CW2, D.R. SMITH [little readers .TXT] 📗

report on the northwest Arizona sedimentary basin this morning?” This was most certainly a subliminal demand rather than a question.

“Absolutely” Mick snapped back quickly as she slipped into her chair, smiling for the camera that had finally started to capture her image.

“Good. Great.” And suddenly… Ted’s little talk box on the screen dissolved. Having ended the conversation without a ‘Talk to you later then’ or a ‘Then have a good morning’ queued Micky into Ted’s REAL mindset regarding her late arrival. He was a bit pissed.

“Deal with it” she said quietly as she adjusted the screen on her PC and plunged into what was promising to be a stressful day.

 

 

Brandon Rogers watched as his father spread his fingers on the screen, zooming in on the image that had been attached to the message Brandon’s mother had sent. The message had unfortunately slammed into his phone while standing inches from his dad and, although the notification tone had been dialed down to barely audible, his father had still heard it. Dad had shot a quizzical expression in his direction and then jabbed an open palm out for Brandon to hand the phone over.

The past few weeks had been trying for Brandon. Being made to choose one parent over another is not uncommon in the lives of children of divorced couples, he remembered thinking. But when your parents have separated over political issues and one of them has literally joined a radical faction that you yourself find crazy, it’s… well… strange, he conjectured. And that parent had then physically dragged Brandon into his anti-American fight, disallowing free communication between he and his mother and stashing him in a neighborhood that was frightening in and of itself.  Their accommodations had become a dilapidated state-run housing complex that smelled of drug use, filth, and mold and had a rat population that far out numbered the human occupants. Daryl had literally SMILED when they were shown their appointed room. Turning and facing his son and, grabbing him by his shoulders, saying excitedly “Tell me this isn’t adventurous!?! We are deep into the workings of the Liberal forces! We’re part of it now son!” Brandon knew, that when his father paused after that comment, he was awaiting an affirmative response from the young man. But Brandon just stared back expressionless, exuding indifference, and hurt.

Now, nearly 5 weeks later, he watched helplessly as his father invaded the world of his personal cell phone. No longer was anything sacred or private. Brandon had messages on that phone between himself and his friends at school and some of his acquaintances who still worked at the fast food place where he had taken a summer job. Not only did this ‘gestapo’ tactic feel wrong, it frightened him. Straining to remember if he had texted anything that might anger his father, Brandon fidgeted nervously, his arms wrapped around behind his back and the toe of his left Nike digging into the lip of the cement sidewalk. His mind hashed over the same thing he had been thinking about for weeks now… There has to be a way to run from this madness.

The handwritten note from Micky, which had been photographed and then texted to Brandon, had been sent directly to her son in hopes that he and he alone would see it. There had not been time for Brandon to read or view any of the text message’s content and he had definitely not seen that it had an attachment.

Daryl’s head slowly shook back and forth, sparking Brandon to fear his father had just sensed subterfuge was afoot. But this was a misread of Daryl’s expression, for after what seemed like an eternity, his face softened and he swung the phone out between two fingers in Brandon’s direction.

“Here you go” the boy’s dad stated with some level of emotion in his voice. “Your mother loves you son. And don’t you forget it. I just don’t trust her anymore.”

The young man had to quash his immediate urge to smile at his father’s first comments in exchange for a more subdued response to the ‘mistrust’ remark. Brandon cautiously retrieved the device with his face downcast for fear of making eye contact. He truly had grown just plain sick and tired of his father belittling his mother and was now uncomfortable even looking Dear ol Dad in the eyes after this Mom-condescending remark. One moment, Daryl would elevate her upon a pedestal, making her sound like God’s gift to all mankind and then, frequently in the same conversation, he’d attack her integrity and character with comments about poor decisions she had made, her lack of pride in her race, and accusations of irresponsibility and flightiness.

Brandon was now old enough that he could determine when a courteous comment was due. Saying ‘thank you’ following the interrogation of his cell phone and the attack on his mother was just not apropos. He simply turned and walked away in silence. In so many ways, his father’s actions regarding the communique from his mom had only bolstered what Micky was hoping for… an increased desire in Brandon to find his way back to her and flee from his father and Daryl’s insane dedication to an anti-American and freedom stifling cause.

Once he had opened the message and its attachment, it took only a few seconds for Brandon to recognize the unique underline beneath the hand scribbled words and proficiently decipher them. Exercising discipline Brandon had not previously employed, he kept his face from displaying the excitement that had welled up inside him upon his understanding of his mom’s plan. He allowed only an unpretentious half smile to show. Plans on how to flee this hellish pseudo prison his father had mentally and verbally constructed began to clutter his mind. No bars. No immediate fences. No chains. And yet, leaving had somehow been demonized to a point where escape felt impossible. A conceptualized and perfectly executed psychological jail.

Hope had been absent from Brandon’s life for too long and its resurgence quickly fueled him to action. Before he had even set foot in bed, he had packed his duffel, gathered some food, and carefully studied his chosen route home. All of this had been carried out in the secrecy of his father’s absence. Daryl was preoccupied with meetings of some sort and Brandon merely needed to keep a close watch on the apartments parking space out the window. A street map of Denver was draped over the tiny kitchen table like a table cloth with it’s streets and highways laced with fluorescent yellow streaks indicating potential pathways and detours. In an effort to avoid spilling it on the map, Brandon kept his newly opened Pepsi on the kitchen counter, several feet away from his cartography project.

After an undetermined length of time concentrating on the map, Brandon decided he should check for his father’s car. As he was standing up, he was abruptly startled by the doorknob rattling. Brandon froze! His eyes darted around the room as he realized, not only was the map with obvious markings flagrantly displayed on the table, his duffle bag, stuffed with practically everything he owned, was lying near his bed. Unsure what to grab first, he bolted in the direction of the map just as a loud knock echoed through the apartment. In an effort to not destroy the map for the sake of hiding it, he fumbled to fold it in a recoverable manner. Just as he turned in high gear toward his baggage, a voice leaked through the front door.

“Brandon! It’s me! Riley! Are you in there?” Brandon came to a screeching halt and felt his entire body go limp as every muscle and nerve de-stressed and the long-held breath was finally exhaled. With his eyes closed in relief, the young man managed a smile of sorts and shouted a response.

“I am. Just a second!”

Over the few months the father and son duo had spent as inner-city dwellers, Riley Heggeman had become Brandon’s closest friend. Their bonding was reinforced by the fact they were both in nearly identical circumstances. Victims of dad’s who thought they could save the world through liberal activism. Riley was a year older than Brandon but was considerably smaller. At 5’ 2”, he stood a full 4 inches shorter than the younger boy. But what Riley lacked in height, he more than made up for in build. Having been very active in sports, particularly football and wrestling, Riley could bench press 260lbs and knew how to handle himself in a boxing ring. A lethal combination in anyone’s rule book. It had been so long ago since his parents had split up, Riley was beginning to struggle to remember his mother’s face and voice. His curly blonde hair needed trimming badly and the clothes he had to use over and over again were showing wear. Conversations between the two young men had started bordering on Leftist treason as mention of the old days and things like rides up into the mountains, meeting up with friends who lived up there, and unity between everyone were reminisced.

Brandon swung the door open to the beaming face of his friend. Riley cocked a hand back and up, ready to fire off a smack hard handshake. Their hands slapped and clamped together tightly as they both pulled in and dipped a shoulder against the others. Then Riley pushed Brandon back to give him an up and down examination. His brows creased with question.

“You seem… nervous, dude. What’s going down?” Riley queried, displaying concern. Brandon’s face drained of expression, his eyes turning downward. Riley craned his neck in an effort to place his face in Brandon’s line of sight. He couldn’t help but notice Brandon’s troubled look. He spoke again, this time allowing true concern to be reflected in his voice. “You OK man?”

Brandon’s tongue slid around his lips to wet them. It was obvious he was debating on how much he wanted to share with Riley. The more his friend knew, the more trouble he would get into once Brandon’s absence was discovered. A lack of knowledge on Riley’s part guaranteed plausible deniability.

“Just missing my mom” he said, trying to maintain credibility through a partial truth. Brandon then tipped his head to wave Riley the rest of the way into the room, closing and locking the door behind him. Riley took note of this action but said nothing. The young visitor stepped in the direction of the well-worn couch and plopped into it, flipping his feet up onto the coffee table while cupping both hands behind his head, elbows winged out to the side. Down inside, Brandon felt an uneasiness welling up regarding his father’s return. This relaxed visitation with Riley was going to have to be brought to an abrupt end. Considering they’d only been sitting there for several minutes, the closure would seem odd to say the least.

“So… whatcha need?” Brandon asked in a faux calm tone. After casually sauntering towards the window, he  glanced out at the parking lot below, trying his best to appear nonchalant.

“I dunno. Just thought I’d drop in and check out what’s happenin’ ” Riley replied in an authentic tranquil voice. The silence lingered for nearly a minute, allowing even the barely audible sound of the oven clock clicking seconds away, to be heard. Brandon abruptly spun to face the reclining Riley. He clapped his hands together and then rubbed them vigorously.

“Well my man… I’ve got shit I have to get done before my ol’ man get’s home” he said in a near yawn. He was then startled by Riley’s jump to his feet and defensive stance to Brandon’s immediate right. His index finger then jabbed forward in an accusatory point.

“What in the hell is going on here man?” he blurted out into Brandon’s surprised face. Brandon reared back, head scrunching backward on his neck, eyes wide open in shock. “You are up to something I’m telling you! This isn’t a normal visit and you know it!” Riley continued.