Good Stories, #1.

This is the first of a small collection of stories

about some of my favorite little characters:

Sam and Chris.

They make me remember why I started writing.

To experience something new.

To make myself smile.

I dedicate these stories to my childhood, and how I remember it. 

Creativity

Chris was, above all, creative. Creative is by and large the kindest word you can use for “I-don’t-get-how-you-have-so-much-energy.” Even his best friend, Sam, the tried and true trooper of Chris’s crazed creativity, thought that Chris was a little over the top.

            Just recently, for instance, Chris said, “You know what would be cool to do today?” Being used to such presumptuous questions, Sam responded, “Probably if we did what I suggested five minutes ago – that we stay inside, and just hang out in the cool air for a while.” It was summer – a hot summer, if hot is an extreme enough term for sweating while in front of the air conditioner.

            Chris quickly cut him off from repeating the dreadful vision of exactly what they should do inside, and said, “No! Don’t be ridiculous – of course we are going outside. What we really should do is what nature is begging us to do. Don’t you see the sun? Certainly you don’t see clouds, because it’s beautiful outside! Mother Earth has called, and we cannot ignore a single ring from the woman.”

            Sam thought such reasoning was preposterous. There was no way he looked at the sun – that’s how Galileo went blind. There is also no such thing as the Earth calling to something. In fact, if the Earth was truly begging, it should offer something a little more substantial than the slight breeze and lack of clouds that were currently present. In fact, the Earth should offer some precipitation by which Sam could convince Chris to stay close to the great indoors (not that it had worked well in the past).

After all, whenever one of Chris’s schemes ended, they inevitably had a five-mile walk home. It never mattered how far they were, when there was a frustrating moment in the plans, and everything fell apart, they always ended up a minimum of five miles away. It was never a single mile – always five. It is very difficult to stay angry with someone when you have 26,400 feet of a hungry, thirsty walk back to dinner. One is forced to unite strength to make it, and always comes back brothers-in-arms. Today was no exception in the usual routine, however, and Chris succeeded in getting Sam to give an exhausted, sarcastic and disdainful, “Fine, let’s listen to the fair maiden.”

            It was the kind of hot that, at first, was really refreshing. To Chris, it apparently yelled, sang, and even begged, “Hey! Old friend! You know what would be wonderful today? Staying outside all day. You should bring a blanket; have a picnic in the shade! It would be better than you could ever imagine.” However, if you were easily duped and followed Chris, and out you came with said blanket and basket of picnic materials, you would find that the weather had changed. You would, at first, be refreshed once more to be about beautiful Mother Nature, and then quickly find yourself at the mercy of an angry, dry, uncaring and changeless heat. Just like Sam, you would have no chance for escape, not after Chris had begun, not after he had already got you outside with the blanket! To overcome it, you would be forced into a height of creativity that only Chris could be capable of climbing. Therefore, even though Chris got Sam into this mess, it was only Chris he could trust to get him out of it.

The only way to outsmart Mother Nature in such a circumstance, Chris reasoned, would be to toss the blanket aside, and sit in the cool grass just below a beautiful, sprawling tree. There! Certainly, there, you could find one of those nooks that you see Tom Sawyer enjoying on the cover of every book and forest-printed pillow. You would find a shady grove of oak trees and climb upon a low hanging branch for a good read. There, and only there, they could laugh in the presence of the leafy siren, proud with chests puffed in the knowledge of a sure victory, refusing to bow down and serve such a cruel mistress.

            After walking for two miles, dripping bodily fluids into an already soaked blanket, Sam accepted Chris’s plan. After all, they were already nearing the woods. Upon entering, Sam found himself itchy – the bugs had become attracted to his scent. Unfortunate though his situation may be, Chris (not seeming to be affected by the various flying insects) believed some height may come in handy against the predators, and pressed on to find the glorious oak that would comfort their hot, sweaty selves – just like Huck Finn, or Frodo, Sam thought. Suspenders and rolled up knickers would help, but right then he’d work with what he had. It had certainly gotten cooler since he walked into the mix of oak and birch trees.

            Sam had a vague trust in Chris’s ‘creativity.’ It was never quite desired at first, but always had value. Chris was D’Artagnan, leading his (perhaps more insightful) friend Athos on a mission of honor – he was Sherlock Holmes, taking Watson on a grand adventure, merely so he could enjoy watching the mystery unfold before the simpler man’s eyes. An extra set of quiet hands never hurt, either.

            That day, Chris led Sam quite everywhere in the wooded area. “There can be no rest for either of us, my blanket-bearer, until we mark our territory. Have you the tools necessary?” Chris often used improvisation in his performances. Sam responded, “Um, I have some sandwiches, a blanket, and some paper plates.” Of course, this was not satisfactory for marking out the territory of the new found kingdom Chris had envisioned, so he took to searching through the basket himself. Sam gladly took this opportunity to lie down on the blanket, which was damp and cool, and he hoped that Chris’ creativity wouldn’t notice. When Chris resurfaced from the rubble of tearing through the supplies (which Sam had carefully packed), he said, “Aha! I have found the necessary marker for our plum line.” Chris probably didn’t know or necessarily care what a plum line was, but it made him sound smart and experienced as Sam didn’t know what it was either. Clearly a marking for territory, he assumed.

            Chris took his ‘plum line’ marker – a large bottle of mayonnaise (Chris didn’t like mayonnaise, and Sam didn’t object), and said, “It is a foul tool to be sure – but it will keep the animals at bay,” and as Chris finished that statement, he began squeezing the mayonnaise in a large circle, going first away from Sam, around a special oak tree it seemed he had always known they were headed for, and back towards Sam, and the mess of condiments, paper plates, and food (which they now had to go without). It was all part of the adventure.

            Once the line was settled, Sam began to eyeball the tree. It was a fine tree for sitting, to be sure. A beautiful, ancient looking tree, it was. Imagine a tree the height of a cell tower, the beauty of the ocean from a balcony, the spirit of an artist, as strong as a boulder, and as sweetly shaded as a pretty girl’s abashed eyes. It was a tree climber’s dream. Sam began to scan the tree for the best resting spot – one from which he could dream of all the books he’s read over the summer. There were always good trees in books. There were trees being cut down, trees being grown, and trees being used, seen, heard, or felt. Most often, though, there were trees being climbed. He was pondering these beautiful thoughts when Chris yelled:

“Race to see who can get the highest! Go!”

Sam was confused for a second too long about the difference between a race (who was fastest) and a competition (who was highest). Chris got the best spot up before Sam could get clarification. It didn’t matter though – Chris won these games far too often for Sam to let him win at one more round. He grabbed at the second best branch – one that hung just low enough for him to grab, scramble upon, and be at equal heights with his competition. After a bold and angry leap, then another smarter, but equally courageous leap, he succeeded in making it onto the branch. Chris had made his branch already, and was finding the next limb to bring him closer to claiming victory.

It was Sam’s turn to win, though, and he had every intention of doing so. Once up the first branch, he found a second immediately above him, and launched upon it – carefully this time, there can be no mistakes higher up, or all the games would be over for the day, maybe even the month, and that wasn’t worth one win. They were tied, one to one all the way up the tree. When they reached the highest point they could by themselves, Sam gave Chris a boost and Chris gave Sam a hand, and they poked their heads and shoulders out of the topmost leaves together.

That was a beautiful view. You could see the green in every direction, and then the vague civilization beyond. There was no feeling of being inside the world – the world of bustling business people and their loud children with their noise, or the town streets with people bumping into each other, yelling at strangers one foot away from them, or anything else good or bad associated with a plethora of people. Nor was there a feeling of being outside of the world, really. There was only the feeling of watching civilization from a distance. It was like admiring a historic city formed on the side of a mountain, dug up by archeologists with nothing better to do than to discover beautiful things. 

“Man, I can’t be comfortable here, let’s go home.” Chris always was uncomfortable when they finally got somewhere. Sam was, as always, ready to stay in the tree for a while, in the shade. Maybe they could even walk home in the cool evening when the sun wasn’t such an issue. This was that horrible time of day when the sun is always against you, never behind you. That time when most people are coming home from work, and the visor in the car is incapable of healing their burning eyes.

Although Sam had not yet assented, Chris was already at the bottom of the tree, hopping over the mayonnaise line, and cleaning up the supplies. At least he was cleaning up his mess.

Sam sat for a minute longer, pondering what it is like when a metropolis is built. What great man created Rome, how was NYC, Dubai, Tokyo founded? What made anyone, any organization, any group of people, capable of such wonders?

Chris and Sam downed the two water bottles they had brought, and then tied them to the tree with an old piece of twine – or twine-like substance – that they found in the woods. That way they’d be able to find it again tomorrow, when they said they would come back to begin their tree house complex for all kids of the neighborhood to enjoy.

The two spent their trip home dreaming of building a civilization the likes of which the world had never seen. There would be no place in history that resembled theirs, and no resemblance would be the driving force behind their designs. Everything would be free of form, “none of this square business,” Chris would say as they passed houses. Buildings would be made of all manners of materials, not just wood and metal. There would be no place they could not go via slides, tunnels, or ladders. Every house would have a secret room (“or, if every house had one, just a room that was hard to find,” Sam thought). Sam loved every bit of his day with Chris.

When they came home, Chris’ mom (Mrs. B, to Sam) told the explorers that dinner would be ready in no time at all. She had just begun a new cooking class, and tonight’s specialty was going to be a blast. She used that term literally, Sam found out after sitting in the blessed air condition for a good twenty minutes. When they were all settled, drinking and joyfully eating a rather ordinary meal (by comparison) for the Balkston family, Mrs. B brought out the main attraction – something on fire. To this day, Sam has no idea what it was, and would not dare to ask for the safety of his own conscience, but it was delicious.

In retrospect, Sam guessed that Chris was a little more ‘creative’ than he ever expected, but that was the beauty of what they did each day. It was rare, it was strange, it was impossible, and they did it. Sam often said ‘no’ and went along anyway. It was all part of the routine. From time to time, Chris would of course do what Sam wanted – but most of the time Sam particularly enjoyed being first mate on their journeys. He would ride each wave of adventure they met with, and hope to never spy land. It wouldn’t take long at all for them to meet another island of adventure– and for Chris and Sam to gain a crew worthy of scraping barnacles off the brigantine’s hull.

It should be noted that the trip to the tree was two miles. In accordance with a route that was expected to bring more shade, the return journey was nearer to five.