Charlie Boy
Anna Santy
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“I don’ know, Charlie Boy, it sounds kinda confusin’ to me.”
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“I mean, I don’ wanna put ya down or anythin’. I jus’ feel like this doesn’ really make sense, ya know? Like, why are the clouds ‘blue as Van Gogh’ and the sky ‘ivory in swaths’? I jus’ don’ get that. The sky’s the blue one, Charlie Boy. And clouds are white. I jus’ feel like ya got it all backwards.”
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“Wouldja stop doin’ that! Why do ya carry those damn sugar packets around anyway? Ya hate every beverage they’d be useful in.”
“I’ve told you a million times, Bud, they fuel my creativity. The unconventional utilization of commonplace items can stimulate the mind to think innovatively.”
“And how do ya figure tha’?”
“I read it in a scholarly magazine.”
Bud scrunches up his forehead. “Well, even if tha’s true, I don’ think bangin’ Splendid packets ‘cross your hand counts as ‘unconventional utilization.’ I mean, most people do that ‘fore they pour ‘em in their drinks, so really, you’re jus’ skipping the second half o’ the process.”
Charlie’s eyes simmer. “Whatever. And as for my novel, those are some extraordinary metaphors; you just don’t understand them, and it’s not my job to get you to do so.”
“Charlie, I didn’ mean to upset ya. I jus’ meant maybe you oughta bring it down a little, jus’ with the small things, like perhaps start with bleachin’ your clouds the right color, and then go from there.” Bud’s eyes glitter, quickly fading when he chances on Charlie’s expression. Abandoning the sugar packets, Charlie starts to pick at the ramshackle table, shearing small splinters of wood from the dilapidated top. His hand refuses to stray from the selected area, sifting through layers of grainy timber. “You’re too wound up, Charlie Boy. Take a break from this,” Bud says, waving the manuscript in the air, wrinkling his nose. “Why don’ we go off somewhere, jus’ for a couple o’ days? We could even go somewhere with them museums you keep rantin’ on about.”
“I don’t want to go to a museum unless I live in the city where it’s located.”
“But how are ya gonna do that? You don’ have enough money to live in a city: none of us do; tha’s why we live out here in the middle o’ nowhere.” Bud laughs uproariously at that, dimples creasing his wide smile.
“Obviously I don’t have enough at this very minute, but I will soon. With that book there, I’m about to strike it big. You can be so short-sided sometimes, honestly Bud.”
“Charlie, this is the first novel you’ve ever finished and ya did it in a week.”
Charlie glares irritably at Bud’s strained expression. “Yeah, so? What’s your point?”
Bud continues to stare at him. He hates saying anything that might crush Charlie’s hopes, but they always stretch too far. He takes the thinnest grain of chance and places every bit of strength he’s got on it. This spurred great fun as kids, especially for Bud, whose own mind couldn’t extend far past what was dropped in front of it. Now, though, Bud can see a problem festering, but not knowing what to do about it, he sighs, and resigns with a halfhearted, “Nevermind, Charlie Boy.”
“Well, let’s, let’s just move on from the topic altogether. I don’t think either of us are getting anywhere discussing my novel.”
“All righ’, Charlie Boy. I still got an hour ‘fore I gotta go back to work so whaddaya wanna talk abou’? Anything new with ya?”
“I don’t know, you’re the one that usually comes up with that. With the conver-conversation starters, I mean.”
His eyes drop and he starts to fidget again, ink fresh on his fingers; he’d only finished the book a half hour before he came to lunch. Bud turns to a topic he’s always willing to discuss: women. “Las’ week I saw that Margo Bridges walkin’ down the road. I was sittin’ on the side and the way she walked, well damn, I couldn’ look away.”
Charlie drops his eyes again, a feverish rouge painting his cheeks. “Why not? I never understood what you saw in a woman walking. You’re always talking about women walking—
don’t you have anything better to stare at?”
Bud laughs, but Charlie’s inquisitive expression refuses to waver. “I don’ know Charlie Boy. I guess I can’ explain it to someone who doesn’ already know what it is to look at a woman walkin’. They jus’ got a way about ‘em when they get on it, and I don’ know how to explain it because I don’ have the words for it. To be honest, I’m sure you would be able to describe it better than me if you could jus’ see it yourself.”
“Give it your best shot.”
He sighs. “I don’ know, Charlie Boy. I don’ know how to explain it. They jus’ got a way a walkin’. A girl’s jus’ got a way a walkin’ where you’re bound to look at her.”
“Well, is it different when you look away? Does she walk different when you look away?”
“Now, how would I know, Charlie Boy? I’m not looking at her then, now am I? But maybe you’re righ’. Maybe they walk different ‘cause I’m looking at ‘em.”
Charlie settles into the silence, seemingly content with the response, but then Bud starts up again. “No, no I don’ think so. I think women just got a different kinda thing, and it’s just one that men don’ have. I don’ really know what it is, but you can see it when they’re walkin’.”
“Can you see if they’re walking with groups? Or with a man? Is it there every time they walk?”
“I don’ think so. I think, well, I think women are different when they’re alone. I think they are different when they’re alone. They just don’ get to tell anyone about it like us men do, and maybe, er, maybe tha’s why they walk different when they’re walkin’. Maybe they’re jus’ less nervous. I mean I know it’s no fun to be a woman walkin’ by mos’ men. It’s why I don’ call to them, ya know? Best to leave ‘em alone, I think; Lord knows they’re better off that way.” He rubs a hand sheepishly across the back of his neck. “There’s jus’ a way about ‘em when they walk and I keep watchin’ because the way they got about ‘em makes me keep my eyes on ‘em. And it’s not a sexed up kinda way, really. I jus’ think they look, they look like, um, art. Yeah, tha’s right, they look like art. All on their own, when they’re not bein’ bummed down by anyone else, they look like breathin’ art, if that makes sense.”
“To be quite frank, it doesn’t, and I resent it. You’re coming up with all these kinds of extravagant phrases, kinds that I think could be similar to mine if you fashioned up your English a bit, and that means that you just proved yourself a hypocrite right there, Bud Roth, because you rained all over my sentences that in actuality are rather similar to yours, just with proper grammar.”
Bud sighs and goes quiet. “I was jus’ tryin’ to explain what I saw. I thought maybe I could bring my words up to yours so that my explanation made sense to ya. I guess I’m jus’ not real good at it.”
Charlie grimaces and looks away. He didn’t mean to make Bud feel bad. It’s never something he means to do, sometimes the words just slip out on their own. He remembers one time a long while ago when it happened: he was in grade school, talking to a slug of a boy named Robert Oliver. Robert had been laughing about Charlie’s choice of dress: he had chosen to wear a wool sweater to school in the middle of June. Robert found this exceptionally amusing, and let Charlie know it. Usually, Charlie paid no mind to Rob’s continuous teasing, but this was the first day his mother let him pick out his own clothing, and he resented the insinuation of an error in his selection. In response, Charlie quietly commented on the burn mark snaking up Rob’s exposed arm, breezily implying that a sweater might do him some good, too. A couple kids laughed. Rob never mentioned the sweater again. Bud had fallen over himself apologizing for Charlie’s mistake. It didn’t do much good. Rob grew quieter and meaner with each year of school, and by the time he reached his twenty third birthday he became so much like his father, he started hitting his own kids. Rob died on his twenty fifth birthday, drowning away his torment. Bud went to his funeral. Charlie didn’t.
“Hey, Charlie, I hate to break up that internal conversation you’re runnin’ around with, but I gotta go back to work. I’ll see ya later okay?” He starts to shoulder his way out of the booth.
“Hey, Bud, I… I’ll see you later.”
Disappointment glosses across Bud’s face, but he quickly packs it away, and throws his half of the bill down on the table. Charlie sits resolute in the booth; his shredding of the table takes up a rapid rhythm until his fingers go clear through it. Bud rolls his eyes as Charlie scrambles to cover the breach with a grimy plate, too cheap to admit to his destruction. At that, both men saunter towards the exit, nodding in response to Shelly, their waitress, calling out, “See you tomorrow boys!”
Anna Santy is a sophomore. She is a genetics major on a pre-medicine track with a double minor in health in society and philosophy. Her interests include horseback riding and anything medicine related. She is also a licensed EMT. Anna hopes to become a physician after school.