Jack Emerson

by Michael Brent Jones

  Chapter 5

  ¶

  I actually thought I had pulled a quick one on him until on the walk home when I realized he knew. I figured he was probably going to teach me a lesson and make different moves. So I did what I thought was very clever, I scrambled to find even more chess sets, (in a college setting it’s a little harder to come by.) I did it though.

  I arrived with eight chess sets to set up next to his that week.

  With all nine boards set up… which took a while, he proceeded to make a completely different move on each board, checkmating me with a different combination of two pieces on each board.

  “So you knew what I was up to last time?” I sheepishly admitted.

  “Oh yeah, but I wanted to see when you would see that I saw.”

  “On the walk home last week…”

  “I know,” he said and smiled.

  “Sorry for thinking you would fall for it.”

  “If I was offended I would have ask you to leave.”

  “Oh, well I’m still sorry.”

  “Don’t worry yourself.”

  “I just really wanted you to tell more of your story.”

  “Wanted or want?”

  “Would you?”

  “I told you I would go crazy writing a book, but I never said I’d go crazy telling a story.”

  I got so excited. I knew he could tell, because he smiled with one of those happy laughs that accompanies real emotion.

  “Oh and the answer to last week’s puzzle was: 1, 3, 9 and 27lbs.”

  Jack leaned forward in his chair, and began telling the story.

  ¶

  “I know I have written about this many times before, but I had that dream again; the one with the little redheaded boy with freckles.

  Just as always, it was different again this time. The last time I was a bird, this time I saw the same dream through the eyes of a teacher on recess duty.

  I knew who the little red headed boy was, because I had seen the dream so many times over, but I knew that no one else did because he was new to that school.

  The boy looked to be seven, or maybe just barely eight years old. With a quiet confidence and genuine friendliness on his freckled face, he approached where some slightly older boys were playing tetherball.

  He didn’t want to interrupt, but once the game was over, he mustered the courage (that seemed to fade as he waited) and asked, “Can I play?”

  The two oldest boys, who were the ones on the court, stopped and turned slowly to him. With a look of disgust, “I don’t know, can you?” one of them patronizingly replied.

  The little boy stood there not knowing whether the question was rhetorical or not. In the internal struggle, the optimism seemed to be winning, but frozen by uncertainly. The others all just stood there and stared at each other, as if waiting for a punch line.

  Almost in unison the two older boys rolled their eyes and laughed. The hope like sand in his carefully cupped hands flew up with a big gust of wind into his face and settled on the asphalt. He looked at the four stairs out and away from the blacktop; he knew he would never go back down.

  He turned and walked away up the stairs, and continued toward the swings. This time as I watched through the eyes of the teacher, I knew I could do something.

  My first instinct was to take those two boys by their ears and drag them to the principal, or worst. However, I couldn’t take my focus off the little boy enough to worry what to do about them.

  I hurried and caught up to the boy.

  “Hey,” I said in the friendliest tone I could get out. The little boy stopped and turned. I could tell he was trying to hold back the tears.

  “The playground is for everyone. Those boys don’t own it. I’ll make sure you get a turn, I’m bet you’re really good at it.”

  All he could do is shake his head, while looking at the ground. I crouched as low as I could so that I was looking up to him.

  “Hey, don’t worry about them. Some people don’t learn how to share until they get older. Some don’t ever learn,” I said and laughed.

  He tried to smile, but his eyes still expressed the fear and sadness he felt.

  “We could find something else fun to do,” I offered

  He just shrugged his shoulders.

  “Do you want me to push you on the swings?” he shook his head.

  “You okay?” I asked and he nodded.

  “Alright, well if you ever need anything just let me know,” I told him and he nodded again.

  I stood up and watched as he turned, then surveyed the playground slowly; there were children playing everywhere. He sighed and walked over to a big oak tree and sat down against it with his knees at his chest, and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head.

  Everytime, the dream ended roughly the same; whether I was the bird, a little girl, or the teacher. I was never the little boy or either of the older two.

  I played out scenarios in my mind of what I could have done different, or what I would do after, but it was that small window of chance my dreams ever allowed.

  What did the dream mean? Was I supposed to be a school teacher and fight against bullies, or was I going to meet this boy later, and somehow help to undo the damage? My mind raced as I tried to reconcile it all together.

  There was nothing in that moment I felt I could do. It wasn’t a matter I could solve in a day. Mentally tired and irritated, it’s about noon now, but still nothing seems better than going to sleep. And hopefully taking a second shot at a redo on the dream, or better, tackling the next part of the dream.

  ¶

  I did fall asleep, and did start to dream, but not that one, or anything like it… or so I thought. Slipping out of consciousness, I found myself underwater, but not frightened.

  I knew I could hold my breath for quite a while, I looked up and saw the bright frontier of the top of the water, it wasn’t too far away.

  I looked around under the water for a few seconds, but it wasn’t until I tried to swim up, that I realized I didn’t have legs.

  Wiggling as best I could, I started towards the surface. I didn’t feel I needed air yet, but just in case, I swam up anyway.

  I finally got my mouth out of the water, and I took a deep breath. I felt all of my neck muscles tense as I opened the gills I wasn’t aware I had.

  I felt the water rush through my mouth, I panicked and choked. My heart rate rose as I frantically tried to get my head farther out of water, but it was no use.

  Finally exhausted, I slipped all the way back into the water and continued to sink. I held my breath waiting for the end.

  When you’re a fish it’s not like dreaming you’re a bear, where you can see your paws, it’s quite different. Not so much unyielding to reality, but not fathoming the impossible actuality, I hadn’t concluded I was a fish. I began to feel myself start fading. In the panic I still held my breath.

  Everything became bright as I started to pass out.

  In that moment I let go, instinctively gasping for air. To my surprise I didn’t die, and everything came back into focus.

  Still unsettled, I slowly breathed in and out.

  Swimming was awkward at first; I tried to relax and just started simple. I did work my way up; soon I was zipping through the water.

  I had never fished before, and so I don’t know what kind of fish I was.

  Looking back now at the dream I am surprised I didn’t think about the possible bigger fish that could’ve eaten me.

  Luckily, I happened toward two big brown pillars, where fish I assume similar to me were swimming around.

  I heard a soft splash, and then saw something very small glimmering through the water. The object suspended itself at my same level. The other fish swam haphazardly around me. They all moved closer to smell it. It didn’t have a smell, but as I got closer I noticed its shape - It was a hook!

  The hook suddenly vanished
and then after hearing another splash, I felt something graze me from behind. I lunged forward, and as I did, all of the other fish turned to see what my commotion was about.

  I was trying to get out of the way, but had moved in the same direction as the hook, which was moving. I was terrified, but to the others, it looked like I was trying to eat the hook. Just as fast as I lunged forward to get out of the way, a fish beside me lunged forward and ate the hook.

  The fish panicked and tried to swim down, but to no avail. He was pulled out of the water. It wasn’t more than a few seconds of suspense before there was a much bigger splash, and the fish was back, swimming around as if nothing happened. Almost the same exact thing was repeated with the same result time after time. It seemed every fish had their turn and some even had two.

  Now I was curious! Couldn’t be that bad obviously, was my conclusion. I watched behind myself, and as soon as I saw the hook, I swam over and bit it.

  My adrenaline flowed like it never had before. Though I tried to swim, I was pulled right out of the water.

  Hanging there in midair, I saw a huge hand coming toward me, brushing over my face and I felt the hand grasp my back.

  It was in that moment that I saw who the fisherman was - it was that little red haired boy.

  I noticed his expression turn from happy to worried, then I heard him speak. “Oh… little fishy you really shouldn’t have bitten it like that. How am I supposed to get it out now? I hope this doesn’t hurt, but it might. Sorry about this.

  He reached his fingers in the side of my mouth, and seemed to be struggling for quite a long time. I didn’t feel any pain, but I started to get a little light headed.

  As he pulled his fingers out of my mouth, I noticed that they were bloody. Whether it was his or mine I don’t know.

  He knelt down and gently put me back in the water. I swam down and still felt no pain, so I turned to look up to see if I could see him. I couldn’t see much, but there was some movement, and then there was none. The hook didn’t come back either.

  ¶

  It was more than a few moments till I realized that Jack had stopped telling the story. I was caught up trying to figure out why she is the fish in Jack’s dream? It sounded too real to be a dream.

  “What does the dream mean?” I finally asked.

  “What does it mean to you?”

  “I don’t know, I really don’t know anything about fishing.”

  “I don’t know that it has to have a meaning, I was just trying to explain the character. One interesting thing though, do you think many people fish with only a bare hook.”

  “No…”

  “That little boy figured out how to make it work.”

  “That could be dangerous.”

  “If he was dangerous, it would be,” Jack replied.

  “He did seem nice. So why did you say you were explaining the character?”

  “To know any character, that character has to tell a story.”

  “Every character?”

  “Yes.”

  “That could go on forever.”

  “It doesn't have to. Like in the book civilization, just a facial expression is enough for them to tell their story.”

  “I’m not familiar with that one.”

  "The king couldn't hide his contempt when he took the thrown. It was all he ever thought he wanted. The sheer fact that the enjoyment of this crowning moment was somehow being robbed of him, he hated the temple knights even more. That moment he vowed in his heart to kill every last one, and each impulse to reject that vow, was countered a dozen-fold, bolstered by his pride.”

  “I've never heard of that book.”

  “You haven't?”

  “No, I mean I don't read a lot, but I’ve never heard it mentioned.”

  “Hmmm... Well you should know it. It will be the greatest book ever written,” he said seriously and then laughed.

  “Wait, is it the one you’re writing?”

  “Yes, but I don't know when, if ever, it will be completed.”

  “Why?” I asked intrigued.

  “One, I want to fit everything in my mind into one book. And two, I am rewriting the beginning of mankind until roughly the downfall of Mesopotamia.”

  “You would go for something that comprehensive.”

  “I'm just going to write a few thousand years of history of an alternate primitive civilization.”

  “Yeah... Well, I'll definitely read it.”

  “Anyway, back to the point I was making - a look or a sigh can tell a whole story. It’s what they tell about themselves, not what anyone else can tell about them that matters. How else could you know a person, than to see what comes out of their heart and out of their mind?”

  I had to flash through my mind the books I liked, and check whether they did that or not. They seemed to. “Oh, wow. I guess all of the stories I like have that in common.”

  “Can I read what you have so far of the Civilization story?”

  “Oh I haven't actually gotten that far yet?”

  “But you already wrote about the king. Where in the story is he?”

  “I don't know?”

  “What? Do you just write different parts of the story in random order?”

  “Yes... But I haven't written about the king yet.”

  “So you just made that up?”

  “Yes, but I like it, so I think I will keep it.”

  ¶

  “Wait, back to the other story you were telling; about the boy in Jenny’s dream. What’s the boy’s name?”

  “Why does everyone need a name?”

  “You can’t just keep introducing characters and not give them names.”

  “But it’s my story.”

  “Please…”

  “Oh great, let’s see what you come up with.”

  “Mikey.”

  “Oh yes, little Mikey,” he said sarcastically.

  “Why do you hate names so much?”

  “If a person isn’t real, they don’t need a name.”

  “But I love Jacky Roberts… and Mikey.”

  “You don’t even know her or less him.”

  “But I’m rooting for them to win.”

  “Win what?”

  “I don’t know, just win.”

  “So how will you know when they’ve won?”

  “I don’t know, but I hope they do.”

  To that Jack laughed.

  “I think you should write a book,” Jack said, which made me laugh. “And you can write in a million characters, all with their own names.”

  “Well if I were writing two thousand years of fictional history, I would have to.”

  “You should!”

  “I don’t know enough about history to even know where to start. I have only heard of Mesopotamia, I have no idea where it even is.”

  “You could learn it if you wanted…”

  “I don’t think I want to know history enough right now, someday probably.”

  “Once you repeat it?”

  “Repeat what?”

  “History.”

  “Do you think if we don’t know history we will repeat it?” I asked.

  “Knowing it won’t make a difference, understanding it is the only way out of not repeating it.”

  “Hmmm… okay, maybe I’ll ease into it.”

  “So what would you write about if you did?”

  “… probably about a zombie apocalypse.”

  “You would.”

  “Thanks… I think?”

  “Yes, I’m sure it will be great. And you will probably finish before me.”

  “Are you trying to make this a race?” I asked.

  “You think you could beat me?” Jack challenged.

  “Mine would be a lot easier story to write…”

  “So then you’ll make it a trilogy? Just to keep things even?”

  “Alright. Race on!”
r />   “Ha! The beginning and the end of the world,” Jack noticed.

  “Now we just need someone to write the whole middle part,” to that we both laughed.

  I suddenly remembered a question about Jacky’s story, so I asked, “Did Jacky’s dream about the boy on the playground ever change?”

  “No, but she did.”

  “How so?”

  “Her reoccurring dream about the elementary school playground, and the little red haired freckled boy; though details with time began to vanish, she would often hear him ask, "can I play?" to which the response was, " I don't know, can you?"

  Each time her heart would break as she watched the gentle smile on the small boys face turn to confusion and then sadness. Feeling it first only as a dream, later she decided to write him out of his metaphorical hole.

  She wrote and rewrote it a few times. First she called it ‘The Turning Point,’ then ‘The Dawn of Awakening.’ She wanted to look at it as a positive thing, but it felt so negative. It was more of an unsettling perceived danger than an actual physical pain, but either way it was real.

  Our thoughts can torture us more than another person can. People can do terrible and hurtful things, but our mind is our refuge or our hell, either way it is ours.”

  ¶

  That was and interesting thought to end our visit on.

  ¶

  Before I left he gave me another puzzle:

  There are a thousand coins on a table and only ten are face up, you are blindfolded and wearing gloves. You can move or flip them. The task is to make two piles with an equal number of heads up. How would you do it?

  ¶