(weirdly enough, this was inspired by a GAF thread) Thanks to Chris Kohler who looked it over and spotted my fobby grammar mistakes.
Wyatt
Words: 742
A deep and disturbing rumble grows louder in Wyatt’s throat. That one unsightly vein embossed on his forehead pulses. Then it stops. He looks down on the ground, aims at the drain, and spits out a winner. It is probably the only time it gets this quiet around here. And like most self-proclaimed “smart types,” Wyatt gets all reflective at the wee hours of the night.
He thinks about today, which is barely three hours old. Today marks Chrissy’s seventh birthday, and Pete’s death five years ago. Exactly three months ago, Johnny left. And it was two weeks ago when Bobby graced this place with his presence.
“Jesus freaking Christ,” Wyatt muttered while shaking his head, and proceeded to process just how many have come and gone. How many ended up having happy endings, and how many were reincarnated into the form of a number, or worse, an asterisk. And like most self-proclaimed “smart-types,” he finds an empty corner and lights up a cigarette. He always attempts to blow a smoke ring on every first drag but always fails.
If only his father could look at him now: smoking a filter-free cigarette, smelling like stale gamey piss, and wearing some kind of faux scrubs with a big ol’ salsa stain in the front. “It’s chipotle,” the counter lady sneered. To Wyatt’s provincial palette, it tasted more like someone putting out cigarettes into a tomato.
“You ain’t one of those smart-types. You might wanna be like ‘em, but you never will be, so quit thinking about going to college, boy.”
But it wasn’t college that Wyatt desperately wanted at that point in his life. It was sweet escape. He felt like he couldn’t survive another day in that bum town, in that bum house, with that bum sadist dad. His soul was as wounded as his back, and even though he knew those slashes on his back would eventually become scars, maybe his soul stood a chance. He yearned for something that could rehabilitate him into a new man. Sadly, college wasn’t it.
But this was.
And it had been for the past eleven years.
Past girlfriends have scrunched up their faces when Wyatt tells them that he doesn’t have any other career aspirations. But they just didn’t understand. Though genes were kind to Wyatt’s looks, he wasn’t blessed with an expressive disposition. Wyatt couldn’t bring up the words to explain to them why he was content and had no interest in screwing it up. Some of these girls stuck with him for a while, thinking working at a city pound is noble. But that novelty wears off, and the once admirable animal-loving boyfriend Wyatt becomes that broke loser ex-boyfriend Wyatt who stepped on the ivory Martha Stewart rug with his shit-stained sneakers.
Wyatt always knew that these self-righteous geese never really cared about him anyways so he never told them The Stories. The Stories– an ongoing compilation of events he has come into contact with at the pound, each coupled with a strong emotion of his own. Anger: his first encounter with Boo, a passive bulldog puppy whose ears were roughly chopped off with a pair of dull drugstore scissors by a couple of asshole kids. It took five laundry cycles to finally mute that bloodstain on his work shirt into a faded beige. Bittersweet Joy: when crippled old Sesame finally got adopted but with only about a handful of weeks left in her. Sadness: Large breeds who were hastily dropped off at the pound from people who were late to discover their hearts are too small. Pain: Wyatt’s first big bite injury. That yappy little thing got away with a cubic inch of Wyatt’s thigh. Relief: You know those last-minute touchdowns or split-second three pointers that win the game, go down in history, and make grown men cry? There are those here, too: every successful adoption is a surprise win for the team.
Every one of The Stories is cataloged into Wyatt’s head. One would think a guy with a photographic memory would do well at college. Rather using his brain to store tidbits about Foucault or Vonnegut (two guys Wyatt didn’t give a fuck about), Wyatt was a walking freak calendar. Every day was an anniversary of something or another from The Stories.
And every night, he celebrates it exactly like this.
In the corner. Smoking a cigarette. Attempting to blow a smoke ring on the first drag.
