Chasing the Sandman

by Meyers, Brandon

  Earl watched in a silent terror as he saw himself busily mopping the pool deck. Something seemed familiar, but not right about the scene. It was his age. Earl looked much younger, and more than a few pounds thinner around the middle. He saw the younger version of himself push the mop in steady rhythm and pause in time. The young Earl turned his head up to the clock and pushed the familiar water can on wheels toward his office. He pulled a square package out of his pocket and walked toward the fire exit with an easy stride. Smoking, Earl thought. He hadn’t touched a cigarette in years. It was part of what had led to his horrid blood pressure, and ultimately, his heart condition. As the door swung shut behind Earl, now outside, a small red ball came bouncing into view and across the tile floor. A few seconds later it was followed by a short pair of legs in baggy swim shorts. The living version of the little boy came running into view, and as he did, Earl’s breathing stopped. In the slow-motion action that accompanies many third person accounts, the youngster slid backward on the freshly saturated floor and arced headfirst into the shallow water. No.

  Earl again became aware of sitting on his rear in the humid locker room. He was alone. Twisting his head frantically, he searched for the haunting image of the drowned youngster. He saw nothing.

  “It wasn’t me,” Earl pled aloud. “It wasn’t my fault.” Tears blurred his vision and he wheezed with thick lungs. “Do you hear me, it wasn’t my fault!” He had just needed a cigarette. Just a smoke. And he was reminded of the fire exit which he had watched himself use moments before. It was the only door in this part of the building that did not have a keyed lock. It was a push-bar door that opened only from the inside. He clambered to his feet in combined hope and fear.

  Earl crept by the still scalding showers and toward the still double doors. Through the glass, Earl could see that the overhead lights in the pool area had been switched off. That was alright. He knew the lay of the room well enough that he could have made it through in pitch blackness. Stepping through the doors, he saw that the only light was coming from the small, submerged bulb in the deep end of the lap pool. It splashed eerily upward through the wispy steam that had nearly filled the room.

  He couldn’t see his destination, but knew that he only had to make it to the opposite end of the tank where the exit sat. Earl began to step forward, but paused as he heard a familiar, yet strange squeak. Now or never.

  Earl dashed in a straight line, completely confident of his location. Chlorine-tinged air burned his lungs. A few seconds later he heard another squeak while in mid-stride. His momentum was too much to stop now. He was nearly there.

  The square frame of the door came into view and then tilted sideways as Earl’s feet went out from beneath him. Slipping downward with immediate force, he slammed his head onto the lip of the overhang at the water’s edge. Earl felt an immediate pain, followed by warm wetness while his body slid into the water. He could not breathe, yet he could not make any movement to swim. Earl’s lungs burned worse than they had after smoking any number of cigarettes. He watched the surface of the water as he slid downward, vaguely aware of a flicker of light from above. The pallid faced boy with death’s eyes was looking down at him while Earl was dragged further into the deep.

  The light was slowly sliced away by the smooth snaking motion of the pool mat gliding back into place.

  In the morning, a young lifeguard did indeed find quite a surprise as he rolled back the plastic tarps. Right next to where Earl’s body floated, they would also find the tipped bucket of sudsy water and a long smear of blood from where his head had been concussed on the cold, hard tile.

  It wasn’t until well after the official investigation that anyone would find that the fire door had somehow been propped open by a child’s misplaced red rubber ball.

  Spilled Ink

  Chapter One

  “And don’t think there ain’t more where that came from, runt. Remember, I’m watchin’ you.”

  Will Robeson lifted himself gingerly off the ground, brushing dirt from his trousers. He sighed and then winced in painful succession. This had been the second time in as many weeks that he had gotten himself pummeled by Roger DeMille, who was equal parts antagonistic halfwit and ape-like brute.

  “You okay, Dibbles?”

  The pocket-sized lizard poked his head out of his slightly crumpled jewelry box. He seemed to have survived the scuffle alright and offered a quick flick of the tongue before again disappearing.

  Will coughed, hoping that a lung wouldn’t be accompanying the air that escaped his lips. He picked up his scattered books, looked to make sure that no one had witnessed his thumping, and made for home.

  Will hated being the new kid.

  Even in a school the size of Ponderosa Pines, dead in the center of highly populated suburbia, Will managed to draw the attention of the one individual who seemed determined to make his life a living hell. Why it was so, even he could not speculate. Roger wasn’t entirely stupid about it, though, having pummeled only Will’s midsection, leaving the exposed areas free of damage.

  It could be worse, Will decided. But the one thing he did not want to do was give the overgrown cretin the satisfaction of running to his parents, who would surely involve the authorities. All he supposed he could do was to learn to fight better.

  “I really showed him, didn’t I, Dibbles?” He sighed.

  He coughed again and spit into the dirt as he walked. No blood. That was a plus. Things were looking up already. Will’s walk home consisted of a mile of sidewalks and a few yet undeveloped fields. It was usually very quiet, which was why Will was so surprised to see a man standing in the middle of one of the fields, swinging a golf club. He began to walk out of the man’s way, not wanting to catch a stray ball, when the older gentleman waved him over.

  “Well, aren’t you a sore sight for all eyes,” the man said, not unkindly. “Looks like you’ve been through the wringer.” His eyes were shaded by his derby, and Will wondered how the man had managed to look at him without having taken his eyes off the little ball arcing in the air.

  “Rough day, sir,” Will offered. “Just passin’ through. I’ll get out of your way.”

  “Nonsense, m’boy,” the man said with a chipper tone. “Doesn’t look to me like getting out of the way has been doing you any favors lately, has it?”

  “What do you mean, si—”

  “What I mean, lad, is that you’ve been working overtime as that DeMille boy’s punching bag and haven’t said peep about it to anyone. Now where’s the sense in that? Don’t you have an older brother or something?”

  “Well, no, I don’t. But how’d you know about DeMille?” Will ventured, watching the man a little more cautiously.

  “Let’s just say that I work hard to keep Ponderosa Pines Middle School nice and tidy.”

  “You’re the janitor,” Will said.

  The man turned and offered Will a grin. “Name’s Walt Tudor, champ. Put her there.” Will extended his own hand to shake Walt Tudor’s.

  “Will Robeson. Good to meet you, sir.”

  “Please, call me Walt.”

  “Good to meet you, um, Walt. I think I’d better be getting home now, else my mom is gonna start into one of her worry fevers.”

  Walt slung his small bag of clubs over his shoulder and said, “Let me walk you home, Will. I’ve got a business proposition for you.” He spoke with a determination that said there really wasn’t much of a choice.

  Will hesitated a moment, but then decided that Walt looked honest enough. Besides, he was quite old. Will could certainly outrun him if necessary. “Sure, mister. I live over in East Point. It’s about—”

  “Nine blocks to the southeast,” Walt finished. “That’s perfect. My stop is right on the way.”

  “Great,” Will agreed, though with markedly less enthusiasm than his new companion.

  “As I was saying, Will, that DeMille boy is a real piece of work.”

  “Yeah,” Will agreed, rubbing his ribcage gently. “I suppose he
’ll probably get what’s coming to him eventually, though, won’t he?”

  Walt chuckled. “We can only hope, can’t we? Which brings me to my point, Will. What if I told you that I could help you with your little problem?”

  “How so?” Will said.

  “Oh, now where’s the fun in that?” Walt said, grinning. “Don’t look at me like that, Will. It’s nothing dangerous, that much I can promise. I’m just offering to…ease your burden a little. After all, moving into a new city’s hard enough without having to take a regular beating too, isn’t it?”

  Will considered the offer carefully, thinking that life indeed would be much easier if he didn’t have to worry about Roger DeMille following him home every day.

  “So, you won’t tell me what you’re gonna do to him?”

  “What I’m telling you, is that Roger DeMille’s problems won’t concern you from this day forward, your worries for him included.”

  “And what do you want from me?” Will was certainly not an aspiring businessman, but at least knew the basics about reciprocation. Walt stopped in mid-stride.

  “Why that’s the easy part, Will. All I need is your John Hancock.”

  “My what?”

  “Your signature, sonny. Good grief, don’t they teach you kids anything in school?” He laughed and produced a torn sheet of paper from his pocket, resting it on the lip of his open golf bag.

  “All you need is a signature? But I’m not legal age to sign, er…adult stuff.”

  Walt waved off Will’s concern lightly. “Bah. All you have to do is sign right here and all your troubles are going to disappear.

  Will hesitated, and said lamely, “I don’t have a pen.”

  “Use mine,” Walt insisted.

  “Wow, that’s a fancy pen.” When Will put the beautiful wooden instrument to paper, shimmering crimson ink flowed from its tip and onto the tiny scrap. He spelled out his name with as much cursive flair as he supposed authentic signatures ought to have, before lowering the pen. When he looked up, Walt was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Well done, my boy. Well, that seals the deal. And would you look at that, this is my street. Here’s to hoping you have a wonderful day tomorrow, Will.” And with that, Walt scurried off down Vine Street, hauling his bag behind him.

  Will watched Walt depart, confusedly evaluating the strange encounter.

  He had started walking again when he realized that he was still holding the odd man’s pen, which looked to be of the type that are rather expensive. However, when he turned back, the jaunting Walt had disappeared into one of the homes lining the street.

  Following an uneventful dinner, Will had retired to his room to work on his nightly mound of homework which is the bane of every youth’s existence. Dibbles gnawed determinedly on a pencil eraser while Will worked his way through his grammar assignment.

  He had been staring at his spelling sheet for almost half an hour before his thoughts flicked to Roger DeMille. Will wondered with some trepidation what exactly was in store for the bully, but only briefly. Strangely enough, as Walt had predicted, Will began to feel almost entirely worry-free about his former situation.

  Thoughts of the odd janitor brought Will’s memory to the wood-cased pen that still rested in his pocket. He remembered the fascinating way that the ink had sparkled and brought the pen out for a closer examination.

  It was shaped like any other pen, rounded at both ends until the cap was removed. The wood had such a dark, warm feel that Will would have sworn that it breathed in his hands. He traced the beautifully-crafted tool with the tips of his fingers, finally removing the lid to reveal the fountain tip with which he had signed his own name only hours before. Though he would have been hard put to explain why, Will’s heart quickened at the thought of putting the fantastic instrument to paper. With the pen in hand, Will felt sure that he could compose masterpieces of the arts, be they musical or visual, maybe even both at once.

  Will brought the nib down to the surface of his spelling homework, smiling broadly.

  Will awoke to the sound of his mother’s door-pounding the following morning. He lifted his head from the top of his desk, pulling off a bit of paper that clung to his face via a string of drool. His paper was not the only thing that was wet, however. All of Will’s clothing, and even his hair, were damp with water. Had he sleep-walked into the shower?

  “I’m up,” he managed. It took a moment to gather his surroundings. After all, it was the first time he had ever made a bed out of his desk. His body reminded him that it had been a poor choice. Stripping off his wet clothes and gathering up his soggy papers blindly, Will tossed his homework into his bag and stumbled downstairs.

  At school that day, Will saw no sign of either Roger DeMille or Walt the janitor.

  Sitting at his desk in English, he rummaged through his bag hastily, not remembering having finished his assignment before so oddly nodding off. He had barely fished the paper out when Mrs. Tundle arrived at his desk with an outstretched stack. Will looked down at his paper, speechless.

  The work had been done, that much was clear. But it was almost impossible to even try to look at the written words through the astonishing piece of art that it seemed to rest upon. In the background of the original sheet, in varying shades of blood red ink, a stunningly detailed rendering of a lake scene filled up every bit of white space that was not the assignment.

  The printed words and his corrections marred the beauty of the portrait. Will lowered his head shamefully, waiting for reprimand.

  Mrs. Tundle gasped.

  At the end of class, aside from heaping him with praise, Mrs. Tundle informed Will that he had received an ‘A+,’ and wondered if she couldn’t persuade him to let her keep the work for herself. He agreed, smiling.

  The entire walk home Will was undisturbed, thinking only of the magical creation he had made, even though he couldn’t remember doing it. When he arrived home, homework was at the top of his to-do list.

  The pen sat where he had left it, and it seemed to watch him with the hope that it would be used once again.

  At once, an idea popped into Will’s head. He seized the pen and his hand moved effortlessly across a blank sheet of paper. He chuckled with glee, knowing precisely what he was doing, but only vaguely aware of exerting any effort whatsoever. In five minutes, Will had penned an amazing representation of himself, forgetting no details. He looked at it wondrously, before biting his lip and placing the pen to work again. In moments, the figure in the paper was sporting a pair of feathered wings as grand as any classical depiction of an angel. Will was beside himself with pride.

  In the following moments, Will’s shoulders began to itch. Try as he might, he couldn’t scratch away the itch, and finally pulled off his shirt, looking into his closet mirror. He whooped with glee. Wings identical to those on the page now sprouted from his own shoulders. After a few minutes they stopped itching, and Will spread them experimentally.

  Dibbles watched from his desk perch with lazy curiosity, which, for a lizard with Dibbles’s brain capacity, was a rather impressive state of attention.

  “Sorry, Dibbles,” Will whispered giddily, “I’ll take you along next time.”Will tucked the pen into his pocket and tore a couple of quick holes in an old shirt. Since the wings were half his size, it was a bit of a struggle getting the shirt on, but he managed it. With a short, surveying glimpse around, he dove from his upstairs window.

  Flying was everything he had ever imagined, except for the wind, which stung his eyes. But even that was a bearable price to pay for the unbelievable freedom of flight. Will dove and glided as though he had been born to it, ambling naturally along the coursing drafts.

  He hollered almost the entire trip.

  When he returned home, Will discovered that he had been gone long enough for his parents to take notice. Luckily, his room was empty, and he climbed back in the window. It was then that he wondered how he was going to explain his new appendages to his parents. Thinking quickly, he
pulled out the pen and set to work amending the picture of himself.

  “Will, are you up there?!”

  Will worked quickly. By some miracle, the pen seemed to reabsorb all of the lines that Will had drawn, erasing his wings. Even as he sketched, he felt the change taking place on his own body. By the time his parents had made it upstairs, Will’s wings were gone. He smiled at them innocently.

  “Sorry, I was in the back yard, er…drawing this.” He held out the uncanny rendition of himself. His parents were stunned. It seemed that there was an artist in the household.

  Still there was no sign of Roger DeMille the following day at school, but Will did encounter a fairly angry Walt.

  “William,” he said, having stopped Will again on the way home from school. “I believe you may be in possession of something that does not belong to you. Am I correct in that assumption?” His face said that he was sure of Will’s possession of the magical pen, but Will detected a trace of fear in the man’s voice. It was in the brief instant that Will saw the dangerous flare in Walt’s eyes that he decided perhaps the man did not indeed have Will’s best interests in mind. After all, how had he come into possession of such a magnificent object in the first place?

  “What pen, mister?” Will said, trying to let no emotion register. A professional poker player would have folded his cards. This despite the fact that the pen’s presence almost burned a hole in his pants pocket.

  Walt pumped his fists wildly at this. While his previously friendly voice had taken on a more sophisticated air, his physical composure had deteriorated to a fearsome state.

  “My boy, now is not a good time to tease the tiger.”

  “Dunno whatcha mean, mister,” Will said amiably.