Characters

Swirls of anxiety tirelessly ate away at Tom Lester. He was, for all intents and purposes, a seemingly ordinary man who had worked an abnormally common job, on the surface, at least. It was only through much self-discipline that he effectively put up this front, and this reality often pained him to come across so insincere. Truth be told, his imagination was the place that he found rest, and, quite frequently, the primary area that he stayed when he should have been more in touch with the rest. He would complete his latest “project” at an opportune time of need... the day that he received his pink slip. He was hit with an epiphany of what his next one would be as he cruised down the 101 motorway. His mind went back to the uncomfortable conversation that he’d had earlier with his supervisor, Bill Elder.

...

He visualized the wood-paneled walls of the office, dated and out of style, but nonetheless, critical fixtures, and essential to the real estate all across 24 Welford Lane, his address of employment. The name of the company was never publically posted across the campus, but its purpose was clear-- settling ugly and unresolved medical disputes and collecting the associated debts. It was thankless work. Tom’s words came out flatly. “I just can’t understand this thought process, Bill. Are you saying that you’re firing me?” “No, Tom. I’m saying that we have to make cutbacks. I have nothing to do with that.” “Are you sure about that? Your comment infers otherwise. If you are part of the we, then it begs the question that you do have some say in it.” “Look here, Lester. I’m not here for semantics with you. I’m just carrying out the task like any person in middle-management sometimes has to. I wouldn’t envy me if I were you, any more than I envy you being you.” “Gee, thanks, Bill. You are such a saint. I hope that the promotion to Vice President is worth it to you. I’m afraid the brown on your nose is just a little bit too noticeable for my tastes. Where do I sign... mister middle-man? How about the back of your pressed khakis?” The satisfying feeling of telling off his manager was liberating to Tom. He’d always colored inside the lines, never pushed the envelope, or rocked the boat while employed, and quite honestly, was refreshed by taking such an opportunity. “Excuse me, Lester?!! I was going to get you a pretty good package... If you keep this nonsense up, you’ll forfeit that for insubordination.” Tom threw some fuel on the coals of Bill’s short temper. “Good riddance to me, then. I’m sorry, Bill. I’m struggling to physically emote the way that I am internally feeling.” Bill scoffed. “There’s a box next to my desk. You can pack it up and be on your way. I will pay you through the end of the month?” “You will pay me? First, it was we, now it is you. I think I have finally figured middle management out. You guys are nothing but a waste of time.” Bill’s face became notably reddened. “That’s enough, Lester. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a spectacle from you. You being a ‘teacher’s pet’ is a much better look on you.” “Just you wait, Elder. One day you’ll be the one with a box.” Bill grinned. “I’m sure you’re right. We’re all repurposed in one way, shape, or form... eventually. ‘Tis is life. Go grab you a pack of cold ones and start your job hunt. You know I’ll give you a glowing reference. You’ve been nothing but good for this company.” Tom was still in shock as he picked up the box, peculiarly bit off a corner of it, and spit it on the top of Bill Elder’s head. “Until next time...” Elder smacked the small, saliva-riddled piece of the box off of the top of his long-balding melon and took a big swill of his lukewarm, herbal tea. He didn’t react in anger, but rather in indifference. After leaving the room, Tom Lester took the walk of shame through the myriad of cubicles and ficus plants. He was convinced that the place looked more like a maze than it did any office area. Bill Elder went to his office window, closed the blinds, kicked his feet up onto his desk, and lit a celebratory cigar. This termination was one that he’d long wanted to complete, but Tom was just far too smooth to get rid of.

...

Tom arrived at his cheap, suburban mobile home and pulled out a microwaveable TV dinner. Tonight’s feast, Salisbury steak, seasonal vegetables, and a small brownie, readymade with no extra dishes-- all in a matter of three minutes. He had $1,300 saved in case of a situation such as this. He sat at his small desk and pondered on the day while the microwave ran. His little calico cat, Heidi, jumped into his lap and he stroked the back of her head behind her ears, hoping that she wasn’t carrying any fleas or ticks. He began to talk to himself. “Yes, you are an antidepressant for me, aren’t you, little one? You sure shed a lot of fur... Okay, so I’m fired... what was that idea again? Oh, right... that’s what I was going to do...”

The microwave was humming. Tom looked around the room, noting and admiring the growing collection of prosthetics that he’d accumulated and strangely mounted as interior decorations. He’d hung up the full-figured woman’s prosthetic leg that he’d most recently acquired just above the grey sectional couch that quite effortlessly swallowed the room. Admittedly, the additional seating area in his home was quite pointless. Tom was, without a doubt, a loner type and didn’t host company as a result of his bizarre interests... and predispositions.

The area's principal purveyor of miscellaneous artificial appendages, Duncan’s Prosthetics, was clear across town, and he would often deliberate on his next purchase for a couple of months at a time before going to collect it. The cost of acquiring such without a medical need was indeed high, and Tom was certainly not one to consider obtaining one illicitly.

He began to mentally inventory his home and the slew of the unique objects that he’d obtained over time. He had no debt, no alimony, and no mortgage, and the best part for him was that his disposable income was quite high for a single man of his means. He held little faith in the markets to carry him into retirement. As a result, his “401K” was exclusively (and physically) vested in prosthetics. He averaged $3,600 a month in spending money-- most of it temporarily placed into a savings account to later be disbursed on the seasonal prosthesis of choice.

The first bedroom was only full of boxes of odds and ends that he’d collected from the family that he’d lost over the previous years. He rarely entered it and often considered that place a sort of “sacred hoarder” space. He was tolerant of its clutter and disorder because he kept the rest of his home in such good order.

The drum set in his second bedroom was strictly an accent piece. It was all about the character that he’d themed called Harvey. Fully standing, the inanimate project was 6 foot 3 inches tall with a slew of prosthetics attached to his Higby’s Department Store mannequin core. He weighed in at 125 pounds. He was themed with a yellow Nirvana t-shirt, an oversized, red baseball cap, blue jeans, and a pair of gray Skechers. He had a high school class ring, and he donned a Fossil watch on his left wrist. Harvey’s fists were clenched, his right hand holding tightly (and incorrectly) a drum stick that was making its impact with the snare drum, and the left one frozen in the air about six inches above it.

Jenny was permanently still in the third bedroom. She sat at her art desk, covered in splotches of paint in her tightly-fitted overalls, a tie-dyed t-shirt just beneath, a black beret, and a pair of rather uninteresting Keds. She donned no wedding ring but had a Timex watch on her right wrist and a carefully held paintbrush in her left. Tom knew nothing about painting, but had themed a pallet of colors and arranged the desk the way that he imagined she would like the room to be.

In his own bedroom, the master, he had no characters. There were only various, misplaced prosthetics with which he hadn’t been inspired to use yet. There were lighter-colored arms, darker-toned legs, glass eyes, dentures, and hairpieces and wigs of various capacities. He also had two other Higby’s mannequin torsos in the closet leaned against the poorly-made, unenticing, printed wallpaper. He’d considered updating the aged, brown carpet in his home numerous times, but had decided against it in exchange for Bill, his next project. It was true, he had themed his characters after real people, but had taken a variety of creative liberties to add the flavor that he saw fit with each of them, rarely considering the way they actually were.

...

Tom had never elected to tell the real-life inspirations of their motionless doppelgangers that sat in his single-wide, Palm Harbor abode. He was mortified at the reality of their becoming acquainted. His fantasy had indeed seeped into his reality. He wasn’t creative enough to keep the two separate from one another. He always attributed this behavior as a healthier way to uncoil his struggle compared to that of reckless living or the consumption of mind-altering substances. It was decaf tea, TV dinners, and bags, and bags of rounded Rold Gold pretzels that offered him comfort. He sat at the small bar counter in his home and laid down the artificial Salisbury just in front of himself and said a prayer. He wasn’t sure if he could thank God for what was left of the food as fake and processed as it was, but he was thankful for the creative minds that innovated such an effortless way to stay nourished. He frequently grappled with compulsive thoughts about his health and the excessive sodium consumption in such meals but would try to counter these thought processes with hypothetical and imaginative encounters with his characters. Rarely would he sketch them out, he’d occasionally write them down, but most often, he would record the scenarios on his portable voice recorder and play them back later if he struggled to come up with a new one. There were only 99 slots for recording, and he’d recorded 98 scenarios which he had listened to over and over. He didn’t want to delete any of them. The thing about it was... he was exceptionally perfectionistic and cautious before recording the entry and generally had it outlined on scratch paper before he would vocally document the idea. He’d deliberated on buying a second voice recorder. Still, Harvey had urged him against it in scenario #73 and that such a purchase would lead to his own fateful exposure and demise. He finished his uninspiring meal and decided that he would go into the city and pick up a new book. “I think I need to get out a while. Yeah, some fresh air would be good, wouldn’t it?”

...

Tom frequently struggled with separating his reality from his imagination. He would approach the clerk, Jenny, at Babe’s Book Shop each week when he’d purchase his next collection of stories to read and attempt chit-chat with her, often struggling to keep track of the real Jenny with the artificial one. It wasn’t fair what he would put himself through trying to awkwardly force his way into normalcy with the rest. As he collected his book and anxiously approached the checkout line, he looked around the room in hopes of acting casual. He didn’t want to seem too stiff or too obsessive. He knew that was the way he was, though, and he struggled to suppress the feelings. He moved up in line and approached the checkout counter as he called out to the lovely and marginally eccentric redhead. “Hey Jenny, I was thinking back to our talk the other day, and I just want to say, I admire your passion for books.” “My what?” “Your passion for books.” “Tom, just because I work in a bookstore doesn’t mean that I like books. I’m into meaningful music, remember?” Tom internally beat himself up but attempted to keep his composure together on the outside, feeling exceptionally embarrassed by his gaffe. “Jenny, I’m sorry. I knew that.” He nervously laughed. “Here I am trying to be friendly and make chit chat with you, and I can’t even keep track of your interests. Some friend I am... huh?” “Oh, Tom, don’t be so hard on yourself. I love ordinary guys who can spot a good book bargain when they see one.” She smiled at him and reached out over the register and patted him on the shoulder. Tom smiled and timidly walked out with his copy of Henry’s Science Fiction Collection, 2016 edition. It was half-priced. He deliberated on if to wave as he paced towards the door and finally turned around and said, “See you later!” His voice squeaked uncomfortably. Only in his mind did he fathom on the topic. “I’m 37 and am still going through the problems of adolescence. What a joke!” He approached his aged, teal, Geo Metro, and unlocked and opened the door. The keys would frequently jam as he tried to twist the lock open with every bit of his rather unimpressive strength. He would curse under his breath in agitation when this would happen. He caught Jenny looking out the window, sheepishly laughing. Even she had come to admire his quirky demeanor.

...

SIX YEARS AGO

Harvey, Tom’s first project, was born out of trauma. What had started as an evening jog for his brother, John, had fatefully turned into a traumatic tragedy. A teenager named Harvey Belk, failed to effectively watch the road as he carelessly checked his mobile phone and traveled considerably above the posted speed limit through John’s well-endowed subdivision. In addition to the cellular impairment, the grunge music blared loudly through his speakers as he raced down the suburban drive, and casually smoked a barely-legal substance haphazardly flicking its embers into the neighboring grass. At the moment of collision, Harvey felt like he was floating above his own vehicle as he watched himself nonchalantly jump the curb and knock the headphone-wearing jogger over like an unwelcome weed in the grass.

This incident immediately became a nightmare for the handsome, 32-year-old accountant, John Lester, who was plowed over without even a second to react. When Tom got the call about John from his mother, Sue, he collapsed to the floor of his home in shock and coarsely ran his fingers through his wiry hair. He was terrified-- unhealthily so. The stress from the news pushed him to a momentary lapse of insanity, even a breakdown of sorts. He was anxious by nature, and this would regularly compound when traumatic or unsettling events arrived without his own proper “bad news” preparation rituals. After an entire week of isolation and the sick-day bank fully depleted, he returned to the office, and forcefully tried to mask and ignore the inner struggles that he felt. The truth was, he didn’t ever visit John while he was hospitalized. Somewhat ironically, Tom had far too many general anxieties and qualms about the medical establishment. This left him regularly avoiding these circumstances at all costs. About a month after the incident, his mother called him and advised of the prosthesis that was installed on John’s right leg. She further elaborated as to his discharge from the hospital. Tom struggled to catch his breath. He hyperventilated at the thought of his brother no longer having a leg and the angering reason why. His own growing cynicism toward the rest of the world only increased as he watched mobile phone technology take over everyday life. People could eat entire meals without verbally communicating, walk through the grocery store without as much as a greeting from any of the other technologically wanderlust shoppers, and even go for a haircut in total silence at The Shaggy Cut just down Avenue Q without much more than an obligatory “hello” and a brief description of the associated haircutting specifications. He knew that these changes were inevitable and unavoidable and came to accept them in spite of his own personal frustrations.

...

FIVE YEARS AGO

The Lester family pressed charges on Harvey Belk for his actions, and he was ultimately incarcerated. Tom’s first words to his brother, John, came some 12 months after the initial incident and at the end of the trial for Harvey. “I guess he got what he deserved, then.” John hobbled out of the courtroom with a cane and processed the comment as he replied. “I guess so... Where have you been, brother? I could have used some moral support in the midst of my new... challenge. You’re totally off the grid for months and unreachable and then suddenly show up on the final day of my trial... I feel like I have a right to be offended by your unbrotherly way.” Tom sighed in embarrassment. “Yeah. You’re right, John. I’m a complicated guy. You know that about me.” “What do you mean? We should be putting our qualms and quirks aside for times of trauma like these and rallying around each other. You just lost a year with me over your personal struggles...? Was it worth it, Tom?” “Oh, I don’t know, John. Don’t put me through any more stress. I have carried this burden along with you... every step of the way.” “Well, you could have called me... sent me a sympathy card... a dad-gum sterilized hospital balloon, but you didn’t... What have you been doing?” “That’s classified.” “Tom... Medical billing is hardly a task worthy of classification. Sure... you don’t share patient information, but I’m talking about your personal life. You still over there in that trailer house off of Avenue T?” “Yep. The same place I’ve been for the last eight years... The phone rings both ways. You could have called me too, you know. The world doesn’t have to always revolve around you now, does it, John? Or am I ‘not classy enough’ for your tastes to bother with a relationship?” “Oh, Tom, that’s enough... You know that’s not fair to say. Mom told me that you disconnected your phone number. And what stopped you from coming to visit me in person...? Not being able to... plan a visit???!! Come on, are you that self-absorbed, Tom?” Tom shook his head negatively. “I’m no narcissist. I am anxious, though. That severely impairs me. Try walking a mile in my shoes, and you’ll see what I mean.” “Well, that’s going to be twice as hard... now.” John cracked a grin and patted Tom on the back. “Let’s go for a taco and catch up. Meet me at Taco Town?” Tom reluctantly agreed. “Alright, then. I’ll meet you there.” They walked to the parking lot, Tom struggling from the anxieties of all of the surrounding, all-seeing eyes that gazed upon them, and John struggling with both the physical and the emotional impairment of losing his leg and getting to the end of a grueling and emotionally draining trial.

...

The roof of Tom’s late '90s model Geo Metro was sagging. The cheap, gray cloth had begun to droop and frequently made contact with the top of his head as he drove. It was an annoyance but not a complete stoppage from his automotive mobility. His mileage marker crossed 300,000 as he pulled into Taco Town. He debated on if he should offer help to his now disabled brother but opted not to. He went inside and ordered his meal. He sat down in a booth carrying his overburdened tray, placing it, and peering out the window just unenthusiastically waiting for his brother to enter the fast-casual taco chain. He observed John’s struggle as his brother exited the vehicle but elected to take a bite into his Crispy Crunch taco and snub the need. They were never the best of friends. They were playfully competitive, and it was too much of a stretch for Tom to play wet nurse for his brother. That’s what their mother was for. Or, at least that was how Tom rationalized it.

John eventually came in, briefly looked at Tom showing some frustration, and went to the counter to order. Minutes later, he hobbled over to the table with his order and laid it down on the worn tabletop. John spoke first. “So, you’re just going to be that way?” Tom acted aloof. “What way?” “Not going to offer me any help... acknowledge me... escort me inside?” Tom scoffed at the comment. “Get a wife... I’m not here to do that for you.” “I see how it’s going to be. I hope your taco is full of E.coli.” “Gee, thanks, brother.” “Do a favor for me, Tom. Loosen up and be a brother to me for a change. Get out of that imagination and quit thinking about what everyone else thinks about you... Good grief, man.” Tom gawked as his voice elevated. “Yeah, go ahead and gaslight me, why don’t you? Put me down and build yourself up, all because you now have a disability that you didn’t ask for... Woe is you...” John reactively squirted the hot sauce packet onto the front of Tom’s white, oxford shirt and reprimanded his brother’s demeanor. “There, now everyone can stare at you because of your embarrassing stain and look a little less at my limp.” Tom didn’t laugh or seem the least bit amused. “Okay. Anything else you want to talk to me about?” “I don’t guess so... Mom died... night before last.” Tom sat in the middle of Taco Town, both perplexed and shocked by the news. “Oh, gosh, John. Why didn’t you tell me before now?!!“ “You’re too self-absorbed to care. It’s just your way, Tom.” Tears streamed down both of their cheeks as they reminisced on their mother. Tom asked, “So what was the cause of death?” “About four months ago, mom’s left arm stopped working. She went a little manic and tried to cut it off to get a prosthetic.” “Are you kidding me? To match her left...?? I’ve been leery around her since she got the first one.” She would spank me, and that wooden hand was not anywhere near as soft as the real thing used to be. It was just limp and stiff. That thought runs through my head every day... Then I think about it when I’m on the phone with her and have little panic attacks when I overthink it... just sitting there wondering if she dialed my number with the wooden fingers or with the pointed tip of her hook.” John began to chuckle. “Tom, you know that prosthetics have gotten a lot more pliable in recent years. They’re not all made of wood, you know? Sorry... I don’t want to push you to your limit, you weirdo.” It was too late. Lying there in the middle of Taco Town, Tom was covered in a cold sweat and passed out on the bench with the remnants of his taco spread all across the front of his shirt—its grease quickly setting in to match the adjacent hot sauce stain. John pulled out a couple of ice cubes from his Pepsi and began rubbing them on Tom’s perspiring forehead, remembering back to the panic attacks of his brother’s childhood. Tom woke up to John hovering over him and talking. “Poor kid... still so tense, aren’t you?” Tom was overwhelmed by the scene. He finally spoke. “What a nightmare... Let’s go.... when’s mom’s funeral?” “On Tuesday... She wanted to be cremated. I’ve already made the arrangements. Anything you want from her before we have the estate sale? She didn’t leave much of a will. Why don’t you take her ‘arms?’ Maybe that’ll help you get over your... apprehension. We aren’t lepers or anything, Tom. We’re still people. Thank God most of us aren’t as touchy as you, mister panic man.” That’s when Tom began to remember why he didn’t spend more time around his brother. He often mistook his playfully, forceful affection and name-calling as teasing, rather than tough, brotherly love. He just could not and did not roll with the punches well. “I’ll meet you at mom’s place, mister elusive.” “10-4.” John scoffed at his brother’s misplaced police lingo.

As they went inside, Tom noted the two prosthetic arms prominently displayed on the mantle and well-lit by the canned lighting just above. He spoke up. “Seems a little flashy, doesn’t it?” “I guess so. Mom was a little bit out there the last year or two. Not that you would care... How often did y’all talk? She never would tell me.” Tom looked at his shirt, feeling frustrated by the stains as he responded. “Not often enough, John. I wasn’t the model son, like you... I kept my nose clean... enough, but I always just squeaked by, and that was enough for me. It was never enough for her. You know that. I still remember that day like yesterday... when dad... ugh... when mom lost her right arm. What a sorry sack of something he was to us.” “Tom, you know that’s a burden that we both carry together. I wish you would have talked with me more about it the last few years. Always burying your head in medical billing and free-time in your little trailer house... never making any time for the rest of us. I’m sure one day you’ll have regrets about that...” Tom sighed. “Your probably right, John. I’m sure I will. I’ll take ’em.” “The arms?” “Yeah. Maybe it will do me some good to be more around ’em.” “I hope so. Maybe we can get you normal enough again to go out for a taco without having a fainting spell and covered in taco droppings.” John grinned. Tom showed no emotion

at his brother‘s lighthearted demeanor.

...

THREE YEARS LATER

Tom called John about three times a year during his final years. Once for his birthday, once for Christmas, and once just for the heck of it. It was that time that would always catch the amputee by surprise. Tom knew that John always answered the phone after only a ring or two. In this instance, he didn’t pick up at all. Tom waited a day and called again. Still, there was no answer. John had acquired such a substantial amount from the settlement with Harvey that he never returned to work. As a result, he had virtually no contact with anyone else. He’d become more reclusive after the amputation. After a third try, some four or five days after the initial call, Tom swallowed his pride and went to John’s home to check on his non-communicative sibling. As he knocked on the door, he fumbled around to find a hide-a-key and let himself in. The house reeked of death as he opened the door. He found John lying in his orange sitting room chair, lifeless and cold, and staring at the ceiling. His prosthetic leg was detached. Tom observed the crew sock on the side of the chair and assumed that John was about to put it on before his unexpected demise. He called 911 anonymously and took his brother’s leg, a bit impulsively and later checked out the window to ensure that no one was there to see him leave. He arrived home and assumed that he would soon get a “next of kin” courtesy call. Eventually, the call did come. The autopsy report for John’s cause of death inferred unmanaged stress. The silent killer had caused a heart attack.

As Tom thought out on the news longer, he prepped his dinner, peeled the plastic off the TV dinner wrapper, and pressed the number three on his microwave. The evening meal was grilled chicken, broccoli, and carrots and a small helping of warmed apples. As he consumed it, he felt overwhelmed at the feeling of emptiness in his life. There was no one to call or turn to anymore. It wasn’t like he did those things very often to begin with, but the comfort of knowing that they were there and in reaching distance previously, offered a certain solace that he would no longer possess.

He munched on the warmed apples and continued to grieve over the loss of John. He began to reminisce back to his his mother’s home two years earlier and the way that she had prominently displayed her prosthetics on the mantle. Maybe it was just the glare of the canned lights that made them look good, but he was convinced that he too could make them look their best in his own way. It was at this moment that he had his first epiphany. He would begin to collect more prosthetics and put them together to create characters.

...

PRESENT

Anxiety still plagued Tom Lester, but he channeled it into a complex and interesting narrative. He was unemployed and pondering his next prosthetic acquisition rather than perusing any job boards or postings. The lights in his single-wide remained dim and uninviting. As far as external inspiration, Tom never turned on the television, and his reading was limited only to texts like Henry’s Science Fiction Collection. His attention span was far too quick to change, and the “creative” pursuit of theming his characters differently each week had grown into a multi-hour affair. He’d conducted internet searches on theming prosthetics and simply couldn’t find anyone to be networked with. Or at least, no one with whom he felt himself to be a comfortable match. His assumption was that most of the ones that he might better relate to were private, much the same way that he was. Tom was quite comfortable with this reality. He liked the idea of being original. That was the only way that he could thrive. He pulled into his caliche driveway and noted the unmanicured lawn. He didn’t mow during the daylight hours. Instead, he would turn on the floodlights on it as it approached dusk and cut while the rest of his neighbors probably sat and enjoyed their perfectly-made dinners, casually and comfortably taking in an evening dose of the nightly news or their favorite primetime hospital soap on their sometimes debt-inducing, flat-paneled televisions. That life was not for Tom... it was not for Jenny... and it was most certainly not for Harvey or Bill...

Characters were meant to be imagined, not mindlessly consumed through a screen. Perhaps Bill Elder was right, “We’re all repurposed in one way, shape, or form... eventually...”—Maybe even as an inanimate character in someone’s spare bedroom.