The Architector
He stared at his thumbs a lot. One was shorter than the other, though not by much. He had cut off the tip years ago working as a short order cook at a local diner while struggling his way through college. He was going to be an architect.
He had driven himself to the hospital, pressing his thumb against a wad of paper towels just under his chin. The tip sat in the passenger seat next to him in a sandwich bag.
After waiting in the emergency room for near four hours, they had taken him into a back room and sewn it back on, but the stitches pulled and busted and when his mother told him to drive himself back and get it all fixed up he didn't. He let them bust. The tip fell off again and was lost.
He never finished school. He didn't have the money. And his mother certainly didn't have the money. There just wasn't any money.
He drew a lot. Scribbles and doodles resembling architectings. He loved to architect. He was going to be an architector. Co-workers would find the drawings, add to them, drawing people walking past the buildings, under the archways, dogs peeing on the pillars, things, flowers, growing on and around doorways and monuments. He took them home and hung them on his wall.
His favorite was that of an aqueduct running off into the distance, a basic design, a bad day for the doodles, but a co-worker had drawn an eye peering through one of the arches and a giant hand reaching over the stone to grasp at unsuspecting sheep.
The look on the face of one sheep that saw the slow approaching hand was quite possibly the funniest thing he had ever seen.
He never drew at home. He would stare at him thumbs and listen to the radio. But he would never draw.
He had never been touched. Not by a woman. He had never held a hand, he had never received a hug, he had never been touched. Not by a woman. And some nights that's all he thought about.
He had driven himself to the hospital, pressing his thumb against a wad of paper towels just under his chin. The tip sat in the passenger seat next to him in a sandwich bag.
After waiting in the emergency room for near four hours, they had taken him into a back room and sewn it back on, but the stitches pulled and busted and when his mother told him to drive himself back and get it all fixed up he didn't. He let them bust. The tip fell off again and was lost.
He never finished school. He didn't have the money. And his mother certainly didn't have the money. There just wasn't any money.
He drew a lot. Scribbles and doodles resembling architectings. He loved to architect. He was going to be an architector. Co-workers would find the drawings, add to them, drawing people walking past the buildings, under the archways, dogs peeing on the pillars, things, flowers, growing on and around doorways and monuments. He took them home and hung them on his wall.
His favorite was that of an aqueduct running off into the distance, a basic design, a bad day for the doodles, but a co-worker had drawn an eye peering through one of the arches and a giant hand reaching over the stone to grasp at unsuspecting sheep.
The look on the face of one sheep that saw the slow approaching hand was quite possibly the funniest thing he had ever seen.
He never drew at home. He would stare at him thumbs and listen to the radio. But he would never draw.
He had never been touched. Not by a woman. He had never held a hand, he had never received a hug, he had never been touched. Not by a woman. And some nights that's all he thought about.
posted by AHaynes at 3:08 AM
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