Sometimes you know where a story’s heading, sometimes it takes you wandering. It took a wandering story to tell this tale.
I hope your day is Beautiful.
~Niall
Beautiful
Steven set down the kickstand on his ’01 Harley, walked into the bushes and pissed on the tree. It was a yellow buckeye, a sugar maple, and demanded more respect than this, he thought. He was hot and uncomfortable now there was no wind to cool him, and the next rest stop was a good half hour down the road. Sweat was pooling everywhere inside his leathers but all he felt was the physical relief.
The bike and clothing had cost him thousands, but it was his money, his choices. He walked the 30 yards back to the roadside and saw the two kids eyeing up the bike, close quarters. He stopped and lit a cigarette.
“You like it? Best thing ever on a day like this.” Startled, the teenagers stepped back a little: one boy, one girl. Steven knew they meant no harm. Hell, 30 years ago, he’d be stood in their place, salivating. “Harley Davidson Breakout 117, 2001. Old-style softail. You feel like Dennis Hopper on board.” The kids wouldn’t get the reference but they craved that feeling. Rightly, they backed off a little more – never good to be familiar with strangers. But Steven just wanted to connect. He realised his darkened visor was down. He smiled and lifted it to reveal his eyes. As expected, this took the pair aback and piqued their curiosity.
“You’re a…”, began the boy who was possibly 14, wore an aging t-shirt and could do with a haircut. It could have been me at that age, Steven thought. He knew what he was doing. His facial appearance was so childlike and appealing; neoteny the scientists called it. Having a babyface was perhaps the best, and worst of his condition. Steven leant his backside on the seat and removed his helmet. The pair of them advanced toward him.
“I ain’t never seen one of you before, except on TV.” The girl peered right in his face. “Go ahead, what do you want to know?”
The usual questions poured forth, spilled around him. Yes, he was born like that. No, he wasn’t retarded and maybe that’s not the kindest word to use. Yes, he was generally as happy as he looked but life was as good and bad for him as much as it was for anyone. He spared them the details. He was 43 years old and looked like he was 10. How could he afford the bike? He had a job for fuck sake, a good one, not a special one for retards. That word again, it followed him around his whole life. Yes, his mom and dad were normal – another word that followed him around but only for the purposes of comparison. He left the two of them some of the Harley stickers he kept in the saddle bag and pressed the starter, waved back in the mirror and he was off.
Saturdays like this were why he had the bike: the freedom to be himself, no work, which he still loved, but the road and the countryside made his weekend - the journey and the destination. And he loved the helmet. He checked his phone on the handlebar, he was an hour from Sugarlands in the Smoky Mountains. Still, he had to be home for 7 o’clock to see to Mom. It would be three hours drive back to Richmond, just outside Lexington, KY.
Since Dad died, 5 years back, he had been his Mom’s main carer, backed by two professionals. As a systems analyst, Steven was able to work from home save two days a month, and thankfully weekends were his own. The company had been good to him, but not as much as his mom, Marnie.
Marnie had been 40 when she fell pregnant. That sounds too much like an accident, as Marnie and husband Tom had been trying since they married 18 years ago. Then they went to the fertility clinic in Knoxville and she got her regular dose of Imountafil. The drug had been safety tested in 3 species and each trial had generated the most beautiful offspring. Mothers and babies did just fine. Then came the early adopters: 4,000 older women throughout the world who had beautiful babies. Beautiful babies who became strangely beautiful children which in turn became weirdly beautiful adults. As the children reached puberty, 1 in 10 developed green or blue hair, lost the pigment in their eyes, and were absolutely infertile. In these cases, the mothers’ health deteriorated: ostensibly benign tumours spread through their vital organs. The drug was banned when Steven was 12, thirteen years too late in his case. Steven was left with a babyface, blue hair and an ailing mother. There were 520 known “Imountiful babies” all now in their 40s.
Marnie gave her son everything he needed and so much more: she taught him how to live a rich life, how to learn, how people should be treated. Now, protesting, she accepted time and care from him, which he gave gladly.
Steven reached the turn off for Sugarlands Visitor Center, dismounted and paid his parking. It was 1pm and hot. He was reluctant to leave his jacket with the bike so he kept it on, swapping his helmet for a bucket hat and a pair of sunglasses. He filled his water bottles, and headed up the trail. It was now as hot as a hillbilly’s slow cooked chilli. No one else bothered to climb. He wandered along the pitched gravel path upwards toward Clingman’s Dome, pausing often for water. At the top he came to the observation platform. He knew it well so he disdained the ugly concrete structure and found a rocky outcrop near the trees to sit, from where, on a fogless day, you could see forever. Today there was the true Smoky Mountain heat haze, and nobody around to spoil the moment. He could see ridge after ridge receding ahead and there was barely a sound. Steven could see a faint movement in the leaves but even the refreshment of a breeze wasn’t reaching him today. Again he gulped some water and unwrapped his pot of prepared salad.
From the darkest part of the trees to the right, near the drop-off, he heard it. Then he saw it – a young doe, which began to come towards him. It hesitated some 20 yards off so he remained motionless. Slowly, carefully, he sipped some more. The deer advanced – 5 yards now – she was watching his food.
“Do you want some girl?” He peeled off the plastic lid and set the bowl down about four feet ahead of him. Keeping eye contact the whole time, the deer came forward and began to graze on the sweet lettuce. Soon it had all been eaten. The deer raised its head and seemed to bow. Steven smiled and feigned a slight bow of his own. Shaken a little by this, she turned her head and went back to the shade, her camouflage soon becoming complete. Steven was amused to lose his lunch like that, but remembered he still had a cheese sandwich and a few bits and bobs which he produced from his bag. Soon, the doe reappeared. She advanced within 5 yards and this time she was not alone - a tiny, mottled, wide-eyed fawn accompanied her. It was a buck, he could see the small nubs of horn on its forehead. Its mother held back a yard but the fawn crept forward, sniffing the bread and cheese on the air. Stephen sighed in resignation and tore up the sandwich, laying it on the ground. The fawn nosed it around for a few seconds then devoured it. It looked up at him. Stephen rummaged through the bag at his side and found a packet of trail mix, some of which he poured into his hand. He held his palm out flat. The mother pawed the ground but stayed put. The fawn walked forward the last 4 feet and started to eat the seeds and nuts, brushing those he didn’t like off the palm and mopping up the rest with his rough tongue and tender mouth.
The afternoon saw Steven take off his leather jacket and drape it over his arm, the sun’s heat cheered him after a week of 4 beige walls. He crept around the woodland at the hilltop but couldn’t find any trace of the deer. It was as if he was walking where the boundary to some other world was thinner. Perhaps he could walk into it by stepping off the overlook. The thought stopped him, drew him back from all the moment’s liminal pleasure. He could see himself on another hot Saturday afternoon, long ago, when he stood alone on the roof of Richmond Spires High School.
That was a day of summer brightness and inner night. It had been a hard week and Steven had taken himself up the stairs and through the door onto the roof. There he stood alone. Beneath him he could see the social constellations of teenagers on the grass and concrete of the school grounds. There was baseball on the school field, not for skinny boys like him. There were the special ones - bright, shining suns, orbited by their entourages. The cheerleaders, the ones too cool to be cheerleaders, the athletes, coming and going from their practice. There were the boring planetary systems like the gamers or the stoners. None of these were accessible to Steven. He was a comet: a cold ball of rock and ice which drifted between these centres, attracting only a sideways glance from the better ones or a mean word from the worst of them. Stood there, three storeys above all of them now he felt neither better or worse than them. He felt nothing. He was nothing.
The warm air rose off the gravelled roof and filled his nose with tar. The sounds of sport and social interaction were distant like a mountain brook. He advanced to the roof’s edge and imagined a crystal pathway out into the air, more real than any of what he saw below. The path led out towards the very real sun which drew his cometary body towards itself. He closed his eyes and raised his foot.
“Steven”, a quiet voice spoke his name. Again: “Steven”. He stepped back and around to see Mr Gilham, his English teacher.
“I wasn’t going to do anything. Just getting some air.” Steven looked at George Gilham’s shoes, brogues that had seen better days.
“You still shouldn’t be up here. Come on.” He led the kid downstairs, and into the English Dept. office. Gilham said to a colleague there, “Margaret, okay if I take Steven here for a donut?” Margaret nodded in agreement. These were the days when teacher/child interactions were more relaxed. He led Steven out to the teachers’ parking lot. He had forgotten something about Mr Gilham – he had no car. In front of him was a 1970’s orange bodied Harley chopper. Gilham unclipped the Bell helmet from the frame and passed it to Steven. The teacher kickstarted the bike and the boy mounted the pillion. They swept out of the school and joined the highway, hitting, what seemed to Steven, to be 80 or 90 miles an hour. In a few minutes they were parking at Dunkin’s. They sat inside with a couple of donuts, a coffee and a coke. Gilham had a bag to take back for Margaret.
Gilham knew, or suspected, the nature of Steven’s home life - how Marnie had limited mobility, and the extra duties that would have been unavoidable for Steven and his Dad. He also knew that Marnie made sure she attended every parent-teacher conference. “I hear you're quite the practical man, Steven. Would you consider helping me out with stage lighting and sound?” He basically cornered the kid into this, wouldn’t take no for an answer. “We’re a ragtag bunch, we have more fun than theatrical success. I’d love it if you gave it a go. Come see me at lunch on Monday.” Outside, Gilham walked the lad around the bike and gave him a bunch of stickers. That was the day that Steven got into Dunkin’s, Harleys and the school drama group.
On the hilltop, Steven found his feet again and even smiled. He thudded down the steep trail, finding some afternoon cool in the trees, then into the visitor center where he grabbed a coffee and a bite. Before leaving, he picked up a couple of donuts too - he'd take them home to share. It was a beautiful day in the mountains.
Feel free to Buy Me A Coffee ☕️
I was challenged by a friend, who kindly actually read this, that this story doesn't go anywhere. Well it's true. I believe it does go somewhere on a meandering path, avoiding a climax or crisis, but we see the life journey of Steven, and I intended to examplify inner and outer beauty.
My writing does suffer from a double dose of being indirect. I shun conflict in my life but try to be unafraid in writing. I promise something a bit more full-on soon.
Mea culpa. Peccavi. Author's word-blindness must have struck me, as I'd peppered this story, which I love, with grammatical howlers. I hope I've fixed them now in my post-edit edit. Pressing that 'Post' button always removes the scales from your eyes.
Hope you enjoy this one as much as I do.