He's So Heavy

He’s So Heavy By J.D. Walker Spring is my favorite time of year, though it tended to be a bit cool in these parts until late May. Most of the other seasons I could take or leave. Winter sucked, but I didn’t mind it, not really. Most of my friends bitched and moaned about it, and my coworkers at the bookstore—Shirley in particular—spent the months until summer came around again begging for warmer weather nonstop. Maybe the fact that I’d lived on the streets for a long time back “home” tempered my attitude somewhat. I knew what bone-chilling cold was like, huddling with other people around a fire in an attempt not to freeze to death; jacket never thick enough; thin gloves gone missing; guarding the sleeping bag that “fell” out of someone’s truck at a gas station with my life. I never talked about that time with anyone. Why would I? I never knew my father. My mother died when I was eight and I went into the system, having no other relatives to take me in, willingly or not. When I aged out, I quickly discovered how hard it was to survive in the real world on my own, a hard lesson well-learned. I was twenty-three by the time I made it to this town, doing odd jobs and things I’d rather forget as I made my way across country. The first time I’d seen the ocean, I thought that I’d do anything to stay here. It was peaceful and…clean, something hard for me to be while living on the unforgiving streets. The people here hadn’t cared about my background or torn, faded clothing—something that had surprised me. In fact, the first person I’d met was Austin Murray, who owned the bookstore where I now worked. He had seen me sitting outside the diner the morning I arrived, dirty, tired, and starving. He’d fed me, found me a place to stay, and helped me get back on my feet, no questions asked. It was a kindness I strove every day to repay, in one way or another. I had always loved to read, which made working in a bookstore perfect for me. I wasn’t interested in being a manager. I was more than happy to stock shelves and double-check inventory and take advantage of the generous employee discount. One of the things I had hated about being on the streets—and there were many—was the lack of access to reading material. I couldn’t buy books often, and when I bought them secondhand or got them for free from some sort of charity, they would be either stolen or end up destroyed, somehow. And going to the library in my state of dress and hygiene at the time, enduring the disgusted stares of the patrons there…well, once had been enough. So, to have books at my fingertips now, it was a blessing I would never take for granted. The fact that I had money for shelter and food, especially, may have gone to my head a little, what with the extra I now carried around my middle. I hated that I was overweight, but the fact that I could eat enough to have that worry…Still, if anyone from my past ever showed up here, they likely wouldn’t recognize me, though my height and skin color might be a dead giveaway in a place with few people of color. I didn’t own a car—never learned how to drive until I moved here—and almost everything I needed was available locally, anyway. For the occasions when I had to travel, I rented a vehicle. I walked two miles every weekday, to and from my job. Trent and Shirley, my roommates, rode their bicycles in good weather and drove Trent’s car in bad weather—tiny raindrops would do—from the duplex we rented from Shirley’s dad. They both came from upper middle class families but didn’t rub my face in it, for the most part. And as for dating? Well, I’d had a few hookups, but no real connection. I was thirty-one and kept seeing everyone I knew getting together. My boss, Austin, was ridiculously in love with Murphy, who was a cook at the diner. Trent and Shirley had become an item recently after years of denial and my poking and prodding. They lived upstairs. The town sheriff had a beau, as did his brother; Maury, who was being groomed to manage the bookstore, was in love with Tory, who ran the local motel…the list was endless. I didn’t feel sorry for myself. I was happy to have a job and roof over my head. I’d been through hell and knew how to be grateful. If it bugged me that the men who slept with me did so mostly because they were desperate, I pushed that aside. It would be nice to share my life with someone, though. Maybe I just needed to get laid. It had been six months, after all.