Crescent Gorge

  #

  Paul walked home, after a great day, to see Bill asking Rachel to go to the Shop-N-Save with him. She looked back at Paul, and all he could do was smile and shrug, as she walked out the door.

  He flopped down on the old worn sofa in the common area, in front of a blank TV screen. Heather came in and sat beside him.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "I think . . . I think it's over, between me and Rachel."

  "Why?"

  "She's hanging out with Bill now."

  "Bill? I didn't think he was interested."

  "He's still a fucking virgin; every girl interests him."

  "Not me," she said, sitting back.

  "You don't even like guys."

  "Well, still, it hurts my feelings that he's never even looked twice at me."

  Paul managed a weak smile. "I suppose, but I don't feel hurt 'cause Ethan's never asked me out."

  They broke into laughter, and Paul started to feel a little better.

  "I creamed Rasi today."

  "What do you mean?"

  "That plant . . . it made me so much smarter! I wrote an equation on the whiteboard, one Rasi or any other physicist could never come up with, and then wiped it all away. He looked like a pile of shit when I was done."

  Heather nodded. "Do you know what year it is?"

  Paul looked at her funny. "What kinda question is that?"

  "What year is it, Paul?"

  "2014."

  "And we have these things called cellphones, right?"

  "Yeah. And?"

  "And everyone has these cellphones, right?"

  "Yeah, and?" demanded Paul, getting irritated.

  "They all have cameras inside, Paul! And in any given class, at least twenty-percent of the people have it out, and you know how quick we can pull up the camera, right?"

  Paul sank back, realization sinking in. "Right."

  "So maybe everyone was amazed at what you did, and didn't have the presence of mind to take a picture."

  "You don't believe that any more than I do."

  "And if that picture gets out, posted on the internet; on Facebook or Instagram, how long before someone who knows what that equation is all about starts digging? Starts looking for you. Maybe it's a company that wants to hire you and pay you all this money. Or maybe it's the government, and they want to abduct you and use you."

  "You're saying I was stupid."

  "No, you were angry," said Heather, with an understanding smile. "I get angry too, Paul, and I do things I regret later. I think you need to be more circumspect about how you show your new talents. You need to think about what it can get you, and who it can control. The more you can control, the more can keep you safe. You no longer have to think about Rachel, and what she might say, or do. You can focus on yourself, and one day a thousand Rachels will beg to be with you."

  "And it won't matter what color I am to any of them." Paul sat back, and examined her. "You know, I always got the impression that you didn't like me."

  "I didn't like you with Rachel, in fact, I hated seeing you with her. And now that Bill's with her, I'll hate seeing him with her. Maybe I'll even come to hate him as well. But now, you and I are alike. We've each touched the plant, and neither of us has her. So maybe we can be civil to one another, and start helping one another get ahead in this crapful world."

  "You know what I want out of this world; what do you want?"

  Heather got up, and absently stared out the window. "I think a lot goes on in the world that we don't know about. I think . . . I think I never want to be in the dark again. I want to know things, everything. I want to know the pulleys and pistons that drive the engine of the world, and I want the ability to stop them all."

  After Heather left, Paul turned on the television. A David Lynch movie was on; Inland Empire. The movie was a bit of a jumble to him, but he sat through it, mesmerized by the character's journey. But at the end, when the woman sat down next to the black homeless characters, he became very angry and very focused.

  I think I'm going to take over the physics department.

  17

  The build-up to Thanksgiving at the Shop-N-Save was always a difficult one. The small stockroom was overflowing with plastic bags, aluminum foil, stuffing, cans of cranberry sauce. Cardboard shippers littered the salesfloor, strategically positioned around vendor-made displays of product stacked to look like a turkey, or a football, or Santa's head.

  Lizzie had a long day of making pies. While it was tiresome work, it did mean that she had some peace and quiet; Charles had to babysit his Regional Manager all day and couldn't afford to spend any time torturing her. The displays they put up for Thanksgiving also formed a barrier around the ovens so no one could see her work. As she pulled the last of the pies out of the oven, she glanced around to make sure she couldn't be seen.

  Can't believe I'm really gonna do this, she thought with glee, as she reached down into her panties. She was at the beginning of her menstruation, and her flow was typically fairly heavy. She pulled out her blood stained finger, and positioned it over the first pie. No one will even notice.

  Lizzie was someone whose low self-esteem meant that she hated everyone else. She felt as though the world had always been against her, that no one had ever done her nay favors, so she was within her rights to exact vengeance upon it whenever she could. Often she had put things into the baked goods; whether it be spittle, or mucus when she was sick, or even a little smear of brown under the brownies. No one ever noticed, and no one ever caught on. It made her feel a little better, when the tall, thin woman fresh from the gym would glance at her with disdain, or when the twelve-year old brat-boy snickered as he passed her by.

  A noise startled her; it sounded like someone dropped a carton of eggs. She looked up, and caught her reflection in the Plexiglas barrier that surrounded the bakery. She couldn't look at it, so she averted her eyes, glancing instead out onto the salesfloor.

  A woman was walking by with a baby in a stroller, and a friend pushing a shopping cart. What they looked like was irrelevant; whether they were fat or thin, black or white, straight or gay, for they represented the average mother with child who walked and shopped the Shop-N-Save on a daily basis. the woman said;

  "Did you hear what the Pope did?"

  "The what?" asked her friend, as she swerved the cart to avoid a stackout of cinnamon rolls.

  "The Pope; Pope Francis, or whatever. Anyway, he's totally doing things different. He's actually paying attention to the poor people for a change."

  "Yeah, right. No one does stuff like that unless they want something later on."

  "Yeah, I know what you mean, but he seems different. He's washing people's feet, Joan. He's paying his own bills! I mean, I'm not real religious or anything, but stuff like that . . . . well, I don't know, it just gives me hope."

  As they walked off, Lizzie looked down at her blood-stained fingers. While she wasn't terribly tuned in to current events, for some reason her ears perked up whenever the new Pope was mentioned, and she remembered.

  What if he walked in here, right now, and looked at what I'm about to do. A man without fault, who lives his life the right way. What could I say to him? Whatever happened to me, gives me no right to do this to other people. Why . . . why am I doing this? she asked herself. I don't even know these people. How will this make me happy? She wiped her finger on her apron, and brought out her cellphone from her front pocket. She slid it on, and browsed the photos which included Mealey having sex in his patrol car, as well as a dozen other choice shots. Why did I take these? What would I do with them? What kind of person am I too have done this? She sighed, and had to sit down, as she suddenly felt the immense weight she had been carrying for many years. I just didn't realize how bad it's gotten.

  Lizzie leaned back, and let a few tears run down her cheeks. She was still hidden from what went on inside the store, and sobbed in silence. A memory of her mother came back, of one of the few times her mothe
r actually acted like her mother. They had left the doctor, where she had been diagnosed as being 'obese.' Her mother sat with her outside the office, as they waited for the bus, and said;

  "I know you're better than this, Elizabeth; I just know it. We've both been through a lot, and I'm sorry I haven't done all I could to stop this from happening. But I need your help to change the path you're on. I love you so much, and it breaks my heart to think you might turn out like me."

  Her mother hugged her then, and Lizzie had felt her tears fall down her neck, and she had cried with her. As she sat next to the rack of cooling pies, Lizzie felt hope for the first time in many years. She knew it would take a long time and a lot of work to slough the terrible weight off her back, but she felt that if just one man could live so simply, so honestly as the Pope, then maybe she could as well. She wiped her tears and went back to work, resolved to stay on the new path she had set for herself.