The Junkyard Pt. 2

“And every time the herald Cherub sings we rattle with the car parts” – Page France

Charlie never liked being short. He never particularly liked the way people were (literally) looking down at him. He was just as able as other kids; in fact he was incredibly athletic. He could climb rope twice as fast as Jake and when you really think about it he would have to do twice as much work because he’s nearly half Jake’s size. So, adjusting for inflation, Charlie was the best rope climber by nearly 4 times… but Charlie hated math.

“Who cares about 7s?!” He said to his father.

“Ms. Franklin does.”

“Who cares about Ms. Franklin?!”

His father stood there silent. Reaching down to the flash cards that sat on the coffee table his face was worried. He shuffled them while staring at Charlie, examining his enraged disinterest as if looking for a crack in a wall.

He pulled a card out.

“7 times 8”

“are you kidding  me? That’s the hardest one!”

“7 times 8”

“No.”

His father set the card aside.

“Don’t you say no to me young man,” grabbing another card from the pile.

“7 times 6”

They were both silent.

“7 times 6”

… “no” Charlie’s voice was soft.

His father stared at him, adopting the angry that was once his, as if sucking it out of his soul. Rage filled his eyes.

“7 times 8, 56. 7 times 8, 56. 7 times 8, 56. You’re telling me you can’t do this?”

Charlie was still as he saw his father become the beast that was once inside of him.

“You can’t remember? 7 times 8? 56. 7 times 8, 56. 7 times 8… what is it Charles! You can’t do it, can you? You can’t do it!”

“No!”

Charlie ran up the stairs, tripping over the carpet. He ran into his room, slamming the door behind him.

After a few minutes his sobbing died down and he noticed the rug burns on his knees and hands. His father hadn’t followed him. He knew he was being childish, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t do math.

…

The soil seemed to exhale as Sam sank into it. Sam could feel the pain starting in his lower back but it wasn’t nearly as bad as he expected.

“Charlie!” he yelled again.

His eyes shifted from left to right but saw nothing he could recognize. He gripped some of the soil with his hands; it was wet and mossy. He knew he had ruined his new jeans because he could feel the moisture of the grass stains.

Hoisting himself up with his left arm, he brought his view to an old rusted refrigerator.  Lying next to it was a pogo stick, but he wasn’t sure since he’d never seen one before.  He shifted his body to the other side, an old type-writer, a rusted old divers suit, and a bear skin rug all made up the crest of the wave of junk that went back for what seemed like miles. Twisted rusted metal jetted up toward the clouds making a skyline of relics. Sam lay there in amazement. He began to reach for the bearskin rug and could barely feel it in his fingertips. It was warm.

Suddenly a wooden rod came down, pinning Sam’s hooded sweater to the ground. As he looked up he saw an old bearded man standing above him holding the walking stick firmly and staring into his eyes. His eyes weren’t angry.

“He doesn’t like petting much.”

“CHARLIE!”

…

Charlie had been able to write it off the first time. He was probably just hearing things. This time he heard it again, a little more clear. He had grabbed a stick and ran it against the chain-link fence to help him clear his thoughts. If Sam didn’t want him around he wasn’t going to stick around. He didn’t need to know what was up in that tree, and he was happy to save the money he would have lost. Who needs friends like Sam anyway? All he ever did was talk about himself and the girls at school.

“CHARLIE!” it was louder this time, and terrified. Sam dropped the stick and ran back, turning the corner so quickly that his shoes almost lost their grip. He looked up at the tree. No Sam.

“Sam!”

He looked down at the base of the tree, afraid he’d find Sam curled up in a ball at the bottom. Both luckily and unluckily, Sam wasn’t there.

Charlie ran to the base of the tree, examining all the branches and creases to find a place low enough for him to reach. He jumped up to get the lowest branch and grazed it with his fingertips, scraping his knee on the bark on the way down.

“Sam! Are you okay?!” No answer.

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck, playing with the two moles that were there as if somehow they would make him smarter. He examined the base of the tree again. A root stuck out of the ground a little higher than the others and about 3 feet up there was a crease in the bark. If he summoned all of his amazing parkour powers he might just be able to leap up, place one foot on the crease and reach the highest branch.

Charlie laughed at the taught and then imagined Jake. He imagined Jake laughing from the top of the rope climb, staring down at him as squirmed himself up inch by inch. The rope grew thicker and covered itself with bark and leaves until it had morphed into the tree he now saw in front of him. He took in a big breath and stared up at the Jake that was in his head.

With one grunt he propelled himself off of the branch, placing his foot up on the crease, he felt the loss of the grip that he had from taking that corner too fast. As his foot slipped from the crease he reached his hands as high as they could and felt his fingers ringing around the branch. He foot slipped out from under him and his fingers tightened.

Now what.

Charlie dangled from the highest branch, now somewhere in between “too high to let go” and “not high enough to reach the next branch.”

Charlie just dangled there and laughed.

Bringing one hand in front of the other he slowly brought himself closer to the tree trunk until he could barely reach it with his feet. He brushed it a couple of times before finally finding traction and lifting his lower body up onto the branch. He hugged it with relief for a moment before standing in victory. Suddenly all the branches seemed easily conquered. Leaping from one to the next he reached the top of fence and peered over.

“Sam! You down there?” He saw the imprint from where Sam fell and then footprints leading toward the old rusted house marked “The Junkyard”.

“Game on Sammy-boy”

Charlie leaped from the tree and into the Junkyard.