The Real Man and the Wooden Owl

Sensitive Content Warning: Emotional Abuse, Psychological Abuse, and Vulgar Language

Tommy Barron, a 16-year-old trying to find solace on the backyard deck, sat in the sun. He held a wooden block in his left hand and a small picture of a gnome in his right hand. His sister, Rachel, ripped open the door and stood behind him.

“Mom wants you to put up the dishes,” she said quickly, communicating how busy she was. Rachel, a 23-year-old with a stoic delivery, stood at the door, investigating what was in Tommy’s hands.

“Do you think you could cover for me? I’m trying to work on something.”

Rachel sighed and grabbed the bridge of her nose.

“I have a fucking full-time job, and this is your responsibility. What are you even doing anyway?” Her face was blank except for the angry eyebrows. Tommy turned around and showed her the block of wood.

“Another ADHD impulse hobby?” She both laughed and sounded angry at the same time.

Tommy raised his voice.

“Please stop calling them that. Please?”

Rachel’s disgust grew exponentially as she learned more about her brother and his hobbies. She folded her arms and continued her investigation.

“What even is that? Is that like one of those troll things that can’t see?”

Tommy shared in the family tradition of rolling his eyes. He was used to his family not understanding his hobbies, but an apathetic misunderstanding was something Tommy craved. His family hated his hobbies. They thought they drew him away from what they saw as quality time.

“It’s a gnome, and they can see, but their eyes are just covered up. Can you just go? I’ll do the dishes later.”

As Rachel rolled her eyes and started leaving, she snuck the last word in.

“Having your eyes covered up is the same thing as not being able to see, smartass.”

Tommy went back to drawing, now indulging in post-argument insults.

“Just leave me alone, Socrates,” he said as he guided the pencil against the wood. After taking a second to look at his drawing, he sighed and erased his work.

**

I have decided on an owl. Owls are wise, quiet, and they seem at peace. I don’t have a name for this owl yet, but I’m sure something will come as I give him life. I want his eyes to be big. He has no excuse but to see and know the stressors of the world. His ears will also be big. He has great hearing and understands the difficulties of the people he sees. He will have small feet, though. He isn’t someone who can easily run away from the problems that threaten his home. He will have big, beautiful wings that don’t give him a reason to escape but rather give him the strength to fly above it all. Uh oh. I’m going to be late for therapy.

**

The heat was not kind to someone like Tommy, who enjoyed long, poofy, curly hair. It made him feel something like claustrophobia because of his inability to escape it. The waiting room of his therapist’s office, however, provided that illusive escape from the claustrophobia. It was a cold, repurposed house with an orchestra consisting of creaking floors, squeaking doors, and a chattering A/C. It was the opposite of his narrow, hot, lifelessly modern house.

The screeching door was his cue that his therapist was ready for him. Constance was a beautiful, motherly woman in her mid-30s. On a physical level, Tommy unconsciously found a comforting familiarity with her. Tommy was the only person he knew with afro-like blonde, curly hair, until he met Constance. In stark contrast, his family all had straight, black hair, so despite Constance’s hair not being nearly as curly, he saw her as a spiritual relative.

As they sat down, Constance began with a classic therapy conversation starter.

“So, what’s been going on?”

“Same ole, same ole, I guess,” he said as he looked out of the window.

“How’s the work on your gnome going?”

“I decided on an owl instead. It felt more mysterious, I guess; I don’t know.”

“Well, I hope that’s going good,” she said with a smile that creased the corners of her eyes heavily.

“I haven’t started cutting yet, but I have the outline done. I suck at drawing though.”

“I’m sure it looks terrific.”

Tommy was disinterested in compliments. This wasn’t due to a lack of self-compassion or an overabundance of self-consciousness. His apathy was because other issues usually mattered more to him.

“I had another weirdly vivid dream, if you want to hear about it.”

“Of course,” she said as she pulled a notebook out.

“I was in this very unorthodox building. It had no windows. It was all hallways.” As soon as Tommy spoke those words, he noted the eyebrow Constance raised in confusion.

“That doesn’t make much sense, does it? There were just no big rooms, I guess. Anyway, I’m walking, and I can’t find an exit or even a window for that matter.” Tommy changed from staring out the window to staring at the floor.

“I hated myself for some reason. Maybe it was because I couldn’t find a way out, or something happened before that I just don’t remember.”

Tommy had yet to make eye as he told his story. As his nerves grew, he would pick more and more violently at his hangnails and fidget with the keys in his pocket. He knew this was the safest place in his life. He had a deep appreciation for Constance and how compassionate she was, but talking about his dreams never felt like a “him” thing to do. Regardless, the habitual nature of his dreams intrigued Constance enough to request a deeper investigation into what goes on while he sleeps.

“These police officers ran up to me and immediately put me in handcuffs. They didn’t speak to me, just took me away. It’s kind of funny, actually. I started to notice that even these people who now had so much control over me were just as weak and at the mercy of this inescapable building as I was. They were frantically running around like idiots.”

Tommy yawned, growing apathetic and close to skeptical about what he considered “hoodoo” psychology.

“I knew there was some sort of mix-up because I am not a criminal. Not yet, anyway.”

He briefly glanced at Constance, praying she would pick up on his dry, half-hearted humor. Fortunately, she responded with a chuckle.

“I managed to slip away while they argued about which way to go. They were chasing after me, but I managed to run into a restroom. It was the only normally shaped room I came across. Now, this part freaked me out. I saw a face in the mirror that wasn’t mine.”

Constance interrupted with wide, passionate eyes.

“Fascinating,” she exclaimed as she wrote faster. Tommy smiled. He liked when his mental makeup was intriguing to her. It made him feel like a complex, interesting person.

“Let me make sure I’m getting this.” She put her pencil down and joined Tommy in staring out of the window as she tried to gather her words.

“So, you’re basically trapped, not only in this maze building thing, but also confined to these people who think you are someone with a warrant.” Tommy nodded.

“That’s the cliff notes version, yep. But it’s the cliffhanger that’s bugging me.”

“Oh?” Constance said as she picked up her pencil.

“I knew that I knew that I knew that this wasn’t me.” He paused.

Apparently, you aren’t supposed to be able to close your eyes in a dream, but I did. I closed my eyes and remembered who I was. The cops came in, but never saw me because I wasn’t who they were looking for. The problem is,” Tommy looked Constance directly in the eyes for the first time.

“The problem is I woke up. I still don’t know if I made it out of the building.”

Constance finished writing down her notes of the dream. Tommy began pickling his hangnails again and staring out of the window.

“How is your family getting along?”

**

My family always asked me, in their rude delivery, why I always brought my whittling kit in my car when I went out. Well, it’s for moments like this. I just got back from therapy, and the last thing I want to hear is my dad manipulating conversations and yelling at my mom or my mom yelling at my emotionally stunted dad, for that matter. Because I keep my whittling kit in my car, I don’t have to walk through the battlefield to find my soothing hobby. I can simply sit on the porch and happily endure muffled screams.

And so, it begins. I am finally ready to use my knife. As I slice through the grain in full, smooth motions, I feel a beautiful responsibility. I am completely in control of what I do. I cannot hide behind the excuse of poor wood or tools. No. Each mistake is my own to make and will be displayed for all to see. I am giving life to this bird as he gives life to me.

As I shape his ears, he hears what I can’t fly above. He wants to help me escape.

**

Tommy heard a loud crash. It sounded like shattering glass. He ran into the house and found bits of a tequila bottle swimming in a puddle. The tequila scaled down the counter and into the cabinet doors. Two things challenged Tommy’s concentration in that moment: the untouched dune of trash that no area of the countertop could escape and the near-record-breaking screams coming from his parents in the living room.

“Guys,” he said to the void.

“Where’s the broom?” When he posed this question, he saw on the floor of the living room a bible, down and open, crinkling against the floor. He walked over to the bible slowly, ignoring the mess and the fight. After straightening the pages and placing the bible on the table, Tommy began fighting with himself regarding the urge to keep the peace. He sat in the chair between his mom and dad, watching them like a stressful tennis match.

“You were just out last night with our drunk-for-a-daughter, and now you want to drink again with her tonight?”

Before his mom could respond, Tommy’s very much sober sister yelled from her workplace down the hall.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m working!”

This doesn’t faze his dad, who is submerged in anger, but it does cause his mom to cry more.

“I know that, at this point, I am just your roommate, and not a goddamn thing I want matters in this house,” Tommy rolled his eyes. “But you and Elisabeth are not drinking under this roof. My job and my integrity are on the line.”

His mom, drowning in snot and tears, spoke in short bursts of emotional huffs.

“It was just going to be cocktails. She talked about becoming a bartender and she wanted to try making drinks. It’s okay to make drinks and stuff.”

Tommy never liked it when his parents cried. For one, they were ugly criers, and it was very hard to watch without getting emotional as well. But he also hated it because, usually, the crying was layered. Like the time she cried when Tommy’s brother told her she was going to be a grandmother for the first time. To all of the other family members, she was crying because of how emotional the good news was, but Tommy knew she was crying because she hated reminders that she was getting old and that her son was moving too fast in his new marriage. In this case, Tommy surmised that the crying was threefold. Tommy believed she was crying because of the comminating presence known as his dad, the lack of freedom to do what she pleased, and the inability to engage in a healthy disagreement with her husband.

“If you think I am going to be okay with my wife drinking with our daughter, who people see on social media, by the way, then I am very sorry, but I have failed to show you just how serious this is.”

Tommy rolled his eyes and pushed out a long, tired sigh. He grew tired of his dad giving fake apologies to appear noble. They never fooled nor gave him any sympathy from anyone.

“Go fuck yourself, dad,” he said. He was never the type to force himself into a conversation that forcefully. He felt as though someone else had taken control of him for a second.

His dad responded with a sigh of his, too exhausted and distracted from arguing to be surprised that his most quiet child just cussed at him.

“I’m trying to keep my job, and I’m trying to communicate with you, and I’m even trying to apologize, but I’m the asshole.”

Tommy looked into his dad’s eyes.

“Just go away and leave Mom alone.”

While his dad grabbed his book and over-the-shoulder bag and withdrew from the environment, Tommy surveyed his mom, who was taking a dopamine hit from her phone screen. She never looked at him.

“Did you do the dishes like I asked you to?”

**

It’s midnight. I am usually tired by now, but this owl keeps me up. I must finish this project. He was calling for me while I was in therapy, and his calls for me now. He promises me things. He promises to save me and save my family.

**

Tommy was happier than usual. His family hated it when one of their members was happy. The power of the negativity was irritated when one person was gifted with positivity. It is especially miraculous for Tommy to be happy because mornings were when Tommy dealt with his worst bouts of grumpiness.

Tommy’s keyboard piano lived in the office room he shared with his sister. Due to the unprecedented pep in his step, Tommy felt like playing the piano. He swung the door open while almost floating as he walked.

“Good morning, Rachel,” he said with a smile. She gave no response, just stared at her computer screen. As he turned his piano on, he attempted rare family small talk.

“So, what are you up to?”

“Working.” She declined any chance to look at him.

“So, what do you do when you’re working?” He started warming up on the piano as he waited for a response.

“Just stuff.” Her voice was as mundane as ever.

“Stressful day?”

“No. Just regular work. Can you leave? I have a virtual meeting in like 5 minutes.”

“Fuck you, Rachel,” he said as he left.

**

Tommy? Tommy? Listen to me, Tommy. I am going to help you. You will be free. You will fly above it all. You just need to listen to me. Let me tell you what to do.

**

Tommy hated church for three reasons. First, no matter how hard he tried, he never could understand his dad’s sermons. Second, he never knew how to behave in front of the congregation. His family could have been yelling at each other in the car not 5 minutes before greeting people, but they never thought to be upset in front of anyone. Tommy always worried if he was too forward with showing others what was going on. Lastly, Tommy hated seeing his dad smile and laugh with people.

Thankfully, it was pastor appreciation day, so Tommy didn’t have to endure one of his dad’s sermons, however, this did mean he would have to hear people ignorantly praising his dad.

They had just finished singing when Samuel, another 50-something like Tommy’s dad, stood at the pulpit to speak. Tommy tried to ignore him by paying more attention to his new wooden owl friend. Samuel began speaking in his low-pitched southern accent.

“We are here today to honor the LORD, God almighty, for bringing such a blessing of a pastor into our lives.”

“Do it, Tommy. Be who you are. These people don’t know you, not really.”

“As I look at him and his family, I see the love of God pouring out of them. It’s in the way he treats his fellow man, the way he treats his congregation, and the way he and his family love each other.”

Tommy’s neck nearly experienced whiplash as he began laughing out loud. He was nearly euphoric from laughing at the dissonance.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he noticed a scared, silenced Samuel.

“I’m so sorry, but that’s fucking bullshit.”