Warning: Rough language and suggestive actions not suited for young eyes.

Note: I wrote this story for an English class assignment, where we picked three words randomly and had to include them in a story. The italicized words are the items I chose.
I would be very disappointed if anyone doesn't understand the ending, but I would be glad to explain.

20 November 2008

Paper Crane

I give the zipper of my jeans one last vicious tug as the familiar night air embraces me in a putrid welcome. My nose doesn't hesitate to protest, but I ignore it. A shudder crawls down my spine; I wrap my jacket more tightly around myself and secure all the buttons. I let out a long stream of air and watch absentmindedly as the white puff dissolves into the sky.

Loud and obnoxious laughter explodes from the building behind me – a sharp reminder of where I am. The voices of men and women echo in my head and seep into my pores: voices high and low, hushed and loud; whispers that saturate sweat-polished bodies… I squeeze my eyes shut and stop my breathing to ease the taste of bile touching my tongue.

A soft curse escapes with my breath. I walk quickly away from the building, taking wide and frantic steps that alternate between a jog and a stride. I must get away, as far away as possible. I slow to a stroll as I enter the more run-down parts of town. I crane my neck to face the sky above, answering the call of a silver sphere that returns my gaze in silence. The sky is exceptionally clear today – not a cloud in sight. I had never realized how vast and endless the sky is. Is it intimidating? Probably, maybe that's why my heart is beating so fast.

I rip my gaze from the sky. Hoping to ease the annoying pounding still echoing in my ears, I dig my hands into the pockets of my coat. My fingers quickly find the familiar rectangular shape, and I clumsily pry the box open. I withdraw my hand, a cigarette between my fingers. I look around at the decrepit buildings around me, and duck between two of them into a dark alley, hoping that there is no decomposing body this time.

"Damn, it's a bad brand. Cheap assholes," I lean against a wall covered in grime, barely noticing the grunge until the disgusting dampness tickles my neck. The stench of trash and urine intensify, and I hasten to drown them with the intoxicating scent of lighter fluid. The familiar taste scorches my throat and fills my lungs to their fullest. I savor the sensation until suffocation punches at my chest. The smoke swarms out of my mouth and nose like a gray plague, dancing crazily in the air. I stare at the haze, attempting to find shapes within the thick cloud.

I press the cigarette to my lips for another taste. Just as I am preparing to inhale, a large and rough hand grabs my wrist. Before I even remember to shout, my arm squishes against the wall, and a forced fling of my wrist sends the cigarette flying to the ground.

"What the hell?" I gather as much hostility as I can into one glare as I look for the owner of the hand. I find my own angry face staring back at me from two gray gems.

"Now keep yo mouth busy," the stranger slams a rectangular object against my palm, and I instinctively close my fingers around it. The loud and raspy voice startles me. He gives me a smile, but the throbbing of my wrist denies any kindness in the gesture. He finally releases my arm, but his sharp eyes held me like chains.

I stare down at the object in my hand, fear gnawing merrily at my insides. Large white letters screamed "DOUBLEMINT." It was a small pack of Wrigley's Doublemint chewing gum. I turn it sideways out of curiosity and discover only two out of the five pieces remain.

I roll my eyes and throw the pack on the ground. The old man bends down to retrieve it, but I seal its fate with a stomp. With an exasperated sigh, I reach into my pocket and find the opening of the box again.

Empty.

"Fuck," I close my fist around the box, letting my anger slip into the crunch of paper and plastic. Well, that isn't very satisfying at all. I narrow my gaze on the source of my rise in blood pressure.

The man who stands before me must be taller than I am, since I can't see past his gray pathetic excuse for hair. He is wearing a horribly oversized gray threadbare hoodie that covers the zipper of faded black jeans. The man is so gray and plain that he reminds me of a senile mouse I found once that had managed to drown itself in the toilet. He was wrinkled, dirty, and the bags under his eyes are clear signs of his exhaustion. The only thing that makes my heart gasp for breath is the gleam in his gray eyes. There is a slight haze covering them, but I can catch the flash of determination that tenses the air. That, and the fact that his face is flushed a bright red. I am not the best at dealing with angry people.

"What do you want from me, asshole?" I square my shoulders, suddenly aware that he is at least twice the size of my fifteen-year-old frame, "You owe me a smoke."

"T-tobacco's bad," the words roll off of his tongue lazily, each unwilling syllable dragging the next along, "It kill yo baby mama, yo babies, and yo money."

I admit, right now I am completely and utterly stunned. The man is as drunk as a fiddler's bitch. All of my fear falls at my feet in a crumpled pile, and I can feel my tensed muscles relax with my exploding laughter.

"Thanks man, I'll keep that in mind," I move toward the open streets. Tanked people aren't exactly one of my turn-ons.

"If yo write a wish on a piece of paper and fold it into a crane, it'll carry it up to heaven, and yo wish will come true."

I pause in my steps. I guess he is capable of using proper grammar.

"My baby told me, she did," the man begins punching the inside of his sweatshirt pocket and turning his pants pockets inside out. I take a cautious step back. I should get away right now, but I am in no mood for a game of cat and mouse, nor am I stupid enough to go back to that place so soon and willingly. Oh, I can picture the headlines now: Teenage Boy Murdered by Gunshot – Tobacco Expresses Deep Regret for Missing Out.

"Here, here, I show you," the man pulls out a wrinkled mess from… I didn't see where it came from, but I don't really want to know. He flattens out the 2½ inches long and 1½ inches wide piece of teal paper. He rips the paper in one quick and violent motion, reshaping it into something that resembles a square after radiation exposure.

"Got a pen?"

"No."

The man suddenly falls backwards onto the ground, and I almost choke with my heart in my throat. I take a deep breath and assure myself that even if he has a gun or any other weapon, he would probably see too many of me to aim right. I watch with curiosity as he throws himself forward repeatedly, like a fat man attempting to stand up. He mops the ground, or whatever that's covering the ground, with his hand, and I suppress a gag as he holds his filthy palm to me, the most stupid smile I've ever seen painted wide across his face. He points one slightly dripping finger to the paper, and within a few seconds, he was back on his feet with his wish complete.

It takes me a moment to realize that the dripping puke-colored… thing is a smile.

"Excuse me, but," I raise my eyebrows and fight back another outburst of mocking laughter, "Are you gay?"

"I'm happy."

I try to laugh at that, but the man's face is dead serious. I clear my throat awkwardly, and wonder why there is a sudden heat rising to my cheeks.

The man falls silent, and begins folding the piece of paper carefully. His eyebrows are knit so tightly, I can see a canyon on his forehead. To my surprise, I find myself very concentrated as well, as I watch every slight movement of the man's fingers. The stranger has very nimble fingers for a man his size and age – and any drunken man. He swears every single time there is a rip, which happens quite often, but eventually a deformed bird is born. A sudden rush of bad breath sends a jolt to my brain; I realize how close I am to the man, and I step back self-consciously.

"A wish for happiness," the old man announces, the crane sitting on his upturned palm.

I cough into my fist. I'm not embarrassed or excited, no, I'm only flushed because it's cold. I finally decide that the man is a far stretch from dangerous, and I turn to leave.

"Hey, don't ya have a wish?" I command myself not to stop, but a heavy hand pounds down on my shoulder. I really hope it's not the hand I think it is.

"I don't believe in these stupid things," I respond coldly, my throat going dry.

"Then what do you believe in?"

That is an extremely sober question. To be honest, I don't really know the answer.

"Here," the man places the crane in my hand, the movement surprisingly gentle, "A man is nothing without faith."

I stand staring at the stranger; a thousand thoughts rush through my head and none of them pause for me to understand. I want to laugh and mock his sentimentality, but an annoying fuzziness in my stomach steals the words from my tongue.

The old man pats me on the back and gives me another goofy smile. He wipes his dirty hand on his sweatshirt – though both of his hands are so filthy I can't tell which one is worse – and sticks them into his pants pockets. Our shoulders bump as he walks out of the alleyway without another look back, staggering slightly and tripping over his own feet.

I look down at the teal abomination in my hand. My fingers close in around it, but I do not squeeze. I stand still and listen to the steady beat echoing in my ear, my eyes studying each fold and blotch on the crane. I reach into my pocket and find a small pencil stub. I unfold the crane carefully until the slimy smile reappears. Slowly and carefully, I press the small, damp sheet of paper against the wall and begin writing.

***

I sit in a hard wooden chair, next to many other boys my age. I recognize all of their faces, and I even know a few of their names. I look around and notice all of them are smiling like children on the covers of parenting magazines. I can feel my stomach turn. I give my gaze to Mau instead, and I find her beady eyes burning a hole in my head; her thin lips mouth the word: smile.

I smile.

A middle-aged woman dressed in expensive clothing sits in a thickly padded chair a few feet away. Her eyes, covered by thick mascara and eye shadow, scrutinized every boy the way a dog stares at a giant slab of meat.

She turns to Mau with a greasy smile on her face. Mau's face lights up. That's good, considering how pissed she was when I got back.

"How much for that one?"

Those words, which I've heard so many times, still make my blood boil. I glare at the woman, but my eyes widen in horror when I realize that her creepily long fingernail is pointing straight at my chest. I shift my pleading eyes to Mau, but immediately look away. I must be high to look for sympathy in her.

I remain silent and wipe all the emotion from my face. I force my bunched up fists to open and remind myself to breathe. Mau parades up to me and drags me off my chair with a wide grin on her face. It seems like she got a good price.

"Smile, you should know that by now," she hissed in my ear.

Yes, I should.

"Oh, and I threw away that disgusting thing on your table. Next time you bring something like that into this house I'll beat you until you turn that same shade of green."

I freeze, but Mau continues to drag me by the arm and curses as I stumble forward. I find myself suddenly unable to breathe as my heart begins to beat up my ribcage.

Something hurts.

We approach the customer, and I fight the urge to slam my fist into her anticipating smile.

"Three hours," Mau told the woman.

I take a deep breath and smile.

I press my cold palm to the woman's as Mau leads us to an empty room, her keys jangling cheerfully as we walk.

"Enjoy yourself."

The door slams shut behind me.

Click.

I forgot, paper cranes can't fly.