Still Owe You a Camera

When the police had left John looked around the apartment. An old leather armchair laid on its back like a dead bug, two legs broken and stuffing falling out. The empty fish tank where the snake had lived was next to it. He didn’t know where the snake was. 

It wasn’t his anyway. He was just looking after it. “For the past five years.” An old voice said in his head. But he had trained himself to ignore that voice, he only continued to look over the apartment. 

His trophy on the shelf was in pieces, made out of a plastic metal that had broken several times before. On the base, John Benson engraved in ugly, loopy, almost unreadable font. 

“You won that for track. Everyone said it looked stupid but you still put it in the window so visitors could see when they walked in.” 

The only thing left on the walls was an old map of the United States he had from school. 

In the bedroom clothes were ripped and tangled on the floor, bed and dresser. His dad’s nice watch was gone, same for Mom’s old jewelry. The computer’s screen flickered trying to wake up but failing. His papers sprinkled over the whole scene like snow over a rooftop. 

“Who are you? Robert Frost?” 

He tried to think of a place to sit. Sit down, sit down and think. Think about what to do and what to do. The only thing the thieves had left in the kitchen was the heavy fridge and small trash can. It wasn’t a very nice seat but it was better than on the floor. On the floor like he was ten again, on the floor with the rest of his class, listening to the teacher bark, hands over his head, the tornado sirens screaming. Ten, among the ants and bits of dust, feeling small himself. 

“I made fun of you when you told me that. You got mad and said that I always acted like I thought I was Superman. That I pretended but really I was worse than you.”

Come on, knock it off, he said to himself. It’s a break in, idiot. You’re fine. You’re fine. 

“Are you?” 

He got up and started to look for the insurance papers and the snake. 

He found the papers quickly, in a file under his mattress. That was where he kept important things. Or anything flat. He pulled them out scanning over it. Quotes, policies, plans. The words ran through his brain, leaving no meaning. 

Underneath them were a pile of old letters. Five years old. Matter of fact words clothed quick, messy writing, usually then covered by coffee spills or cookie crumbs. 

“I liked to write to you in that cafe on Green and 23rd. I always told you I’d take you there.” 

Some of the words were hard to read, written in a hurry he didn’t know about. Hand never moving fast enough to keep up with the brain. Never fast enough to write the latest ideas, never fast enough for that funny story, never fast enough to say “I miss you.” 

“Shut up.” He said, this time out loud. He shoved the papers away and left the room, almost falling over trying to dodge the snake. It let him pick it up, patiently flicking its tongue in and out. 

“He likes you.” 

“It’s a snake, snakes don’t like people.” He forgot he wasn’t supposed to answer. 

“Who told you that?” 

The fish tank was broken so put it in the kitchen sink, the only other place he could think of. It curled up in a ball, resting its head on top to watch him.

“Creepy thing.”

Bring! It was the doorbell. One of his neighbors, Emma or Erica? 

“Mr Benson, I just heard what happened. Are you alright?” 

“Yes I’m fine, thank you.” 

Evelyn ducked under his arm and went inside looking around. 

“What a mess, how terrible.”

“It’s not that bad.” 

“But your furniture, your books, computer-”

“I have insurance.”

“Of course, thank goodness.”

“Yeah… I just need to fill out the forms and-”

“Do you need a camera?” 

“A camera?” 

“To take pictures of the damage, they sometimes ask for that, don’t they?” 

“Do they?” John asked, feeling stupid. 

“Sometimes, here I’ll get it.” She was back quickly, holding by the tips of her fingers so she wouldn’t smudge her wet nail polish. 

When he was alone John looked around, back at where he began. The map was in front of him, the one thing not broken or stolen in the living room. It was old, the Atlantic Ocean was ripped away because it was only he could make it fit in the frame and he spilled coffee over most of the midwest. From here he could almost pick out where he used to live. It was a long way from here but he could. He held the camera up to his face.

“Get the broken chair in the frame, same with the fish tank.”

“I know.” Click. Good now another one. He turned and faced one of the broken windows. He placed his right foot forward and leaned slightly. 

“Don’t drop it.” 

“I won’t.” He had dropped the camera at Starved Rock. They had gone there in spring, five years ago, leaving the snake with a friend. It took them most of the day to get up there, to the cliff. The paths turned them around several times, not matching with the map. A fork would be out of place or there would be a dead end they didn’t see. They had argued until they got to the cliff. It was late, the sun was beginning to slip behind the trees, painting the place orange and purple. 

Ernest held the camera up trying to get both of them in the frame. He was so close when- crack! 

“I taped it together back home. And you said that I thought tape could fix everything.”

“I remember.” 

He took another picture. He didn’t drop it. Then another, then another. Of the ugly rug, now ripped. Of the armchair with the sharp spring also ripped. The stupid pictures and prints, the smashed dishes, the broken drawers and missing contents. He took picture after picture as he finally realized how horrible it looked. And that it was all gone now. 

He giggled. Actually giggled, he hadn’t done that in years. Five years. 

“What’s so funny?” 

His home was trashed and he was taking pictures of it like a little kid on a gallon of sugar. How about the broken medicine cabinet? Click. The back door off its hinges? Click. 

“He, he, stop it. Now I’m laughing.”

“Good.” He said though he knew no one was there. That person was back there, back at Starved Rock, at the cafe on Green and 23rd, back there. Where he thought was for three seconds every time he woke up. Where he wanted to call but never did. 

Bring, bring. His phone was ringing.

“Probably about work.”

“I’m not going.” 

“But you have to.”

“No I don’t.”

“You’re just going to stay here?” 

“No, I’m going back.” 

“Back? But I might not be there.” 

“But you might.” He took his duffle bag out of the closet, the thieves hadn’t bothered with it because there was a hole. He stuffed a few clothes and books in it, taking care to keep the letters on top. 

“Don’t forget the snake.”

“I won’t.” He washed out the recycling bin from the back porch and gave the snake a frozen mouse.

“Your car is downstairs. If you hurry you’ll get there by tomorrow.” 

He took the map off the wall, kicking the chair out of the way. 

“Come on, let’s go!”

“I’m coming!” 

“I can take you to that cafe or the movies.” 

“I’m almost there.” 

“I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing. I’ll yell and jump when I see you. I’ll show everything but you’ve got to hurry.” 

Heading out the door, almost there. “Wait!” 

“What?”

He turned around and picked up the camera from the floor. “I still you owe you a camera.”