THEODORE excerpt from an unpublished Novella
I wrote these words in a different time and place, albeit in Da Nang, Vietnam, during the “planned demic” as some demi-gods have dubbed it. It was a lyrical time for me—I’d written a book of poems and a novel in 2020 while all hell broke loose across the globe. I had my place by the sea. Then, a year later, I’d tabulated about ten short plays, two full lengths (by the end of 2021), a screenplay (that I’ve since lost after sending out to a competition based in Austin, Texas), more poems, and a novella. I wrote the novella (THEODORE) in about 19 days (I just discovered), then I didn’t touch it or look at it until a little over two years later. That’s how my “writing work” goes. I write. I send it out. If it bounces back, I keep writing. Lately, I’ve just been writing for money, and Stephen King called people like that a monkey. I’d love to fling shit at Stephen King if I could, who, to me, is one of the most boringly “successful” writers the world has ever known. And don’t even get me started on his “politics.” Fuck politics. This country needs less of that. And more joy. I wrote this novella about a black guy who had special powers with his hand. I sent the manuscript to maybe one or two or three science fiction magazines (if that many), and since it bounced back two years after I wrote it, I kept writing, and I always figured that if something didn’t get published, I’d write something better. Now I know that what gets published isn’t about being good per se. You have to have an “online presence.” Since I’ve no interest in that, my words must be monetized, and I keep my bananas on the fridge in a paper bag just like anybody else. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Anyway, here’s an excerpt of THEODORE, which is about 18,000 words and 72 pages (double-spaced). Here’s one third of a science fiction novella I wrote, and actually my favorite scene is when he turns a slave house into a field of a full-blown tornado… but I digress.
Philly
June 19, 2025
***
Theodore awoke in a library downtown. One of the security guards had nudged him awake.
“Hey,” the guard spoke, “you can’t sleep in here.”
Theodore stirred. He nodded. “Aight,” he said.
He’d been lying down on a book about Antebellum architecture.
“You know I freed the slaves,” he said flatly. “Me and my horse. We did it together.”
The security guard was black. He was overweight, tired, and overworked. “Is that so?” he pretended to ask, looking around at the other people sitting at tables and reading books. “No sleeping in the library,” he said. Then he slowly waddled away, nodding at the female librarian behind her desk. She smiled politely. Then she peered at Theodore from above the rims of her glasses. He usually wasn’t too much trouble, she thought. But he always stank.
Theodore pounded on the book, stirring those around him.
“Nobody believes me!” he cried. “I FREED THE SLAVES!”
Some of the younger people nearby snickered, covering their mouths. A few older people looked up from what they’d been doing. They had seen Theodore in the library before, and they knew that he was a little disturbed.
“Hey,” somebody said from behind Theodore, putting an arm on his shoulder, “you okay?”
Theodore turned around.
It was Art.
***
“I’ve seen you around here many times,” Art said. They’d left the library together. “It’s okay, man. You don’t have to be embarrassed about it.”
They stood out on the white marble steps in front of the library, the sun glistening, beaming, shining, heating everything, and everyone going about their Saturday afternoons like usual, taking a break by the Logan Square fountain, kids sloshing around in their skivvies. People gathered on benches or sat on blankets in the green grass, dressed in fine clothes, in beautiful colors of green, blue, brown, red, and white. Some of the women wore floral dresses, sun hats, and heels. They came to and from brunch or went for a mid-afternoon stroll through the park. Theodore had no sense of time or place. He just existed. That was enough for him. And then, sometimes, it wasn’t.
“Embarrassed about what?” He replied. They were facing each other in the cool shadows of the library.
“About him not believing you.”
“Whatchu mean?” Theodore’s hostile tone changed to one of curiosity.
“About what you said in there.”
“What did I say?”
“That you freed the slaves.” Art almost laughed, holding onto the gray-and-beige bag slung across his shoulders. “I believe you.” He smiled.
“What?”
There was a pause. Then Theodore spoke again.
“You do?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He tried not to laugh. Theodore was awestruck.
He couldn’t tell anymore what reality was.
“You sure?”
Art laughed. Changing the subject, he said, “Come on, man, I’ll buy you something to eat.”
“And then what?” Theodore asked—the sensitive soul that he was. He anticipated a few moves ahead of time.
“Well,” Art began, “I sort of have a live-in-studio on South Street. I usually paint from there. I’ve seen you around. I thought that maybe I could do a portrait of you.”
“A portrait of me?”
“Yeah,” Art replied, “why not?”
***
“The artist is supposed to sing,” said Theodore, sticking out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Art. I feel like I known you my whole life.”
Art became perplexed, scrunching his forehead in confusion. “How do you know my name?” he asked. “Well, that’s my middle name. But how did you know my middle name is Arthur?”
“Well, it’s like I said,” Theodore replied, stepping down toward the sidewalk. Cars were passing by on Vine Street. The scenery was vivid and vibrant, alive. “Youse a poet.”
Art laughed. “I never heard you say that…”
Theodore held his hand up. Art froze to the spot, looking from left to right.
“What’s wrong?”
“We are communicating through time right now, Art. Youse a poet. That poet from the 19th century. He was famous, and then he went to Africa. They cut off his leg. Died when he was just about 34.” He turned to face Art. “How old is you now? Today. Like, right now.”
“I’m 22. I just graduated last year…”
“Okay, okay,” Theodore nodded. “So there’s still time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time for you to live.”
Theodore held his hand into the air, and as he did so, the eternal golden light poured forth, and he became one with his true destiny. Naturally, his inner desire that had been bulldozed, almost, by having to face the workaday world came back to life whenever he was dealing with the eternal reality of this Universe. Love. Unconditionally.
“This place is for you,” he said, “there’s nothin’ more and nothin’ less.”
Art searched the heavens for an answer to what Theodore was saying. He let his guard down, and that was how he’d come across this strange, earthly, and yet otherworldly man. He gave. That was how they’d met, and it changed their ultimate destinies through space-time. In another dimension, they might have also worked together in many side realities just out of view from the current spectrum. Theodore’s hand was the key to getting through the wormholes.
“There’s a loophole,” he began, “all time is before us and after us, too.” He looked at Art seriously. His dreadlocks hung out from underneath his red hat, and his forehead was now glistening with translucent sweat, giving Theodore the appearance of somebody tired of listening to his inner thoughts by himself. Art realized that this man needed a companion, some friendship. He needed love and support like anyone else. Art needed it, too. We all did at one time or another. No matter the Universe from which we’d spawned.
“Ah,” Art replied, “I think I get it.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, sure. Why not?” He grinned at Theodore, cupping his hand over his eyes to shield himself from the sun as they began to walk.
“Good,” Theodore nodded, rubbing his hands together. It glowed, sparkling. But the reflections were shiny and opaque, flaring with the sunlight. Art did not notice.
“So, you can call me…”
“Theodore.”
He was shocked. “Yeah,” he said, “how’d you know?”
“Well, let’s just say that I’ve seen you before.”
The two stopped in their tracks to shake hands.
It was a beautiful day all along the sunny streets of Philadelphia.
***
The duo walked around the corner to a nearby grocery store. There, they had decided to sit down and have a meal together. Well, it had been Art’s idea. Theodore felt awkward and shy in public at first. He wasn’t used to going into any store in the city. It was much more common for him to get solidified in his belief that he’d never have any money to buy anything. Art knew instinctively that all Theodore needed was an extra hand. Somebody to push him a bit into thinking about behaving, living, and creating a better world, one that could be true to his own heart. That was possible. Anything was possible in an eternal Universe. The sunlight sparkled alongside the windows and curb, and all the people flickered minutely in and out of Theodore’s consciousness as they perused the a la carte rows of healthy food. “Hey!” Theodore shouted at Art from a few rows away. “They’s got pork chops!”
Art smiled. He was wearing jean shorts that he’d snipped with scissors one day in his live-in studio when it was getting too hot even to have any pairs of jeans. Summer was his favorite time of the year. He’d live that way in perpetuity if he could. But he figured that being in a place with four seasons made you appreciate the one you liked best. Flip flops, he preferred those. And t-shirts. He was always wearing a band t-shirt. The Beatles. The Rolling Stones. The Misfits. Etc.
Theodore looked out of place in his dirty pants, covered in dust and coffee stains. Even his white shirt had food marks, his faded golden jacket was greasy and grimy, and his dreadlocks desperately needed a trim. There were some gray hairs at the roots and tips, and he just chalked it all up to being eclectic, strange, and free. “I don’t care what these people think’a me,” he told himself. And so he genuinely didn’t.
Thus, the whole scene was a bit comical, with Theodore stuffing his paper plate with green beans soaked in olive oil and garlic, carrots that beamed with brilliant orange luster shining into Theodore’s eyes, filling him with gladness and appreciation that was definitely out of this world. “Man!” he said, scooping potatoes, no longer feeling guilty or ashamed. “These potatoes are fresher than the daisies in my sister’s backyard!” He was joking, smiling, dropping the serving spoon, licking his fingertips. His hand glowed. Art saw it, then.
He came over to Theodore, getting right up next to him. He was smiling. Behind the smile, he was terror-stricken. He leaned into Theodore’s left ear.
“What is happening with your hand!”
Theodore observed his surroundings for what seemed like the first time.
“Oh shit!” he said. “You can see that, can’t ch’ya?”
He flashed a smile of bright teeth shrieking with an eternal splendor. A white light emanated from his hand just then, and it was almost like the grocery store froze. Theodore witnessed what it had been before—just an empty lot of dirt and gravel. Then, it had been caged and cordoned off. Somebody had purchased the plot of land with a bank loan. And they made plans to turn it into a large grocery store, a chain. A corporate behemoth it would become. Theodore saw within his eyes the spectrum of its existence, whereupon time was meaningless. On a grand enough timescale, the whole thing happened in the blink of an eye. Art was holding Theodore’s wrist, and thus, he could see it too.
He looked around. All the people were frozen, solid. Nobody moved a muscle. Some had been gazing at their cell phones, sticking forks into their lunches all lined up at tables, while some had been pushing grocery carts, as employees trapped in going about their daily grinds, sticking pizzas into hot ovens, making trays of pasta, eggplant, potatoes, chicken, beef strips, green peppers mixed with yellow eggs, biscuits, gravy, diced apples, and pears dipped into yogurt, chopped white onions, red and purple grapes. And there was a salad station, too.
“We can eat anything,” he said. “It’s all free.”
“Free?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Theodore started whistling as he moved away from Art.
“Don’t go gettin’ all moralistic, either. Youse the one that brought me in here.”
Art was in disbelief. He went up to somebody nearby. He put his hand in front of their frozen eyes, shaking it up and down. The person didn’t blink, flinch, move, or speak.
“Oh, baby!” Theodore yelled. “They got banana pudding! I love me some banana pudding.” He started taking spoonfuls and dumping them onto his plate, already filled with glazed pork chops, green beans, potatoes, carrots, and salad. “This is heaven!” His voice echoed across the eerie silence, frozen in time.
“Or maybe it’s hell,” Art whispered.
“Yeah, I hear you,” Theodore replied, even though Art hadn’t spoken too loudly. He was nodding, licking his fingers again. “I told you. You really is a poet.”
***
“Okay,” Theodore said as he and Art sat by the large windows in front of the grocery store, “this is where we hafta make a choice.” He immediately began munching with his hands. One was still glowing, purple and pink and white. Art stared at it, unable to look away.
“What do you mean?” he asked absent-mindedly.
Theodore was chewing on bits of a pork chop, and the fat was all shiny and translucent. A low-frequency humming sound came from Theodore’s hand. Art gawked.
“Look, man, we can’t be having no deep conversations on an empty belly.”
He bit into the pork chop again, chewing more rapidly, then devouring the green beans and potatoes simultaneously, not bothering with a fork and knife.
“Ain’t you gonna eat somethin’?”
Art couldn’t talk. He sat there, just about losing his mind.
“I-I… I don’t really know what I’m supposed to say to you right now.”
“Ah, man, don’t be like that. It’s just our reality. Anything and everything. All at once.”
He munched and chewed. His mouth was full. Eternal bliss. In the microscopic moment of a millisecond.
“You really are crazy,” Art said, snapping out of it a bit. “I mean, I thought you were a little crazy. But you really are nuts.”
He reached across the table and stole a pork chop from Theodore’s plate.
“Man!” he shrieked. “This whole store’s full’a pork chops and you gotta steal mine?” He shook his head. Art grinned in spite of himself.
“So now what?” Art said to break the silence of them chewing in a frozen grocery store. Well, not in the essence of hot or cold. But in time, yes. We’ll just call it that for now.
“Time is a treadmill,” Theodore said, “you know what though?”
“What?”
“I forgot to get myself somethin’ to drink.”
“Oh yeah?” Art spun around. “Well, you shouldn’t have any trouble getting whatever you want…”
“Yeah! Art, very good,” Theodore beamed. “Youse gettin’ it, man. I think you really are gonna be somethin’ special in this world. You understand very quickly what it’s all about.”
Art turned back around. “How do you mean?”
“Watch this.”
“Okay…”
“Lemme ask you somethin’.”
“Shoot.”
“What do you want to drink?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, man. And don’t go over-thinkin’ things like you always do.”
“Don’t you do that too? Doesn’t everyone?”
“Ah, see. The food helped.”
“Yeah,” Art nodded, “I guess you’re right.”
Theodore pushed his plate forward. It was re-filled with new slices of pork chops even though he’d already eaten mostly everything he’d put on his plate.
“Have some more,” he said, “get those creative juices flowin’.”
Art flushed red. But he said nothing, didn’t think about it, just reaching out for the pork chop, taking it, feeling its tender texture, and putting it to his mouth, tearing at it with his teeth. His inner spirit glowed, burning with understanding. “Yeah,” he said, “I get it. You’re right. This is really good.”
“Uh huh,” Theodore replied, scooping some potatoes and carrots. “Who needs a fork and a spoon, right? These people don’t mind.”
Of course, how could they mind splayed at the hand of a madman? A courtesy he’d bestowed upon them—he didn’t want to be seen as he ate his meal. It was the first good meal he’d had in months. Maybe even longer than that. He wanted to enjoy it as a memory frozen in time. For all of eternity. And then some.
“You see,” he said, feeling another tangent uncontrollably building from deep within his bowels, “there’s always a little burning flame inside each and every one of us. All we gotta do in life is keep it from gettin’ extinguished. Right? You know what I mean,” he said, chewing.
“Okay, I think I see your point,” Art nodded, reaching for another pork chop. Now, two plates were in front of them, even though they’d only sat down with one.
“I want a strawberry soda,” Theodore laughed, “no! I want a Diet Sunflower.”
He sat back, smacking his lips and clapping his hands together.
“Oh my goodness!” he was giddy with himself.
“I want a Banana Sprite,” Art chimed in.
Theodore reached for his belly, keeling over with laughter.
“Oh man, oh man, oh man!”
A glass pitcher appeared on their table, right between them, filled with a pinkish liquid, big ice cubes floating in there, too. Two glasses were there, one for Art and one for Theodore.
Theodore clapped.
“Beautiful!” he said, “I never had the time to do nothin’ like this, man.”
He reached for the pitcher, but Art got there first. “Allow me,” he said. He poured Theodore a glass of the pinkish liquid and slid it across the table. Just as it was about to get to the edge, Theodore reached for it, stylistically gripping the glass, then throwing it under his shoulder and behind his back. It swirled around him, spinning into the air, the liquid and ice floating out of the glass. It went slowly, emptied of its contents. It then abruptly landed back onto the table in front of Theodore, right before the liquid and ice came splashing down into the glass as if freshly poured for the first time. Theodore looked down at the glass.
“This needs something extra.”
Art said nothing, merely smiling and beside himself with oversized joy.
A lemon appeared in Theodore’s hand, almost like it had sprouted from his palm. There were two juicy slices, yellow, glistening, sparkling, wafting with a zesty scent that filled their noses. They had forgotten the world around them entirely.
“One for you,” Theodore said, “and one for me! Just as it should be.”
Art reached out for his slice of lemon, taking it, holding it over his glass of the pinkish liquid, and then he squeezed the freshness into his juice.
Suddenly, the world came back to life. There was a whirlwind of excitement in the store again. Art didn’t lose focus, though. Theodore took his glass and brought it to Art’s.
“Cheers,” he said, “now drink up!”
***
“Hello,” a girl said, coming up to the table. “Nick, who’s your friend?”
Theodore and Art weren’t startled at all. Everything felt refreshingly vivified with life and aliveness as if it all had new meaning. There were no gaps anymore in their realities. Everything was happening according to law. Natural law. They’d manifested their desires by being themselves, not caring what anybody else thought. Theodore had that effect on others when he felt like he wasn’t being ridiculed or judged.
“Time is an illusion,” he said, finishing his pork chop and raising a slimy hand.
“Celeste,” Art said, “this is Theodore.”
“How do you do, miss?”
She stared at him pleasantly, holding onto the leather purse draped from her left shoulder. She wore a dark blue blouse, black dress pants, and white heels. Red lipstick accentuated her soft and easy smile, thick lips, perfectly straight white teeth, and short brown hair that was dark enough to be called black. Celeste said nothing. She felt afraid, somewhat. But she was also interested in Theodore.
“Oh, that’s okay,” she said.
“Your hands…” Art said, half-smiling. Then he looked back to Celeste. “So, what’s up? You here for your lunch break?”
“It’s five o’clock, Nick. I just got done work.”
They smiled at each other. Theodore stood up.
“Lady, I want to tell you something.”
“Her name is Celeste…”
“Sure, sure,” Theodore responded, nodding along, not missing a beat in his eternal mind, “names don’t mean too much. It’s just the way our brains are wired while we’re here as earthbound souls. I mean, I’m no diplomat. So’s I don’t gotta sugarcoat nothin’.”
Theodore paused, wiping his greasy hands on his jacket. Celeste’s blue-green eyes widened as she warmly smiled, nearly covering her mouth as she tried not to laugh. Not out of rudeness, but she was genuinely moved. Nick was usually alone.
“This gentleman right here,” Theodore pointed at Art, “is one of the greatest living poets in modern times. In fact, he might be one of the best poets ever in the world. He’s like a living Li Bo. Except he don’t drink. Do ‘ya, kid?”
This reproach humbled Art.
“Well, I like to drink wine every now and then. It loosens me up.”
“See?” Theodore nearly yelled. He clapped his hands, making Art a bit nervous. His expression changed. “He is the epitome of the creative artist in today’s world!” Theodore slammed the table, startling both Art and Celeste and some other people in their vicinity. “He’s flawed!”
Then he backed away from the table. Holding up his hands, almost in prayer.
“WE’S ALL FLAWED! ALL OF US GOT FLAWS! AIN’T NOBODY HERE WHO ISN’T CAPABLE OF MAKING MISTAKES EVERY NOW AND THEN.”
“All right, man,” Art said, “that’s enough. Just calm down. Why don’t you finish the rest of your food?”
“No, no, no!” Theodore shouted. “The food’s already done, man! Don’t you get it? Time is the illusion. And we all have to come to terms with OURSELVES.” Theodore stopped abruptly. He started scratching at an itch under his red hat. He lost his focus. “Man, I don’t even know what I’m sayin’ no more.” He shook his head, quickly sitting down, ashamed of himself. He hung his head, saying nothing.
Art felt sorry for him. He looked at Celeste almost apologetically.
“Well,” she said, “it was nice to see you…”
“Yeah, sure,” Art replied.
“I gotta run.”
“Okay, yeah.”
“Will you be at First Friday next week?”
“Um, yeah. I wanted to finish one more thing.” Art stared at Theodore. Celeste followed his gaze.
Okay…” she said, “Well, I’ll see you later, Nick.”
Before she walked away, Theodore spoke from under his breath. “His name ain’t Nick, lady. It’s Arthur. One of the greatest poets who ever lived.”
Celeste said nothing, nodding. Then she touched Art’s shoulder before walking away.
“What’s a matter, man?” Theodore said, playing with his food, desultory and detached. “You like her or somethin’?”
Art smiled. “Well, I think she’s got a boyfriend.”
“So what? That don’t mean nothin’. Could just be she don’t like to be alone.”
“Yeah, I dunno.”
“Oh, you know, son. You just don’t wanna face it. Do you?”
“Face what?”
“Tell her the truth.”
“The truth about what?”
“Man, don’t you get it?” Theodore pounded the table.
“All right,” Art said, standing up. “Let’s get out of here. Time to go.”
“Oh, there is no time, man,” Theodore started shaking his head, “I thought we already went over that. We can’t be repeatin’ this dialogue. It has to be fluid and movin’ forward. That was the whole point’a what I showed you. Remember?”
“Okay,” Art replied. He took the food tray and went to dump the contents into one of the nearby trash cans. Looking around, he saw all the people going about their shopping routines. They seemed like robots suddenly. He felt like they were almost zombies, somnambulists in a mundane world, totally trapped in their patterns. When would they finally wake up? He wondered.
When he turned back around, Theodore was gone.
***
It had been a long time since Theodore ate so well, so he wanted to get away from everybody.
To the downstairs floor of the library, first, he’d have to take care of his business. He stayed in one of the stalls afterward, talking to himself.
“The stars are aligned,” he said. “Everything is as it’s always been. There’s no escaping it. Destiny. Time. And truth. We all gotta face these things in life. Otherwise, what’s the point’a livin’? Everything’d be justa lie. I can’t lie to myself. Then I’d be someone else. What the hell I wanna be someone else for?” He laughed to no one, clapping his hands. “And that’s the whole world! Doin’ the same thing! Tryin’ to be someone or somebody they not.” He yanked at the toilet paper repeatedly. People fostered into the bathroom, shuffling around the white tiled floor, walking up to the urinals, emptying their bladders. Some recognized Theodore’s voice. A security guard entered.
“Theodore,” he said in an accusing tone, “that you in there?”
“The hell it is!” he replied savagely. “Can’t you let me be at peace in here? All you ever do is gimme trouble.”
“You can’t be in there forever. Get out when you’re done. This is a public bathroom. It ain’t a hotel.” The security guard knocked on the stall door, intimidating Theodore. Then he left.
Theodore looked down at his shoes. They were black, old, worn, shoddy, dirty. “Man,” he said, ignoring the security guard, “I needa new pair’a shoes!”
He flushed the toilet. As he did so, there was a bursting ball of energy that emanated from the stall, emitting a flash of light from underneath the stall’s door. One man, in business attire, washing his hands at the sink, looked into the mirror and saw the bright white light. And he was horrified, mouth hanging open, as he tried to scream. But he couldn’t. “Oh my god,” he whispered, in total shock.
Theodore transported himself within his imagination to a shoe store on South Street. If he could control his powers, certainly, that warranted a decent pair of shoes.
Out front of the place, he looked around. Nobody had noticed him. He might have climbed up and out of the sewers from a man-hole cover on the sidewalk. “This why I love Philadelphia,” he said. He reached into his jacket, pulling out a little bottle of hand sanitizer. He dropped some into his hand, which was glowingly yellow, white, bright, translucent, opaque, shining. All reality slowed down to where people along the street appeared to be moving through molasses, a syrupy fluid akin to just before falling asleep, realizing you could control what happened next before you dozed off and lost track of time.
“I ain’t got no money, so’s here we go…”
He opened the door to the shoe store and walked in. A guy behind the counter, dressed in a black polo shirt tucked into a pair of beige Dockers, stood there holding a cell phone. He was motionless.
“I need a new pair of walking shoes!” Theodore announced. He placed his hands on his hips. “Now, this is capitalism, baby.”
He moved to one side of the store, readily observing various options. “Those are dress shoes, and those are for basketball, I guess. Nike. Reebok. Adidas. Man, all’s I want is somethin’ simple.”
He touched his belly, which was full for the first time in eight weeks. “Man, oh man,” he said, “I can finally think straight.”
He reached for a navy blue shoe hanging on the wall on some hardened, see-through plastic.
“I like this one! Just plain, nothin’ too fancy.”
The shoe said Walk Freely—some gimmick or trademark.
Theodore slipped out of his old black shoes. There was a hole in one of his gray socks. His big toe poked through it. “I guess I need some socks, too.” Theodore laughed.
A pair of socks fell from the ceiling, landing in his hands.
“There we go.”
He put on the new socks. They were red, white, and blue.
Then he placed the one walking shoe onto his foot. “Where’s the other one?” He looked around. “Hmm,” he said, leaning forward to make sure the one shoe would fit all right. His hand glowed as he gripped his foot. The other shoe fell.
“Ha!” Theodore laughed. “Whatta trick!”
He put on the second shoe. Then he stomped his feet into the carpeted floor.
The store was tiny, too small for him to feel like he could get a good sense of whether or not these were decent walking shoes. “I’ll hafta take ‘em outside.”
Leaving the old, smelly shoes behind, Theodore exited the store, forgetting himself. As he let the door close, there was a second chiming of the bells dangling on the glass.
The Earth moved in its orbit again.
“Can’t be tryin’ these shoes when nobody else is movin’ around. I need this pinball to be spinnin’, man!”
The door chimed.
“Sir, are these your shoes?” It was the man from the store. He was younger, but it didn't look like he'd be a fast runner.
The man locked eyes with Theodore. Then he looked down to see the new deep blue walking shoes on Theodore’s oversized feet.
“Hey!” he began.
But Theodore had already bolted up the sidewalk.
***
“Help me, man! Help me! You gotta hide me!”
“Whoa, whoa! Where are you comin’ from?”
Theodore pointed back at the shoe store a few blocks away. He was panting, out of breath. He’d thought of running into Art, and hopeful thoughts sometimes led to something good out of sheer necessity to stay alive.
“All right, man. Come with me. I was heading back to my place…”
“Yeah, yeah. I know! Come on, let’s go!” Theodore pushed Art, and he nearly stumbled.
They walked to the front of Art’s building on South Street. He took out his keys and placed them into the lock. Theodore was worriedly looking around. “Come on, man. Hurry up!”
“What the hell did you do? And where’d you go anyway?”
“Does it matter? Right now, we need to get inside.”
“Okay, okay.”
Art opened the door, and Theodore raced in before him. Art closed the door behind them.
“Let’s walk up to the third floor.”
“Good, good,” Theodore said, clapping his hands together. “Here,” he said, “take my hand.” He reached out his glowing diamond of a hand toward Art. Art gawked, nervously looking at Theodore’s hand and then back at Theodore’s face. He was running away from something. That was obvious. But he couldn’t have done something as terrible as all this drama pouring out of Theodore uncontrollably. At that moment, Art realized how badly Theodore needed a friend. The lack of discipline with this tremendous power at his disposal seemed to have been making him rather insane or mentally ill for a long time. Life was like that if you didn’t have anybody to talk to. At one time or another, everybody needed a friend.
Art let go of his fears and doubts and grabbed Theodore’s glowing hand. Instantly, they both turned white, translucent, and bright. Like space aliens who’d entered another dimension, vibrantly giving off heat. And light.
It was easy.
They were in Art’s apartment.
There was an easel by the window. There was a couch along the sidewall, everything else painted a deep yellow, like the color of mustard. Only darker. There were shadows. Clothes on the floor. A living room table with a few wooden chairs surrounding its oval shape near the window that led to a balcony overlooking South Street. Art’s bedroom was in front of the apartment, off to the side. And to the right, as you walked in, there was a closet, and next to the closet, there was a little bathroom with a toilet, sink, and shower—everything a budding artist needed to create something vivid and real.
Without saying a word, Theodore stomped toward the sliding glass door, opening it slowly and stepping outside. Immense thoughts came to him about being suicidal and afraid. About feeling destitute, ignored, and shunned by society. He’d forgotten all about his previous life as a warlord in a snake pit (he called it)—which had been a string of factory jobs, driving a forklift, unloading boxes, holiday work where he put toys, appliances, books, and other useless junk into a brown box, folding it, taping it closed, throwing it onto a pallet in a little room among other trapped souls. A sense of foreboding crawled from within his skin, eliciting goosebumps as he thought of his previous love, a woman who’d almost bore him a child. But no. He didn’t have any kids. It couldn’t be. His whole life had been like this—on the run.
“From what?” Art tried to speak. But Theodore had wholly lost himself with his tragic sense of despair. He’d terrorized himself into thinking that if he got caught, his life would be over. The thought of dying, to Theodore, was the worst in the world. For everything he’d endured, all those thousands, millions of years of human evolution, built into the majestic nature of his hand. What if he lost himself? What if he couldn’t be alive anymore? Tears came to his face as this whirlwind of thoughts overwhelmed him.
Art had been saying something, but Theodore hadn’t heard a thing, busy searching the streets for somebody who would tell him he was wrong, that he’d done something terrible and must get punished.
“Relax,” Art said, “dude, are you okay? Just relax. Man, here. Sit down. Right there, on the couch. I’ll get you some water.”
Theodore did as he was told, dizzy with overthinking. Art entered the kitchen through an opening between the two rooms. In the kitchen, there was a gas stove with four burners, a microwave, a coffee maker, and a fridge. The stovetop was a bit dirty with various spots of yellow oil that had solidified, as Art often ignored cleaning up after cooking. It was part of the charm of being a guy. Young. And just a tinge of the poetic nature within his humble living space.
He came out of the kitchen with a cold bottle of water. He tossed it to Theodore.
Theodore held his hand up, and the bottle of water froze mid-air.
This time, the Earth kept moving.
Art gaped.
“How do you do that, man? When did you know?”
The bottlecap twisted off itself. Then, almost as if it were squeezed, a line of water shot into the air, in a perfect arc, directly into Theodore’s openly awaiting mouth. Some water dripped down his chin and onto his dirty shirt, leaving a wet spot. Then, the water bottle floated toward Theodore, and he reached out to grab it.
“It’s all part of the mind,” he said, wiping his lips.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, whenever my mood is good, I can do whatever I wanna do.”
“Okay,” Art was listening, never taking his eyes off Theodore. He moved across the room to sit in a chair by the window. Across from Theodore was Art’s newest canvas resting on the easel. The canvas was blank.
“You see that canvas? There.” Theodore pointed to it.
Art turned his head, which had been momentarily resting on his palm. For a brief few seconds, he’d assumed the posture of The Thinker.
“Yeah. What about it?” He turned to face Theodore again, fascinated, forgetting himself and everything that went along with it.
“It’s like that.”
“Your hand? Your hand is like a blank canvas?”
Theodore nodded. “It’s exactly that. A blank, white canvas.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, yes, you do.”
This peaceful environment with calm, non-judgmental vibes between Art and Theodore initiated a deeply heartfelt conversation about life, art, and meaning in existence. It was poetic and philosophical. Art eventually opened a bottle of Beaujolais he had atop his fridge. Pouring out two glasses, he then got his guest to sit by the window. Theodore was ready to pose for his portrait.
Art had turned on some of the special lights he kept in his apartment. He didn’t want the ceiling lights on, but he wanted enough light so that he could manipulate it himself. There were shadows in there that brought out some of the personality in Theodore’s face, never seen under ordinary circumstances. Theodore wanted to use his special powers to freeze himself.
“I’ll never be able to sit still any other way,” he told Art over their glasses of red wine.
“France,” Theodore said just before he stuck himself in a position appropriate for his portrait. “Do you think you’ll ever go there, kid?”
Art had been arranging his paints onto his palette, pouring some turpentine into a small glass beside his easel. He was cleaning some of his brushes with a white rag.
“I don’t know, really. I haven’t thought about it too often.”
“Why not? Paris is where all the greatest artists lived.”
“Sure,” Art nodded. “But what’s wrong with being an artist right here?”
“Ah,” Theodore nodded, “that’s pretty good, my man. Being an artist in the here and now. That’s everything. That’s all there ever is, man.”
He sat there, his hands placed together, almost in prayer.
“I ain’t religious though,” Theodore had said, “but I know there’s somethin’ else out there, is all.”
“Obviously,” Art replied laughingly, dipping one of his brushes into the black paint. Usually, when he started a new portrait, he began with lighter colors first. This time, he felt emboldened. Maybe it had been the wine.
Theodore’s hand glowed.
“Don’t spare me, man,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” Art replied. “I won’t.”
“Good,” Theodore half-smiled.
Then he froze as his hand beamed brighter than any of the stars in the sky.
That’s what it was: just another star in the diamond sky.
Art got to work.
