calendar that unlike all the others had the handwriting, that used to be so neat, announcing that this was the anniversary of the day of his birth. He no longer cared to remember how long ago that day was. All he remembered was that that was the day his numb meaningless life began.
       He lived surrounded by no longer relevant books which were stones weighing him down to the dark moor of history and thought. These thousands of bound pieces of paper werethe relics of a wasted life. His apartment was overcrowded and over-organized. Though none of it held any value for him or anyone else any longer he could not bare to part with it.
       At the moment these reminders did not come into his consciousness for he wassurrounded by darkness. He cursed at it's eternal span in a croaking voice that would compel anyone, apart from the darkness, to deliver a shriek fit to pierce an eardrum. But all he received was a dull echo. He lit a single candle, shattering his illusions of what hid in the darkness. Bestowing a warm glow upon his aged face. The light danced in his cold gray eyes as he hummed a tune that used to inspire feelings of joy in his slowly beating heart but now swept in an unbearable sadness.
       In his time he had been a planner and a schemer but this was no longer his time. He no longer had any schemes in motion and his plans had all fallen far beneath the drifting ice of memory.
       What had it all amounted to? Countless achievements on paper, mementos of long forgotten dreams. Bruises from fights that ceased to matter before they started.
       These bleak thoughts were interrupted by the shrill scream of the tea pot. He stumbled through the darkness 'til he reached that which had disturbed his thoughts.
       The candle that had comforted his worried mind now cast shadows along the walls. Theshadows contorted themselves into shapes resembling the material that filled Creighton's nightmares. These forms were fit to terrify all that walked the earth.
       He finally reached the teapot and extinguished the struggling blue flame trapped beneath it which, to Creighton's pitiable idea of delight, silenced the damned thing. He poured thesteaming hot water into a plain green cup he had prepared earlier. He pulled out a spoon from a drawer of impeccably organized utensils and crushed down the two thin slices of lemon resting at the bottom. Releasing the juice filled oval shapes from it's circular form. After 2 minutes he pulled the teabag out and wrapping it around the handle of the spoon squeezed the liquid from it.
       He stirred quickly. Occasionally letting go of the spoon so the liquid would push it along, creating an autonomous stirring mechanism.
       He very carefully walked back to the table upon which stood his cake. Every step he took he labored not to spill the precious liquid that was contained by the green cup. While walking he observed steam flowing slowly upward from the rim of the cup. Highlighted by the flickering light of the candle this steam drifted off into nothingness.
       He very nearly succeeded in reaching the table when he took the wrong step. The hot liquid came down on him. The porcelain cup shattered over the floor.
       He was suddenly very tired. He limped over to a very comfortable couch that was half filled with books and laid down. He stared at the glimmering tea on the floor. That single candle's light spreading through the puddle on his hardwood floor. His eyelids drooped covering those soulless orbs.
In his eyelids he saw blurred shapes of the sort he saw when he would rip his glasses from their comfortable resting place near the the tip of his nose.
       Creighton remembered there was a snow storm during one of the days of his youth that froze suburbia around him. People were allowed to escape their workplace. Schools were closed down and children allowed to frolic in the snow with there little friends.
       Creighton did not build snowmen like the rest of his classmates. He did not labor to rollthe 3 balls that made up the snowman's figure. He did not steal his father's “ONE GOOD HAT” for that dear old snow man.
       He did not make igloo forts furnished with guards, supply stores, and full fledged warriors. He did not engage in full on snow ball wars. He was not even a snowball merchant. He did not witness the one casualty of the war. He did not witness the loss of Charlie's permanent tooth. He was not reprimanded for engaging in such despicable activities. He did not see the spit flying from Charlie's mother's mouth as she bellowed “you morons! You stupid! Stupid kids! Look at him now he'll be a gap toothed hick 'til his fake ones come in!”. He did not have to try to comprehend what that snarling beast said.
       No, Creighton Vernet was a good little anti-social boy. He spent half a day at home in his pajamas, wearing socks knit by his great grandmother that scratched his feet. He slammed his nose against the window while his feet sank into the plush couch. He observed the snow lethargically descend towards it's compatriots on the ground to construct the mountains covering the icy well groomed ground.
       He observed the lonely gray winter sky smothered by clouds of cotton pouring towardsthe earth. The first rays of sunlight filled an orange horizon.
       He begged his persistently occupied father for a ride to the cinema.
       They bought a ticket from a frizzy haired girl at the counter who looked like she hated being there more than anything else in the world and like her main possession was her extremely prominent nose.
Creighton tried to stroll through the empty mall but his father pulled him along. Walking with the purpose of finally getting rid of that horrible decision, if only for a few hours.
       They went up the rusty old escalator to the old theater that would be demolished a few months later.
       It did not feel like the new multiplex he had visited too many times to count. This was a new experience.
       He sat down in the scratchy green seats, shuffled his arm on the loose arm rest, and awaited the arrival of more film patrons willing to trek through the snow. But none came.
       He was alone in the theater.
       He had been alone for much of his life.
       He sat in a corner at school alone. He remember how his giggling schoolmates had approached him. The lonely boy in the corner. They went more out of pity than a genuine interest, more out of a sense of duty instilled in them by a society that meant to be looked upon as inclusive. Only for a moment he broke out of his constricting shell, unsure how "normal" people acted. The boy tried to impress, playing the role of the most interesting being on the planet. He failed miserably. The strangers withdrew as quickly as they had come, leaving Creighton in his dark corner.
       He remembered a time when the world didn't seem so dark.
       When he was about four his family was vacationing in Paris he and his mother walked from their hotel to a place for children. A place with gray cement walls with ceilings 20 feet off the ground, which seemed infinite to a small child such as Creighton was. It's description would have fit a prison except for the fact that the constructs within were plastic and cardboard.
       Creighton put on a plastic hard hat and bright orange vest and ventured up the small metal stairs onto the outline of what he was fully capable of identifying as a house.
       He placed a bright colored cardboard brick into place along with the rainbow of bricks and repeated this until he was satisfied that no leprechaun was going to appear.
       He busied himself with putting parts into a plastic yellow shell of a sports car.
       He felt alone among these children. Though he shared the same amount of years on theearth with them they did not share a common language. He looked for his mother but she was gone talking to a friend in a cafe.
       Creighton glanced at his books and noticed a particularly rare early edition of Irving's TheSketch Book and internally made a remark on the beauty of rarities.
       He flipped through the files that made up his mind to find the rarest thing he had ever encountered. Long ago it had sparked a wonderful obsessive joy in his youthful mind.
       A memory emerged from his foggy mind of a day a person of about his age sat next to him in the rows of the pews in the church, service was over and he tried so desperately to break through the veil of awe placed over them by the preacher.
       He waved his arms, snapped his fingers for the longest time having no effect.
       Their plain little lips curled back slightly into a hardly noticeable smile and they shifted and let him pass.
       Maybe they were so complex. Maybe they were so simple. But somehow he knew they were a rarity. A break from the easily placeble people, a well placed hole in his knowledge. He never saw this person again. He never even knew her name.
       He had very rarely been happy and he wasn't going to start at his advanced age. He had been happy one time. It was for but a moment. A blip in a lifetime. It was just so simple. It wasn't a particularly nice day. The sky was gray, and there was a breeze. He was in a cabin in the forest with trees all around him. He had felt like it was the right place to be. He had felt happy.
He he heard the teapot whistle for so long it started to falter as if on it's last breath. Wailing it away along with his life.



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The Grass Was Always Greener, 9-10