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HOW THE SKY TASTES

by Dan Sinclair

June 2011

Floyd’s got the itch. I can see it in his eyes. I see it all the time. Ever since I left the hospital, it’s a look I pick up on real easily. The itch is the search for the perfect way to scream what the fuck happened to you without using those exact words. Symptoms of the itch may include: twitching in my presence, starting conversations with multiple ‘Ums’, tilting one’s head back and forth while rubbing one’s chin, and, of course, staring at me when my back is turned, and then quickly looking at the ground when I make eye contact. Here, in the paint department of Harry’s Hardware, Floyd’s got the itch and he’s got it bad.

I didn’t really want to return to this place but I need money. I need to forget about all the crazy. I need to stand here in my old, ratty jeans, my plain white polo shirt and my yellow apron and feel normal. Normal people have jobs. Normal people bring home paychecks and take lunch breaks. Normal people chit chat about customers and gossip about bosses and inter-departmental romances. I need normal again.

I don’t know Floyd. He’s just some kid that started working here a few months ago. He’s probably heard the story or at least the rumors. I’d like to think that they’ve been blown out of proportion, but I doubt it. Everyone here knows all about my breakdown. When I walked past Donnie and Karen in plumbing earlier today, Donnie smiled and shook my hand while Karen just nodded. Jeremy in flooring gave me a high five while Taylor from lumber refused to make eye contact, strutting briskly past me. One of the cashiers gave me a hug and told me it’s good to have me back. I couldn’t remember her name and felt bad. She trembled in my arms. Some of the other cashiers waved while others pointed and whispered to each other. Maybe she wasn’t the one trembling. These people, for forty hours a week, were once part of my life. Now, they seem like strangers. Strangers that stare at you when your back is turned.

The paint counter is just as I remember it. The stainless steel counter with the oscillating fans lined with dust. The black rubber, egg-carton-holed floor mats over the stained concrete floor. Gallons of flats and semi-glosses and satins and eggshells stacked in the middle. Computers with cellophane wrapped around the keyboards. The rubber mallets with the different colored handles that we lacquered when we were bored. Everything’s the same—save Floyd.

Floyd’s maybe in his early twenties if he’s not a teenager. He wears a buzz cut, dyed reddish-brown. He’s trying to grow a goatee but he’s only a kid and it looks like rat hair. His big, eager eyes make me feel old and misplaced. He looks like I did when I started here six years ago. His lips move a few times without any sound. Every time I think he’s going to say something, he looks toward the floor and taps his right jean pockets with his left hand.

He smiles and reveals his braces. I remember having braces but then my teeth got crooked anyway. I hear some hip-hop beat in the distance and look around for a radio. Floyd removes a flat black cell phone from his pocket and begins a conversation that involves a lot of slow, methodical, head-shaking and half-hearted laughing.

I want to do something but there are no customers to help. It’s dead in here today. I walk the aisles but nothing requires straightening—even the rollers are stacked right and the brushes hang under the right SKU numbers. That was never the case when I used to work here. We’d spend hours re-organizing the aisles, sometimes even picking up over-time, working late into the night. It was all just normal stuff back then.

Floyd is off his phone now. He still shakes his head and laughs a little. “Sometimes my girlfriend can be so dumb.”

I nod back to him. I want to say something smart and offer the kid some advice. Do something that normal adults do for kids. I wish I could tell him a story with a good moral at the end—something that might change his life for the better. I don’t know how great of a storyteller I would be, but since I have a story to tell, I guess I couldn’t be all that bad.

My story would be about a madman. I would try to set up the background, going in to detail to explain that no one ever knew that he was a madman—he looked as normal as the next guy. He wasn’t always a madman. He once was simply a sad boy who dreamed of tasting the sky. This boy yearned to savor the sky because he was sick of the harsh, filthy aftertaste of the ground. The ground tasted salty and sour, with a bitterness that could linger for years. He was very familiar with the taste of the ground from when he first tried to ride a bike in the first grade to when Stacey O’ Hagan said she didn’t want to be his girlfriend to when his parents divorced—the taste, a lasting illness carried over from the beginning of time. Each time it returned stronger and stronger and each time he rolled over and looked towards the clouds. To taste the sky was a dream he held onto tightly all his life, so maybe it’s what made him so mad.

He got mad that rich people shit all over the poor and sometimes madder that he wasn’t rich enough to shit back. He got mad at governments lying to their people and even madder that he couldn’t lie to his mother when she asked him if she was still pretty after the chemo. He got mad that people used religions based on peace to justify their own hate. He got mad that the environment is dying but madder at the hippies who thought trees were more important than people. Every day it was something new and every day it was something bad.

More and more things made this sad boy madder and madder and he couldn’t help but think about them every day. He couldn’t talk to anyone about them because he knew that no one would understand. They would just think he was crazy. He couldn’t comprehend why he could hate the world but desperately want to be part of it at the same time. He never told anyone. He just went through his daily life and everyone thought he was normal. He went to school, played little league, had friends, drank beers, did drugs, had sex, drove cars, worked jobs, went to social gatherings, laughed at jokes, watched football on Sundays, showed up to family members’ birthday parties, watched movies and TV shows, went on vacations, and he even fell in love with a girl. He did all the normal things normal people did and that’s why no one ever saw this sad boy turn into a madman.

There is no telling the exact moment he became a madman, but it was probably around the time he heard his best friend died. There was a car accident on a rainy night on a road covered in leaves and his best friend was dead. People kept asking questions about how he died and why he died—was it the wet road or the leaves? Was he drinking or did he fall asleep? Was it his time to go according to some higher entity or are we completely alone in this universe? Did the cops do enough to save him? Who was the last person to talk to him before he died? Who will carry his casket? Is his family okay? Why and how and why and how and why?

But the madman couldn’t think about those questions. He couldn’t concentrate on those things. His hands shook and all he could think about was polluted lakes and big businesses that paid for presidential candidates’ campaigns and bums on the street and wars over gods and AIDS and football and the Rolling Stones and fast cars and anything but the death of his friend. He shut down completely. He couldn’t talk to anyone. Not even the girl he loved. He couldn’t talk to her and maybe that’s why he decided to hurt her.

I would get quiet at this point of the story. I’d look away as if I was trying to concentrate on something else as I waited to see if he was still interested in hearing it. I would need him to say, “What happened? How did he hurt her?” Then I could go on. I could tell the rest of my inspirational tale of terror and rebirth. But I’m not telling a story. I’m standing at the paint counter and Floyd is on his cell phone again.

An old lady with blue hair and a large purse walks up to the counter. “Where are your air filters?”

I point to the front of the store, behind the cash registers. A tall, white wall in plain view of the entire store holds shelves of every size, shape, and color of any air filter imaginable.

I say, “They try to hide them.”

She smiles and likes my joke and thanks me. I tell her that she is welcome and to have a nice day. She walks away to grab a filter. Floyd is back next to me.

He says, “Do you play fantasy football?”

I say, “Sometimes.”

He starts to say something else but decides against it and walks away to pretend to straighten the brushes.

Then, I see her out of the corner of my eye. She’s there by the registers.

No air comes into my lungs but plenty of rapid thumps come to my heart. She’s walking this way and I can’t face her. I can’t do that. Not that. I can sit though, so I sit on the padded floor and lean back against the base of the paint-mixing-machine. I try to smile but my face hurts. Floyd stares at me for a second but then glances back to the counter where the pretty, young, auburn-haired girl now stands.

It’s not her. My lungs don’t hurt as bad and I try to breathe normally, but start to hiccup instead. I don’t leave the floor. It’s comfortable.

Floyd and the girl kiss over the counter. He stretches a little farther over than she has to, which I think is polite. She wears a black skirt, a tight top, and an enticing smile. I think they are both staring at me now. I try not to stare back and look at the stack of flat paints to my left instead. One of the brands makes a washable flat now. Times sure have changed. I bet it isn’t as flat as the regular flats. I think they are talking about me. They try to whisper so I can’t hear.

“Who is that and why is he on the floor?”

“It’s some guy that used to work here before.”

“And the floor?”

“I think he went crazy once.”

“What time is your break?”

“In about an hour.”

“Marco’s still on for tonight?”

“Always.”

“He doesn’t look that crazy.”

“Then why is he sitting on the floor?”

I catch myself glancing back at them. She tugs at her top lip. We make eye contact which she immediately breaks. They kiss again and she is gone. He stands in front of me now. I look up and force the most authentic looking fake smile I can muster.

He says, “That’s my girl, Georgette.”

I say, “Very cute.”

He nods. Then he turns toward the cash registers probably to watch her leave. I want to say something. I want to tell him about a girl. I want to tell him about relationships and life and all that. In my story, I would.

The story would continue with the almost-madman meeting a girl at school. He liked talking to her about nothing and she loved it too. He didn’t feel so crazy all the time when he talked to her. She always smiled and shook her head in a consoling manner.

Then came the call. The call that would trigger all the madness that had been building inside of him for all those years, bringing it to the surface. It was a brief call. Only three words were necessary—Harry is dead. Those were the only words the madman heard anyway. The person on the other end of the phone surely used other words like passed on or heaven or brace yourself for bad news or that sort of thing, but the madman was already done with the conversation and hung up the phone.

He walked back into his room, heading straight for his window. Stars decorated the clear night sky. The madman licked his window over and over again. The girl he loved tried to console him by rubbing his shoulders and telling him it was okay. He didn’t know she was there and her touch startled him. His body shook beyond control and he fell to the ground.

She said, “Are you okay?”

He heard the words but she sounded like background music. His attention focused outside the window on the sky above. Nothing else mattered.

She said, “It’s not anybody’s fault,” and “It’s okay to cry,” and “Life isn’t fair,” and things like that over the next hour or so as the madman just sat there on the ground, salivating as he stared out the window.

Then she said, “Why won’t you talk to me?”

The madman grabbed her by her shirt and leapt to his feet. He couldn’t talk to anyone. No one knew what he knew or thought what he thought. How dare she ask him to talk. He slammed her against the wall, clasping his left hand tightly over her mouth.

The madman said, “Shut your dirty cunt up.”

She made sounds under his hand, not words. She pushed him off her and he turned towards the window—the sky a clean black, tidy with stars gleaming.

She pleaded with him. She told him that he needed help. He’s changed. That this isn’t normal. Blah.

He pressed his face closer to the paned window. He unleashed his tongue and licked the cold glass. It tasted empty.

The madman said, “I need to taste the sky.”

She hugged him from behind, placing her head on his shoulder. She spoke with a soothing voice. She told him she knows he missed his friend. He stopped licking the window and punched through it, shattering glass everywhere. She screamed and ducked for cover. Blood gushed from his hand.

The madman said, “Don’t fucking tell me anything.”

She screamed his name and tried to talk to him but the madman slugged her in the mouth with a bloody fist. She fell back onto the floor, clutching her jaw. Through her crying, she pleaded with the madman, called his name, and reached for his hand. He didn’t even know she was still there. He was already out the door, heading towards the stars. He was determined.

If I actually was telling a story, I would pause here. I would wait for Floyd to ask what happens next. I would smile and know that I had him with a good cliffhanger. I would be pleased with myself that I had gained my audience of one’s attention and hopefully started to spark the inspiration deep inside of him. But I’m not telling a story. I’m just working here. Working like normal people do.

Floyd stands in front of me, motioning to the paint machines. “Remember how to do it all, don’t you?”

I say, “All of it.”

Floyd asks me if I remember how to mix paint and offers to show how if I have forgotten. I thank him and assure him that I know what to do. He tells me about the hot ass that comes to the paint department.

He says, “It’s MILF heaven over here, dude.”

I nod my head, not really sure what a MILF is. I think I have an idea, but I don’t really care. Maybe I should care what a MILF is. Normal people care about things like that. They care to laugh about them or be offended by them.

But I don’t get a chance to ask because there is a customer at the counter. The boss here at Harry’s Hardware will tell you no employee can leave the customer waiting. Customer service is number one here. Normal people care about that sort of thing. They either care enough to abide by it or care to laugh about it behind the boss’ backs.

The customer is a business man in his late thirties in a suit, blue chip in his ear, deep in conversation on his cell phone. He slides a paint color chip towards me and points to a color while continuing his discussion. I ask him what sheen he would like and he holds up his index finger before I can finish.

He says, “I’m sorry I got to go, Paul. Some guy’s trying to talk to me at the same time you are. Yeah, I know. Okay, Paul. Talk to you.”

He pushes a button on his cell phone at his hip. “Now, what was it that you wanted?”

I’m amazed that I’m not the least bit angry at this man. I commend myself on my extreme patience. I’m not sure if its normal to be so calm, but do know that normal bosses would appreciate it. I politely ask him what sheen he would like his “Teddy Bear Brown” paint in and where he was going to use it—meaning interior or exterior.

He shrugs. “Uh, it’s for my son’s room.”

“I’d go with a satin then, Sir. It’s easy to clean, but it’s not overly-shiny like a semi-gloss. Perfect for kids’ rooms.”

He thanks me for my advice and tells me about how he hates painting and his wife won’t stop bitching at him to get it done. I feel like a regular guy for a minute or two. I mix his paint, give it to him; he thanks me and then leaves.

We get busy soon after that. I explain to an elderly lady how to use spackling. I talk a man in a jumpsuit out of painting his stovetop. I recommend tinted primers for customers with dark colors. I mix gallons and quarts and five-gallon buckets. I answer whatever questions they throw at me. I smile and thank them for shopping with us. I make sure everyone gets some mixing sticks and a can opener before they leave. I try to add on brushes and tape and rollers and drop cloths to every order. The routine warms my heart. I feel like things are getting back to normal.

It slows up eventually and Floyd comes over to me. “I can’t believe you let that guy talk to you like that.”

I ask, “What guy?”

He says, “That dickhole on his cell phone buying his shit-brown paint.”

I say, “He was okay.”

He shakes his head. “I would have gone crazy on his ass.”

I try to force a laugh and say something normal, but nothing comes out.

His face turns red and he looks to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

I say, “Yeah.”

If I were telling Floyd the story about the madman, this probably would be a good time to continue. He would say, “So, what happened to the madman next, Eric? Please tell me.”

I would have to smile and tell him that the madman got into his pick-up truck, opened his moon roof, and took off down the road. The madman didn’t know exactly where he was going but had a good feeling that the truck would know. So he just drove and drove. There was not a single cloud in the sky and he loved it.

He drove the truck to Ellis Bridge. Ellis Bridge stands high over the river that he once swam in as a child. It’s the closest place to the sky in town.

He got out and walked to the metal barricades at the western side of the bridge. He took off all of his clothes and threw them back at his truck. He stood naked at the edge but didn’t look down toward the running river. His eyes gazed high into the night. He held his arms out as if they were wings. He then closed his eyes and jumped.

Falling, he turned himself back to face skyward and opened his eyes. There wasn’t a cloud in it. He stopped falling. He rose into the air, high towards the stars, he reached out to try and touch them. He didn’t need to flap his arms, he just floated. He soared into the air, the wind brisk at his face. He didn’t stick his tongue out to try and savor, he took full bites of the sky the best he could. But he couldn’t taste anything. It tasting like his window—empty. He dove and then rose, he did loop-to-loops, but it remained tasteless. It was cardboard.

The madman had a feeling he didn’t have much time left to grab that flavor he’s longed for his entire life. He felt desperate. Maybe he was in the wrong spot. He flew farther across town.

He passed his elementary school and saw Steven Parnell picking on the madman when he was six years old, but he couldn’t stop to stand up to the bully. He tried to fight back tears as the bully teased him now worse for crying. He wanted to swoop down and stand up for himself but couldn’t. The sky held him tight. He kept flying.

He flew over Fairfax Shopping Center where a twelve-year-old madman walked into Happy Harry’s with Michael Gray, but he couldn’t stop to tell himself not to steal those candy bars. He soared past his first kiss and wished he could yell to himself to take his retainer out, but no sounds came from his mouth. He flew past his trip to Ireland and hoped he would have spent more time with his family and less time at the pubs. He saw his date from prom and wished he called her back. He saw his car wreck, his college orientation, his car getting stolen, his mother crying, his father laughing, and even the day he met her.

He couldn’t stop for any of it. He had to be somewhere else. He gained speed by diving, arms at his side, his heart pounding in his chest.

He rocketed high over the wooded road of Hollis, hoping he wasn’t too late. He saw his friend’s car and he swooped down behind it. The red Toyota sped on. The madman flew up next to the window trying to gain his friend’s attention.

The madman said, “Pull over and come fly with me.”

They raced neck and neck. It was the fastest the madman had ever traveled. He closed his eyes and felt the breeze smack him in the face. When he opened his eyes, his friend’s car was no longer next to him. Back over his shoulder, the Toyota and a large oak tree had formed into one giant mess on the side of the road. The madman abruptly turned around and shot himself back in that direction. He couldn’t look at the wreckage. He tried to look towards the sky and the stars, but it had clouded over. He flapped his arms and tried to fly but gravity fought back, slowly pulling him toward the earth.

The madman said, “Fuck you, I can fly.”

The madman felt the hard ground in his back when he lands. His friend’s disfigured corpse had dislodged itself from the car and lay on the hood. There was glass and blood everywhere. The madman could swear he saw the dead body smiling and then it was all gone—his friend, the car, the tree, the road, the memories, all of it.

The madman found himself on the shore of the river looking up at the sky. He couldn’t move. Sharp pains ran through his entire body. He tasted warm blood streaming down from the top of his head. His heart beat slowly in his chest and he knew he was still breathing. And it was right there looking up at the rising sun, the faint stars in the background, barely moving or breathing, that the madman finally tasted the sky.

Maybe it was the blood, although the sky did not taste of blood. Maybe it was the slow short breathes, although the sky tasted sweeter than any breath he had ever breathed. He was alive. It was the first time he realized he was alive and it was probably the first time he wasn’t supposed to be. The sky tasted like life and it was a taste that the madman would never forget. It wasn’t a disappointment like sometimes hopes and dreams are. Unlike like the times he hoped he would get everything on his Christmas list or expecting the greatest party of all time on his twenty-first birthday, this was genuine satisfaction. He kept staring at the sky for a few more hours before he started blacking out and before the ambulance arrived. He remembered one of the paramedics asking why he was smiling.

The madman said, “I’m full.”

***

This would be where Floyd would be speechless. He would mouth the word wow and shake his head. I wouldn’t even feel like I copped out about describing the taste because words couldn’t do it justice. I would even explain that and let Floyd know that someday, he too would taste the sky. Maybe Floyd would be inspired to live his life to the fullest and appreciate every minute of it. I wish I could tell that story. But I don’t. I’m just standing here at a paint counter trying to be normal.

Floyd comes back, untying his apron on the way. “That guy needs help with the pressure washers. You mind taking it? I’m supposed to be on break now and my girl is waiting for me.”

I nod my head. I understand. I know what it’s like to take a break. I know what it’s like to have a girlfriend waiting for you. I have normal thoughts.

A man in the jeans and Florida Gators T-shirt stands cross-armed admiring the 2500 PSI gas-powered pressure washer with the green spray paint on the side of it. I ask him if he needs any help.

He half-nods to acknowledge my presence. “How much is this thing?”

“It’s $198.”

He points to the new machines by the paint sprayers. “Why is it cheaper than the others over there?”

“Well,” I say, “this one has been refurbished.”

He asks, “What does that mean?”

I bend down to finger the machine showing the ins and outs of the five and a half horse powered engine. I hadn’t seen one of these things in a while. It’s amazing how many times I’ve sold these things, convincing people that they could use them when I myself had never even started one up.

I turn back to the customer. “Sometimes we get one back that just stops working and can’t be easily repaired. We send it back to the company and they redo it inside out. They inspect everything and make sure it works again. Then they send it back to us and we sell it a bargain price to you.”

He seems interested, scratching his forehead. “What was wrong with this one?”

I stand up and cross my arms next to him. “They never tell us what was originally wrong with it. They just assure us everything is all better now.”

He continues to inspect the machine, closer now. He tells me he needs something to wash his driveway and his house maybe once in a while. I tell him that the power on the washer would be plenty for his needs. He says he’s been putting off buying one for a while because of the price. I tell him he won’t get a better price. He asks me about a warranty.

I knew it was coming. “It’s pretty much as is. Thirty days to return it, but no official warranty.”

He gets up looking worried. “What would you do?”

It’s true that this old monster could very well just up and die on this guy, but it could always be brought back to the store to be repaired. Why not take a chance on it? A hundred bucks is a hundred bucks and he wants to save money. It’s been refurbished, so it should work just the same as the rest of them.

I say, “Things can always be fixed. It’s a good deal.”

He smiles and thanks me. He tells me he’ll talk to his wife about it and if it’s still here the next time he comes, maybe he’ll take a chance on it. I am pretty sure he’ll be back. I tell him to have a nice day and head back to the paint counter.

An old black phone with a rotary dial sits not too far from my left arm. It reminds me of one we had when I was a kid where the only calls I had to worry about were from my friends who wanted to know if I could sleep over or play ball. But here that phone leads to questions about paint and return policies and store hours and normal things like that.

I could use that phone to call Heather. I would say, “Hey stranger,” or “Guess who’s back at work?” No, that’s not right. That wouldn’t work at all.

Maybe I would just say, “Hi Heather, it’s Eric.” Then I would just wait for her to respond. I would sit there in silence as long as it took. Maybe I would have to throw in a “Don’t hang up.” Or maybe I shouldn’t because she has every right to hang up on me if she wants to. I could tell her the madman story from the beginning to the end and how inspirational it is to know that you’re alive or I could just say that I’m sorry and I’ve changed.

The cashiers stand in front of their registers, avoiding eye contact with me. I can feel their stares when I look away. I wonder how long these looks will last. The aftertaste of the sky is still strong on the back of my tongue and I smile a genuine smile at the confused faces. I pick up two of the rubber mallets and bang a tune on the stainless steel counter.

I’m just a normal worker here, banging hammers on the counter, thinking of what to say on the phone to someone very important to me. I’m just like you. This is what people do. The sky outside the clear glass, automatic doors is very blue and calm. I lick my lips. This is normal. This is normal. This is normal.

Dan Sinclair earned his MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Central Florida and now lives as some kind of writer in Los Angeles, CA.