Stealing the Peach

By Ethan McAnlis

Under the covers, we were veiled from all of the dangers and worries on the other side of that thin layer cotton. We were a few sheets and some clothes away from the pain and problems. The cloth shield over top of us provided a little spot in time for us to hide in - a little time capsule. Clocks lost their hands, the grains in the glass disappeared, the sun dial stepped into the shade, and the world of relapse welcomed us back to the old days.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466909601

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© Copyright 2012 Ethan McAnlis.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

isbn: 978-1-4669-0959-5 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-0961-8 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-0960-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011963222

Trafford rev. 01/18/2012

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CONTENTS

foreword.

foreword and a half.

foreword and three quarters.

they gathered in the tops of trees

and all along the bottom of the forest

to listen at the gates of morning.

a man came before his people

and he spoke to them.

said the king to his men,

don’t be who I’ve been.

make time – for if you lose your focus,

when you come to light’s end,

you will find yourself left

in an empty castle.

with an unquenchable desire

and a sleepless malice.

the king gave up his throne.

the old reign had ended.

the kingdom would flourish.

I know that someday I will be laid to rest

Buried 6 feet from the grass I love

Pushing up earthworms and sleeping with rocks

Slowly getting smaller in a suit that is now too big

Put inside a box that’s not the same as my old bed

A memory of happiness, stuffed inside this crate

A shelf-life of eternity, fading away in a few short years

That all I’ve built and worked upon

Is set aside and put under the ground

Build your castle for eighty years, just to see it sit for a million

All of my goals and dreams don’t really matter when I die

I win the big game and everybody loves me

Until the next season, when a faster, younger kid shows up

And I am tossed away

I will be outdated. The newer version will be here soon

To do my work and make others happy

But when I die, to not be able to see them remember me?

To have a final cut scene? Ending credits? A nice epilogue?

Anything would be nice

I want to know my castle still stands

I want to know that it still provides shelter, comfort, or happiness

That my castle is still loved and remembered

I hope the castle I build will stand forever

And that I can see just how strong it stays

foreword.

I’m not really sure where this story should start out. There are many places I could begin—many landmarks and checkpoints across the life I’ve lived—all of them still sitting in the back of my mind a handful of years later. There are hundreds of little spots that are all worth noting for one reason or another.

Although, the majority of them were lost in the deep, dark corners, a few made their way into the more elite regions of my mind. Some of them did, anyway. The lucky memories were on nice, thick paper in clean folders, in manila envelopes, in well-oiled drawers, in elegant mahogany cabinets, in the clean-smelling study of my subconscious. It ended up, though, that most of the folders were just thrown around on the floor and turned the place into a real mess. I planned to clean up in there someday.

I never did.

The beginning could be found in fifth grade when I had straight A’s and tried to be one of the cool kids. I tried my hand at sports and made a solid effort to wear the most expensive stuff I could get, but nothing along those lines ever really panned out.

It may have been in eighth grade when I jumped between personalities throughout the year in an attempt to find the right one. I fell in love with music and all kinds of art, and my brain was filled with more knowledge in this one year, than in all of my others combined.

I began to reach out to the world around me. Even though I was shy and didn’t get out much, I still wanted to learn everything that I could. I became fascinated with all there was in the world. I obsessed over science, religion, history, English, the female body and everything else. My brain was budding and I needed more. I hungered for all that was outside my room.

The story could start, quite possibly, all the way back at the beginning. Birth is indeed the ultimate starting place. Perhaps, it could even start in the van where I was made.

All of this seems a bit too far back, though. This particular story will start a little closer to the present—my senior year of high school.

My last year of being tethered to the earth.

My last year of rebellion.

My last celebration of teenage years.

My final push into the history books of high school popularity.

One more stab-to-end-all-stabs at being more than the usual shade of gray pumped out by your average school.

A checked, rechecked, and certified human being ready for society.

A polished worker for the robot world.

A Grade-A consumer.

A jar on the shelf.

This was not for me, though.

This was not the life I would have.

I knew I deserved better.

Through all of the fanfare of the packaging process they call graduation, I felt cheated. I felt that I was too good for that hole of a place. I’m not cocky now, nor was I then, but it’s a fact. My simple goal (like everyone else’s) was to get the hell out, turn a profit, return, and shove it in the faces of everyone else when I became someone better than expected. I wanted to come back ten years from then and show them pictures of my house on the moon and bring along my fifteen wives. Extravagance was key. Overblown and over-produced was the way we liked it. We all wanted as much of anything and everything that was possible. Strength in numbers.

More of everything, please.

Counter-cultures, underground societies, even things like 80’s hair metal have always come from this type of thing. It comes from kids who wanted to kick the jerks in the face. It comes from kids who wanted to bury those jerks in their new-found money. Possessions were the only true way to win this game. A fact that is still true to this day.

If Chad has nineteen cars and Billy has one car, who will Cindy choose to go to the dance with?

Likewise,

If Billy has written six books and made millions of dollars in Vegas and Chad is stocking shelves, who will be the coolest guy at the class reunion?

It’s always a contest. Human nature declares that we will continue to compete to be the best in all of life’s tasks. It’s a shame. So many kids have grown up with the world telling them to be the best when, really, mediocrity is an incredibly acceptable position. Mediocrity is all you need to succeed. A good balance of failure and success and you’re a billionaire tycoon. Just enough mediocrity can be the same as infinite success. It’s all in how you see things, I guess.

Think of all the books that have been written. Some just plain suck. You know why that’s ok? Because we eat everything up. A crappy book about an exciting subject (a nice balance) will be a best-seller in no time at all. The world is a balance of extremes.

We are driven to achieve the top spot in everything even though fifth place will be just fine. Sadly, there are no participation trophies in life. Although, for some, making it past sixty is worth all of the gold statues in the world.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t try every single day to be the best person that you can possibly be. I just don’t think it’s worth the time and effort that so many people put into it.

You are here but once.

If it’s not in the cards for you to be the best,

and be absolutely charming,

and sing like an angel,

and get a dozen scholarships,

and have seven kids,

and visit your parents every weekend,

then that’s just the way it’s going to be.

Sometimes, all you get is what you are given. Sometimes, all you can do is get by. Sometimes, that’s where the most satisfaction lies.

The Special Olympics got it right. We really can all be winners. However, the TV and the internet and crap like that put pressure on the human race only causing bad days and depression at the bottom and an immense sense of self-worth at the top.

The middle of the road is the best spot to be, in my opinion. Let the jerks win. Let the top of the pile reek of arrogance. Let them have their houses and cars. Let them eat up the filth in the airwaves.

We will trudge on against this push—our mediocre boots in the mediocre mud, headed towards a mediocre goal in a mediocre life.

We will quietly be just fine. We will survive and be content—content in our own solid existence—taking a chance here and there to increase the excitement of a regular life.

A simple smile on a simple face.

A simple house in a simple town.

Intermittent risk-takers. A race of peaceful beings in a silent happiness. Sure, we could get drunk and have a good time. Sure, we could throw a party and add some pleasure, but all in our own world—our private planet in the expansive universe. Hippies, but with less protest.

Let the jerks win.

We will push on in our own way. We will quit before society can fire us. We will create our own bloodless path among the wreckage. We will stay on our side of the fence and watch the puppets enjoy their cake. Don’t be a hero. Don’t be a zero.

Let the jerks win.

‘It’s ok if they win,

because they’re playing the wrong game.

foreword and a half.

It was 3:47 and I was standing in front of the mirror—my head filled with those previous thoughts. I was pondering my life and existence in general while struggling with the equally-important task of getting the gel in my hair to cooperate. I wished my heart would do the same and just relax. It was ready to pound through my ribs. I could picture it flying out through my chest and smacking into the mirror, covering half the bathroom in blood. Gross. And then I’d have to get a new tux.

Numerous swipes to the left and numerous swipes to the right were doing very little in helping to adjust my hair. It seemed to be a lost cause. Hair and I had never gotten along very well. Little clumps of it were sticking up and wouldn’t go down and other little clumps of it were stuck down and wouldn’t stand up. The only possible outcomes were bad: awful hair, ridiculous hair, or just plain stupid hair. The process was being terribly difficult. It took me ten minutes to get things facing the right way, and it only took about fifteen more to get things nice and orderly. I felt like such a girl, but not really in a bad way. It’s ok to look nice, and feeling like a girl was the least of my problems for the evening. Tonight was a big night.

Tonight was the night.

In just a few moments, I would be in a car on my way to the last dance of my high school career. I didn’t feel well. I was about to puke all over the sink. I would probably need a new tux in that situation, too. I was overwhelmed with a sort of passive rage toward the evening ahead of me. My heart continued trying to get out.

That night was the grand finale of my educational experience. It was to be enjoyed and celebrated.

Fireworks and parties.

Church bells and singing.

Inside, I felt none of this. Maybe, fireworks. I don’t know. The long and short of it was that I wasn’t sure how to feel about the festivities ahead of me. In a couple of hours I would find out.

I stood in the driveway, waiting to leave. The air toyed with the thought of summer. The same thought I had been toying with, as well. The thought that had flopped around like a wayward fish in my head was now swimming with great intensity. Spring was over now. A new season perched on the branches, ready to change the world into its own personal brand of weather, animals, and smells. The rain had slowed in the few weeks prior, and it was now time for the hot, debilitating air of the coming months. I loved that heat.

The summer ahead of me would be my first—our first—without another grade waiting for us. There would be college, and there would be sitting around doing very little for many days in a row, and there would be everything in between.

We had come to the end of our schooling, and we neared the quarter pole. Graduation would mark one fourth of life being behind us. We had just three more periods of time left on this earth as were equal to what we had already spent here.

As children we would look forward to the summer. We still did, but the reasons for looking forward to it were different now. When there was another grade coming up, there was a sense of limitation to our freedom.

Do anything you want for three months, and then wind yourselves down for the beginning of a new school year.

Now, we were faced with an endless freedom. The thought of being able to figure out your life according to yourself and your own little intentions was extraordinary. Our power was limitless, and it was an immense responsibility. We were no longer restrained by a couple months of excitement. Having a time limit forced us to squeeze in every single thing that we wanted to get done. If we let our opportunities get past us, we would have to wait through an entire nine months of school just to get another chance to do it.

Now, our summer had no limit other than the lengths of our lives themselves. All of the most wonderful of dreams would be allowed the time to be fulfilled. The problem was that we could become lazy. Just like if you’re given one night to finish your homework, you’ll work harder than if you’re given a week. When the end of summer approaches rapidly the very moment it begins, there is a great sense of urgency.

Our summer

would last for decades.

It became that time, and we were headed away—to the gallows, maybe, or possibly to a labor camp for our remaining days. Any exaggerated situation that could be thought of was waiting for us. We could overdo this night as much as we wanted. The exaggeration was ours to make. It was our night. It was our night to mess up, it was our night to destroy, and it was our night to make wonderful. The hours that approached were completely up to us.

Marcus, Cameron, and I were in the car setting out to begin the end. Our summer waited for us to make the first move. Cameron drove as slowly as she could. We had no desire to rush into this. We had no desire to quicken our death. A course was set for us and the executioner was sharpening his blade—waiting to take our three wonderful heads. We sat like sheep in the car.

We stopped at a gas station for our last meals—our lives’ last feast. Our last supper. We each chose a final treat—chocolate, chips, carbonated concoctions—anything we felt like.

We drove off, stuffing our faces with our goods. We were on the cusp of a new season. The wind in our faces made it known. We went past our school and out towards the lake—a common childhood attraction. It had been a while since then, though. As of now, we wished we could go back and just spend another simple day on the lake. Swimming, maybe. With a boat, a mom or dad, a friend—something.

We just wanted to go back, but there would be no time now. The real world was out there waiting for us.

We sat on the gravel near the lake and watched the ripples roll toward us. They washed over the tiny pebbles and grains of sand. The three of us stared off into nowhere. We stared off at nothing. There were trees and there was a lovely spring/summer sky, but that wasn’t even close to being important. In all of the things that had happened to us, in everything that was life-changing, meaningful, critical, or crucial, we had yet to feel this. By the end of the night, it would all change. It would all be over and be new again—starting and ending in a new stage of the cycle we were yet to understand. Soon, it would all become real.

I put an arm around Cameron and an arm around Marcus—her calm, understanding shoulder on my left, and his kind of scrawny, nervous shoulder on my right. I leaned back, flat on the ground and pulled them both down with me—our black tuxedos now on the old, dusty path along with her deep violet dress. We each rested our hands on our stomachs. We laid there as one, and stared straight into the sky. We relaxed in our moment of reprieve.

Where do you two see yourselves in five years? It had to be asked, and it was already on our minds, but now that it was out in the open, neither of us wanted to speak up. She asked with a