Lil' Pete's Short Stories

Lil' Pete woke up just after dawn, the sun streaming through the cheap blinds and white, cotton curtains of his bedroom window. He blinked his eyes and tried to bring the bedside clock into focus, but at this hour, in this state of mind, it was all a blur. He thought he'd awaken from a dream filled with intrigue and mystery, but he couldn't remember a single image, so it was just as likely a mistake. Lil' Pete would do that sometimes, in his mind, particularly when still half-asleep. Lil' Pete pulled off his bed covers and threw his big feet over to the floor like two big lumps of clay. With patience he shoved his clay feet into his brown slippers, raised himself upright, guided his way to the bathroom and made himself ready for the day.

Lil' Pete was not little, nor had he ever been, in relative terms. Compared to his father and big brother he had always been just a pip-squeak, but they were taller than average and big boned. It was true that he'd put on a pound or two in his later years, but other than his new doctor, no one seemed too concerned about it. “Either way,” he said aloud, to no one, taking a quick peek at his flabby physique and weathered face in the bathroom mirror, carefully brushing what was left of his silver-white hair and bushy mustache.

Most days, after awakening, Lil' Pete would open the curtains in his small den to bring in what sunlight was there and so he could see the bird house he'd placed just outside his window. Beyond the birdhouse it was mostly cars, parking lots and office buildings, though he kept most of it out of focus. Lil' Pete had seen two birds go in his birdhouse, or at least inspect it, but he couldn't say for sure if there were others, or perhaps other birds of the same kind. Looking again at the birdhouse, this time peering closely, eyes mere slits, he remembered, suddenly, the tree house that his grandfather had built in his backyard in South Carolina. And how one time he'd spent the entire night there, with a bowl of popcorn, his sister, and his grandfather.

It was a brilliant blue night, he remembered, with the air just cold enough to require a blanket and long pants. As the night drew on Lil' Pete, Linny and Gramps sat on pillows, ate caramel corn and peered out the window that faced to the woods. It wasn't long before they heard the sounds of crickets light up, and the songs of toads, sounds like tortured creatures, or terribly bad musicians. Gramps told us a tale which I can't remember fully; just now. But I'll never forget the red owl which lit down upon the large branch of the skinny pine tree that seemed curtained by moonlight. I'd never seen an owl in person, and so it was naturally fascinating and alarming at the same time. It was the most heart-felt owl I've ever seen or heard and she throated her hoot like a starlet on a single stage. Gramps put his long arms around me and sis until we feel asleep, then he tucked us in and kept us good company through the noisy, chilly night. At dawn, I remember the sunlight through the trees like a fire, bright as silver.

Lil' Pete made his way across the room to the kitchen and made himself a pot of coffee, or half a pot, or perhaps just a cup or two, which he knew just how to do, then plopped down in his easy chair in front of the TV, though there was nothing on that he cared to watch.  Usually there was a paper outside his door, as there was this morning, and usually he would thumb through it, reading every word, or just some of the more interesting articles, or a few of the headlines, or maybe just look at the pictures. In the section titled Life and Entertainment Lil’ Pete was drawn to a large photo of a sailboat – or perhaps it was a yacht of some sort – he wasn’t sure.

In his youth Lil’ Pete had loved the ocean and his uncle Gee owned a boat for a few years that was big enough to fish in the deep sea. He’d only fished with uncle Gee a couple of times, and only once had they caught any fish worth keeping. But still Lil’ Pete could remember that one trip with uncle Gee and his cousin Cal, like it happened yesterday.

The gulf water was almost as calm as a lake, though at dawn it sparkled like emeralds and streams of silver. His mother had covered his face and shoulders with white, greasy sunscreen and insisted he wear a big floppy hat.  There was a picture of the three of them somewhere, probably packed in one of the shoe boxes where they kept their pictures. He made a mental note to ask his daughter to see if she could find it for him, but in minutes forgot completely what the mental note pertained to.

Uncle Gee’s boat flew over the water like a jet and left perfect foamy waves behind them. In the morning a dolphin swam beside our boat, easy and carefree as the waves behind us. Other than my wife, it might have been the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen; at least in person.

We slowed down once we reached the good fishing part of the gulf and dropped our lines. I remember how Uncle Gee taught me how to bait a silver side minnow onto a hook, how to cast the big rod, and how to put my finger on the line to feel for a strike. Fishing is a solitary and quiet exercise, filled with time for reflection and distraction. But in the deep sea all fishers should be on guard. It was Cal who first hailed a bite, and though twice my age and size, he struggled to reel in the creature. Looking back, its no wonder it was such a struggle, for he’d snared a trigger fish, big as a frying pan, but twice as heavy, ornery as a bull and just as leathery. Blue, green and gold flashed from the scales, fins and eyes of the catch, with teeth squared-off like tiny dentures. Cal yanked the trigger fish into the boat as we scrambled for safety. Uncle Gee yanked it up by the gills and laughed at us like the nervous novices that we were. He cut loose the leader and released the prize back to its home, hooks, leader and all.

It was my bite that I most remembered, because I could feel it in my hands, and because all fishing is personal – at least that’s my impression. The line on my rod flew out with a whirring like bees, and for me, still a young boy, it cast upon me great agitation and Adrenalin, the excitement that one can only get from the feeling of a big fish on the other end of one’s line.

Lil’ Pete took a deep breath as his head snapped up, suddenly, realizing that he’d been sound asleep. The paper lay in his lap, barely opened, and his coffee, half-finished, was cold. “Well that was weird!” he said, to no one. Then he looked around the room to be sure that no one was watching him.

The door was closed and indeed he had been napping in complete exclusion and obscurity. "Thank God no one saw that!" He said to himself, shaking his head at how remarkably brilliant the dream-movie had been. Lil' Pete had a knack for vivid dreams, sometimes a startling and invigorating moment of excitement, sometimes a dark vision into his own nightmares and wired stories without connections, light or understanding. Such was the substance of dreams; uncontrollable as the clouds, filled with images from the past and the future co-mingled: a dream had rules, but no rules that Lil' Pete had yet figured out; Not that he hadn't tried.

Lil' Pete took hold of his walker and made his way down the hallway to the dining room. There were pleasant photos of lakes and landscapes on the walls. Surely some of these pictures were personal to someone, at some time, but they all seemed unconnected to his reality, at least today. Lil' Pete could barely walk, even with the walker, but it was a life-experience that he still wanted to hold on to, gripping the walker and pulling himself forward like a man pushing back time.

Jim and Ziggy were waiting for Lil' Pete when he arrived at the dining room for lunch. Jim had once managed a big furniture manufacturing shop in his day, and Ziggy, after raising two beautiful boys, became accomplished in the art of growing and canning home-grown vegetables, and penning original works of short fiction. Ziggy suffered from senility and would shake her head and hands when speaking. No bigger than a peanut, she took great care to keep her hair in perfect form, the color of cotton, and her thin, expressive lips were always perfectly painted in perpetual rose.

Lil' Pete dragged himself into a chair and up to the table, looking across the room to take account of the dinner crowd; make note of the familiar faces; take a temporary check box of a missing colleague, or a fellow boarder who was in distress. In this stage of life, everything was a competition: who could still walk, who could still feed themselves, who could make sense in conversation, who had visits from loved ones. It was the last stages of competition on the stage of life, where you had no control whatsoever on the outcome, selfish pride priming an irrepressible, genetic pump.

Lunch menus lay on the table in front of them, but Lil' Pete barely noticed them. He looked at Jim and wanted to say something, but his mind couldn't move the words to his lips. As a result he just stared at Jim, then reached down to pick up the menu. He stared at the menu like he was looking through a two-way mirror, like he was suddenly back inside a dream. Lil' Pete smiled and set the menu down, looking across the room. "Well I'll have whatever she's having." he announced, satisfied with his selection and suddenly filled back up with confidence.

"I'm having the soup and grilled cheese sandwich," Ziggy said, eyes staring right through the middle of the laminated menu, like she could smell the soup and cheese. Lil' Pete pursed his lips and took his order back: "Wait!", he said, " I'd like the beef tips and rice," just catching the servers ear as she left the table, noting the change. For a second Lil' Pete seemed embarrassed, then he caught himself and began the process of folding his napkin under the table over his lap. He looked at Ziggy, her face as simple and fragile as a flower,

Ruth had the face of a flower, and could gather the afternoon sunset in her hair like the last cloud, eyes bluer than any sky he'd ever seen. Touched by grace, Ruth would always smile at Lil' Pete when he spoke out of turn, or impertinently, often putting her slender hand on his arm, silent as a dream.

As light as a butterfly, and more delicate, Ruth danced around Lil' Pete without blinking. He looked across the dining room and spoke, to no one in particular: "There's something about this room," he said. "You never know."

The light in the dining room was golden, covered with the dust of butterfly wings. Lil' Pete looked at Jim and pursed his lips, posing a question to him: "Did we order?"

Jim put two fingers on the white, cloth napkin that was laid on his lap, and winked, mostly to himself, suddenly thinking about oysters in the mud of Charleston Bay. He felt the mud and shells in his hands, and the smell of the bay at low-tide, and the grins of his father, uncles and cousins when he pulled up a few of the prized mollusks. Jim looked across the room and the light through the window was golden, and sweet as the meat of a Carolina oyster. Then, just as suddenly, the thought was lost.