The Stories We Heard

Chapter 3

Isaac Phobis was the type of person who had bad things thrown at him a lot. When he was in elementary school it was dodgeballs are the widest, slowest kid in the gym. When he was in middle school it was pen caps and eraser bits at the smartest kid in English class. In high school it was beer bottles at the useless, disappointment of a son.

There were other things, less tangible things too. Like his mother's cancer, his best friend moving out of the country, and the ever present memory of his father breaking the only thing that ever mattered to him.

Bad things happened to Isaac a lot. He tried not to make a song about every single one of them.

“I have eaten nothing but Chex Mix for five days.” He hummed to his fist, “I have no money, no plan, but hey- I'm not eating any sand!”

His stomach growled.

“It could be worse, I could be dead! With all these words stuck in my head!” He tapped his foot to the rhythm of his words. “Flattened til black is all I see, under the tires of that RV.”

The realization seemed to strike a chord in him. He paused in his song, foot mid tap, and breath somewhat short.

If that girl-- Savannah-- had killed him, run him over with her RV, who would have known? His splattered mess might have been found hours later with no face, no way to identify him. No one would ever know he had died.

Though to be fair, only a handful ever knew he existed in the first place. Wasn't that why he was out here? Starving himself to death?

Wasn't that how the world seemed to be now? A place where he woke with the sun in his eyes, no money to his name, no talent other than an occasional rhyme that didn't sound cliche? Where he had to worry about being nothing, because all he ever had was nothing?

--Well that wasn't strictly true anymore. He looked to his left where he had set the green plastic plate after eating the eggs that hadn't fallen on the ground when it had been thrown at him. He had a plate, and that was something more than nothing at all.

Isaac looked around the park, his heart rate seemed to decrease as he did. It was about midday in the middle of a random town in Virginia. He had a plate and a park bench made of metal. There were people out nearby: a couple moms sitting on a park bench watching their sons throw sand at each other. A couple high school kids were throwing a football back and forth and trading insults. A man had set up an his own easel and set about painting the summer flowers nearby. Joggers roamed the pathway with earbuds in and sunglasses on.

What would it take to make them stop?

He hummed, testing out his voice. No one looked his way. He hummed again.

What would it take to be someone? To have something?

To make the world stop and look at him like he was worth something more than the ragged holes in his jeans?

His mother's favorite songs were all from the 80’s. He remembered her dancing to them in the kitchen, the radio crackling with static because they could never quite get the best signal from their shack. He'd hear her sing with the lightness of dawn, the ease of spring breezes; she'd shake and spin and dip with the grace of an angel.

He knew all the words.

When she died of cancer with a million pins and needles in her and skin translucent as stained glass, she left him with two things: a complete knowledge of most songs ranging from the 80’s to the 90’s and the ability to sing them.

Eye of the Tiger was his choice for no particular reason other than that was the last song he remembered hearing on the radio.

A jogger stopped nearby and pulled out an earbud with a confused look. He laughed when he saw Isaac, “Hey man! I was just listening to that! Can you do another one?”

Isaac grinned.

Virginians, he decided, were crazy.

He sang another one.

The park wasn't anything special. It wasn't stage with lights and speakers. It wasn't a recording room with microphones and music. The park had been named after an old train station that use to run through the town. Isaac didn't really care.

In that moment, standing with his head held high, singing along to a record in his head, performing for a crowd of three adults and a couple other teenagers who sang along like they were on their own stages, Isaac Phobis was, for a second someone.

(806 words)