Naïveté

"Just passing through?"

Tom was caught off guard. He had been perusing the chocolate bar aisle in hopes of discovering something to comfort him. As he looked over at the counter he saw a broad man with a grin that could make someone either uncomfortable or too comfortable. "I'm sorry?" Tom said unapologetically.

"Are you just passing through? You don't look much like someone from around here." Steve, the man behind the counter, said without any intentional hostility.

"I'll take that as a compliment." Tom was never very good at making friends. Since childhood he had always questioned the apparent need for them. When every other child was out playing soccer, or tag, or any other of the numerous games that kids play in a group; Steve was at home reading, or writing, or any other of the numerous activities that can only be done alone. It was this that prompted him into travelling alone. He thought maybe, just maybe, somewhere out there was a person that he could justify calling a friend.

Tom paid for his bag of Skittles that he didn't really want and he left the convenience store, indignant as always. As he stepped into his 1969 Buick Skylark he tossed the skittles on the dashboard realizing he was hungry, but not for sugar-laced sugar, but rather for a real meal. A small diner neighboured the gas station which in all Tom's travels he had certainly seen worse.

The waitress was homely and quiet. She greeted Tom with a moderately friendly smile as he sat down. Tom ordered a monte cristo and a chocolate milkshake, again hoping to enjoy some form of comfort in the favourite foods of his youth. The sandwich was underdone and the milkshake was poorly mixed. Tom left an adequate tip and took his leave.

Tom left the diner feeling unsatisfied and underwhelmed, typical really. His attitude did shift, however, when he laid eyes on his car. In one of his four once immaculate tires there was now a tear across the sides. Not a hole that might cause a slow leak, but a six inch rip that clearly was designed to send a message. He examined the tire closer, cursing, screaming at anyone who was close enough to listen, but most people either snickered or kept to themselves. Tom turned his head and looked back at the gas station, through the window he made eye-contact with Steve, what a prick. If Tom had been a different man, maybe he'd confront him, maybe he'd go over there and kick his teeth in, but he was Tom, so he cursed a bit more and called a tow truck.

The truck came and towed his car to the garage, as most tow trucks will do. A new tire with installation cost Tom nearly $300, plus another $200 for the loose bearing that may or not have been threatening his car's very existence. The mechanic was very kind to notice and fix this without Tom's knowledge.

Leaving the garage, Tom was frustrated, annoyed, losing even more faith in humanity, but mostly he was exhausted. The sun had long since set and Tom hated driving at night. He pulled into a shady motel, under normal circumstances Tom avoided these at all costs, but between his fatigue and the rather costly car bill he couldn't be bothered to find somewhere nicer. He approached the front desk with the trepidation of a bird with a broken wing. Any trace of a swagger he once had was now replaced by a gleam of self-pity and hurt-feelings. It only became worse when the elderly woman at the front desk told him they were full-up.

"Terribly sorry, hun." The woman yelled as Tom retreated from the lobby and out the front door. Those words rang in Tom's head as he slumped into the driver's seat of his car. Once a source of pride for Tom, this car had now become his only comfort. He spent the night in that car, it wasn't the first time and it certainly wouldn't be the last. His legs were stretched out along the dash. His arms folded across his chest. And his head was pressed awkwardly against the window. As uncomfortable of a night it was, it was exactly what Tom needed.

As the sun rose upon Tom and his battered pride, he couldn't help but wish he was home with his family. Never before had he felt so alone. It was this realization, that maybe he never experienced true loneliness until now, that forced him to plot out a new route, a route that would lead him back home.  Maybe he had had friends all along.

Crooked

If only for a moment, Johnny's heart sank, his mouth became unusually dry, and as he tried to think of what to say, all he could focus on was whether or not that tacky picture hung on the wall was level. She mentioned something about his apparent indifference, or his condescending attitude, but that picture, that unnervingly crooked picture, drew more of his attention than she ever could. Before she managed to slam the door behind her, he was desperately trying to straighten the frame. By the time she had driven away, Johnny couldn't even think of her name. 

As he wobbled the picture back-and-forth on the nail he began to become frustrated. The picture, for some inexplicable reason, was simply unable to stay level. Every few moments Johnny would take three steps back, confident that this time the picture would look straight, but every time he was unsatisfied. After ninety-seven minutes it occurred to him that the problem might not be this one picture.

Johnny was standing three steps back from his wall, concentrating. His wall had exactly eleven different picture frames hanging on it. He was not a sentimental person, but had always liked the idea of being one. The idea that someone cared enough about such trivial moments to display them like trophies intrigued him to say the least. These picture frames contained images of his family, of him and her, of whatever happened to be going on that day he had a camera. They now littered his wall, confounding him. He felt his heart pounding as he realized that it was not the one picture that was tilted slightly, but the lot of them. 

One by one Johnny adjusted the frames. Each one contained a memory that he neither wanted to remember nor forget. The more he tried to simply think about the frames and not about the pictures, the more crooked they all became. His breathe became more sporadic. Sweat dripped down his forehead. He felt feverish. After two-hundred-and-twelve minutes of minute adjustments and an obsessive amount of attention to each individual frame, Johnny stepped back three steps to admire his work.

Tears began to form in Johnny's eyes. Looking at these frames, and the pictures within them, physically hurt him.  It was unbearable. As he tore the pictures from the wall, tossing them around his living room, the tears that were once content within the confides of his eyes poured down his face. Shattered glass and splintered wood covered the floor beneath his feet. As he fell to his hands and knees the glass embedded itself within his skin. Palms and knees bleeding, he knelt over the pictures that were scattered about his room, contemplating if this is what it means to be sentimental.