Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires

Short Story from 2005

*BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP*" antagonized the awakening mechanism with its dull red digits across the front. The constant beeping continued, and finally the eyes opened, staring at the ceiling. Questions began to go through the thick head such as: Who am I, How did I get here? Where is here? What is that beeping sound? Suddenly around the fifth beep of the electronic clocktower it all began to click inside the hazy mind, the answers coming as the creature awoke from its mental amnesia that associated itself with the ending of the sleep cycle. He was Avery McConnell, he was in bed, in a house in suburbia in which he had been a long time, and the beeping is the evil voice of time passing by like automobiles on the Audubon. His eyes were wide open now, starring blankly at the bright light that was still on since sometime last March. Above it, connected near the ceiling was the ever turning fan, spinning itself into oblivion.
          "Thirty-Eight, Thirty-Nine, Forty, that contraption beeps 40 times a minute,” he thought to himself. “I wonder who decided to make it 40, and did they time it to make sure it was exactly 40? What if it is like the earth and every fourth minute it needs a leap second to catch up? What if I did not turn it off, would it eventually beep itself to death? Or would I be the one beeping myself to death from the likely chance of insanity it would cause..."
          After several more minutes of this Avery finally turned the beeping noise off and looked at the clock that hung on his wall. The small hand pointed about a centimeter short of '7' and the long hand pointed towards that abysmal plain that exists only between the digits of '9' and the '10' on the face of the clock. By Avery's calculations that meant it was precisely the right time to get up and get ready for the events before him to unfold.
          He slipped off of the bed, from which he always slept on top of the covers, completely nude, in order to keep as cool as possible during his slumber, and headed towards the bathroom across the hall. After taking a leak in the porcelain palace from which he ruled the kingdom of dust bunnies living between the shower and the sink, he hastily washed his hands, and splashed some cold water on his face. He looked in the mirror to see his frail thin frame, atop which was a wild mop of thick black hair, down to his neck. The hair was in no way, shape, or form styled, but rather, it resembled how the children from a third world country in National Geographic might wear their hair. It made Avery wonder what he must have done the night before. But Avery lived by the motto: "Solum potestis prohibere ignes silvarum," which a wise old hippy had told him meant: "Eat, drink and be happy". Regardless of how his hair looked at the moment, he had to look good now. So Avery filled the sink with warm water and proceeded to dip his head into the sink, letting every follicle that could get into the water become drenched. After about a minute, Avery drained the sink and proceeded to comb his long hair out, trying to avoid split ends and tangled knots if he could help it.
          After working on his mop of dead cells that people call hair, he headed back into his room and slipped into some Joe Boxers, a pair with a smiley face over the crotch. Over those he pulled up a pair of what his old lady had joked about, calling them "longs". Longs were simply long jean shorts; that could almost pass as short pants, but were much longer, she would allow him to wear them, but she always did it with a smile. Next was a shirt, Avery opened the third shelf from the top of his chest-of-drawers and closed his eyes. He reached inside and felt around at the shirts, feeling their fabrics, judging them based on thickness and texture. Finally after a few seconds he pulled out one that had been living in the far corner of the drawer. He opened his eyes to see, it was a brick red band T-shirt for AC/DC that had a dark burgundy silhouette of a cannon on the front and words around it that said, "For Those About To Rock, We Salute You." He slipped it on, then realized he had forgotten to use any deodorant so he returned to the bathroom and found the near empty deodorant stick and put it on, despite the shirt he was wearing, being a tad tight and making it a hard job as he worked the deodorant stick between the sleeve of his garment and the underside of his arm.
          While still in the bathroom, he decided it would now be a good time to begin to work on his hair. He glanced over at the Paul Mitchell hair gel on his left, and then the Elmer's school glue on his right. He had to make a decision, sleek and suave or stiff and rebellious. The answer: Compromise. Avery placed his left palm face up above the center of the sink and with his right hand he grabbed the Paul Mitchell styling gel and squirted a huge glob. Avery then locked the lid back on the Paul Mitchell and crossed his right hand back over sitting it back where he had found it on his left side. Next he took the Elmer's glue, and with his right hand he twisted open the cap using his thumb and index fingers. Then turning his hand he flipped the bottle upside down and squirted a good amount of glue on top of the now oozing hill of gel that resided on the palm of his opposite hand. Avery was quick to sit the bottle of Elmer's down, and swiftly taking his right hand and placing it on top of his left; he felt the squishy goodness of the cold gel and the sticky glue on his hands. He then proceeded to rub his hands together, applying the gel/glue concoction evenly to both hands. Once it was as even as could be, and he felt the gel was about to run out into the sink, he lifted his hands to his damp hair, running his fingers and hands through his long dark locks. At first there were clumps which were either the gel or glue had decided stubbornly to stick together, rather than applying evenly throughout the whole of the hair. But after kneading if for a bit, he finally got it evenly situated. Now comes the fun part. Avery got some anti-bacterial soap and washed his hands thoroughly of all gel, glue, and oil from his hair and then, after drying his hands he ran back into his room. He placed a dirty shirt on the ground near the foot of his bed, and threw on the vintage record on the phonograph of, "Paul's Boutique" by the Beastie Boys. Sure it was old school, but that’s the way he liked it. Avery then jumped on his bed, feet towards the pillow and situated himself so that his head would hang over the foot of the bed, allowing his hair to be pulled towards the ground which was below him. He was situated by the time the minute and a half long first track, "To All the Girls", finished, and exactly 25 minutes later, "5-Piece Chicken Dinner", the last song on the first side of the album concluded. Avery then got up and looked in the mirror, his hair seeming to stand on end. Mission accomplished.
          By this time Avery was growing tired of the hip hop bombardment of the Beastie Boys, so he decided to go for a classical album, throwing "Led Zeppelin II" onto the record-player. As the first riff of the opening song "Whole Lotta Love" began to rip through the air, Avery grabbed his cigarettes, and lighter and thrusted them securely into his pocket. Next was his wallet, which he had fish out of the khaki slacks he had worn the day before along with the loose change he kept in the opposite pocket. Next he looked on top of his TV set, and grabbed his lucky ring and put it on his right ring finger. He took the gold band he wore on his left hand and sat it down where the other ring had been seconds before. Avery did a sweep of the room trying to see if he had forgotten anything. Negative. All that was left was is shoes. He reached under his bed and pulled out his worn out tennis shoes. He hated the idea of laces so much, so after watching Back to the Future Part II, he had decided to rig his normal laces in his shoes so that he never had to tie them and they remained just loose enough for his feet to slide into them. He never wore socks: it was his way to actively rebel against ‘the man’. He then grabbed a pair of shades, Oakleys, and headed out of his bedroom. He entered the hallway and headed down it and made his way to the main entrance to his home in the middle of suburbia. It was a usual house, built a long, long time ago, during the Reagan administration. Before he left he decided he wanted to grab something to eat. So he headed into the kitchen where he ran into his first signs of opposition.
          "You don't think you are going to leave this house looking like that do you?" inquired the woman with her blonde hair back in a bun, with slight signs of grey peeking through.
          "Whatever," replied Avery with an air of nonchalantness.
          "Don't you blow me off, I've sat here and fed your lazy a*s for, what is it 20 years now, and you think you have the right to just say 'whatever' to me?"
          "That's cool," replied Avery as he poured himself some orange juice and then threw a piece of whole wheat bread into the toaster.
          "What is cool? You think you are so cool? Do you and your friends laugh about me behind my back? Geez, I hope this is just a phase for you, because I don't know how much more we can take."
          "Whatever," replied Avery in between gulps of OJ.
          "Grrrrr! Fine then be that way. But if you come home one day, and me and Johnnie are gone..."
          "That's cool," responded Avery as he grabbed the toast and opened the side door of the house. Once he was through it he slammed it in the woman's face, a kind of arrogant uncaring swagger in his step. He approached his beautifully reconstructed, royal blue, 1969 Pontiac GTO convertible, which was parked next to the house in the car port, he had added on just for it. He got in. He pulled forward some in the car and reached the street, glancing in his side mirror at his house, it had changed much over the years, Originally a 1960s styled home had been there, but him and Margarette had decided to completely renovate the house when they purchased the property. The place had changed over the past forty years since its original construction in 1960 something. And so had Avery. You can renovate something, and make it look fresh and young, but you can't change its age. Avery shook his head and looked left and right before turning out into the road. Driving off into the cold night air, Avery glanced into the rear view mirror, first watching his neighbourhood drift away into the horizon. Then his attention drew to his face, he saw the wrinkles starting to form near the corners of his eyes, and did he begin to see grey stubble on his unshaven face? He decided not to notice these things, he was driving the car of his dreams, and to anyone who didn't know better he was just another guy. He glanced down at the clock on the dashboard. It read 8:08 PM, he had exactly 36 hours and 52 minutes before he had to be back to his boring desk job as a human resources manager for Joe Blow Incorporated, and until then, the world was his for the taking. He kept trying hard to relive his youth before it got away, never appreciating his age, but putting it down. He refused to be a push-over, come-over, s**t-all-over corporate zombie; he now lived by the motto of his youth: "Solum potestis prohibere ignes silvarum." Oh, and by the way, the hippie had been wrong, it really means: "Only you can prevent forest fires."