Clockwork

Second Chapter

On the Saturday of the fourth week of January, I took both of my cameras -a Polaroid 300 and a Canon EOS 5D- and treaded out to the local park. I was wrapped up in five layers of clothing (due to Mom’s nagging) and three inches of snow blanketed the ground. Tibits of grass perked up, their tips barely reaching above the snow.

There was barely anyone in the park that afternoon. The occasional kids played in the playground for a couple minutes and their parents sat on the benches, waiting. I snapped a photo. I would have taken a picture with the Polaroid just for the personal memory, but I only had two Instant Color Films left. I might need it for something more important. (Actually when you’re a amnesic freak like me, you end up wanting to take pictures of everything. For the memories, like I said.)

I sat down on a swing. The blue paint of the wood was peeling off, fluttering down to the snow in tiny flakes. The winter wind was bitterly cold against my cheek but I didn’t really mind because my mood was bitter too. Everything seems to be better when the world feels bitter along with you.

A kid ran up to the swingset, probably intending to sit on the adjacent swing. She had curly brown hair and freckled cheeks and her eyes glowed with perspective and curiosity. I debated whether to get off the swing or not; I was too lazy to take the consuming effort of bringing enough resistance to cease all movement (my feet were too high off the ground after all) and I was too lazy to deal with kids right now (they never understand the meaning of personal space or awkward-I-don’t-want-to-talk-to-you-right-nowness). My physical laziness won the debate in the end and I continued to sway on the seat. Instead of lifting herself onto the partner seat as anticipated, the fucking kid prodded at my cameras.

“Hey kid!” I shouted at her. I immediately stopped the swing and jumped off. Her fingers seemed to smother my Polaroid camera and it felt like I was the one being suffocated. I hated it when people touched my things without permission.  “Don’t touch that!”

“Why can’t I?” She sassily replied (and she was like ten) and picked up my Polaroid camera. “What does this do?” Her little finger forcibly pressed down onto the shutter button, ignoring my protests. One film wasted. I was ready to knock that brat down to the ground. Ten or not, this brat was going to get it. I opened my mouth to scold her, being ready to make her cry (that’s where all the satisfaction comes from of course).

But I sensed another presence. I glanced behind me. It was a guy.

The first thing I noticed about him was his lip ring. And that he was tall as fuck. At my height, my head would probably be able to meet the top of his shoulder and I was five foot nine at most already. He had blonde hair, short and curly. Despite the lip ring, he looked like the kind of person who I’d want to place a flower crown on and have him dance in a flowery meadow forever. He looked about my age and he stood across the swing set, hands in his black jeans.

I looked away because I decided he was kind of model-worthy, like he belonged on a Hollister or Abercrombie sign. There had to be some kind of rule where the unmodel-worthy should not come in contact with a model-worthy, they could only admire from afar. So I pretended he wasn’t there.  

“London Elliott.” I forgot the damn brat was still there. “But I thought London is a place!” She said, pointing to the sharpie outline of my name on the camera.

“Yeah, well. Too bad. It’s my name too.” I gestured at her to give the camera back. “Now hand it over or I’ll kick your ass.”

And the brat gasped like she never heard a cuss word in her life. She looked like she was almost to tears. “You said a bad word! Mommy said that if you say bad words, monsters from Boogieland come and get you! You’re going to die!” She waggled her finger at me and I felt exasperated. “This is all your fault! Now the Boogie monster is going to get me too!” She stomped her feet and tears streaked down her face. She was still holding my Polaroid.

The guy laughed. It was a kind of rich smoky sound, deep and silvery. He walked over and kneeled down to the kid’s level, his larger form casting a dark shadow over the kid.

“What’s your name?” He gently asked.

“Amy.”

“Well Amy, did your mom say ass was a bad word?”

She made a high-pitched sound of agreement and I cautiously picked up my Canon camera just in case she went for that too.

“But if your mom said it then it’s not a bad word right? Why would your mom want boogie monsters to come after her when she knew not to say it? But she did, right?”

“So it isn’t a bad word?” She asked.

People say that girls are weak for guys that are good with kids. I found out the hard way that it was true.

“Uh huh. So do you want to give back that camera? You can’t take things that are not yours. That’s when the Boogie monsters actually come for you.”

Amy the brat dropped my Polaroid camera into the snow like it was a hot potato and whined out an apology to me. I waved her off and gruffly told her that it was fine. I picked up my camera and dusted off the snowy residue. A boy that looked her age ran out of nowhere and slapped Amy hard against her shoulder, screaming “Tag! You’re it!”

“ARNOLD YOU ARE AN ASS! THE MEANEST ASS EVER!” Amy screamed back and ran after him.

“Look what you just did.” I told the guy. He had a maroon beanie on. And I was a sick sucker for beanies.

He shrugged. His broad shoulders filled the gray polo shirt he wore. “You started it first. If you didn’t say the word ass then she wouldn’t be saying the word everywhere else.” He had a point but I refused to acknowledge it. “So your parents named you after the city?” I nodded. “It suits you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing I guess. People always seem to fit the names they are given. There’s this thing, I think it was Confucius, where-”

“Rectification of Names.” I interrupted.

“Yeah, Rectification of Names. And it’s like how people should fulfill the names they are given to become the best they could be of that name.”

“So if I call you a blonde bimbo, are you going to fulfill that role? And be the best bimbo you can be? Like you have to be like an actual slut. You can't fake slut. That's illegal when it comes to the Rectification of Names.”

He laughed. “Sure. But most people just call me Luke.”

“I prefer blonde bimbo.”  I told him.