The Lost Generation

by Christina Nguyen

His left hand slipped into his pocket. Worry gnawed at his stomach when his fingers couldn’t run across the smooth back of the rectangular-shaped metal. It was as if he was naked and exposed, without a connection to the world. As he walked down the street, the man gazed only at the cracks in the cement below his sneakers. His slender shadow never betrayed his steps as he continued to travel deeper into the neighborhood. Too nervous to look up at the faces of the people who strode past him, the man walked a block past his apartment before he realized his mistake. For some reason, everything looked different behind his outdated spectacles.

A mix of loose of coins, keys, and silver pendent jingled in his pocket as he climbed the stairs to his room. Breathing heavily at the top of the fourth floor, he remembered his desire to get out and exercise again. However, his running shoes were still tucked safely within his closet. Another resolution lost to the New Year.

The man’s apartment was neat. Everything he owned was stored in small boxes that were carefully labeled in black ink. They were stacked in a shelf past his bedroom and left of a bathroom that lacked a mirror. Only a scarce number of objects decorated the table tops and wooden mantle, each carefully placed and positioned into an exact arrangement. A single plant represented the only living thing in the apartment. It sat by the window beside an empty frame. His apartment housed everything he needed; only on rare occasions did he leave. Tonight had been one of those nights.

If his mother was here visiting, she would have been upset that he still didn’t frame a picture of the family. He had one he always held onto. It lay in perfect condition except for one wrinkled corner. The photograph was of the three of them outside their home in upper state New York during the winter.

Reminiscing about his past, he wondered if he could ever find his way home. It had been so long now that everything began to blur. When he had turned eighteen, he packed up, moved across the country to California and broke his mother’s heart. He wished he could tell his mother that it wasn’t because of her that he left. It was something he needed to do. But all lines of communication seemed to have died with time.

At the corner of his bed, he spotted his phone. He squeezed it tightly in his aging hand, the feeling of the metal soothed him. In a rush that morning he stupidly forgot to slip it into his pocket. With the object now secure in his presence the man felt a calm sensation run throughout his entire body. The words, no new messages, were displayed on the screen. This was nothing new to the man. After all, who would have called him? He was practically a stranger to himself.

With a heavy sigh, he sat down and pulled out his laptop. After years of being suffocated by the man’s weight, the leather sofa permanently outlined his figure. It was a type of sofa that was put out in display rooms, but would never be purchased because of its lack of aesthetics. A mysterious appeal seduced the man to pay in full cash for the sofa and he now regretted it. Ironically, it was on this couch that he had spent most of his days.

The laptop chirped. It was his time to play once again. After an exhausting hour, he shut off his life and stored it to be recharged.

Before he could rest his eyes, everything had to be where it belonged. If not his whole world would crumble. Some cold nights, he watched the blinking red lights of his clock flash. He would stay awake for hours, afraid to fall victim to the dark. Other times, he would wake up in the morning with glistening crystals across his face and a swollen throat. Sometimes, he would wake up crying silent tears.

Images of the man haunted his dreams. The man had stood above him, watching him as he slept. The man’s rough hands would stroke his back, careful to leave nothing untouched. The man sniffed his blue superman pajamas and his messy brown hair. Eventually the man ruffled beneath the sheets, grunting a rhythmic tune.

“Don’t cry, boy. Count the sheep and you’ll forget it all. We all have our demons but that doesn’t make us bad, just people with bad habits,” the voice mumbled as thick tears dripped to the floor. He had lost his innocence the day he his father took him in his arms from the hospital. The next morning a yellow stain would lay fresh on the bed sheets.

“Honey, it has been weeks since this first started. Something’s wrong,” the woman in the peach colored robe said as she changed the blankets. Her eyes glistened in the dimmed room. “Maybe it’s time to take him to the doctor’s.”

“Lydia, I already told you. It’s probably nothing. If anything, he’s probably just having a few nightmares about school,” the man said with reassurance. The woman rested her chin on his shoulders before being taken in by her husband’s gentle arms. Standing there pressed up against his chest and his warmth bleeding into her body, the woman could feel her worries shed from her skin. She trusted her husband and knew he meant it when he said the following words: “I promise you Lydia, I am going to take care of him. I promise.”

Preparing for bed, he had removed the contents of his pockets which included a crested shaped pendent. He placed it among his other treasures, discreetly hidden within his wardrobe. He neatly folded the clothes he wore into a black plastic bag. A note stuck on the refrigerator would later remind him to do his laundry. It was important, this ritual, for he couldn’t be found guilty of being dirty. He had no intention of being labeled a social pariah. Besides, for years, he had gotten away with his habit.

He was careful of every detail from where he would find the laundry mat and machine he would use to the time of night he would go. He was precise in measuring the detergent and was an expert when using bleach to erase messes gone wrong. In ways he was like his father, the very man he despised and hated, and other times was the living replica of his mentor.

Finished, he took a shower. He scrubbed his body with a brittle brush until it exposed his raw pink flesh. He felt his face and the ridges of his chin with his fingertips. He only knew his face from touch and from that old photography taken so many years before. The beads of water streamed down the corners of his lips. The words slipped out of his mouth as he tasted the sweet water on his tongue. I am not my father. I am not a monster. I am not... He repeated the words as if to convince him of a truth that didn’t exist. Numb to life, reality was useless in his eyes.

Often times he would spend his time in a park where the kids played their childish games, a world of fantasy and fairy tales. The bench by the Oak tree was his favorite spot. Covered by its outstretched branches, he sat in isolation just outside of the border of the play structure. He gazed at the shape of their innocent bodies as the children weaved amongst the colorful play structure. However, it was with children that he drew his line. He had almost lost his control and walked past that lightly etched border that separated the outside world from the sand that held the structure. But that was a time when he was still young and new to his way of life. With time he learned and crafted his skill.

After hours of harmless play in the park, he would return home. He would slip out his laptop and relief would meet his fingertips almost instantaneously as they punched little black cubes. In this digital world, he hid not who he was. His thoughts roamed freely; he was alive on self-medicated prescription of utter bliss. Here stories were shared with men just like him. They did not judge him for his bad habits and neither did he judge them for their past. Feeling mentally famished from his strenuous work he put he turned his laptop off to sleep.

Deeply immersed in his thoughts while sitting at his favorite spot in the park he failed to notice a woman of luscious curves perched besides him. She wore a purple cardigan the day she first spoke to him. Her rich brown eyes peered into his and it was as it if was the first time someone saw him, for who he was inside and out. Her dark hair rustled in the warm breeze as she shook the loose hairs away from her cheeks. The next day the pair met again as they laughed away their worries. In each other’s company, time seemed to never pass.

“It’s our first month anniversary!” the woman exclaimed with delight as she approached him.

“What?” he said puzzled, “Anniversary for what?”

“The first time we met was on this bench, of course. You sat here staring off in the distance. I asked if you were alright but you didn’t respond at first. I thought I was going crazy and that you were actually a fragment of my imagination. I hope you didn’t forget.” The woman replied. It felt like yesterday since they first met.

“I remember,” he confessed. The man was at once saddened at the reality of his life. Before he met this woman, he was always alone. Hours spent in the park, no one ever spoke to him. Even the local homeless man never harassed him for change. Somehow the homeless man had more than the man with everything. Having this type of affection from her made him feel alive. For the first time he had something to looked forward towards.

“Well, I’m glad I did talk to you because to be completely honest, you are the first person who didn’t judge me,” the woman said, starring at her hands. The man nodded in reply. He didn’t feel the need to smile. She already knew he felt the same way. “Gosh, it’s just so crazy how I could relate to a complete stranger like you. What are the chances of us meeting the way we did, on this very bench?” she pondered.

“The world works in mysterious ways, I guess,” the man said.

“It’s like we knew each other before we met, kind of as if you were my stalker!” The woman laughed. The thought of him stalking her was just beyond her wildest imagination.

“I don’t think I’d be a good stalker,” the man finally concluded after joining in with her laughs. A sudden cold breeze shot goose bumps across his arms. He remembered why he hated the bitter winter air.

Finally, the sleeping flowers awoken from their slumber to spread their petals. But even beauty never last; eventually all things come to an end.

The last day he saw the woman, she wore a floral sun dress. She had a small smile as she walked toward him. Even though he had always seen her during the course of their spontaneous relationship, she never looked the same when he laid his eyes on her. After she had arrived, they sat in silence. As children scurried past them, she watched as their shoes left kisses on the moist soil. He stared at the creases in the girls’ church dresses. When she broke the silence, he only heard a few of the words as they left her lips. He was too preoccupied by the creases that should have been ironed out. He noted that nothing could ever be perfect.

“I’m moving for LA today,” she looked at him. He said nothing in reply. “When you almost die, you are supposed to have your life flash in front our you. But I didn’t see anything. On my way home, I almost died in a car accident, but my life was blank.” She took a slight pause before continuing, “I haven’t done anything. I had given up on all of my dreams. I know it’s pathetic, but I’ve put my life on hold because I have been too afraid of living.”

Being held captive by her fears, the only thing the woman was used to doing was avoiding her problems. But today was different; she was running away to chase her dreams and start her life over again.

“I just can’t be afraid anymore.”

And then she was gone. Only he remained on the bench. Alone.

Weeks later, a sudden urge compelled the man to scavenged deep within his closet to uncover his running shoes. He slipped them on and double knotted the shoelaces before sprinting out the door. It had been such a long time since he ran outside that the feeling made him nervous. As he ran, he found himself thinking about the woman from the park. He never said anything as she left him on that bench and soon regretted it as she faded out of his line of sight. He remembered the last thing she said to him even when he pretended not to hear. It’s taken almost dying to see what I have been missing from my life and that’s why I’m leaving. Don’t let it take this long for you to realize what you need to do as it did for me. Everything happens for a reason. I hope you will one day find it in you to tell her. It’s the only way to move forward. It’s the only way to heal.

After jogging around the neighborhood, repeating the words in his head, he returned, home feeling refreshed. As he opened the door that revealed a dead apartment, he suddenly felt disgusted. Quickly he walked past the sofa to the boxes where he pulled out a photograph. Numbers were inscribed in adolescent penmanship. He picked up his phone and punched the buttons. After three rings, a voice answered.

“Hello?”

He couldn’t seem to repeat the words he rehearsed for so many years.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Instantly, he thought of the woman from the park in her floral dress, her smile, and her eyes so full of promise. He remembered why he was doing this; it was time to move forward.

“Hi,” he replied in a shaky voice. “Hi Mom, it’s me, Tom.”