Jesse's Blog

I was always losing things as a kid.

I was a "latchkey kid", remember that term? Man, I remember those old 60 Minutes episodes where they'd try to evoke sympathy for all those poor kids who came home to empty houses for hours at a time because Mom and Pops were just too busy pulling the end of a shift at the plastics factory or the bottle plant or whatever, and Dad would flip over to Cheers or the Dukes of Hazard or whatever and swear at Morely Safer under his breath.

That first key was no big deal, you know? Happens to everybody. Mom popped her key off her ring, I mourned the super cool miniature Woolie Willie keychain I'd had, replaced it with some big yellow plastic Number 1 for some insurance company, and off we went.

For a week.

I think that's when I became 'that damned kid.'

Dad was convinced, you see, that somehow, that big plastic 1 contained enough hints and clues to lead a psycopathic stranger to our apartment; he let himself in and take all of our valuables after doing us all in in the dead of night.

So he changed the locks. And, grudgingly, gave me another key. This time, it came with a chain that I was to wear around my neck AT ALL TIMES.

It lasted three days.

This time, I didn't tell him. I went to a friends house until I knew they were home. That next morning, I unlocked the patio door so I could let myself in later. That day, someone broke in and took all our stuff. When I got home and found out, I heaved a brick through the glass of the patio door. My neighbor saw me do it.

There were always toys going missing. My folks said I didn't appreciate anything.

One birthday, it was a Triformer. Remember those? It was a Transformer that turned into two different things as well as a robot. It was terribly complicated; like an equation made out of metal and plastic. I remember when I got it, I threw the instructions away without looking at them. I couldn't have articulated it then, but it wasn't the object itself I was so interested in; it was the mind behind it. How could someone have made this thing? How could you build it? I was going to summer camp, back then. I couldn't be left home, you see. So there I was, on the bus to camp. Kids squabbling and talking and laughing all around me, and I wasn't hearing a word of it, because I had this object in front of me that I'd owned for about eleven hours, and I was still trying to figure it out. I finally realized that the leg joint had to twist as it extended in order to clear the wheels, and as I turned it, it.. just.. vanished. My hands closed over empty air. I screamed and screamed and screamed. The kids on the bus were.. less than understanding.

You know that tension on the outer edges of your eyes when you cross them? There's a similiar feeling I can get in my head when I touch things. And when I do it, the things that I'm touching disappear. I don't know where they go. I can't even be certain that the things I'm touching all go to the same place, but I can't think of a single reason why they all don't.
It took years to figure that out, but it's not like I had a whole lot else to do, what with my folks thinking I was crazy and all.
The first time I did it on purpose, it was a hackey sack. I started trying larger things, and found that the larger the object, it made me tired, and gave me headaches. It got easier, though.

About the time I moved out on my own, I could shift pretty much whatever I wanted, and I'd gotten the unwanted shifts under control. I stopped losing things. And the things I did shift.. Well, what else was I going to do with it? I used it for garbage. I considered showing people, but I was afraid. People are incredulous, and skeptical, and finally, when confronted with things they don't understand, fearful. I figured that when they finally did believe me, they'd tear me apart like the Golden Goose or burn me at the stake or something, so that was out. Then I thought about going to a magic show kind of thing, but that was out. What good is dissappearing things you can't get back again? There was toxic waste removal, and so on, but all those things will sooner or later require explanations. So I just shifted my swill.

I had to keep my temper. I remember one afternoon, working on a lawnmower. It just wouldn't start, and I kept pulling and pulling. My face was red, my head was spinning, and I was just.. so.. angry. I pulled one more time, and my head hurt so bad, and I passed out. When I came to, the lawnmower, and a square yard of earth around it in a half dome shape was just.. gone. I'd been working a pretty crap job, just enough for two square meals and the rent. Part of the reason my rent wasn't somewhat higher than it was was because I was responsible for mowing the lawn. Now my mower was gone. Now what would I do? I'd gotten mine third hand, and had counted myself lucky that it ran at all, even though the self propulsion was shot and I had to push that thing across what felt like a plantation's south forty. Now it was either do without some meals or get intimate with the green and a pair of scissors.

Then there was the accident.

He started it; I at least have that much. I was alone in a bar, minding my own business, finishing off my Guinness and getting ready to head out, watching a ballgame. He starts on some tirade about the young people in this country, how they were good for nothing, how they were useless, and I swear I didn't say anything, didn't look at him. I remember thinking, this guy reminds me of Dad, when he was in my face all the sudden. I can't even remember what he said. I said, "Excuse me." I got up, and walked out. He followed me out to the parking lot, still yelling. He'd had too many, wanted a fight, and maybe I reminded him of someone. That damned kid, perhaps. As I was walking to the car, he planted a hand on my left shoulder and pushed, hard. I went sprawling, and bit my lip hard enough to draw blood as I went down. My wrist felt like I'd sprained it. I stood up, mad, so mad. There was no one shouting to leave the kid alone, and this guy had to have a foot and hundred pounds on me. I drew back, and made to punch him in the jaw.. and instead, found myself taking a handful of his shirt. I drew him towards me, and then.. he was just gone. There was no one else in the parking lot. I got in my car and drove home, shaking so badly I had to keep pulling over.

I hadn't willed it, not really. I didn't intend to shift him. It just happened.

I watched the papers. His name was Harold Everett, and he'd been a long haul truck driver. It took a month before anyone started looking him; apparently he'd been estranged from his son for several years, and had no other family. No one called a search team; no volunteers screened the woods. His land lord figured he'd skipped town, his son apparently didn't care.

About three weeks after he disappeared, I had a dream. I was looking at a horizon, the sky a slinking green miasma, the landscape gray and stony. I was standing on top of an outcropping. At my feet was something small and yellow, I picked it up, and as I bent down, I saw a landfill spread below me. There was garbage everywhere. Cans, bags, an old couch, paper everywhere, and poking through the crap, stuffing things into his mouth, was Harold. He was thinner than he'd been, still wearing that same shirt I grabbed, and now it hung loose on his frame, billowing a bit, covered in unspeakable stains. His eyes, as he lifted them up to look at me, were crazed. His expression held fear, hunger, and loneliness. He stood, his hand lifting to point at me. We screamed together, he and I, and I woke up. In my hand was that old yellow Number 1 keychain, it's surface pocked with acidic burns.

I keep away from people. I got a gig as a night watchman after seeing an old Maytag man commercial. I have my groceries delivered, and use pay at the pump, and Amazon, and anything else I can think of to keep from coming close enough to another soul to touch them. The pay's ok, but it's hard to make a go of it. After all, I'm feeding two, now.

I shift meals after I make them. I shift books, and clothes, although I have to guess at his size. I shift water gallons at a time. I have shifted camping supplies and lanterns, and anything else I can think of, and afford, to try and help.

I don't shift trash anymore.

And with your next meal, Harold, I'm shifting this letter. I hope you're there to read it. I hope you understand how sorry I am. I hope I can dream of you again, and I hope you'll take my hand when I do.

I hope I can bring you back.