STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY
T looks out the window of the car at Los Angeles passing by and thinks he could be anywhere. LA could be anywhere, any part of the city could be anywhere you wanted.
A boy walks past the car T is in while he and his friend L sit at a red light. The boy is pointing at a patch of flowers in front of a home; his mom tugs him forward. He is saying: those are flowers, as he draws out the syllables on the last word. Flowwwweeerrrssssss.
You’re right, you’re exactly right, T says to the boy as the light turns green and they drive away.
That boy was pointing at dandelions in the sidewalk, says L, looking over at T as he drives.
Okay, says T and they drive along through everything at once.
They were white and yellow and the stems were green and they brightened the sidewalk, said L, at some point later on.
They drive for a while in silence. A man runs past them as they idle in traffic; he’s juggling three tennis balls, little orbs circling his head. L honks at him and laughs as the balls fall to the ground. He scrambles to pick them up and continues on his run, not acknowledging their car or L’s actions. This must be a semi-regular occurrence.
That was dangerous, T says.
Why?
What happens when the balls drop? We don’t know.
We saw what happened.
Butterfly effect.
That man has no sway on the world.
Neither do we.
Why? L asked but T didn’t have an answer so they drove in silence again. They stopped eventually and walked into a crowded bar. L said as they walked in: the new aesthetic is to see large bodies of text in non-classic locales and designate them the future of the novel. Or what comes after. People think this is important, to find what is next. They don’t realize blocks of text exist everywhere. None of it is more important than anything else.
They see the blocks of text in person and believe it to be important because it’s not on their screen, T says.
I read a short story underneath a photo of a used dresser and armoire for sale. The story was not about the furniture. People in the comments said this was revolutionary, L says.
They drank for a while without speaking, the dips coming after the peaks, their energy returning.
L continued: On the back of a cereal box at the grocery store there was a description of a missing girl in the area. I didn’t know that was still allowed. Missing kids and customer goods. I’ve never understood the connection.
We used to be a more breakfast-oriented society, T says.
The description said the girl’s favorite toy was an “old, important, heavily used and deeply adored stuffed tiger.” I felt emotional while reading that, L says.
The child is still out there.
All children are, L says.
The bartender brings them two more drinks and T tells L he thinks they are being flirted with, but L says it isn’t anything.
What if the child doesn’t exist? T asks.
People would still search, cast about for her, people like something, someone, to believe in.
This is obvious. But I meant what if the child didn’t exist at all, was a creation, was a means of conveying something else, T says to L.
L ponders this. He says: Or the child does exist and she is constantly bombarded with people who believe they have found her, discovered her anew for her parents; they become upset when she says the reward was a lie. She doesn’t think she’s a lie, but maybe that too. People continue to come up to her, I assume, exclaiming she’s been found. They found her. They.
Is the little girl the artist? If she does exist?
She’s the artist either way, L says.
I think that’s incorrect, T says.
The both sit for a while looking into their drinks. Watching the changes. T has to keep himself firmly rooted to his stool, or he would stand and make his way outside, flashlight in hand upon nightfall, the beam casting back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, as he and the other searchers, who can’t help themselves, search endlessly for the little girl who loves her stuffed animal.
Anonymity isn’t special, L says.
Did the cereal box include the girl’s name?
I don’t know.
The artist’s? T asks.
It said it was whole-wheat cereal and listed nutritional information.
Interesting, T says.
They leave the bar and walks towards another part of the city.
The girl appears before them as they make a right turn around two palm trees at the end of a block of small houses with smaller palms in front. She’s sitting on an overturned box on the sidewalk, leaning against a brick wall, conveying nothing at all except that she is there.
I’m not worth anything to you, the girl says.
Do you want to come with us? L asks.
I have goals and wants and needs, she says.
Are you the artist?
I’m the girl on the cereal box, she says. She has short auburn-colored hair and is wearing a gray sweatshirt and blue jeans.
We shouldn’t ask you to come with us, even if it’s for your protection, T says.
I’m not looking for a change, the girl says.
Do we leave you here?
I’m in two places already. More than that. Why would I need to move? She asks.
T and L walk away to speak between themselves.
Are we doing this because she’s a child? Standing over here, away, hiding away, something or another. We don’t know what we intended to hid when we came over here, L says.
Were hiding from her. She senses our lack of understanding, T says.
She’s more visible than we are.
Than most people.
Are you finishing my sentences?
Why do we feel the need to help her? T asks. They both think about the questions they’ve asked each other.
I don’t think we should help her. We should not help her, T says. T had been working on being purposeful, following through. T continue speaking: We are going to walk to another bar and she will remain here or she won’t.
They both, without saying anything, walk back to the girl. T says: Do you know where you’re parents are?
She shakes her head. T remembered a time when his dad tried to teach him and his brother how to change a car tire. T had been 13, his brother 10. This was 11 years ago.
You have to focus on what I’m showing you, T’s dad said as he placed the tire he had removed on the ground, near the back of the car, out of the way. Their dad continued: I’m expecting you to put the tire back on.
Since their parents had divorced two years ago, their dad had begun teaching them “skills” and “tools for life” such as how to change a tire, how to change the oil in a car, a number of similar car-related maintenance tasks, and how to use a circular electric saw, among other things. They had also watched Full Metal Jacket, Hunt for Red October and Platoon together after dinner each of the last three Friday’s. T and his brother had dinner with their dad and stayed the night, returning to their mom’s house the next day each week. Their dad lived in a small apartment a couple blocks away.
T thought his dad’s reaction after the divorce had been stereotypical. So odd to watch an adult realize a divorce meant more parenting, not less. The faux-combined and equal workload of a married couple came apart immediately upon divorce. He had to be T and his brother’s dad now.
Do you know what to do first? Their dad asked.
I’m writing down these questions so I can ask the man or woman from AAA the correct queries, T said.
His dad threw down the wrench he was holding.
T’s brother said: You are teaching us. We are both learning from you right now. This isn’t necessary. What’s about to happen. You don’t have to. It will ruin our day of education.
T doesn’t remember if their dad had taught them then how to change the tire. Had actually ingrained it into their minds if at all. He didn’t remember how to change one now.
The girl is still shaking her head, no, her parents aren’t around, they aren’t near, her shaking means they aren’t. T and L ask some more questions and then leave, T pulling L away, saying: This doesn’t matter really.
They go to L’s apartment and he pours them two bowls of cereal and digs around for a prize in the bottom, though the box doesn’t say anything about a prize, only about the girl, and L’s hand seizes upon something, T can tell that he has wrapped his hand into a fist around something small, something in the box that maybe is there.
T says: I’m imagining you are holding a small tiger.
by Teddy Burnette
Teddy Burnette is a writer living in Manhattan. His fiction has appeared in Expat Lit Journal and Maudlin House. He can be found on Twitter at @teddyburnette.