I float along down the corridor like a phantom, through no effort of my own, while the fools on the other side of the black handrail huff and puff, wasting energy, walking.  Should have taken the platform, buddy.

            Come on!  My dad is waiting, my girlfriend says to me.  I would rather just stand here, but she seems to think the moving platform is for walking on, not standing on.  To get places faster, not easier.  She doesn’t understand that I chose this particular black etched rectangle when I stepped onto it, and I intended to stick with it and thank it for the ride when I got off.  But no, we have to hurry to meet her dad in the passenger pick up area.  He’s waiting.

            I’m not sure what to expect of her dad when I meet him, but judging from the way she bit her nails on the plane, picked out my shirt the night before, and went on and on about how much he’ll like me, I’m pretty sure she thinks he’s not going to like me.  She even told me not to mention how old I am, if it could be avoided.  I, on the other hand, am sure that he is a human, and that I am a human, and that when we get past the facts that I am unemployed and seven years younger than his daughter, with whom I am currently living, then we will reach an understanding.  We will realize the things that we have in common, he and I, that even our sweet Charlotte wouldn’t understand.  Guy things.  Manly things.  Things that we both enjoy.  We will be friends, so close that even Charlotte becomes jealous from time to time.

            Oh fuck, there he is.  He looks old.  I didn’t picture him that old.  His hair is completely white.  He and Charlotte see each other and wave, smile and hug each other.  I wait, awkwardly.  Am I standing too close?  He has kind of a numb look behind that smile, like he’s trying to look more excited than he really is.  Is that what you are, Sir?  A-pretend-to-be-more-excited-than-you-really-are type of guy?  Because if you are, then we’ll get along just fine.

            So you must be Charlie!  he says, although I’m not sure that exclamation point is entirely accurate.  It was a subdued greeting, but not totally without affection.  We shake hands, and I say how nice it is to meet him, how I’ve heard nice things.  He asks about the flight, we say it was fine, and we walk towards the car.  He absolutely despises me.  He wants me not there.

            Of course I am sitting in the back of the car and Charlotte is up front talking to her dad.  The windows are open and I can barely hear what they are saying over the roaring wind.  She asks many questions about people I don’t know and he answers them seriously, as if it’s all terribly important.  I wish I could think of something to say.  Maybe something funny.  I wish I could make a joke that he would love, that he would really crack up over and repeat to his wife as soon as we got home.  I look out the window, searching for something to joke about.  Restaurants, billboards for attorneys, mini-golf course.  Mini golf is funny, kind of.  There’s a joke there, I’m sure, but I can’t find it.  I look at the palm trees on the side of the road and I remember how I used to visit Florida when I was little.  My mom, my older brother and I used to come every Spring to see our grandparents.  I loved coming to Florida; I loved how warm it was, how familiar.  Even now, whenever it starts to get warm in the Spring and I can smell all the leaves and flowers and grass and all that, and the air remembers everything that happened last Spring and the Spring before that, it always reminds me of the little things in Florida.  It reminds me of playing around the palm trees and trying to catch lizards with my older brother.  I haven’t been here since my grandparents passed away.   

I become kind of sad and happy at the same time, thinking about that, and I want to relate some of this to Charlotte’s dad, to thank him for inviting me, so I lean up towards the front seat and mention how happy I am to be in Florida because of the lizards.  He can’t hear me so I say it louder.  It sounds stupid.  He laughs and jokes how he has plenty of lizards in his garage for me to play with.  Tons of them.  He is making fun of me, as if I am a retarded person who likes to play with lizards instead of doing grown up things.  Charlotte laughs too. 

When my brother and I finally caught the lizards we would keep them as pets and carry them around in our pockets.  He once convinced me to throw mine up into the whirring ceiling fan.  I didn’t want to, but I did, and when it hit the blade, I felt a pain in my guts like it was my own genitals that had flown across the room and smacked the wall.  It kind of feels like that now.

           

We stop at a coffee shop and stand in line together.  Of course Charlotte’s dad is going to pay, and I have to thank him afterward without sounding awkward or phony.  I try to think of things to talk about, like how nice the weather is compared to New York, but it’s all just so stupid and mundane.  I wish I could just tell him that I love his daughter and that I’m a good person and that he should love me because I could love him so easily if he would only let me try because my dad died and I never got to have a dad with white hair. 

             Something crashes behind us and we turn and see a group of six ninjas breaking down the door to the coffee shop.  Five of them are dressed in all black and one, the leader, is dressed in red.  They throw ninja stars at everyone in the coffee shop.  Blood shoots out of their necks.  One of them hits Charlotte’s dad in the leg with a bowstaff and he is down, but I quickly punch that ninja in the face and throw him out the window.  Then I start beating up the other ninjas, punching, kicking, twisting their arms and smashing their faces into the rack of muffins.  The leader ninja then grabs Charlotte and holds a sword to her neck.  Her dad yells NOOOOO!!!!!!!!  I immediately reach down and pull a ninja star out of the belt of an unconscious ninja and throw it at the leader ninja.  It stabs him right between the eyes, killing him, missing Charlotte by mere inches.  Charlotte runs to me and embraces me, and I help her dad to his feet.  He embraces me as well, so impressed by my martial arts skills that he starts crying and offers me a millions dollars and asks me to please marry his daughter.  Just then, one of the unconscious ninjas wakes up and pulls a throwing knife out of his boot and aims it at Charlotte’s dad.  I do a backflip and kick him in the face and his head explodes.

            Charlotte’s dad mentions that I’m kind of a quiet guy, aren’t I, and Charlotte says I’m just tired from the flight and gives me a look with her eyebrows.

            We get to the house and it’s huge and beautiful and they have a pool and a hot tub in the back.  I can see that they are obviously rich, so I take off my shoes at the door.  I meet Charlotte’s stepmom, and she looks at my hair and my shirt more than at my face when she says hello.  I say that it’s nice to meet her, that I’ve heard nice things.  She asks if we’re hungry and I say no without thinking and then Charlotte says yes, and I say well, yes, I guess I could eat.  Actually, I’m starving.  Charlotte’s stepmom then realizes that I’m an idiot and makes us sandwiches.

           

Charlotte and I grab our bags and head upstairs to the guest room and her dad says something from the bottom of the stairs, something about me taking the other guest room.  I stop and look at Charlotte, confused and waiting for guidance.  She says, haha, Dad.  Very funny.  I remember that she is thirty, and that it isn’t like that at all.  In the room she grabs my shoulders, kisses me quickly and looks me in the eyes.  She asks me if I’m alright.  Why am I so quiet?  I need to make an effort, you know.  Once they get to know me, they’ll love me, she’s sure of it.  I just need to open up.  I know, I say.  I’m just a little out of it.  She asks me if I want another coffee.  She sounds like my mother when she asks, and suddenly she’s like a parent too, and I’m the only child.  She is looking through her clothes for something else to wear.  She is regretting this.

            In the bathroom I can finally breathe.  I pee, and then I wipe the rim of the toilet to make sure there aren’t any droplets.  I try to fix my hair, but it’s pointing behind me and to the side and won’t budge.  I wet it and dry it with a towel.  I look in the cabinet and find some aftershave.  I put some on, just to try it, and it makes me feel a little more grown up, a little less like me.

 

            We go to the beach, the four of us.  We park the SUV right on the sand and get four beach chairs and a cooler from the trunk.  When I see the ocean and smell the waves more memories peak out of the folds in my brain.  I remember digging in the sand with my brother, finding shark’s teeth and clams, and huge conch shells.  We would give them to our mom as gifts and she would keep them and later put them on the windowsill back in New York.  I wonder how many other memories could possibly be hiding in my head.  I have an urge to call my brother, whom I haven’t talked to since Christmas, but since I have no phone I take a breath and position my chair near her dad and tell him how lovely it all is.  He nods in agreement.  You must be enjoying your retirement down here, I say, and he begins to talk.  Reclining in his chair, watching the waves through his sunglasses, he tells me a little bit about his life.  He tells me about his new love for biking, about how he does one or two “centuries” a week, which he explains, are 100-mile rides.  I’m impressed and I try to show it in a genuine way.  He also tells me about his other hobbies, which are pruning bonsai trees and yoga.  I can tell that he is very zen.  A retired businessman living a new spiritual life.  Maybe I can be zen too.  He talks for a while and I mimic his pose, leaning back in my chair facing the water.  I look over towards him from time to time and comment.  I find myself not listening so much to what he is saying but instead listening to the warm spot that I’m feeling in my chest because he is talking to me about things he loves.  I become very still and focus on this warmth, feeling like I’m wearing the ocean like a sweater.  He says something and laughs and I laugh too, wanting to throw back my head and hoot.  He is silent then, and we hear Charlotte and her stepmom talking to each other nearby about something girly, jewelry or makeup or something like that.  He looks at me and I smile and nod my head in their direction.  Women!  I say to him with my expression.  We both know how they are, don’t we?  Haha!  That Charlotte.  She was so nervous about this visit.  Nervous about you and me not getting along!  Can you imagine?  Always wanting approval of their men.  They’re silly, but we love them, don’t we?  We’re so lucky, you and I.  He nods his head strangely and settles back into his chair, assuming the pose of sleep.  I wonder if his eyes are closed behind his shades.

            I close my eyes and doze a little too.  I remember when I was at the beach with my mother and brother and I wandered down by myself towards the pier, looking for treasures in the tide.  When I turned around and headed back I couldn’t find them.  I thought I remembered where they were, and I searched for the color of their towels among the crowd but I couldn’t find them.  I kept going until I was certain that I’d gone too far, then I turned around.  I went back and forth until I didn’t know which way to go so I just stopped and looked, searching with my squinty eyes.  A man asked me if I was lost, and I tried to speak but I couldn’t.  My legs felt like wobbly stilts and my body felt hot, really hot, like I was about to explode.  When I finally found my mother and brother, they asked if I had fun.  They had no idea what just happened, and neither did I, really, so I didn’t try to explain.

            We are woken up by a shout and I’m the first on my feet.  There! I yell and I point into the water.  I run and dive into the ocean and swim with all my might.  Charlotte and her family run to the edge of the water and watch.  I emerge a couple minutes later with an unconscious little boy slung over my shoulder.  His lips are blue.  I lie him down on the ground and perform CPR.  His mother runs over screaming.  They are all screaming, and I calmly and quickly work, breathing in his mouth and pushing on his chest.  Finally he coughs up gallons of seawater, seahorses and starfish spilling out of his lungs.  He grabs my neck and hugs me, thanking me.  His mother cries and thanks me.  Everyone is crying and hugging and laughing and patting me on the back.  Charlotte’s dad puts his arm around me and messes my wet hair, flinging saltwater mixed with tears.

 

            So, you had a talk with Dad on the beach? asks Charlotte.  We are back in the guest room getting changed for dinner.  Yeah, I say.  She looks more nervous than pleased.  She asks what we talked about, and I shrug.  This and that, guy stuff.  But it was good?  Did he ask you a lot of questions?  About what you do and stuff?  No, I say.  He didn’t ask many questions.  Any.  He didn’t really ask any questions.  She starts rummaging through her suitcase again, holding up different shirts.  She is worrying about me, second-guessing everything.  I put on a T-shirt and she makes me change it for the button-up one.  She kisses me quickly, as an afterthought. 

We go downstairs at six for what they call Happy Hour, which I thought only happens in bars and restaurants, but I guess it’s a tradition with them as well.  We all meet in the living room and there’s a full bar there, and Charlotte’s dad starts making drinks.  He seems more upbeat, and can tell this is a fun thing for him.  He asks the women first and they both want a Cosmopolitan, but I know that this is a girly drink so I’m definitely not asking for that.  But I’m not a big drinker, so I really don’t know what to ask for.  Something sophisticated, something manly.  When he gives the ladies their Cosmos and says, Charlie, whaddya havin?  I ask for a martini, which I’ve never had before.  Alright! He says loudly.  A martini drinker!  My kind of drink.  You want gin or vodka?  I say gin because the last time I had vodka I fell asleep in the bathroom. 

I’m nervous holding the martini glass, afraid I’ll spill it, so I take a big first sip.  It burns going down but I try not to show it, and I say it’s great.  Charlotte’s dad has one too, and we all sit and start to chat.  I can feel the drink relaxing me and I can tell why they call it Happy Hour, because they all lighten up.  Charlotte’s dad sits back in his chair and says, SO!, and I think, Aha!  Here it comes.  He was just waiting for Happy Hour.  See that, Charlotte?  He is interested in me.

So! Charlie, I hear you’re a writer? he asks.  Yeah, that’s right, I say.  I wasn’t even sure Charlotte had told him that.  I look over at her, and she and her stepmom are silent, listening to us.  He asks me what kind of writer, and I tell him fiction.  He asks me if I’ve been published, and I say, not yet.  He’s a great writer, Dad, says Charlotte.  He nods and thinks.  He asks me other questions too, about what I studied in school, who my favorite authors are, if I have a Master’s, if I want to teach.  My mouth goes dry and I sip more of the martini, which seems to be getting easier to swallow.  He asks me what I write about.  I start to explain, thinking about one story at a time, trying to string them together, using words I learned in school, words like themes, conflicts, exploration.  It comes out sounding pretty fake.  I realize then that I am drunk, and I wonder if they can tell.  He is nodding politely and the women are quiet.  How did I get drunk so quickly?  In a burst of effort, I try to explain about the little things I think about, how I try to make them bigger in my stories.  I bring up the lizards again, because I think it is a perfect example, but what I say makes no sense and I feel my face getting red.  They’re all looking at me.  I’m getting hot and sweaty so I make a gesture with my body, a wave, a sip of my drink, and I recline, to suggest that I’m not really serious, it’s just a little hobby, just for fun.  I do something else, really. 

Well what is it that you do? He asks.  Oh, well, I couldn’t.  Oh yes, please show them, Charlie! says Charlotte.  Yes, please, please, we want to see! cry her dad and stepmom.  Well, alright.  I put my glass down on the table and lean towards them.  But you mustn’t tell anyone, I say, very seriously.  We promise!  We won’t tell anyone, they say.  Alright.  I sit up straight in my chair and the lights in the room seem to grow softer.  I breathe softly in and out, concentrating.  Everyone is still and silent.  The room grows warmer, more comforting, and their bodies inexplicably all relax.  They can’t help but smile.  My skin begins to glow, my eyes light up, they are enraptured.  I slowly reach my arms up to my chest and reach inside.  I separate my ribcage; they gasp and drop their drinks.  I slowly pull open my torso and reveal a glowing orange orb inside that swells and hums.  The light fills the room and caresses each of them.  They forget who they are, who I am.  They are in love.  They are enlightened.  They are born again, swimming dizzily in the light.  They remember that they always knew they would one day meet me and love me.

 

I come out of the bathroom, my face still wet from the faucet.  When Charlotte sees me she stops talking to her father and comes over.  She asks if I’m alright, hands me a glass of water.  Fine, fine, I say.  Just a bit too much too drink.  That martini really kicked my butt! I joke to her Dad, who chuckles.  They tend to do that, he says.  Charlotte gives her Dad a look, and he remembers something.  He calls me over to the back door.  He wants to show me his bonsai trees on the porch.

He shows me the trees one by one, telling me the species of plant, how old it is, how he pruned it to look that way.  The idea, he explains, is to create a tree in miniature.  You keep the tree very small by keeping it in a pot and pruning it.  If you keep the roots and branches restricted, it takes on the appearance of a mature tree, but it stays the size of a sapling.  Some bonsais can live to be over a century old, and stay this small.  Like your bike rides, I say, to show that I was paying attention.  A century.  Right! he says.  Exactly.  Look at this one, he says.  He points to one tiny branch that has grown through a hole in a penny and wrapped around it.  You plant it like this, with a coin, for good luck with money.  I bend close and look, and it looks like a normal sized tree wrapped around a giant penny.  I say, wow, that’s really neat.  I like that.  And I mean it.  We find that we both like bonsai trees.

 

Adam Sturtevant is a 26-year-old writer and musician living in Brooklyn, New York.  He has played drums for many different indie artists, most notably St. Vincent, Via Audio, and Sufjan Stevens, and has also scored several short films.  He writes novels and short stories in his spare time.  His fiction has recently appeared in Decomp Magazine, Two Hawks Quarterly, and Sangam Magazine.