There really isn't a way to describe how it feels to lay in a dead man’s bed. Even though I’m well aware that the sheets have been washed, I can't help but feel my skin crawl beneath the covers. Even after several soapy rinses in the washing machine, amongst the scent of artificial flowers is the faint odor of death. It’s not a smell as identifiable as sweetness or sourness, but when you smell it, you know it.
I click on the lamp and crawl out of bed. I forgot that darkness is different here. Even at night, the city would be lit with neon. But here, everything is cast in a solid dark blue haze. The most noticeable difference is the quiet. Nothing here is in motion; no cars in the streets or planes in the sky. Everything is still and silent.
Coming to the realization I’m not going to be sleeping tonight, I tentatively open my door and sneak downstairs. I pour myself a glass of tap water and sit at the table, not bothering to turn on the light. I hear a door creak open upstairs, followed by footsteps down the hall. Peyton walks down the stairs in a baggy pajama shirt and shorts.
“I couldn’t sleep either,” he sighs, taking a seat across from me. Do you…really think he cheated?”
“I’m not sure if it counts,” I sigh truthfully. “They were just letters; it doesn't even look like he ever sent them.”
“Maybe we should just seal it back up,” Peyton mumbles.
“What?” I snap. “Aren’t you curious about what happened? We only read one letter! Don’t you wanna learn the whole story!”
Peyton’s eyes turn cold, and he glares at me from across the table.
“My family isn't your plaything.” he spits. “I have spent a long time mourning, trying to let the past go. Now we’ve just unearthed an entire box full of the past, and frankly, I don’t want anything to do with it.”
“Then you don’t have to!” I say. “I’ll read them. I’ll figure this out.”
Peyton’s face shifts through several different emotions before falling into something neutral. “Fine,” he sighs, too exhausted to argue.
. . .
I never understood the appeal of antiques. They’re just dusty relics left to wallow on a shelf until some poor schmuck comes to pay hundreds of dollars for it, only for it to wallow on his own shelf somewhere.
My eyes search through a cluttered shelf of porcelain dolls, jewelry boxes, and framed jerseys. Even without Peyton telling me, I can tell Gramps had been a regular here. I can point out which objects he chose to bring home and which he chose to leave behind.
I stroll past the shelves and up to the cashier. He has the appearance of a hippopotamus, rolls of fat slouching off his round, happy face. The three undid buttons of his Hawaiian shirt reveal a bushel of curly chest hair.
“You must be Felix’s grandson,” the cashier laughs gruffly. “You have his eyes,”
“I am,” Peyton chuckles. “I know my grandfather loved this place so I thought I’d come and see what the fuss was all about.”
“Good ol’ Felix.” the man laughs gruffly. “Yeah, he came here often. I lost my number one customer when he died.”
“He was a good man,” Peyton says, emphasizing the word “good”. He walks up beside me, checking the price of a lamp.
“I thought you wanted to ‘escape the past,’” I murmur tauntingly. “This place literally just sells things from the past.”
“Listen, it’s a way for me to still feel close to him. It’s a part of the mourning process,” Peyton says. We slip out the door a few minutes later and walk down the paved sidewalk. I bask in the familiarity of the town, all of the nostalgic sights, sounds, and smells still cataloged in my head.
I stop in front of a hot dog vendor and pull a five-dollar bill out of my pocket. It’s a humble metal cart with a red and yellow striped umbrella poking out of the top.
“So what if he cheated?” I blurt, unable to shake the letters from my mind.
“Drop it,” Peyton snarls.
“Maybe he did, or maybe he didn’t. He was old, super old. People do a lot of crazy stuff throughout their life,” I suggest. “If we read the rest of the letters, maybe we’d find out they were just really good pen pals.”
“Make it two,” Peyton says to the vendor with a quick smile, handing him another five dollars. He turns back toward me and adds, “I still don’t know how I feel about you coming up with conspiracy theories about my dead grandpa.”
Cradled inside a checkered, cardboard container is two hotdogs slathered with ketchup, mustard, relish and topped with cheddar cheese. We walk while we eat, sharing the container between us.
“God, I missed these,” I sigh happily, taking a big bite. “Everything in the city was too expensive for how bad it tasted.”
“You can’t beat a street vendor hotdog,” Peyton says. “Especially in Pine Creek,”
“...We used to always get these after school, remember?” I say.
“I think I ate one every day for an entire year. I don't know how I survived.” Peyton laughs. “Honestly, I think teenagers have a black hole where the stomach should be.”
“I don’t think I ever out-grew mine,” I chuckle.
“...How’s the prosthetic?” Peyton asks softly, peering down at my legs.
I was born without a right leg. To the untrained eye, it would be hard to tell I have a prosthetic. The only tell would be the slight limp, but even that goes mostly unnoticed.
“Same old, same old,” I mutter, kicking the leg out.
When we were younger, Peyton, Brandon, and I would race to the corner store. And there was nothing greater than watching their shocked faces as I passed them by.
We passed by a toy store that’s been a staple in the community since I was a boy. It has yellow siding with white polka dots and a big glass window to look into the shop through. The window is filled with toys, teddy bears, action figures, Rubix cubes, and trains on wooden tracks. I peer inside, soaking in every ounce of childhood nostalgia.
“You’re such a kid,” Peyton chuckles.
“This one,” I say, pointing inside at an action figure of a muscular man wearing a camo jacket. A piece of plastic TNT is held between his blocky, snarling teeth. “Every Saturday morning, I’d wake up and watch “Battle Boxers". And he was my favorite. Captain Kaboom.” I explain, Peyton, taking a look at the action figure for himself. “I always wanted this exact action figure for Christmas, but my mom couldn’t afford it,” I sigh, leaning back away from the window. We wander down the street a little further.
“Captain Kaboom,” Peyton breaks into a chuckle.
“It was from the eighties,” I groaned.
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