helpless (Lams)

John and Alex are Bonding Over Their Dead Moms Now

...

JOHN LAURENS

FRIDAY, JULY 8

Alex walked beside me, his hands behind his back, a skip to his step. His hair continuously fell his face, and each time he would blow it out of his eyes.

"So, Hamilton," I said. "What about your parents?"

"My parents?" he asked, looking over at me. I nodded and he took a breath. "Um, let's see. George and Martha took me in when I moved here. To America, I mean. And, yeah, they're pretty great. They sort of adopted me. And Laf. That's why we don't look alike, we're not blood brothers."

"Where'd you move from?" I asked.

"Oh, uh, the Caribbean," he answered. "Nevis; it's an island out there."

"Tell me about that," I said, and kicked a stone that was laying in the middle of the sidewalk.

"The island? God, Nevis was heaven on Earth. It's warm there. Warmer than here. But not the kind of heat where you can't do anything. It's the kind of heat where you just open the fire hydrants and play in the water. You can sit in the sun and swim in the ocean forever. You can surf all day. And the sand between your toes..." He shook his head, a small smile on his face. "It's truly amazing."

"Why'd you move then?" I asked.

He shrugged. "My mom died, too. And there were a lot more opportunities for me here in America, I guess."

"What were they like? Your birth parents before you moved to America?"

"My mom always smelled like the ocean and coconuts. She cooked really amazing creole dishes; best cook on the island. But then she got some bad sickness and she passed. I have her cookbook, though, but I'm not too good in the kitchen, so it just collects dust."

"I'm sorry," I said, sincerely.

He looked at me and smiled. "Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done is done." He looked up at a stationary shop, and pointed to the door. "Can we go in here?" He opened the door and walked inside.

I hesitated for a second. "Did he just fucking quote Shakespeare on me?" I muttered to myself. What the fuck?

"Come on," Alex called as I stepped inside. "It smells like paper in here!" He did a little twirl.

I heaved a heavy sigh and shoved my hands in my jeans pockets. "You're a piece of work, you know that?" I tilted my head to the side. "I mean, who sees a stationary store and decides, 'hey, that looks fun'?"

Alex spun around on his heels and pointed to himself. "Me," he said, deadpan. "That's who." He lifted his chin and pursed his lips. "I'm a writer."

I raised an eyebrow. "I thought you worked at Wells Fargo?" I asked.

"I do, but I also write," he explained, grabbing a box of pens and tossing them between his hands.

"Oh? Maybe I could read some of your stuff sometime," I hinted with a smile.

"No!" Alex yelped and dropped the box, red in the face. His wide eyes darted around the room, then back to me as he wrung his hands nervously. "I mean, they...they're really boring," he mumbled, looking down at his feet. He bent over and picked up the ivory-coloured box. "You wouldn't like them."

"Well, what're they about?" I asked.

Alex's bony hand trembled as he set the box back on the shelf. "Er...sad and hopeless?" he sputtered. "Yeah. Super boring, yuck." He made a face, and I laughed.