Strawberry Twist

The sun beats down on me as I speed walk down the street. My hips swaying from side to side as my arms swing furiously backwards and forwards. My body trying to propel itself whilst always maintaining a foot on the ground. 

In my mind I chant “speed, power, strength" 

Every morning, I speed walk for two kilometres. 

“Speed, power, strength” 

That’s how I start my morning. 

A good note. A good way. I speed walk all the way to the newspaper agency where there I’ll pick up the piles of newspapers waiting at both the front and back door. And then I’ll speed walk all over town, flinging papers into people’s front yard, driveway or doorstep.

“Speed, power, strength” 

A constant chant as newspapers fly. 

I am in charge of ensuring people get their information. Otherwise how would anybody find out the daily events or the wonderous inventions happening in the big year of 1995? 

Speed, power, strength. 

Big responsibilities I got. 

And when there’s no more papers left, I speed walk back home. 

The powder pours from the little packet and hits the water in my glass. It’s a pinkish purplish colour that tastes like grapefruit. 

Sweat dribbles down my temples. I mix the powder into the water with the speed of scrambling eggs with a fork. 

Time is of essence. 

I march on the spot as I alternate between drinking my grapefruit energy drink and eating my apple. 

Bite, sip, bite, sip. 

An energised 28 year old, excited for the new day. 

I only have cold showers. You have to shock the mind, wake up the brain. It triggers the immune system too. I remind myself this, as i shiver and shake, ruffling my hair and rinsing away the sweat dried on my skin. 

In my neighbourhood, everyone is slow. They move about like slugs on a branch. One inch forward at a time. I often have to speed around them, dodging them like bumper cars. I spend my days doing all sorts of important things. I paint over graffiti, help grandmas carry their groceries across the street and volunteer at homeless shelters where I dish out curry in a huge spoon. It’s astonishing how much you can fit in twenty four hours. 

“Let me help you with that" I say, slowing down to walk with the struggling lady whose hauling groceries through the parking lot. 

She looks up at me surprised, her forehead wrinkles protruding and deepening at the same time. Like little waves. 

“Oh no, that’s fine dear” She says, looking down at the bags, not slowing her hobbling. 

I smile. 

“I insist! Please let me lend a hand" 

It’s a few seconds of us going back and forth before i relieve her of the heavy groceries and help her carry them to her car. 

Whilst we walk, we admire the beautiful day, the little birds chirping about and debate between keeping the butter in the fridge or in the pantry. 

Once I haul the bags into the trunk of her car,  she thanks me dearly. I wave as she gets in her car and drives off. 

It’s those little things, acts of kindness everyone can do anytime. 

The town of Burgundy has been my home since I was a newborn child. I went to school at Burgundy primary and graduated Burgundy high school. 

I worked at the milk bar just down my street when i was freshly fourteen before moving on to work at the supermarket at fifteen. Have to chase that better pay. 

My parents were both elementary teachers, who found it difficult to pick a name for me when I was born. 

“We couldn’t have chosen Max, because your farther taught a student named Max who bullied the other kids!” 

“And we couldn’t have chosen George, because your mother had a student named George who would always pick his nose!” 

And so, they chose Frimly. 

“Frimly is a rare but strong name” my father would say, clapping me on the shoulder.

“Your Father will say he came up with it, but it was my idea” My mother would promise. 

Frimly. The town’s superstar. 

As I speed walk around town, people will wave good mourning. 

“Frimly!” They would say. 

Everyone knows everyone’s name in Burgundy. 

It’s like one big happy family. 

“One strawberry twist please" 

I take out a fistful of coins in my pocket and splay them on the counter. 

Richard, the milk bar owner sighs loudly. 

“Why don’t you sort that out before you get here, I’m busy boy!" He says. 

I laugh. Richard is an old man who I speak to on a daily base. He's known me since I was fourteen.

“Because it means I can speak to you longer!" I say back. 

I slide fifteen dollars and forty five cents in coin across the counter with an index finger. 

“Plus, I’m your favourite costumer” 

Richard scoffs as I scoop up the remaining coins by sliding them off the counter into my waiting palm. 

It takes two minutes for Richard to make a strawberry milkshake. And 5 seconds to retrieve a packet of the grapefruit powder I love so much. 

Strawberry twist. The twist being the packet of powder. 

I yell goodbye to Richard as I swing open the door, slurping on my milkshake. 

“Yeah yeah” He replies, wiping the counter clean. 

My parents died when I was the sweet age of 22. By that time I had rented out a room above the newspaper agency. I was on the way to graduating state college with a degree in computer science. 

My life was stream rolling ahead and I loved it. I was excited. But it’s amazing how fast things can change. 

Now, if someone asked me to switch channels on a T.V,  I would have no clue. Which I view as a good thing really. Screens are overrated. I choose a couch and a snooze rather watching some boring show about a family.  My haven is my couch.  

People will complain about not having the hottest new technology out there. 

“I want the new 4 inch T.V, the 3 inch is too small" 

“I want the telephone with the smooth handle” Blah, blah, blah.

I'm not into the material life. 

“Give me a couch and I’m set for life" is my motto.

I fling a newspaper, aiming for the front door. Sometimes there’s moments in life where an unlikely coincidence happens. And in those moments, all you can really do is stare in astonishment. 

As my newspaper flies through the air, the front door opens. Standing in the threshold is Gary. Bald man who works at the liquor store in the town square. 

That bold face has now become the target of a well-aimed throw. The newspaper hits him square in the face. I’m surprised. He’s surprised. 

He stares at me in shock, then looks down at his feet where the paper now lies. 

His face twists in anger.

“Frimly! What did I say!” He bellows.

I sprint away. 

“Strawberry twist please” 

My hands tremor as I dump coins on the counter. 

“Forty five cents”

I look up, hands poised over coins, my eyebrows scrunched together. I imagine them to be like two caterpillars reaching towards each other. 

“The twist Richard” 

He clears his throat, smoothing out his goatee with his right hand. 

“Frimly.....I can’t get that to you. Supply is gone. Waiting for another shipment but.... it’s not looking too good” 

I stare at him. 

Richard suddenly seems so far, standing miles away.  I look down at the coins. All these coins.

“I can pay more” 

“Won’t make a difference boy” 

My t-shirt seems to stick to my sweaty skin. 

“Where- where can I get it then” 

He looks at me, silent for a few seconds. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that” 

I grind my teeth. The little bones grating against each other. I lick my lips. 

He slides a strawberry milkshake towards me. 

“But you can have this” 

I slap it away. The shake hits the sign on the counter advertising coca cola. Pink milk splattering everywhere. 

“What good would this do huh?!” 

I fist the front of my t-shirt. 

“Strawberry twist. TWIST Richard!” 

“Frimly - “

“Don’t!” 

I storm out. My chest raises and falls rapidly. Suddenly everything seems different.

The only thing that brings me joy...... I pull at my hair and spin around. Pushing the door with a shoulder and storming back into the milk bar. 

“When will you have some? How long will it take” 

With a wet towel, Richard wipes at the spilled milkshake. 

“Don’t know Boy, it could be tomorrow, could be in two weeks, maybe a month” 

I fling my arms out, gnashing my teeth together before bursting through the door back outside. 

A slight breeze attempts to cool my sweaty skin. But it’s no use. 

Oh god, I may just throw up. 

I lean forward, bracing my hands on my knees. 

People past, giving me the side-eye.  I want to smash their faces in. 

Just go back home, and sleep Frimly. Wait it out. Richard said he could have some tomorrow. 

I straighten, smoothing a hand down my t-shirt. That’s a good point. He did say tomorrow. 

I’m overreacting.  I can wait. I say this on a loop in my head as I speed walk back home. 

Tomorrow comes along. I wake up with cold sweats. My hands are tremoring even more. I peel myself off the couch, shivering. I’m clearly sick. And need something to make me feel better.

It’s a ten minute speed walk to the town centre. It takes me nearly thirty minutes. The sun seems too bright. Sounds seem too loud. I keep my eyes low and whisper “thank god” when I enter the chill interior of the milk bar. One look at Richard behind the counter though and my reprieve shatters.

“Just tell me where I can get some” I croak. I have never been this long without it.  Time seems to stretch out, each minute ever so slowly ticking by.  I’m a slug now. 

“I can’t do that Frimly” 

I nod, licking my lips. And then I move. 

My limbs bend and propel my body towards him, I jump over the counter crashing into him. 

I have no control. 

“I’m sick! Okay! I’m not feeling well! I just need it to feel better!” I shout. “Tell me where I can get it!” 

My hands wrap around his neck. But my weak body is no match to Richard. 

He throws me off of him. My back crashes into the shelves lined with cigarettes packets. They fall. 

It’s raining smokes. 

“Boy if you don’t leave, I’m calling the police!” 

“WHERE ARE THEY!" 

I can’t help it. I need to get well. No-one likes to be sick.

Dizziness assaults me and then my stomach contracts before puke rushes up my throat. 

I projectile vomit on the packs of smokes now littered on the floor. 

Richard swears. I distantly hear him dial. But I can’t move. All my energy has disappeared. I close my eyes.

“Frimly Kenneth" 

Metal clinks on metal. 

“A-lot of complaints about you” 

Cold air from a near fan prickles my skin. I shiver. 

“Trespassing, throwing litter in people’s yards. Harassing customers at the parking lot, using people’s hoses to shower, destruction of property now, assaulting storeowner Richard Devins.. list goes on" 

I press my forehead against the bars. 

“I had hoped not to see your face in here again" The officer continues. 

I keep my eyes closed as another shiver racks my body. Is this what death is? 

“Richard has decided not to press charges. He’s one nice fella for doing that” 

I don’t move. 

Something clangs and I open my eyes. The officer stands in front of me, his deep brown eyes seem to drill right into my soul.

“There are programs out there that can help you. Homeless shelters.... what happened to the one you were staying at? Staff there said you were a good worker"  

“I’m not homeless and I’m not an addict” I reply. 

He sighs. 

“That couch in the park is no home Frimly. You’re a good fella who has just gone down the wrong path" 

I shake my head. 

“Think about it” he says. 

He unclips a set of keys from his belt and unlocks the cell. I wrap my arms around me as I leave the station. 

His words echo in my mind. Think about it. 

Everything seems duller. The grass looks less green and the sky looks less blue.

Think about it.

That's what he said. Yet what's there to think about? I sniff, which sends pain shooting through my sinuses. I feel as if there's little bubbles just underneath my skin expanding, the pressure making my skin taunt. My head pound.

Think about it.

I can barely think. It all happened so fast. I'm on a rollercoaster and the carriage has plummeted down down down. I can see the ground rushing up at me. Literally.

My face collides with pavement. Stars spark behind my eyes. I don't even remember falling.

One minute I'm speed walking down the streets having the time of my life. The next I'm here, plastered on the sidewalk. It's not my first visit to the police station and I doubt it'll be my last. Why fight it? I just want to get well. I just want to feel good.

A tear drips across the bridge of my nose and splatters onto the grey cement. I can sense people walking by. People who know me, who mutter judgements under their breath. Who wouldn't?

I'm not a superstar. I close my eyes not wanting to see anybody. I wish I could transport myself to my red couch at the park.

My father once told me if you stay real real still. So very still, you will become invisible. No matter where you are. No-one would be able to see you.

So I don't move. I pray for the tremors to stop. I pray for my body to still.

"Father can you see me?" My 9 year old self says.

"Who is that?" My father replies, looking right and left.

"Here Father, here!" I giggle.

"I see nobody!"

Another tear splatters onto the pavement. I will them to stop. To stop falling.

But they don't.