Welcome to Tiny Worlds!
We’re shifting our focus to explore Mexico's eastern coast with twelve-year-old George Perez in the serialized novel: ISLA.
For longer fiction visit Stories, and for flash fiction go to Sketchbook.
January 1986
"It's laughable, really," Kathryn says. George sees she’s trying to smile, but it comes out as a forced smirk.
They’re sitting across from each other, the formica table at the airport diner looks new but it still bobbles each time George bumps it. Kathryn’s hands wrap a steaming cup of coffee, warming them. George sips a glass of Coke through a straw, a rare morning treat. Yet, he can't help but miss Jolt—New Coke is crap.
What the F-U-D-G-E was wrong with the old Coke?
"Two people that couldn't have been more incompatible. This was the wrong story. It was folly. We tell ourselves stories—"
He knows the quote, it’s familiar, like something heard through a wall. "Didion?" George asks, scratching an invisible itch on his head.
George looks around. Outside, the sun is playing peek-a-boo, forcing the lights of the airport terminal to earn their keep. All airport lighting is horrible, he thinks. Bodies move in and out of the harsh overhead spotlights, throwing shadows. George watches the faces change from a comedy or tragedy mask with each step.
Except for Kathryn’s light. A spotlight above ricochets off the table, filling her face; the thin morning light outlines her cheeks. She pulls her knit toque down over her ears, making her look girlish. George suddenly feels sorry for her, as sorry as a twelve-year-old can.
Somehow, George sort of loves this version of Kathryn—the one after. He despises the fighting, of course—his mother could be hard to live with, like carrying something heavy all day. A weight you don’t notice until you set it down. In the days after, though, he sees a glimpse of the free spirit she once was, might be again. They’d retreat. She’d have a few days of licking her wounds, maybe sleep past noon. But when she emerged from the cloud, the funk, her whole demeanor would be different, somehow cleansed. Scowl lines on her face would reshape themselves and her laugh would reappear. She’d get a new haircut, maybe a new bag or dress. That’s when he’d see her, really see her: Kathryn and her unflappable charm that could pull anyone, everyone, into her tractor beam. That best version of Kathryn is what his father saw. It’s what George remembers from the black-and-white strip of pictures stuck to the fridge.
George moves his backpack; he can hear the cassettes inside shifting in their shoebox. The journal is there, too. He wants to pull out the map, like in an old war movie or a spy thriller, using their cups, salt shaker and the carefully packed sugar caddy to hold the corners. He wanted to tell her again about the treasure and have her believe it. For her to see it with his eyes, to somehow tap into the charisma only his father could bring to a tale so large.
They’d both hunch over the map and discuss how they’d find the island. How a local would take them aboard his boat at night and deposit them on the shore, wishing them a safe journey as the boat disappears into the night. There’d be a montage with music building as they packed their gear: flashlights—check, machete—check. Through the night they’d hike up the mountain, reaching the cave at first light, the glowing bats appearing as they walked deeper, hearing the echo of the cave.
The blinding light of day peeks through the clouds and into the window just beyond. He blinks himself back, back at the airport, the table, the backpack leaning on his leg. Hadn’t he tried that already? George had wanted this for years, but each time he spoke, the words felt less convincing—even to him. He stopped showing her the journal, stopped using it as proof. It felt like scratching at a phantom limb, something lost long ago.
Kathryn was still talking, but not looking at him. "I missed the road signs is all I'm saying. Ignored them maybe."
A sigh escapes his lips, blowing bubbles into the drink. New Coke even smells funny.
"So..." he glances at his ticket:
Phoenix, Arizona.
Passenger: George Perez.
Seat 18A.
At least it’s a window seat.
He thinks of spilling his drink on the ticket. Could that be a way out? Yes, he could make the ticket unreadable and he wouldn’t be able to get on the plane. They’d turn him away, both of them, because she wouldn’t leave without him, right?
Would New Coke burn through like the blood in Alien? Through the paper, the formica table, and through the carpet?
"Your grandparents will be excited—you know how much you like being there…" Kathryn’s voice trails off. She’s maneuvering, he thinks, to tell him how he should feel, to make it seem like his own thoughts. George hates when she does that. It feels like she’s putting a paper suit on him, like a cutout of a doll in some kid's craft book.
George looks down, studying the imaginary hole left by alien blood as it grows, eating away at the carpet. The industrial carpet caught his eye, lines in alternating colors, reaching out into the forever distance never getting anywhere. Always repeating.
He imagines pinkish lips coming at him, Grandma's lipstick. He hears a belly chuckle from Grandpa. They'd be happy to see him; they always were. As predictable as their mantle clock ticking before it strikes the hour. Then, the incessant ding at one, at two, at three. A life lived on a schedule: breakfast plate neatly placed on plastic mats, a shuffleboard game, lunch with the neighbors, an afternoon movie, a dinner, a bridge game. Lather, rinse, repeat. Monday, just like last Monday. Tuesday—
George’s head pounds at the repetition. The clock is ticking again. Louder now. But this time it’s a beat. It’s a constant: dat-dat-dat-da-da-da-da-da.
"—Patterns," George says. Kathryn’s head moves to the side, unsure what to do with the non-sequitur. "The carpet has repeating patterns, too." he fills in the thought.
Kathryn pauses, following George's gaze to the carpet, searching for the connection he is drawing. A moment of realization flickers across her face.
"You mean..." she says softly, the metaphor not lost on her.
"Yeah…" George continues, the muscles in his throat tightening around the words he hasn’t figured out yet. "Like... we keep walking the same paths, expecting to find something new. But it's the same carpet, the same patterns, just in different rooms. Just the same a-holes in a new zip code."
Kathryn leans back, her coffee momentarily forgotten. "You think that's what I do? Keep moving us from place to place, hoping it'll be different this time?"
A voice rings out over the loudspeakers, interrupting them:
"We will soon begin boarding our flight to Phoenix, Arizona."
The announcement sends a shiver through George, the danger of a choice moving closer: go to Phoenix or run. The dueling fates he learned about, the ones with names he can’t remember—the whirlpool and the monster. Neither choice is good. “...the kind you can’t escape without some danger.”
And that beat is louder, it’s risen above the sound of his own heart, leaping out of his eyeballs, his ears. He looks at Kathryn, a mix of anger and desperation in his eyes.
"You remember ‘Blue Monday’?” he asks, his voice almost squeaking. He feels a metallic, bitter taste in his mouth moving onto his tongue. His head is floating, untethered. He can see the two of them from above. He sees himself getting up, but he hasn’t moved. He sees himself sprinting out of the airport. The beat is still repeating—the computerized cadence of a synthetic drum. He’s listened to the New Order song maybe a thousand times from a dub in the box of cassettes. It’s a monster of layered sound that builds: programmed drums, then a synth, the “Fistful of Dollars” bass line before the slap drum sound.
Before she can respond, he starts tapping the beat on the table. It’s a steady, mechanical rhythm that fills the space between them—an unchanging, relentless pattern.
"I still find it hard, to say what I need to say, but I’m quite sure you’ll tell me, just how I should feel today.”
George isn’t sure the words came out fully formed. His voice is from somewhere else—not here, not anywhere.
“This is our life,” he says, tapping out a couple of bars. “Then a change,” he continues, his fingertips pattering faster, more deliberate. “Then another change,” he adds, palms flat now, pounding out the beat. “But we’re still the same.”
His gaze fixed on Kathryn, each few bars marking a different move, a different escape.
“Berkeley,” tap-tap-tap—
“Arizona,” tap-tap— firmer now.
“St. Louis,” fingers drumming— faster.
“Back to Arizona,” hands rapping— louder.
“Then Chicago.” the table shaking under his palms.
Travelers are starting to take notice, his voice is louder than it should be. An older man across the cafe catches George's eye, leaning forward in his seat trying to listen. He’s nobody, George thinks, just a looky-loo. The man’s head is cocked to one side, like a dog, listening.
Kathryn reaches out to George, to stop him. George pulls his hands back and beats on the edge of the table. His thumps are becoming almost unbearable.
"We have. To stop. The pattern. Kathryn," George says between beats, throwing her proper name out there—to shake her, to get her attention.
She blinks, eyes wide, looks around, dumbfounded.
George's blood is moving, and it's scary, thrilling… even unpredictable. He feels control ebbing between them—sometimes his, sometimes not. He's the kid. He shouldn't be saying this. Should he?
"George... parenting is... wild. You have no idea how hard—"
He cuts her off, continuing beating on the table.
George's voice sounds detached as he says, “Tell me, how do I feel?” echoing the lyrics from the song, his voice almost a challenge. “Tell me now, how do I feel?”
He abruptly stops, leaving a long silence. He feels the defiance, the metal taste of desperation thick on his tongue. The part of him that’s always obeyed was suddenly swamped by a feeling of being wild, out of control.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Something—anything!" he says. To him, the words sound like a bending branch, ready to snap.
Kathryn, for the first time in a few years, sees hurt welling up in his eyes. They’re watery, wild, and out of control.
"We’ve got to lift the needle eventually, or we’re left with nothing but static," George pleads.
"I don't know what..."
George looks at the man who's been listening. George sees what happens next. Sort of.
And then—snap!
George stands abruptly, his eyes burning with determination as he watches Kathryn still seated. He snatches his ticket from the table and, with a quick jerk, he hauls his backpack onto his shoulder, knocking the chair. The crash of it cuts through the murmurs of the terminal. Kathryn, quick on the reflex, steadies the wobbling glass of Coke.
"If you won't do something—" George says, his voice tinged with frustration.
He hears the splintering crash of the branch as he turns away from Kathryn and starts running into the bustling crowd of the terminal.
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Music
Blue Monday - New Order
Wow Wow Wow!
"..his mother could be hard to live with, like carrying something heavy all day. A weight you don’t notice until you set it down."
"It feels like she’s putting a paper suit on him, like a cutout of a doll in some kid's craft book.."
"... it's the same carpet, the same patterns, just in different rooms."
Poor George has reached a critical mass of frustration and despair. I sympathize with him. I was him. Great story telling, J.
This is such an interesting story- lots of heart and emotion running around.