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Not All There
by Steve Anderson
SGAcreative.com
(c) 1992-2005,
Steve Anderson, Writer@SGAcreative.com
Dedicated to my creative-writing classmates, who rolled
their eyes at an
early draft of this story which left the ending up in the air, and who insisted
that the right choice is "obviously" reality....
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Tommy Boldt wrapped his fingers tightly around the baseball bat and planted his feet more squarely
in the batter's box. The breeze blew softly through his hair, and he was vaguely aware of the other
kids watching from the bleachers. Most of his concentration, however, was directed out towards the mound,
where Glen Arcomb stood sneering down at him and bouncing the baseball lightly in his right hand.
In a moment, he would unleash his fastball. That much, Tommy was sure of. They had started playing
baseball in gym class a few weeks ago, and Glen had never thrown anything but fast balls. He didn't
have to: no one in Pottersfield's second grade could hit Glen's fastball, and everybody knew it. Mr.
Calucci, their gym teacher, had tried talking Glen into pitching something else occasionally to make
the class more interesting for everybody else, but Glen had just stared at the teacher through the white-blond
hair that hung down over his eyes and informed him that winning was what it was all about. If everyone
else had a miserable time, that just made Glen all the happier, because it meant that he had won. Again.
But today, Tommy Boldt was going to teach Glen Arcomb a lesson. In a moment, when the fastball
came streaking towards the plate, Tommy would swing his bat evenly and confidently, and the ball would
explode away from the bat with a crack and not come down again for a long, long time. Tommy squinted
into the distance and picked out the window of Mrs. Applebee's classroom. He would hit the ball, and
it would sail up, up through the air, and it would go right through Mrs. Applebee's window some three
hundred yards away. He smiled as his mind's eye showed him Mrs. Applebee, an expression halfway between
shock and appreciation settled firmly on her wrinkled features.
"Strike three!" Mr. Calucci called
as Tommy stood unmoving and let the baseball sail right by him again. "You're out," he said, but Tommy
just smiled absently and murmured, "Yep, I did that, all right." "Tommy?" Mr. Calucci asked, and Tommy
blinked his eyes a few times and brought himself back to the present.
"Yes, sir?" he said, trying
to remember whether Mr. Calucci had asked him a question like Mrs. Applebee had last week when his mind
had wandered away during her history lesson.
"You're out," Mr. Calucci told him again, and Tommy's
shoulders sagged guiltily. "Listen," Mr. Calucci said as Tommy started towards the bleachers, dragging
his bat behind him, "I know it's hard, but try to keep your mind on what you're doing, okay?"
"Yes,
sir," Tommy said softly without meaning it and went back to sit on the bleachers again.
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The bell rang, dismissing the students from Pottersfield High, and Thomas Boldt gathered his things
and headed outside. There would be half a dozen girls gathered around his shiny new Camaro by the time
he got outside, of course, but he wasn't interested in taking any of them for a ride today. He'd managed
to talk the coach into believing that they really didn't need the quarterback there for this afternoon's
football practice, and he was going to go straight home and relax in front of the TV for a couple of
hours. Maybe later this afternoon he'd take some time to put together a draft of his valedictory address
for the spring, and of course tonight he'd have to come back here to toss the pigskin and do the honors
as homecoming king, but right now, he just wanted to put the top down and go out for a nice long drive
in the country with Marla, his latest girlfriend.
But he didn't. He couldn't: none of that was
real. Marla was a figment of his imagination, the Camaro was, as well, and he would be lucky to graduate
at all. Now he sat on the school bus, waiting for the long bumpy ride home. He sat as close to the
aisle as he could, trying to hide his face. Of course it was hopeless, but he'd kind of made a ritual
of hiding the fact that he was, in fact, the only senior in the school who rode the bus home every day.
And of course, when he got home, his afternoon wouldn't be nearly as relaxing as he wished it could
be. He'd have three hours to do his homework, assuming that he could get someone to tell him what the
teachers had assigned while he was day-dreaming. And then this evening, he'd have to go run the cash
register at the Jiffy Mart from seven to midnight. He'd be lucky to be in bed by one thirty, and then
he'd have to be up again at five.
Not that his situation was really as hopeless as it sounded.
He was fully capable of doing more work in harder classes. In fact, his homework was more boring than
challenging. But when you day-dreamed through most of the lectures on how to do the problems you were
then assigned, homework became an overwhelming problem. He'd have to get over this day-dreaming thing
sooner or later; all it did was get him in trouble.
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"All right," Tom's therapist had suggested five years ago, "you have a vivid imagination. Why don't
you try harnessing it? I think you might have what it takes to become a writer, Tom." And now, in a
matter of weeks, he'd be accepting his first major award for fiction. He grinned to himself, anticipating
the ceremony. The cameras flashing, the knots of reporters, the speeches, the fame. It would be marvelous.
"How's it going?" Tom's roommate asked, slipping his keys back into his pocket. Depositing his
coat in the closet, he crossed to the desk and looked over Tom's shoulder at the blank sheet of paper
in the typewriter. "Oh."
Tom shook his head in frustration. "I just can't do it," he said.
"I wasn't meant to write."
"Oh, come on," Richard said. "We both know you've got a powerhouse
imagination."
Tom scowled. "Maybe," he said. "But it's not a creative force. It just distracts
me, is all. It's just not good for anything."
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Darlene Grey, Tom's first really serious girlfriend, looked into his eyes and shook her head. "I'm
sorry, Tom," she said. "I just can't take this any more. I love you, but I need you to love me, too.
Out here in the real world, not just in your head. I know how important your fantasies are to you,
but I can't cope with this any more. You're going to have to choose between them and me."
Tom
hung his head and closed his eyes. He knew what his decision would be. It would be hard, so hard, but
he would give up his day-dreams. He would live in the real world, and love Darlene the way she wanted
to be loved. He would take her in his arms, and they would start a whole new life. Soon they'd be married,
and a year from now, he might even have a son. And when he died, his son would carry on; Thomas Boldt
might die, but his memory would live forever.
But he couldn't do it. The dreams were too much
a part of him, and he didn't think he could ever really give them up. He looked up at Darlene, crying
bitterly, and shook his head. "I can't," he said between sobs. "I just can't."
She closed her
eyes and then nodded slowly. "I understand," she whispered. Sympathetically, tenderly, she took him
in her arms and held him. He couldn't bring himself to leave his fantasies behind, and she couldn't
bring herself to leave him behind. "It's okay," she said softly. "I love you."
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"All right, son, let's see what you've got." The Commander's voice echoed in First Lieutenant Thomas
Boldt's mind as he banked his fighter to head more deeply into enemy territory. He had become an Air
Force pilot in the hope that living out some of his fantasies might help him to get them out of his system.
He had never intended to go into battle and to fly truly dangerous missions. But then the war had blown
up, seemingly out of nowhere, and now he was high over enemy territory on a solo mission. Suddenly,
without warning, an enemy squadron appeared, soaring out of the sun and diving screeching towards his
plane.
His training had been complete. He would survive the encounter easily. Swinging the
plane hard over, he would arm all weapons systems and prepare for close-quarters air-to-air combat.
As the plane swung around, he would loose one missile at each of the incoming planes; each missile would
find its mark easily, and in a matter of seconds, the threat would be gone.
The plane bucked
again beneath him, and Lieutenant Boldt held onto the stick with all his might. The planes had come
in too fast and their fire had been too accurate; before his weapons were even pointed in the right direction,
they had disarmed his plane and reduced the engines to useless hunks of burning metal. The plane shuddered
again as another Sidewinder missile hit the wing, and suddenly the trees were rushing by, far too close.
He ejected, and almost before he had cleared the cockpit, the plane crunched through the trees and slammed
into the ground in a huge ball of fire.
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The prisoner who had once been known as Thomas Boldt sat holding himself and sweating. This was
his ninth week in the prison camp, and he had been locked in this sweat box--a little metal cube about
three feet on a side that generally reached well over a hundred degrees on an average day--for three
days now with no food and no water. His skin had burnt, peeled, and burnt again, his lips were cracked
and swollen, and he had to concentrate to remember who he was. He was almost desperate enough to offer
to tell the commandant anything he wanted to know just for a half a cup of water. He gathered what little
remained of his self-esteem, pride, and will-power and tried to hold himself together.
With a
creak, the door of the sweat box opened, and he was hauled roughly to his feet. The guard seemed to
take Tom's weakness for granted, and Tom's mouth lifted itself up a little into a smile. The guard was
a fool. He was giving Tom a perfect opportunity. All he would have to do would be to find the strength
to run, and he would be free. There was nothing but this inattentive guard to stop him. He would run,
and in a matter of hours, he would be back in friendly territory. The Air Force would give him an honorable
discharge in recognition of his ordeal, and he would go home a hero. A look of pure bliss passed over
his face as he envisioned climbing out of the taxi and running into the waiting arms of Darlene and of
their little son, Jeffrey.
He tried. He honestly tried. But after three days in the box, the
guard was right: he was too tired and dehydrated to do more than stagger, and that with a lot of help.
He summoned all his energy and tried to run, and his leg moved about a foot and a half before he just
collapsed, totally exhausted, into the arms of the guard.
When he came to, Tom was sitting bound
to a chair a few yards away from a long table covered with dozens of the biggest, most beautiful dishes
of food he had ever seen in his life. Just looking at them, he drooled; saliva ran unheeded out of the
corner of his mouth and down to his chin. He stared longingly at the juicy hunks of watermelon, steaming
bowls of pasta, and the rows upon rows of iced pitchers of water, soda, and every kind of beverage known
to man. "Very good," a voice said from the far end of the table, and Tom tore his eyes away from the
food to take in the commandant's self-satisfied expression of triumph.
"Now, are you sure you
don't want to tell me what I want to know?" the commandant asked, honestly enjoying his role in all of
this. He gazed into Tom's eyes and smiled openly. Tom's eyes radiated fear and desperation. And then,
a moment later, the commandant saw something absolutely astonishing. Tom's eyes took on a hard edge
of hate for a split second and then softened, defocusing, and a moment after that, the prisoner actually
smiled.
"Take him back to the box," the commandant ordered, enraged, "and leave him there until
further notice." But the voice was far, far away, in another life, and Tom was hardly conscious of it.
All that was real to him were the voices of Darlene and Jeffrey, welcoming him home.
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