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Counting to Prettidase-Nine
I walk with my head down, looking for cracks in the pavement. The sidewalk is grey and rough, but my dirty white running shoes are worn and comfortable. Since I've already stepped on four cracks in the pavement with my left foot, I am trying to find four new cracks for my right foot. I have to find four cracks before I get to the hospital.
A pair of Doc Marten-clad feet suddenly blocks my progress. I stop walking. I slowly raise my head and see black jeans with worn knees, a loose leather belt, and a blue sweat shirt with the words "Daytona Beach" scrawled in yellow across its face. "Sorry," a bald man with dark glasses says as he steps out of my way. I wonder why he is shading his eyes. The sun has been hidden by thick clouds with black undersides all day, making everything around me look a little grey.
With the path clear, I begin to walk again. To avoid more near collisions, I resolve to raise my head to check for obstructions once every five steps. I can still feel the four cracks that my left foot has stepped on, physical memories lingering inside my shoe. One step, two steps, three steps. It is important to find new cracks in the pavement. Four steps, five steps, look up. My right foot feels empty and wants things evened up.
The block ends here; the sidewalk has become a short cliff overlooking the pavement of the road six inches below it. I look up and wait for the traffic to subside before attempting to cross the intersection. I look all the way down the thoroughfare and my eyes tell my brain that the street is wide where I'm standing, but gradually narrows into nothingness further down the road. There's a convenience store sign with a wide eyed red owl on the next block that looks twice the size of an apartment building ten blocks down that I know is at least five stories tall. My father told me a long time ago that it's the shape of our eyes that makes us see things like narrowing roads and tall buildings that seem tiny from far away. He also informed me that special eyeglasses exist to correct this deficiency but he just couldn't afford to buy any for our family. When I asked him when he might be able to get some of these glasses for us, he told me we'd have them in prettidase-nine weeks. "How long is that?" I asked. "It's a long time," he said. Prettidase-nine is the numerical equivalent to the letter Z; it's the last number.
< 2 >
For the moment, there aren't any cars on the street except for a dark green mini-van that looks to be about the size of a dog, so I cross. The pavement on the road is darker than on the sidewalk, more black than grey. There's a thin, lightning bolt-shaped crack next to a rusting manhole cover and I adjust my gait to get my right foot to step on it. One down, three to go. I step up onto the new sidewalk, quickly check ahead for obstacles, and hop over the shadow of the red owl sign, continuing on my way. The apartment building is slowly growing taller and I can see a green bench in front of it now. Accidentally, I step on a crack I hadn't noticed with my left foot. Now it's five to one, in favour of the left. I know, right foot, I know. But don't worry, I'm sure there are more than enough cracks between me and the hospital to make everything even.
My arms swing as I walk. My father told me this is natural because humans evolved from horses and we still hold on to the distant memory of walking on four legs. Arms actually think they are doing part of the walking, he said, and we should let them swing all they want. As I pass a lamp post, the side of my swinging left hand brushes against the metal pole. The impact lingers. I stop, turn around, and pass the grey pole on my right side, trying to recreate the incident for my other hand. I miss the spot, though, and only touch the lamp post with the back of my hand, not the side, so I just stop right in front of the pole. First, I softly touch the cold pole with the back of my left hand, getting that bit of unevenness out of the way, then reach out with the side of my right hand to take care of the original problem. My hands are back to normal again, they can get back to walking. There's a crack in the pavement edging out from the base of the lamp post. Little blades of green grass are growing inside the crack. I step on it twice with my right foot, cheating a bit, I know, and now it's five to three, in favour of the left.
< 3 >
Sometimes it's hard to keep track of all the scores. That's why when I walk I like to take care of little problems like the one I had with the lamp post right away, so that I don't get the big ones mixed up. I used to let everything get out of whack, but that was before my father told me how the body likes everything to be equal.
I came upon him in our living room one evening when he was standing facing the wall next to the mantle piece. He looked like he was playing a piano, the way he was tapping his fingers all over the wall. I asked him what he was doing, and he said that he was adjusting the house's central computer, but I couldn't see any buttons or anything. My mother was lying on the couch nearby, holding an empty glass on her stomach. She said, "Tell him what you're really doing," and he did.
"Tommy," my father said, "there are bees under my bed. If I don't want the bees to come out at night and sting me while I'm asleep, I have to make sure that everything is even on my body."
"Even?" I asked. I heard my mother groan and she got up from the couch, heading for the kitchen.
"Yes, even," my father continued. "You know, Tom, how sometimes you might be walking down the hall and one of your hands touches the wall? But you didn't mean for it to touch the wall? Well, if you don't want the bees to sting you at night, you have to touch the wall with your other hand, to make it even. I want to go to bed now, but I didn't keep up with everything that I did with my fingers today, so now I'm making everything even." He turned around and continued tapping the wall.
"There aren't any bees under my bed, Daddy."
"That's because you're only six years old, Tommy. The bees only start coming around when people turn seven."
My mother was back in the room, I could hear the ice clinking against the sides of her glass. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Arnold. What are you telling him now?" My father did not answer her, he just kept making everything even. My mother took a sip from her glass, wiped her chin, and lay back down on the couch.
< 4 >
"Do you have bees, Mommy?"
My mother closed her eyes and groaned through another sip, slightly lifting her head from the couch pillow. She crunched some ice in her mouth. She wasn't opening her eyes so I walked over and shook her arm. Her lips were gooey wet and she smelled like the medicine she rubbed on my chest when I had the sniffles. I asked again.
"Bees? Me? No, Tommy, I killed my bees a long time ago. Your father just can't get rid of his, that's all." She then seemed to fall asleep, holding her glass on her belly.
I'm looking for cracks in the sidewalk for my right foot to step on so I can keep the bees away tonight. I've been keeping the bees away for fifteen years now. The feet are the most important to keep even, because the bees love to sting people's feet. It's five to three, in favour of the left. Somebody's tin garbage can suddenly gets in my way, and I remind myself to keep checking ahead. There's the five story apartment building with the green bench in front of it, only a few steps away. I stop and turn around to see how big the red owl looks now. My eyes tell my brain that the sign is about the size of a donut hole, but I know that it's actually around five feet tall. In turning, I accidentally swept the side of my right foot against the pavement while my left only touched it with the sole. I drag my left foot on its side along the sidewalk; one to one, even.
I trudge on towards the hospital. One step, two steps, three steps. They probably have those glasses to fix eyesight there, probably kept in a safe or something. Four steps, five steps, look up. There's a telephone booth at the end of the block on my side of the street, so I run across to the other. I don't want any hot lava shooting out of the receiver and burning my skin. There's another green bench on this side of the street. I find a crack in the sidewalk next to the bench and step on it with my right foot. Five to four, in favour of the left.
Running from the lava tired me out, so I decide to sit down for a bit. I turn and face the street. The centre of the bench is right behind me. I raise both arms in the air and sit down slowly on the bench. Even though I am being careful, the right side of my bum touches the bench first. I collapse into a regular sitting position, though, keeping my arms in the air, keeping them from touching anything, until I can feel the bench with my entire bum. I stand up again, my arms are tired, and sit back down, this time purposefully touching the bench with the left side of my bum first. I check my watch, it's twenty-two minutes after twelve. I check my other watch, it's the same time. They are still synchronized. Settled, I fold my hands in my lap.
< 5 >
Now that I am resting, I decide to use the time to get a little bit closer to prettidase-nine. It's taking a long time, but I'm determined to count all the way up to it. When I began counting to prettidase-nine, starting right from number one, Brian was still the Prime Minister. It's a lot of fun, too, because the closer I get to the end of the numbers, the funnier and funnier the names of the numbers get.
This morning, back at home, I decided to do nothing at all but go out to the back yard and count. I was determined to make some progress. Sitting on my old swing set, I got past santaclaus-nine, cornflake-nine, and gingerale-nine. After gingerale-nine came nipple. I laughed so hard when the nipple numbers came up that I only made it to nipple-six before I had to run in the house to tell my father about it.
I pushed the back door open with both of my palms at the same time, a perfect job, and went into the kitchen. I was really anxious to find my father; I wanted to show off a little bit. He's been trying to count to prettidase-nine, too, but he's way behind me, stuck at manitoba-seven. I looked around the kitchen, but my father was nowhere to be found. I noticed the cutting board was left out on the kitchen counter next to a bowl full of tomatoes. There was one tomato on the board, half of it cut into thin slices. There were drops of tomato juice on the floor, a trail, so I followed them. The little drops of tomato led to the living room, and there was more juice on the beige area rug in the middle of the floor. There wasn't anybody in the living room except for my mother, but she's always there now, in the green vase on top of the mantle piece. I said, "Hi, I'm looking for Dad," and ran to the staircase that leads up to my parents' bedroom.
There were drops of tomato all over the stairs. I got about halfway up before I realized that I was stepping harder with my left foot than with my right, so I turned around and hopped back down, jumping on each step with both feet at the same time. I climbed to the middle of the staircase again, putting more pressure on my right foot this time, and hopped back down again to start fresh. Then I accidentally touched the wall with my left hand and had to do the same with my right. While I was fixing that up, I bit my tongue with the left side of my teeth. I took a deep breath and told myself to slow down. If I wasn't careful, I could have been stuck at the bottom of the stairs all day.
< 6 >
Before fixing the inequalities in my mouth, I called up to my father. "Are you up there, Dad?"
"Yes," I heard him answer. "Can you give me a hand? I'm trying to get even."
I closed my eyes and concentrated on getting everything fixed as quickly as possible. I bit down on my tongue with the right side of my teeth and was about to attempt climbing the stairs again when I realized that my eyes had been open when I made the first bite. I bit my tongue with the left side of my teeth with my eyes closed, then with the right side with my eyes open. "Tom?" my father called.
"I'm coming, Dad. I'm just having trouble getting up there again."
"All right. Take your time."
I decided to stop taking chances and hopped all the way up the stairs with both feet. I fell at the top of the stairs and had to touch my elbows to the floor a few times as I lay on my stomach. When my elbows were finally even, I got up very carefully, pressing down on the carpet with equal force in both palms, sliding both knees beneath me simultaneously, and rising slowly to a standing position. I tapped the toe of my right shoe twice on the floor, then my left once and my right again to be sure, and walked to the bedroom. I pushed the door open with both of my palms at the same time.
My father was sitting on the floor, between the end of the bed and the dresser, naked except for his underwear, sitting in a pool of red tomato juice. He was making a long cut in his right leg from his foot to his knee with the tomato knife. I saw a corresponding slash on his left leg and realized that I hadn't been following a trail of tomato juice after all.
"Are you okay, Dad?"
He looked up at me and shrugged his shoulders. His clothes, stained red, lay in a pile beside him on the floor. He held his left index finger out to me, cut to ribbons. He put the knife down on the floor and stretched out his other hand, its index finger sliced in similar fashion. "Do you think they're even?" he asked.
< 7 >
There were more cuts on his arms, his bare shoulders, chest, plus the new gashes in his legs. My father loves toasted tomato sandwiches but sometimes forgets to put on his cutting gloves when he gets a craving. "They look fine, Dad," I lied. "Your fingers are even." Actually, his left index finger was in slightly worse shape than his right, but I judged that a few bee stings in the night would be worth it if I could get him to stop cutting himself. I picked up the knife and passed it back and forth between my hands as I stood over him.
"Hey," my father said, "I'm not finished. Look at this cut here," he pointed to his left leg, "it's not as straight as the other one."
"I think it looks just fine, Dad." There was a lot more blood than the last time. "I think I better get a doctor for you. I think maybe I should call one from next door this time."
"No, Tom-the lava!"
"Okay. I'll go get a doctor. Just wait here."
After nipple-nine comes candlestick. After candlestick-nine comes rockgarden. After rockgarden-nine comes corncob, and after corncob-nine comes paintbrush. After that, paintbrush-one, paintbrush-two, paintbrush-three. I can't wait to find out what comes after paintbrush-nine, but I should get myself over to the hospital. I look at my watches. I've been sitting for eleven minutes, forty seconds. I'll have to wait until it's been twelve minutes to leave, the next even number after eleven. I have more time to count. Where did I leave the knife? Paintbrush-four, paintbrush-five. My watches say it's been twelve minutes now, so I get up, slowly, carefully.
I walk along the sidewalk again, the hospital is in sight now, slightly larger than a breadbox. I check for cracks in the pavement. Paintbrush-six, paintbrush-seven. There's one! I step on the crack with my right foot. The score is five to five, a tie again. Both feet feel empty. Paintbrush-eight, paintbrush-nine. The sun comes out from behind the clouds and everything around me looks a little yellow. I squint, but my left eye closes just before my right.
Maybe I'll fix that later.
Let's see, paintbrush-nine: what comes after? I wasn't expecting this. The next number is prettidase. Prettidase-one, prettidase-two.
It's nearly over.
Counting to Prettidase-Nine
I walk with my head down, looking for cracks in the pavement. The sidewalk is grey and rough, but my dirty white running shoes are worn and comfortable. Since I've already stepped on four cracks in the pavement with my left foot, I am trying to find four new cracks for my right foot. I have to find four cracks before I get to the hospital.
A pair of Doc Marten-clad feet suddenly blocks my progress. I stop walking. I slowly raise my head and see black jeans with worn knees, a loose leather belt, and a blue sweat shirt with the words "Daytona Beach" scrawled in yellow across its face. "Sorry," a bald man with dark glasses says as he steps out of my way. I wonder why he is shading his eyes. The sun has been hidden by thick clouds with black undersides all day, making everything around me look a little grey.
With the path clear, I begin to walk again. To avoid more near collisions, I resolve to raise my head to check for obstructions once every five steps. I can still feel the four cracks that my left foot has stepped on, physical memories lingering inside my shoe. One step, two steps, three steps. It is important to find new cracks in the pavement. Four steps, five steps, look up. My right foot feels empty and wants things evened up.
The block ends here; the sidewalk has become a short cliff overlooking the pavement of the road six inches below it. I look up and wait for the traffic to subside before attempting to cross the intersection. I look all the way down the thoroughfare and my eyes tell my brain that the street is wide where I'm standing, but gradually narrows into nothingness further down the road. There's a convenience store sign with a wide eyed red owl on the next block that looks twice the size of an apartment building ten blocks down that I know is at least five stories tall. My father told me a long time ago that it's the shape of our eyes that makes us see things like narrowing roads and tall buildings that seem tiny from far away. He also informed me that special eyeglasses exist to correct this deficiency but he just couldn't afford to buy any for our family. When I asked him when he might be able to get some of these glasses for us, he told me we'd have them in prettidase-nine weeks. "How long is that?" I asked. "It's a long time," he said. Prettidase-nine is the numerical equivalent to the letter Z; it's the last number.
< 2 >
For the moment, there aren't any cars on the street except for a dark green mini-van that looks to be about the size of a dog, so I cross. The pavement on the road is darker than on the sidewalk, more black than grey. There's a thin, lightning bolt-shaped crack next to a rusting manhole cover and I adjust my gait to get my right foot to step on it. One down, three to go. I step up onto the new sidewalk, quickly check ahead for obstacles, and hop over the shadow of the red owl sign, continuing on my way. The apartment building is slowly growing taller and I can see a green bench in front of it now. Accidentally, I step on a crack I hadn't noticed with my left foot. Now it's five to one, in favour of the left. I know, right foot, I know. But don't worry, I'm sure there are more than enough cracks between me and the hospital to make everything even.
My arms swing as I walk. My father told me this is natural because humans evolved from horses and we still hold on to the distant memory of walking on four legs. Arms actually think they are doing part of the walking, he said, and we should let them swing all they want. As I pass a lamp post, the side of my swinging left hand brushes against the metal pole. The impact lingers. I stop, turn around, and pass the grey pole on my right side, trying to recreate the incident for my other hand. I miss the spot, though, and only touch the lamp post with the back of my hand, not the side, so I just stop right in front of the pole. First, I softly touch the cold pole with the back of my left hand, getting that bit of unevenness out of the way, then reach out with the side of my right hand to take care of the original problem. My hands are back to normal again, they can get back to walking. There's a crack in the pavement edging out from the base of the lamp post. Little blades of green grass are growing inside the crack. I step on it twice with my right foot, cheating a bit, I know, and now it's five to three, in favour of the left.
< 3 >
Sometimes it's hard to keep track of all the scores. That's why when I walk I like to take care of little problems like the one I had with the lamp post right away, so that I don't get the big ones mixed up. I used to let everything get out of whack, but that was before my father told me how the body likes everything to be equal.
I came upon him in our living room one evening when he was standing facing the wall next to the mantle piece. He looked like he was playing a piano, the way he was tapping his fingers all over the wall. I asked him what he was doing, and he said that he was adjusting the house's central computer, but I couldn't see any buttons or anything. My mother was lying on the couch nearby, holding an empty glass on her stomach. She said, "Tell him what you're really doing," and he did.
"Tommy," my father said, "there are bees under my bed. If I don't want the bees to come out at night and sting me while I'm asleep, I have to make sure that everything is even on my body."
"Even?" I asked. I heard my mother groan and she got up from the couch, heading for the kitchen.
"Yes, even," my father continued. "You know, Tom, how sometimes you might be walking down the hall and one of your hands touches the wall? But you didn't mean for it to touch the wall? Well, if you don't want the bees to sting you at night, you have to touch the wall with your other hand, to make it even. I want to go to bed now, but I didn't keep up with everything that I did with my fingers today, so now I'm making everything even." He turned around and continued tapping the wall.
"There aren't any bees under my bed, Daddy."
"That's because you're only six years old, Tommy. The bees only start coming around when people turn seven."
My mother was back in the room, I could hear the ice clinking against the sides of her glass. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Arnold. What are you telling him now?" My father did not answer her, he just kept making everything even. My mother took a sip from her glass, wiped her chin, and lay back down on the couch.
< 4 >
"Do you have bees, Mommy?"
My mother closed her eyes and groaned through another sip, slightly lifting her head from the couch pillow. She crunched some ice in her mouth. She wasn't opening her eyes so I walked over and shook her arm. Her lips were gooey wet and she smelled like the medicine she rubbed on my chest when I had the sniffles. I asked again.
"Bees? Me? No, Tommy, I killed my bees a long time ago. Your father just can't get rid of his, that's all." She then seemed to fall asleep, holding her glass on her belly.
I'm looking for cracks in the sidewalk for my right foot to step on so I can keep the bees away tonight. I've been keeping the bees away for fifteen years now. The feet are the most important to keep even, because the bees love to sting people's feet. It's five to three, in favour of the left. Somebody's tin garbage can suddenly gets in my way, and I remind myself to keep checking ahead. There's the five story apartment building with the green bench in front of it, only a few steps away. I stop and turn around to see how big the red owl looks now. My eyes tell my brain that the sign is about the size of a donut hole, but I know that it's actually around five feet tall. In turning, I accidentally swept the side of my right foot against the pavement while my left only touched it with the sole. I drag my left foot on its side along the sidewalk; one to one, even.
I trudge on towards the hospital. One step, two steps, three steps. They probably have those glasses to fix eyesight there, probably kept in a safe or something. Four steps, five steps, look up. There's a telephone booth at the end of the block on my side of the street, so I run across to the other. I don't want any hot lava shooting out of the receiver and burning my skin. There's another green bench on this side of the street. I find a crack in the sidewalk next to the bench and step on it with my right foot. Five to four, in favour of the left.
Running from the lava tired me out, so I decide to sit down for a bit. I turn and face the street. The centre of the bench is right behind me. I raise both arms in the air and sit down slowly on the bench. Even though I am being careful, the right side of my bum touches the bench first. I collapse into a regular sitting position, though, keeping my arms in the air, keeping them from touching anything, until I can feel the bench with my entire bum. I stand up again, my arms are tired, and sit back down, this time purposefully touching the bench with the left side of my bum first. I check my watch, it's twenty-two minutes after twelve. I check my other watch, it's the same time. They are still synchronized. Settled, I fold my hands in my lap.
< 5 >
Now that I am resting, I decide to use the time to get a little bit closer to prettidase-nine. It's taking a long time, but I'm determined to count all the way up to it. When I began counting to prettidase-nine, starting right from number one, Brian was still the Prime Minister. It's a lot of fun, too, because the closer I get to the end of the numbers, the funnier and funnier the names of the numbers get.
This morning, back at home, I decided to do nothing at all but go out to the back yard and count. I was determined to make some progress. Sitting on my old swing set, I got past santaclaus-nine, cornflake-nine, and gingerale-nine. After gingerale-nine came nipple. I laughed so hard when the nipple numbers came up that I only made it to nipple-six before I had to run in the house to tell my father about it.
I pushed the back door open with both of my palms at the same time, a perfect job, and went into the kitchen. I was really anxious to find my father; I wanted to show off a little bit. He's been trying to count to prettidase-nine, too, but he's way behind me, stuck at manitoba-seven. I looked around the kitchen, but my father was nowhere to be found. I noticed the cutting board was left out on the kitchen counter next to a bowl full of tomatoes. There was one tomato on the board, half of it cut into thin slices. There were drops of tomato juice on the floor, a trail, so I followed them. The little drops of tomato led to the living room, and there was more juice on the beige area rug in the middle of the floor. There wasn't anybody in the living room except for my mother, but she's always there now, in the green vase on top of the mantle piece. I said, "Hi, I'm looking for Dad," and ran to the staircase that leads up to my parents' bedroom.
There were drops of tomato all over the stairs. I got about halfway up before I realized that I was stepping harder with my left foot than with my right, so I turned around and hopped back down, jumping on each step with both feet at the same time. I climbed to the middle of the staircase again, putting more pressure on my right foot this time, and hopped back down again to start fresh. Then I accidentally touched the wall with my left hand and had to do the same with my right. While I was fixing that up, I bit my tongue with the left side of my teeth. I took a deep breath and told myself to slow down. If I wasn't careful, I could have been stuck at the bottom of the stairs all day.
< 6 >
Before fixing the inequalities in my mouth, I called up to my father. "Are you up there, Dad?"
"Yes," I heard him answer. "Can you give me a hand? I'm trying to get even."
I closed my eyes and concentrated on getting everything fixed as quickly as possible. I bit down on my tongue with the right side of my teeth and was about to attempt climbing the stairs again when I realized that my eyes had been open when I made the first bite. I bit my tongue with the left side of my teeth with my eyes closed, then with the right side with my eyes open. "Tom?" my father called.
"I'm coming, Dad. I'm just having trouble getting up there again."
"All right. Take your time."
I decided to stop taking chances and hopped all the way up the stairs with both feet. I fell at the top of the stairs and had to touch my elbows to the floor a few times as I lay on my stomach. When my elbows were finally even, I got up very carefully, pressing down on the carpet with equal force in both palms, sliding both knees beneath me simultaneously, and rising slowly to a standing position. I tapped the toe of my right shoe twice on the floor, then my left once and my right again to be sure, and walked to the bedroom. I pushed the door open with both of my palms at the same time.
My father was sitting on the floor, between the end of the bed and the dresser, naked except for his underwear, sitting in a pool of red tomato juice. He was making a long cut in his right leg from his foot to his knee with the tomato knife. I saw a corresponding slash on his left leg and realized that I hadn't been following a trail of tomato juice after all.
"Are you okay, Dad?"
He looked up at me and shrugged his shoulders. His clothes, stained red, lay in a pile beside him on the floor. He held his left index finger out to me, cut to ribbons. He put the knife down on the floor and stretched out his other hand, its index finger sliced in similar fashion. "Do you think they're even?" he asked.
< 7 >
There were more cuts on his arms, his bare shoulders, chest, plus the new gashes in his legs. My father loves toasted tomato sandwiches but sometimes forgets to put on his cutting gloves when he gets a craving. "They look fine, Dad," I lied. "Your fingers are even." Actually, his left index finger was in slightly worse shape than his right, but I judged that a few bee stings in the night would be worth it if I could get him to stop cutting himself. I picked up the knife and passed it back and forth between my hands as I stood over him.
"Hey," my father said, "I'm not finished. Look at this cut here," he pointed to his left leg, "it's not as straight as the other one."
"I think it looks just fine, Dad." There was a lot more blood than the last time. "I think I better get a doctor for you. I think maybe I should call one from next door this time."
"No, Tom-the lava!"
"Okay. I'll go get a doctor. Just wait here."
After nipple-nine comes candlestick. After candlestick-nine comes rockgarden. After rockgarden-nine comes corncob, and after corncob-nine comes paintbrush. After that, paintbrush-one, paintbrush-two, paintbrush-three. I can't wait to find out what comes after paintbrush-nine, but I should get myself over to the hospital. I look at my watches. I've been sitting for eleven minutes, forty seconds. I'll have to wait until it's been twelve minutes to leave, the next even number after eleven. I have more time to count. Where did I leave the knife? Paintbrush-four, paintbrush-five. My watches say it's been twelve minutes now, so I get up, slowly, carefully.
I walk along the sidewalk again, the hospital is in sight now, slightly larger than a breadbox. I check for cracks in the pavement. Paintbrush-six, paintbrush-seven. There's one! I step on the crack with my right foot. The score is five to five, a tie again. Both feet feel empty. Paintbrush-eight, paintbrush-nine. The sun comes out from behind the clouds and everything around me looks a little yellow. I squint, but my left eye closes just before my right.
Maybe I'll fix that later.
Let's see, paintbrush-nine: what comes after? I wasn't expecting this. The next number is prettidase. Prettidase-one, prettidase-two.
It's nearly over.
Page:
sorry, but what the hell is this crap?
please post a story!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Heart!
Wielding a glimmering machete, an insanely angry Papa Barna pursues an unashamedly naked Oyigbo the butcher out of his compound. Picture him in sportswear and the latter would rate high as an Olympic-level sprinter for the effort he is making. Such is his speed that long after this incident, there would be no consensus as to the true size of his penis; no one sees that pendulum for more than a split second. Even the Akpan twins, Paul and Silas, who have the dubious honour of being knocked out of the way as Oyigbo shoots into their compound, would be unable to give their classmate, Okoro the Lip, a detailed description when he demands one. But they would be able to attest to Oyigbo's speed and ability to swerve, for he pulls a hairpin turn around Papa Barna and doubles back towards the main road right before their eyes.
Out on the main road, the chase blows on.
Abruptly, Oyigbo decides the road is making it too easy for Papa Barna to gain on him. So into the bush he veers. He leaps over tree stumps and cuts a swathe through the tropical rainforest with the sheer force of his momentum.
Papa Barna, a man on a clearly defined mission, resolute in the manner of a well-paid assassin bent on earning his fee, tears after Oyigbo. He says nothing but runs with a determination that telegraphs a discomforting message to Oyigbo: this man will not be stopped, no matter what.
Knowing what he knows, no one can possibly blame Oyigbo for pushing himself beyond his own imagination. However, a non-person whose opinion matters a lot is not only heaping blame but is complaining noisily in a most agitated way about Oyigbo's thoughtlessness; his heart is on the verge of bursting ...
Oyigbo's heart has come close to bursting many times in the past years.
"Oh, don't be so fast," Mama Barna would often say from beneath him at such times.
"Yes, yes, no, no," Oyigbo would mostly be confused, his eyes rolling crazily.
Yet at such times, his heart, though close to bursting only seconds earlier, would decelerate to a steady, sated rhythm.
*
< 2 >
This time, there had been neither deceleration nor satisfaction before Oyigbo had to dash off. And now his heart is threatening to burst for real.
Being sharply aware that he would have no need for a heart if he stops, Oyigbo presses on. Papa Barna sails after him, stocky legs, blazing eyes, glimmering machete and all. Papa Barna --
His return from New Town on this fateful day had begun happily enough. To begin with, the mechanic worked fast on his motorcycle and the repairs didn't cost half as much as he had feared. Buying quite a large number of presents for everyone in his household, including a new bowler hat with a silk band and a red feather stuck in it for himself, he had set off cheerfully for the return journey, enjoying the new surge of power delivered by the newly-serviced engine. He made good time and as he alighted from his motorcycle, the quiet pervading his compound struck him as odd. The girls may be in the farm, he reasoned, and Baba - his pet name for his son Barna - would either be frolicking in the stream or still in school, though not on account of any serious work. But his wife ought to be around. He'd opened his mouth to call out to her when he saw the cart. His mouth stayed open but no words came out. Slowly, almost as if he were some external being other than himself, he went into the house. He heard them before he reached his - their - bedroom door. The passionate cries of lovemaking were unmistakable. Entranced, he made his way silently to the store where he kept his tools and things. The machete, usually very heavy, felt almost weightless as he clutched it and started back towards the bedroom.
His mind, however, had a lot of weight on it. So his fears had been true! Human beings being cursed in perpetuity with a selective memory process, Papa Barna could only recall that he'd always had doubts about Maria, his first daughter. How could she really be his when she looked so tall and fair when both he and his wife were short and dark? She had been born ten years before Baba and it had taken five years after Baba's birth before the twins, Ruth and Esther came along. And that had been after numerous sacrifices to the gods. He sadly recognised the truth; only Baba had his blood; Maria, as well as Ruth and Esther - already showing signs of being every inch as tall and as fair as their elder sister - were ... Oh! How would he live with the shame?
< 3 >
Mama Barna had a few seconds to scream and utter a plea before the machete silenced her with one blow. Papa Barna looked at the blood-spurting body without feeling as he wiped the machete on the bed sheets. In the manner of a malfunctioning automaton, he now functioned purely on a dispassionate programme detailed to terminate the fleeing tall and fair Oyigbo ...
*
It is inevitable that a crowd should follow. This, after all, is just a small village. However, not even the younger, more agile men can keep up with the two shooting stars. Oyigbo, on a primordial self-preservation race simply can not be bested. Papa Barna, on a self-divined, holy-inspired mission of honour-preservation is ready to pay any price in his bid to exact the ultimate price. In such company, leisurely folks seeking amusement are in no position to keep up.
"I heard Lazarus telling Tom and Heekee that his Uncle Jonathan said that Oyigbo did not have a good heart," Okoro the Lip would later whisper to Paul and Silas.
"Could it have been an illness?" Paul would ask.
"I don't know," would be Okoro's reply. "Lazarus said that his Uncle Jonathan said that Mama Barna has been marrying Oyigbo the butcher. He knew but he didn't tell anybody. Then that day Oyigbo went and stayed inside Papa Barna's house because he thought Papa Barna will spend the whole day in New Town to repair his motorcycle."
"So what does his heart have to do with it?" Silas would want to know, but Okoro's open palms would be his answer.
"They say the Long-Nosed One in New Town has given the order for them to hang Papa Barna," Paul would reveal.
"I heard that too," Okoro would add. "Some people are saying that it is not fair. Baba Soja who killed more than ten people is still in prison. Papa Barna killed only two and they are going to hang him."
"It must be because of his heart," Silas would sum up. "Maybe they don't want whatever happened to his heart to spread."
"But what really happened to his heart?" Paul would query.
"I don't know," Okoro would pronounce. "I only know that they said he didn't have a good heart."
*
As Oyigbo shoots on to the main pathway to the village stream, a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest draws an agonised scream from him. His steps falter and simultaneously Papa Barna's machete descends on him. Oyigbo goes down still screaming.
< 4 >
"Papa Barna, Please!" he coughs, spurting blood. "I did it only once. PLEA--"
Papa Barna's second slash to the neck misses and cuts deep into Oyigbo's shoulder, sending the latter into another ear-piercing scream. The third slash connects precisely as intended. And so do the subsequent ones. Oyigbo the butcher chokes in mid-scream and screams no more.
Wielding a glimmering machete, an insanely angry Papa Barna pursues an unashamedly naked Oyigbo the butcher out of his compound. Picture him in sportswear and the latter would rate high as an Olympic-level sprinter for the effort he is making. Such is his speed that long after this incident, there would be no consensus as to the true size of his penis; no one sees that pendulum for more than a split second. Even the Akpan twins, Paul and Silas, who have the dubious honour of being knocked out of the way as Oyigbo shoots into their compound, would be unable to give their classmate, Okoro the Lip, a detailed description when he demands one. But they would be able to attest to Oyigbo's speed and ability to swerve, for he pulls a hairpin turn around Papa Barna and doubles back towards the main road right before their eyes.
Out on the main road, the chase blows on.
Abruptly, Oyigbo decides the road is making it too easy for Papa Barna to gain on him. So into the bush he veers. He leaps over tree stumps and cuts a swathe through the tropical rainforest with the sheer force of his momentum.
Papa Barna, a man on a clearly defined mission, resolute in the manner of a well-paid assassin bent on earning his fee, tears after Oyigbo. He says nothing but runs with a determination that telegraphs a discomforting message to Oyigbo: this man will not be stopped, no matter what.
Knowing what he knows, no one can possibly blame Oyigbo for pushing himself beyond his own imagination. However, a non-person whose opinion matters a lot is not only heaping blame but is complaining noisily in a most agitated way about Oyigbo's thoughtlessness; his heart is on the verge of bursting ...
Oyigbo's heart has come close to bursting many times in the past years.
"Oh, don't be so fast," Mama Barna would often say from beneath him at such times.
"Yes, yes, no, no," Oyigbo would mostly be confused, his eyes rolling crazily.
Yet at such times, his heart, though close to bursting only seconds earlier, would decelerate to a steady, sated rhythm.
*
< 2 >
This time, there had been neither deceleration nor satisfaction before Oyigbo had to dash off. And now his heart is threatening to burst for real.
Being sharply aware that he would have no need for a heart if he stops, Oyigbo presses on. Papa Barna sails after him, stocky legs, blazing eyes, glimmering machete and all. Papa Barna --
His return from New Town on this fateful day had begun happily enough. To begin with, the mechanic worked fast on his motorcycle and the repairs didn't cost half as much as he had feared. Buying quite a large number of presents for everyone in his household, including a new bowler hat with a silk band and a red feather stuck in it for himself, he had set off cheerfully for the return journey, enjoying the new surge of power delivered by the newly-serviced engine. He made good time and as he alighted from his motorcycle, the quiet pervading his compound struck him as odd. The girls may be in the farm, he reasoned, and Baba - his pet name for his son Barna - would either be frolicking in the stream or still in school, though not on account of any serious work. But his wife ought to be around. He'd opened his mouth to call out to her when he saw the cart. His mouth stayed open but no words came out. Slowly, almost as if he were some external being other than himself, he went into the house. He heard them before he reached his - their - bedroom door. The passionate cries of lovemaking were unmistakable. Entranced, he made his way silently to the store where he kept his tools and things. The machete, usually very heavy, felt almost weightless as he clutched it and started back towards the bedroom.
His mind, however, had a lot of weight on it. So his fears had been true! Human beings being cursed in perpetuity with a selective memory process, Papa Barna could only recall that he'd always had doubts about Maria, his first daughter. How could she really be his when she looked so tall and fair when both he and his wife were short and dark? She had been born ten years before Baba and it had taken five years after Baba's birth before the twins, Ruth and Esther came along. And that had been after numerous sacrifices to the gods. He sadly recognised the truth; only Baba had his blood; Maria, as well as Ruth and Esther - already showing signs of being every inch as tall and as fair as their elder sister - were ... Oh! How would he live with the shame?
< 3 >
Mama Barna had a few seconds to scream and utter a plea before the machete silenced her with one blow. Papa Barna looked at the blood-spurting body without feeling as he wiped the machete on the bed sheets. In the manner of a malfunctioning automaton, he now functioned purely on a dispassionate programme detailed to terminate the fleeing tall and fair Oyigbo ...
*
It is inevitable that a crowd should follow. This, after all, is just a small village. However, not even the younger, more agile men can keep up with the two shooting stars. Oyigbo, on a primordial self-preservation race simply can not be bested. Papa Barna, on a self-divined, holy-inspired mission of honour-preservation is ready to pay any price in his bid to exact the ultimate price. In such company, leisurely folks seeking amusement are in no position to keep up.
"I heard Lazarus telling Tom and Heekee that his Uncle Jonathan said that Oyigbo did not have a good heart," Okoro the Lip would later whisper to Paul and Silas.
"Could it have been an illness?" Paul would ask.
"I don't know," would be Okoro's reply. "Lazarus said that his Uncle Jonathan said that Mama Barna has been marrying Oyigbo the butcher. He knew but he didn't tell anybody. Then that day Oyigbo went and stayed inside Papa Barna's house because he thought Papa Barna will spend the whole day in New Town to repair his motorcycle."
"So what does his heart have to do with it?" Silas would want to know, but Okoro's open palms would be his answer.
"They say the Long-Nosed One in New Town has given the order for them to hang Papa Barna," Paul would reveal.
"I heard that too," Okoro would add. "Some people are saying that it is not fair. Baba Soja who killed more than ten people is still in prison. Papa Barna killed only two and they are going to hang him."
"It must be because of his heart," Silas would sum up. "Maybe they don't want whatever happened to his heart to spread."
"But what really happened to his heart?" Paul would query.
"I don't know," Okoro would pronounce. "I only know that they said he didn't have a good heart."
*
As Oyigbo shoots on to the main pathway to the village stream, a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest draws an agonised scream from him. His steps falter and simultaneously Papa Barna's machete descends on him. Oyigbo goes down still screaming.
< 4 >
"Papa Barna, Please!" he coughs, spurting blood. "I did it only once. PLEA--"
Papa Barna's second slash to the neck misses and cuts deep into Oyigbo's shoulder, sending the latter into another ear-piercing scream. The third slash connects precisely as intended. And so do the subsequent ones. Oyigbo the butcher chokes in mid-scream and screams no more.
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Counting to Prettidase-Nine
I walk with my head down, looking for cracks in the pavement. The sidewalk is grey and rough, but my dirty white running shoes are worn and comfortable. Since I've already stepped on four cracks in the pavement with my left foot, I am trying to find four new cracks for my right foot. I have to find four cracks before I get to the hospital.
A pair of Doc Marten-clad feet suddenly blocks my progress. I stop walking. I slowly raise my head and see black jeans with worn knees, a loose leather belt, and a blue sweat shirt with the words "Daytona Beach" scrawled in yellow across its face. "Sorry," a bald man with dark glasses says as he steps out of my way. I wonder why he is shading his eyes. The sun has been hidden by thick clouds with black undersides all day, making everything around me look a little grey.
With the path clear, I begin to walk again. To avoid more near collisions, I resolve to raise my head to check for obstructions once every five steps. I can still feel the four cracks that my left foot has stepped on, physical memories lingering inside my shoe. One step, two steps, three steps. It is important to find new cracks in the pavement. Four steps, five steps, look up. My right foot feels empty and wants things evened up.
The block ends here; the sidewalk has become a short cliff overlooking the pavement of the road six inches below it. I look up and wait for the traffic to subside before attempting to cross the intersection. I look all the way down the thoroughfare and my eyes tell my brain that the street is wide where I'm standing, but gradually narrows into nothingness further down the road. There's a convenience store sign with a wide eyed red owl on the next block that looks twice the size of an apartment building ten blocks down that I know is at least five stories tall. My father told me a long time ago that it's the shape of our eyes that makes us see things like narrowing roads and tall buildings that seem tiny from far away. He also informed me that special eyeglasses exist to correct this deficiency but he just couldn't afford to buy any for our family. When I asked him when he might be able to get some of these glasses for us, he told me we'd have them in prettidase-nine weeks. "How long is that?" I asked. "It's a long time," he said. Prettidase-nine is the numerical equivalent to the letter Z; it's the last number.
< 2 >
For the moment, there aren't any cars on the street except for a dark green mini-van that looks to be about the size of a dog, so I cross. The pavement on the road is darker than on the sidewalk, more black than grey. There's a thin, lightning bolt-shaped crack next to a rusting manhole cover and I adjust my gait to get my right foot to step on it. One down, three to go. I step up onto the new sidewalk, quickly check ahead for obstacles, and hop over the shadow of the red owl sign, continuing on my way. The apartment building is slowly growing taller and I can see a green bench in front of it now. Accidentally, I step on a crack I hadn't noticed with my left foot. Now it's five to one, in favour of the left. I know, right foot, I know. But don't worry, I'm sure there are more than enough cracks between me and the hospital to make everything even.
My arms swing as I walk. My father told me this is natural because humans evolved from horses and we still hold on to the distant memory of walking on four legs. Arms actually think they are doing part of the walking, he said, and we should let them swing all they want. As I pass a lamp post, the side of my swinging left hand brushes against the metal pole. The impact lingers. I stop, turn around, and pass the grey pole on my right side, trying to recreate the incident for my other hand. I miss the spot, though, and only touch the lamp post with the back of my hand, not the side, so I just stop right in front of the pole. First, I softly touch the cold pole with the back of my left hand, getting that bit of unevenness out of the way, then reach out with the side of my right hand to take care of the original problem. My hands are back to normal again, they can get back to walking. There's a crack in the pavement edging out from the base of the lamp post. Little blades of green grass are growing inside the crack. I step on it twice with my right foot, cheating a bit, I know, and now it's five to three, in favour of the left.
< 3 >
Sometimes it's hard to keep track of all the scores. That's why when I walk I like to take care of little problems like the one I had with the lamp post right away, so that I don't get the big ones mixed up. I used to let everything get out of whack, but that was before my father told me how the body likes everything to be equal.
I came upon him in our living room one evening when he was standing facing the wall next to the mantle piece. He looked like he was playing a piano, the way he was tapping his fingers all over the wall. I asked him what he was doing, and he said that he was adjusting the house's central computer, but I couldn't see any buttons or anything. My mother was lying on the couch nearby, holding an empty glass on her stomach. She said, "Tell him what you're really doing," and he did.
"Tommy," my father said, "there are bees under my bed. If I don't want the bees to come out at night and sting me while I'm asleep, I have to make sure that everything is even on my body."
"Even?" I asked. I heard my mother groan and she got up from the couch, heading for the kitchen.
"Yes, even," my father continued. "You know, Tom, how sometimes you might be walking down the hall and one of your hands touches the wall? But you didn't mean for it to touch the wall? Well, if you don't want the bees to sting you at night, you have to touch the wall with your other hand, to make it even. I want to go to bed now, but I didn't keep up with everything that I did with my fingers today, so now I'm making everything even." He turned around and continued tapping the wall.
"There aren't any bees under my bed, Daddy."
"That's because you're only six years old, Tommy. The bees only start coming around when people turn seven."
My mother was back in the room, I could hear the ice clinking against the sides of her glass. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Arnold. What are you telling him now?" My father did not answer her, he just kept making everything even. My mother took a sip from her glass, wiped her chin, and lay back down on the couch.
< 4 >
"Do you have bees, Mommy?"
My mother closed her eyes and groaned through another sip, slightly lifting her head from the couch pillow. She crunched some ice in her mouth. She wasn't opening her eyes so I walked over and shook her arm. Her lips were gooey wet and she smelled like the medicine she rubbed on my chest when I had the sniffles. I asked again.
"Bees? Me? No, Tommy, I killed my bees a long time ago. Your father just can't get rid of his, that's all." She then seemed to fall asleep, holding her glass on her belly.
I'm looking for cracks in the sidewalk for my right foot to step on so I can keep the bees away tonight. I've been keeping the bees away for fifteen years now. The feet are the most important to keep even, because the bees love to sting people's feet. It's five to three, in favour of the left. Somebody's tin garbage can suddenly gets in my way, and I remind myself to keep checking ahead. There's the five story apartment building with the green bench in front of it, only a few steps away. I stop and turn around to see how big the red owl looks now. My eyes tell my brain that the sign is about the size of a donut hole, but I know that it's actually around five feet tall. In turning, I accidentally swept the side of my right foot against the pavement while my left only touched it with the sole. I drag my left foot on its side along the sidewalk; one to one, even.
I trudge on towards the hospital. One step, two steps, three steps. They probably have those glasses to fix eyesight there, probably kept in a safe or something. Four steps, five steps, look up. There's a telephone booth at the end of the block on my side of the street, so I run across to the other. I don't want any hot lava shooting out of the receiver and burning my skin. There's another green bench on this side of the street. I find a crack in the sidewalk next to the bench and step on it with my right foot. Five to four, in favour of the left.
Running from the lava tired me out, so I decide to sit down for a bit. I turn and face the street. The centre of the bench is right behind me. I raise both arms in the air and sit down slowly on the bench. Even though I am being careful, the right side of my bum touches the bench first. I collapse into a regular sitting position, though, keeping my arms in the air, keeping them from touching anything, until I can feel the bench with my entire bum. I stand up again, my arms are tired, and sit back down, this time purposefully touching the bench with the left side of my bum first. I check my watch, it's twenty-two minutes after twelve. I check my other watch, it's the same time. They are still synchronized. Settled, I fold my hands in my lap.
< 5 >
Now that I am resting, I decide to use the time to get a little bit closer to prettidase-nine. It's taking a long time, but I'm determined to count all the way up to it. When I began counting to prettidase-nine, starting right from number one, Brian was still the Prime Minister. It's a lot of fun, too, because the closer I get to the end of the numbers, the funnier and funnier the names of the numbers get.
This morning, back at home, I decided to do nothing at all but go out to the back yard and count. I was determined to make some progress. Sitting on my old swing set, I got past santaclaus-nine, cornflake-nine, and gingerale-nine. After gingerale-nine came nipple. I laughed so hard when the nipple numbers came up that I only made it to nipple-six before I had to run in the house to tell my father about it.
I pushed the back door open with both of my palms at the same time, a perfect job, and went into the kitchen. I was really anxious to find my father; I wanted to show off a little bit. He's been trying to count to prettidase-nine, too, but he's way behind me, stuck at manitoba-seven. I looked around the kitchen, but my father was nowhere to be found. I noticed the cutting board was left out on the kitchen counter next to a bowl full of tomatoes. There was one tomato on the board, half of it cut into thin slices. There were drops of tomato juice on the floor, a trail, so I followed them. The little drops of tomato led to the living room, and there was more juice on the beige area rug in the middle of the floor. There wasn't anybody in the living room except for my mother, but she's always there now, in the green vase on top of the mantle piece. I said, "Hi, I'm looking for Dad," and ran to the staircase that leads up to my parents' bedroom.
There were drops of tomato all over the stairs. I got about halfway up before I realized that I was stepping harder with my left foot than with my right, so I turned around and hopped back down, jumping on each step with both feet at the same time. I climbed to the middle of the staircase again, putting more pressure on my right foot this time, and hopped back down again to start fresh. Then I accidentally touched the wall with my left hand and had to do the same with my right. While I was fixing that up, I bit my tongue with the left side of my teeth. I took a deep breath and told myself to slow down. If I wasn't careful, I could have been stuck at the bottom of the stairs all day.
< 6 >
Before fixing the inequalities in my mouth, I called up to my father. "Are you up there, Dad?"
"Yes," I heard him answer. "Can you give me a hand? I'm trying to get even."
I closed my eyes and concentrated on getting everything fixed as quickly as possible. I bit down on my tongue with the right side of my teeth and was about to attempt climbing the stairs again when I realized that my eyes had been open when I made the first bite. I bit my tongue with the left side of my teeth with my eyes closed, then with the right side with my eyes open. "Tom?" my father called.
"I'm coming, Dad. I'm just having trouble getting up there again."
"All right. Take your time."
I decided to stop taking chances and hopped all the way up the stairs with both feet. I fell at the top of the stairs and had to touch my elbows to the floor a few times as I lay on my stomach. When my elbows were finally even, I got up very carefully, pressing down on the carpet with equal force in both palms, sliding both knees beneath me simultaneously, and rising slowly to a standing position. I tapped the toe of my right shoe twice on the floor, then my left once and my right again to be sure, and walked to the bedroom. I pushed the door open with both of my palms at the same time.
My father was sitting on the floor, between the end of the bed and the dresser, naked except for his underwear, sitting in a pool of red tomato juice. He was making a long cut in his right leg from his foot to his knee with the tomato knife. I saw a corresponding slash on his left leg and realized that I hadn't been following a trail of tomato juice after all.
"Are you okay, Dad?"
He looked up at me and shrugged his shoulders. His clothes, stained red, lay in a pile beside him on the floor. He held his left index finger out to me, cut to ribbons. He put the knife down on the floor and stretched out his other hand, its index finger sliced in similar fashion. "Do you think they're even?" he asked.
< 7 >
There were more cuts on his arms, his bare shoulders, chest, plus the new gashes in his legs. My father loves toasted tomato sandwiches but sometimes forgets to put on his cutting gloves when he gets a craving. "They look fine, Dad," I lied. "Your fingers are even." Actually, his left index finger was in slightly worse shape than his right, but I judged that a few bee stings in the night would be worth it if I could get him to stop cutting himself. I picked up the knife and passed it back and forth between my hands as I stood over him.
"Hey," my father said, "I'm not finished. Look at this cut here," he pointed to his left leg, "it's not as straight as the other one."
"I think it looks just fine, Dad." There was a lot more blood than the last time. "I think I better get a doctor for you. I think maybe I should call one from next door this time."
"No, Tom-the lava!"
"Okay. I'll go get a doctor. Just wait here."
After nipple-nine comes candlestick. After candlestick-nine comes rockgarden. After rockgarden-nine comes corncob, and after corncob-nine comes paintbrush. After that, paintbrush-one, paintbrush-two, paintbrush-three. I can't wait to find out what comes after paintbrush-nine, but I should get myself over to the hospital. I look at my watches. I've been sitting for eleven minutes, forty seconds. I'll have to wait until it's been twelve minutes to leave, the next even number after eleven. I have more time to count. Where did I leave the knife? Paintbrush-four, paintbrush-five. My watches say it's been twelve minutes now, so I get up, slowly, carefully.
I walk along the sidewalk again, the hospital is in sight now, slightly larger than a breadbox. I check for cracks in the pavement. Paintbrush-six, paintbrush-seven. There's one! I step on the crack with my right foot. The score is five to five, a tie again. Both feet feel empty. Paintbrush-eight, paintbrush-nine. The sun comes out from behind the clouds and everything around me looks a little yellow. I squint, but my left eye closes just before my right.
Maybe I'll fix that later.
Let's see, paintbrush-nine: what comes after? I wasn't expecting this. The next number is prettidase. Prettidase-one, prettidase-two.
It's nearly over.
Counting to Prettidase-Nine
I walk with my head down, looking for cracks in the pavement. The sidewalk is grey and rough, but my dirty white running shoes are worn and comfortable. Since I've already stepped on four cracks in the pavement with my left foot, I am trying to find four new cracks for my right foot. I have to find four cracks before I get to the hospital.
A pair of Doc Marten-clad feet suddenly blocks my progress. I stop walking. I slowly raise my head and see black jeans with worn knees, a loose leather belt, and a blue sweat shirt with the words "Daytona Beach" scrawled in yellow across its face. "Sorry," a bald man with dark glasses says as he steps out of my way. I wonder why he is shading his eyes. The sun has been hidden by thick clouds with black undersides all day, making everything around me look a little grey.
With the path clear, I begin to walk again. To avoid more near collisions, I resolve to raise my head to check for obstructions once every five steps. I can still feel the four cracks that my left foot has stepped on, physical memories lingering inside my shoe. One step, two steps, three steps. It is important to find new cracks in the pavement. Four steps, five steps, look up. My right foot feels empty and wants things evened up.
The block ends here; the sidewalk has become a short cliff overlooking the pavement of the road six inches below it. I look up and wait for the traffic to subside before attempting to cross the intersection. I look all the way down the thoroughfare and my eyes tell my brain that the street is wide where I'm standing, but gradually narrows into nothingness further down the road. There's a convenience store sign with a wide eyed red owl on the next block that looks twice the size of an apartment building ten blocks down that I know is at least five stories tall. My father told me a long time ago that it's the shape of our eyes that makes us see things like narrowing roads and tall buildings that seem tiny from far away. He also informed me that special eyeglasses exist to correct this deficiency but he just couldn't afford to buy any for our family. When I asked him when he might be able to get some of these glasses for us, he told me we'd have them in prettidase-nine weeks. "How long is that?" I asked. "It's a long time," he said. Prettidase-nine is the numerical equivalent to the letter Z; it's the last number.
< 2 >
For the moment, there aren't any cars on the street except for a dark green mini-van that looks to be about the size of a dog, so I cross. The pavement on the road is darker than on the sidewalk, more black than grey. There's a thin, lightning bolt-shaped crack next to a rusting manhole cover and I adjust my gait to get my right foot to step on it. One down, three to go. I step up onto the new sidewalk, quickly check ahead for obstacles, and hop over the shadow of the red owl sign, continuing on my way. The apartment building is slowly growing taller and I can see a green bench in front of it now. Accidentally, I step on a crack I hadn't noticed with my left foot. Now it's five to one, in favour of the left. I know, right foot, I know. But don't worry, I'm sure there are more than enough cracks between me and the hospital to make everything even.
My arms swing as I walk. My father told me this is natural because humans evolved from horses and we still hold on to the distant memory of walking on four legs. Arms actually think they are doing part of the walking, he said, and we should let them swing all they want. As I pass a lamp post, the side of my swinging left hand brushes against the metal pole. The impact lingers. I stop, turn around, and pass the grey pole on my right side, trying to recreate the incident for my other hand. I miss the spot, though, and only touch the lamp post with the back of my hand, not the side, so I just stop right in front of the pole. First, I softly touch the cold pole with the back of my left hand, getting that bit of unevenness out of the way, then reach out with the side of my right hand to take care of the original problem. My hands are back to normal again, they can get back to walking. There's a crack in the pavement edging out from the base of the lamp post. Little blades of green grass are growing inside the crack. I step on it twice with my right foot, cheating a bit, I know, and now it's five to three, in favour of the left.
< 3 >
Sometimes it's hard to keep track of all the scores. That's why when I walk I like to take care of little problems like the one I had with the lamp post right away, so that I don't get the big ones mixed up. I used to let everything get out of whack, but that was before my father told me how the body likes everything to be equal.
I came upon him in our living room one evening when he was standing facing the wall next to the mantle piece. He looked like he was playing a piano, the way he was tapping his fingers all over the wall. I asked him what he was doing, and he said that he was adjusting the house's central computer, but I couldn't see any buttons or anything. My mother was lying on the couch nearby, holding an empty glass on her stomach. She said, "Tell him what you're really doing," and he did.
"Tommy," my father said, "there are bees under my bed. If I don't want the bees to come out at night and sting me while I'm asleep, I have to make sure that everything is even on my body."
"Even?" I asked. I heard my mother groan and she got up from the couch, heading for the kitchen.
"Yes, even," my father continued. "You know, Tom, how sometimes you might be walking down the hall and one of your hands touches the wall? But you didn't mean for it to touch the wall? Well, if you don't want the bees to sting you at night, you have to touch the wall with your other hand, to make it even. I want to go to bed now, but I didn't keep up with everything that I did with my fingers today, so now I'm making everything even." He turned around and continued tapping the wall.
"There aren't any bees under my bed, Daddy."
"That's because you're only six years old, Tommy. The bees only start coming around when people turn seven."
My mother was back in the room, I could hear the ice clinking against the sides of her glass. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Arnold. What are you telling him now?" My father did not answer her, he just kept making everything even. My mother took a sip from her glass, wiped her chin, and lay back down on the couch.
< 4 >
"Do you have bees, Mommy?"
My mother closed her eyes and groaned through another sip, slightly lifting her head from the couch pillow. She crunched some ice in her mouth. She wasn't opening her eyes so I walked over and shook her arm. Her lips were gooey wet and she smelled like the medicine she rubbed on my chest when I had the sniffles. I asked again.
"Bees? Me? No, Tommy, I killed my bees a long time ago. Your father just can't get rid of his, that's all." She then seemed to fall asleep, holding her glass on her belly.
I'm looking for cracks in the sidewalk for my right foot to step on so I can keep the bees away tonight. I've been keeping the bees away for fifteen years now. The feet are the most important to keep even, because the bees love to sting people's feet. It's five to three, in favour of the left. Somebody's tin garbage can suddenly gets in my way, and I remind myself to keep checking ahead. There's the five story apartment building with the green bench in front of it, only a few steps away. I stop and turn around to see how big the red owl looks now. My eyes tell my brain that the sign is about the size of a donut hole, but I know that it's actually around five feet tall. In turning, I accidentally swept the side of my right foot against the pavement while my left only touched it with the sole. I drag my left foot on its side along the sidewalk; one to one, even.
I trudge on towards the hospital. One step, two steps, three steps. They probably have those glasses to fix eyesight there, probably kept in a safe or something. Four steps, five steps, look up. There's a telephone booth at the end of the block on my side of the street, so I run across to the other. I don't want any hot lava shooting out of the receiver and burning my skin. There's another green bench on this side of the street. I find a crack in the sidewalk next to the bench and step on it with my right foot. Five to four, in favour of the left.
Running from the lava tired me out, so I decide to sit down for a bit. I turn and face the street. The centre of the bench is right behind me. I raise both arms in the air and sit down slowly on the bench. Even though I am being careful, the right side of my bum touches the bench first. I collapse into a regular sitting position, though, keeping my arms in the air, keeping them from touching anything, until I can feel the bench with my entire bum. I stand up again, my arms are tired, and sit back down, this time purposefully touching the bench with the left side of my bum first. I check my watch, it's twenty-two minutes after twelve. I check my other watch, it's the same time. They are still synchronized. Settled, I fold my hands in my lap.
< 5 >
Now that I am resting, I decide to use the time to get a little bit closer to prettidase-nine. It's taking a long time, but I'm determined to count all the way up to it. When I began counting to prettidase-nine, starting right from number one, Brian was still the Prime Minister. It's a lot of fun, too, because the closer I get to the end of the numbers, the funnier and funnier the names of the numbers get.
This morning, back at home, I decided to do nothing at all but go out to the back yard and count. I was determined to make some progress. Sitting on my old swing set, I got past santaclaus-nine, cornflake-nine, and gingerale-nine. After gingerale-nine came nipple. I laughed so hard when the nipple numbers came up that I only made it to nipple-six before I had to run in the house to tell my father about it.
I pushed the back door open with both of my palms at the same time, a perfect job, and went into the kitchen. I was really anxious to find my father; I wanted to show off a little bit. He's been trying to count to prettidase-nine, too, but he's way behind me, stuck at manitoba-seven. I looked around the kitchen, but my father was nowhere to be found. I noticed the cutting board was left out on the kitchen counter next to a bowl full of tomatoes. There was one tomato on the board, half of it cut into thin slices. There were drops of tomato juice on the floor, a trail, so I followed them. The little drops of tomato led to the living room, and there was more juice on the beige area rug in the middle of the floor. There wasn't anybody in the living room except for my mother, but she's always there now, in the green vase on top of the mantle piece. I said, "Hi, I'm looking for Dad," and ran to the staircase that leads up to my parents' bedroom.
There were drops of tomato all over the stairs. I got about halfway up before I realized that I was stepping harder with my left foot than with my right, so I turned around and hopped back down, jumping on each step with both feet at the same time. I climbed to the middle of the staircase again, putting more pressure on my right foot this time, and hopped back down again to start fresh. Then I accidentally touched the wall with my left hand and had to do the same with my right. While I was fixing that up, I bit my tongue with the left side of my teeth. I took a deep breath and told myself to slow down. If I wasn't careful, I could have been stuck at the bottom of the stairs all day.
< 6 >
Before fixing the inequalities in my mouth, I called up to my father. "Are you up there, Dad?"
"Yes," I heard him answer. "Can you give me a hand? I'm trying to get even."
I closed my eyes and concentrated on getting everything fixed as quickly as possible. I bit down on my tongue with the right side of my teeth and was about to attempt climbing the stairs again when I realized that my eyes had been open when I made the first bite. I bit my tongue with the left side of my teeth with my eyes closed, then with the right side with my eyes open. "Tom?" my father called.
"I'm coming, Dad. I'm just having trouble getting up there again."
"All right. Take your time."
I decided to stop taking chances and hopped all the way up the stairs with both feet. I fell at the top of the stairs and had to touch my elbows to the floor a few times as I lay on my stomach. When my elbows were finally even, I got up very carefully, pressing down on the carpet with equal force in both palms, sliding both knees beneath me simultaneously, and rising slowly to a standing position. I tapped the toe of my right shoe twice on the floor, then my left once and my right again to be sure, and walked to the bedroom. I pushed the door open with both of my palms at the same time.
My father was sitting on the floor, between the end of the bed and the dresser, naked except for his underwear, sitting in a pool of red tomato juice. He was making a long cut in his right leg from his foot to his knee with the tomato knife. I saw a corresponding slash on his left leg and realized that I hadn't been following a trail of tomato juice after all.
"Are you okay, Dad?"
He looked up at me and shrugged his shoulders. His clothes, stained red, lay in a pile beside him on the floor. He held his left index finger out to me, cut to ribbons. He put the knife down on the floor and stretched out his other hand, its index finger sliced in similar fashion. "Do you think they're even?" he asked.
< 7 >
There were more cuts on his arms, his bare shoulders, chest, plus the new gashes in his legs. My father loves toasted tomato sandwiches but sometimes forgets to put on his cutting gloves when he gets a craving. "They look fine, Dad," I lied. "Your fingers are even." Actually, his left index finger was in slightly worse shape than his right, but I judged that a few bee stings in the night would be worth it if I could get him to stop cutting himself. I picked up the knife and passed it back and forth between my hands as I stood over him.
"Hey," my father said, "I'm not finished. Look at this cut here," he pointed to his left leg, "it's not as straight as the other one."
"I think it looks just fine, Dad." There was a lot more blood than the last time. "I think I better get a doctor for you. I think maybe I should call one from next door this time."
"No, Tom-the lava!"
"Okay. I'll go get a doctor. Just wait here."
After nipple-nine comes candlestick. After candlestick-nine comes rockgarden. After rockgarden-nine comes corncob, and after corncob-nine comes paintbrush. After that, paintbrush-one, paintbrush-two, paintbrush-three. I can't wait to find out what comes after paintbrush-nine, but I should get myself over to the hospital. I look at my watches. I've been sitting for eleven minutes, forty seconds. I'll have to wait until it's been twelve minutes to leave, the next even number after eleven. I have more time to count. Where did I leave the knife? Paintbrush-four, paintbrush-five. My watches say it's been twelve minutes now, so I get up, slowly, carefully.
I walk along the sidewalk again, the hospital is in sight now, slightly larger than a breadbox. I check for cracks in the pavement. Paintbrush-six, paintbrush-seven. There's one! I step on the crack with my right foot. The score is five to five, a tie again. Both feet feel empty. Paintbrush-eight, paintbrush-nine. The sun comes out from behind the clouds and everything around me looks a little yellow. I squint, but my left eye closes just before my right.
Maybe I'll fix that later.
Let's see, paintbrush-nine: what comes after? I wasn't expecting this. The next number is prettidase. Prettidase-one, prettidase-two.
It's nearly over.
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