The Dream of Genes

Chapter 13: Vincent

We walked along the edge of the grass where the grass met rocks. We stopped in front of a clearing in between the stones. I had thought that Irene's house had a natural pathway to the beach, but in front of us lay a stone staircase. It had the naturalness of a cut bush and was made of natural materials but was clearly created by human hands.

It did not really matter whether it was natural or not because as I looked down at the reason for the dilemma, he looked back at me.

"What do you want to do?" I asked regarding the staircase.

"Go back inside," Eugene said, deadpan.

"No, I mean the—"

"I know what you mean," Eugene sassed. "Why do you want to go down there? What—did you want to feel the sand between your toes?" He smirked.

"No, I just wanted to talk," I said.

"Why can't we talk here?" he said, addressing the grassy yard.

I wasn't sure what to say, but I remembered what Eugene joked about. What a good excuse! I smiled, trying to copy Eugene's iconic sarcasm. "So what if I wanted to feel the sand into my toes?"

Eugene just looked at me, his head tilted downward so his chin touched the top piece of his lapel, and one of his eyebrows rose in an arch. The green irises of his eyes are the top of his lids shaded by his dark lashes. He crossed his arms, slightly diagonal to his belt.

"Really, Jerome? Really?"

"Yeah, why not," I said, doubling down. "It's not every day that you get to go to the beach." I didn't tell him that I was scraping myself clean here a few days ago.

Eugene leaned back diagonally in his wheelchair in a way that made it seem that the chair with wheels looked as comfortable as the black lounge chair at the condo. I watched him think as his mouth shifted into different shapes and directions. "I do not understand why I even agree to these things, but fine."

"Yes!" I cheered as if I were an eleven-year-old boy again, but that quickly faded as I determined we still had the initial problem: the staircase.

"How do you want to get down there?" I asked.

"Isn't it obvious? You have to pick me up and hold me bridal style down the stairs," Eugene said, still grumpy.

I knew that he was joking, but I seriously could not think of a better plan than that. The only other thing would be that Eugene crawled down the stairs, which would probably hurt, if not ruin his clothes, which I didn't think Eugene would like. Another option would be that Eugene went down the stairs in his wheelchair, but that would also hurt as the jagged stairs would create a bumpy ride down. Also, It would most likely damage the wheels of his chairs, as well.

I walked over to Eugene with my arms wide open, his familiar smirk on my face.

He raised his wet brow and looked at me weirdly. "What are you doing?"

"You suggested it," I said, giving him a knowing look.

"Maybe I need to learn how to keep my trap shut," I heard him grumble. "Fine, you win. Let's get this over with. I'd rather not get a bunch of sand on myself. So, you can take the wheelchair down first." Eugene pooped himself off the wheelchair and sat himself down on the grass. He didn't mind getting grass stains more than he cared about getting sand on himself, I guessed.

Quickly, I hooked up the wheelchair with my arm and carried it over the twenty or so stone stairs. "Careful," I heard Eugene call after me. "That cost almost a thousand dollars, and I would rather not go through the hassle of finding and buying a collapsible and ergonomic wheelchair through the black market just because of your clumsiness."

Eugene had two wheelchairs, as far as I knew: the one he had when I first met him, which was rust and rickety, and probably the worst one I have ever seen—though I have not witnessed a lot in my short time of thirty. I'm not sure exactly when he bought his new one, but it was most likely numerous days before Gattaca Aerospace Corporation accepted me. At the start, I had asked him why his wheelchair looked old and a little rusty. He told me it was the exact wheelchair he was given after the incident from the hospital.

I placed the wheelchair on the sand, facing the stairs, so it would be easier to place Eugene back into it once we were on the beach. As I walked up the steps, Eugene held out his arms like the day we went out drinking. Like that day, I jokingly said, "You better not give me a hard time," as I squatted and got ready to pick him up bridal style.

Eugene seemed to catch on to my reference because he said, "Then you better not drop me this time." I lifted him, and he wrapped an arm around my neck before we slowly started to descend the rocky stairs. "You know, for future reference, don't pick someone up from under their arms. That hurt a lot."

"Dearly noted," I said as we reached the bottom.

Eugene reached for the armrest across the chair and gently transferred himself from my carry to his chair before he pushed up a little to readjust his position and get a tad more comfortable. The wheels sank an inch or two into the grains of sand as Eugene dusted off sand particles from his pants.

"Okay, we are here now," Eugene said, spreading his arms wide like a bird's wings in its whole span. "What do you want to talk about?" he raised an impatient eyebrow as he patiently waited for my answer. It wasn't like he could leave. The ocean and the rock wall trapped him. He could sliver across the sands, but God only knew how long that would take.

"I wanted to go swimming."