The Man on the Roof – Lydia Berry – First Place Winner of 2017 Common Read Writing Contest

Pressing my face to the window, I watch him. In front of me, my parents talk about bills that still need to be paid. Beside me, my sister snoozes away in her booster seat. None of them see him.

He’s a dark figure without any real shape, aside from his long and fast legs. Like a ninja, he jumps from rooftop to rooftop, following me, watching me like I watch him. I’ve never had a chance to ask his name. I’ve never really seen his face. He’s very shy. He always disappears in crowded parking lots and long stretches of grass. At night, when we go on drives to go look at the stars, he never wants to go with me. Maybe he’s afraid of the dark like my little sister.

I see him again on the way to school. He climbs on house roofs and takes a powerful leap between the building gaps. Somehow, he keeps up with the car, always staying at the center of my vision. I never see anyone jumping with him though. I wonder if maybe he’s lonely and that’s why he follows me around. I know that’s why I watch him. All my parents want to talk about is what I did in school today.

As my sister gets older and starts to talk, I ask her if she ever sees him too. I once asked Mommy the same question. She chuckled and told me that I have a good imagination. My sister tells me that she can see him, but she doesn’t wonder about him like I do. Who she sees can’t be the same man though, because she sits on the other side of the car, looking out a different window from me. She must be seeing things or she’s just lying to me.

In junior high school, I have too much to worry about to wonder if the man is still there. I’m sure he’s busy anyway. I know I am. I have two tests on Friday. I wish they hadn’t started adding letters to math. When am I actually going to need to find out the slope of a graph anyway? The books we read have big words in them that I have to go look up. I’d hate to ask a teacher; I’d be too embarrassed to raise my hand.

I forget the man. It’s not like I knew him very well anyway. He was always so far away from me. I don’t even think he liked me in the first place. Whatever. Mom drives me to band practice, I smile and wave to my friends. I’m happy I made it before four-thirty so I can talk to them before warm-ups.

Before I know it, I’m a senior. High school passed so quickly. I can’t even remember a moment when I wasn’t busy with classes, band, or college applications.

College makes everything seem darker. It’s probably why I don’t see the man even when I look for him. I don’t really go outside much, but it would be comforting to see a familiar face. I want to see a familiar face, but Mom and Dad can’t pick me up until fall break. I don’t blame them; three hours is a long time to drive just so I can visit for a weekend. Looking out the window at the roofs of the other dorms, I search for his dark form. I just see kids standing around smoking weed. I tried it once. I went drinking once, too. It’s not like I don’t have friends here, but somehow it all seems so empty. I want to go home.

I take my meds before I leave the house to catch the bus. I’m back home now and things have gotten a lot better. They’re hectic, but I manage. I’ve always gotten sick on car rides if I tried to do anything but look out the window. I search the roof tops of my home town, trying to summon the man. I encourage him to jump for me, but he simply won’t appear. I guess we really weren’t friends after all.

Leaning back, I watch a child staring intently out the window. His mother has a pair of headphones in as she stares off into nothing. His head bobs slightly, but doesn’t turn. Whatever he’s looking at is straight ahead, following the bus on its route. I smile to myself. Perhaps the reason why the man can’t follow me is because he’s busy watching over someone else.

New Sheets – Andrew Schaner

Your sheets still smell like her. They’ll stay on your bed until the smell fades from them and is replaced by whiskey. They’ll stay on your bed sometime after that, as well. The indent of where she used to lay is the spot you avoid on the bed. It only reminds you of her absence. Flip the mattress over to get rid of it, but your body remembers the indent all too well. It’s inescapable. This was the mattress where you two fell in love. It was where her body fit perfectly against yours. It was where her skin melted into yours after your bodies intertwined among the sweat and sheets. She would bite your lips so hard that you bled, reminding you of your mortality and filling your mouth with the taste of stardust. Her skin intruded your mouth with a soft embrace. She tasted like the future.

The multitude of beers you drink with your friends won’t help you forget her. They call her a bitch and you reluctantly agree. “Bitch” stings your tongue as it rolls off. Your mouth turns sour and beer washes the taste away. Girls that eye you up and offer themselves to you at the bar are always turned down. They’re not her, they’re nothing.

Your mother hates you because of the breakup even though she broke it off. She still gains your mother’s favor. Mother’s passive aggressive comments at family dinners poke and prod at your teetering psyche. It’s like your mind is a game of Jenga and she’s pulling out block after block. You want to tell your mom to shut the fuck up but you know you won’t. Your dad tries to talk to you about the breakup even though he knows you don’t want to talk about it. He thinks he understands but he doesn’t get it at all. You have dinner there every Sunday and the same template of conversation is traced and shaded in.

Work is the only thing that distracts you from her and even that doesn’t really work. An 8-5 workday in a cubicle makes you claustrophobic. A memo one your desk reads: “Sales Meeting today at 3:30.” Great, another tedious meeting you’ll have act like you’re paying attention to. Fluorescent lights give you a dull headache. Pain starts at the back of your head and creeps slowly forward until your whole head is wrapped in bandages of discomfort. Maybe if you break the bulbs and drink the mercury it will make the headache dissipate. Your boss hovers overhead, making sure you’re on task. You wish he would trip and splash piping hot coffee on himself.  People at the office are getting engaged, buying houses and meanwhile you’re buying a pack of smokes a day.

She pops up on “people you may know” on Facebook. Shut your laptop and go outside for a smoke. Return, reopen your laptop screen, and click “x” on the picture. Decide that it’s done. It’s over. Tomorrow you’re going to be better, but that’s not how these things work. It will be approximately 74 and ¾ more days until you’re feeling like a fraction of your normal self. The first thing you do that day isn’t have a cigarette in bed. Instead, you make yourself breakfast. The food you make is much more filling than smoke in your lungs. Chew gum instead of smoking cigarettes. You need an oral fixation that isn’t her lips and cigarettes are coating your lungs with tar. Remember the assemblies in high school that showed you a smoker/non-smoker’s lung. Fuck that, you don’t want lungs like that.

Slowly regain control over the direction your life is going. The office job is a little less of a chore and more of a pleasure. It gives you something productive to do and you find a silver lining in your work. Drink less, but still go out with your friends. Stop talking about her. They’ll follow suit not long after. Women that eye you up at the bar now lead to conversation and the occasional one night stand. The sheets smell like other women now, but they’re still the same sheets. Your ex is still there in some strange way. Sunday dinners at your house are less miserable. Your mother doesn’t mention her anymore; she’s forgiven you for all the wrongs you didn’t commit.

You’re now back out there and looking for an actual connection. Well, you want one, but you’re not actively seeking. Just let the cards play out as they’ve been dealt. You may not be trying hard to find someone but you definitely need laid. The string continues for a few months, every weekend. Think about her less and less. Memories that were once vivid and tortured you now are muddled. This is a nice change of pace. Your mind is no longer working against you.

One sticks around for breakfast. At first, you’re uneasy about the presumptuous action but as the sleep fades from your eyes so does that feeling. Your flannel hangs off her shoulders and playfully drapes over her arms and that catches your attention. Naked breasts peek out from behind the half undone shirt that’s unevenly buttoned. She laughs at your dumb jokes all morning until she leaves. On the table by the door, she leaves her phone number and a note that says “give me a call.” You call her later that day and ask her to have dinner with you tomorrow night. A lot of people say you should wait more time to call a woman. Ignore those warnings, she’s different from the standard. Reservations at an upscale restaurant and semi-formal dress are required for that evening. Tie your bowtie and feel it lightly wrap around your clean shaven neck.

She emerges from her apartment in a sundress with a white cardigan over it. Her dress is the color sunflowers basked in the summer sun. The yellow dress reflects against the brown of your eyes and you’re smitten. You get out of the car and open the car door for her. She thanks and you close the door for her. The two of you sit in a bubble of Frank Sinatra’s “Strangers in the Night.” You can’t wipe a stupid grin off your face the entire car ride there and all of dinner. Split dessert and leave the restaurant with your arm around her waist. A stroll through downtown is in order for the next part of the evening. Untie your bowtie; let it hang around your collar with two buttons undone. She tells you about the music she likes, the books that changed her life, and the job she isn’t overly fond of. Tell her about how you always wanted to be an actor, your mediocre musical capabilities, and how you want to travel to every corner of the globe. Feel the instantaneous intertwining of souls.

Three more dates and you ask her to be your girl. Your friends love her, they’ve forgotten about the girl before her, they don’t even remember her name. She drinks beer just like all of you. Your ex only drank wine and acted pretentious about it and could name the region and grapes that went into a wine. When she said things like that it was like she was talking to a wall. The new girl swears like one of the guy’s too. Put your beer down. Kiss her in front of your friends. You’re not embarrassed by how into this girl you are.

The sheets now smell like her and only her. Her perfume is left on the sheets when she grabs them in the throes of pleasure. There is a new indent in your bed, her indent. However, this indent might as well have neon “no vacancy” signs. Ask her to move in with you. An excited yes gently falls on your ears. She suggests that you two get a new set of sheets. Say you couldn’t agree more.

The Last “I Do” – Rachel Lingenfelter

The smell that lingered was calming at this point. Not only was it familiar, but it was like time ticking counter clockwise. Linens seen folded in the glass cabinet mock at the dirty dead that lay on the tables. But for me, I was more stained then they could ever be.

       Sliding my black apron down and tying its strings around my waist, I entered a spa for the deceased. Yes, calling a morgue a spa isn’t the greatest thing. But when you work here, you must find some way to keep your mind at peace. Playing with dead people can’t be categorized as a hobby. Wally entered the room, only moments behind me, a nervous look crossing his pale face. Always being the sickly pale man that he was, Wally’s only excuse for being nervous was the task at hand. He wasn’t much for reunions.

       “Did they leave anything for the casket?” He inquired of the box that sat unopened on the metal table next to me. Addressed from the home of the recently deceased, they still managed to try and brighten up the room, the return address stick patterned with butterflies in the corner.

       “I haven’t opened the box yet. I’ll do that later.” I was never mean to Wally. Nor, did I ever have any reason to be. The moment I hired him, I could see the submissive look in his brown eyes. He was trustworthy, unlike most who come through the doors, body bags or walking. “I’m sure it’s not much, considering how small the box is.”

       “I mean, we’re only allowed to put so much in with the body. There’s never a lot of room. They’ve been making caskets smaller and smaller.”

       “Believe me,” I snickered slightly under my breath. “This one has more room then you could believe. You just have to look.” I laughed again. Looking up, I noticed a saddened Wally looking back my way. “Let’s just finish quickly. I have a plane to catch and the taxi is coming at 4 o’clock.” The passport and ticket sat under my coat next to the exit. One way. I couldn’t match the look on Wally’s face. He knew what happened and the consequences that followed.

       “Alright.” Holding the top of the body bag, I grabbed the zipper and pulled. To my surprise, there was more damage done than expected. Thrown into a creek. Left there for three days. No sign of struggle. Sadly, she broke a few ribs on account of being thrown into a shallow area. Poor thing. Her skin had a blueish undertone and reeked of mud and creek foliage. Her hair was matted down and tucked behind her thin neck. Her jaw was slightly discolored. Lips were full but chapped. Wally held up her head as I moved the bag out the one side, then the same, moving her waist and legs as well. Laying against the cold metal table, her naked, lifeless body had a glow I had never noticed on anyone else who had been taken care of in this room before. Wally reached for the small hose attached to the sink. Turning it on, he allowed hot water to flow over her head, wetting the tangled hair. He stroked it out from underneath her. Adding shampoo and conditioner, he was able to fix the mess. Wrapping her hair in a towel, I moved to collect my wash cloth and soap. Running it across her cold skin, I felt that there was room for an examination. Wally was keeping his eyes on me intently with every stroke of the cloth.

       “Have you ever washed an a living person?”

       “No. Why would you be asking me that now?” He became noticeably uncomfortable with my asking.

       “With you starring at me, it’s difficult to not try and make the conversation go in a less silent direction. But as far as I’m concerned, you don’t seem to be in the mood for talking, now do you?” I was starring at her breasts now. Looking down, there was no shape, but from the side, they created creamy mounds. Rotten minded, I looked back at him. He knew what I was up to.

       “There comes a time where things should be kept professional. This is one of those times.”

       “Oh, you’re questioning my actions, are you? I don’t think I should be the one under fire here. But if you care so much, you do the rest. I’ll still sit here and watch. We’ve both had to watch on countless occasions, haven’t we?” I reached my hand over towards him, the soapy water dripping off of my skin, pooling into her abdomen. He looked warily at the cloth as he took it from me. He reached into the bucket, rung out the extra water and touched her once more. Down around the skin where you could see her hips pushing up, down her legs where her knees are bruised, blood vessels broke in sync to the harm. His hand going in between her thighs made me turn away. Another hand and I couldn’t watch now. I was facing the box next, anxious, like Wally, to see what was inside. I racked my fingernail under the tape, grabbing a corner and pulling up. I pushed away the sides and the paper. A handbag. Sequined, gold chain. The hinges on the bottom were rusted. The sequins were stitched to picture an ocean scene, along with a palm tree and a sunset. Unhooking the latch, I opened it slowly. The satin pockets were empty but at the bottom, there lie an unopened rubber. It was old looking, the comers bent from having other items piled on top, creases in the wrapper. Ink and writing on the outside seemed to have faded and there was a glimpse of material underneath.

       “What is it?” Caught off guard, I grasped the item in my hand, turning to Wally. He had already placed undergarments and a slip on her. He was fast at the craft, I’ll give him that much. Brushing her damp hair, he glanced at me, careful not to drag any bristles against the fresh powder on her skin.

       “It’s a purse.” He nodded. I looked back down, moving my hand to the pocket and slipping the rubber inside. I closed the purse. Looking up at the clock on the gray, brick wall of the room, noticing the time. Four o’clock was coming sooner than I had thought. “You might have to finish her. Red dress, no flashy makeup, jewelry is left in the drawer with the nail polish. Nothing too bright. Pale pink. Did you get all of that?” The slight nod from his weary head signaled that he understood.

       “Only we know?”

       “We do.”

       “Do you know what you’re doing?” I slide my coat on my arms and up onto my shoulders. Placing my passport and ticket in the inside pocket, I moved to Wally once more. I reached out my hand. Placing his in mine, we shook. I drew a ring out of my pocket. My wedding ring. Placing it in his hand, I looked at his brown eyes for the last time.

       “I do.”

Love and Baseball – Zachary Strasser

My name is Juan Sanchez and I’m just an ordinary man in society. I am a single father to my son Alex, who is now 15 years old and loves baseball and the Boston Red Sox. My wife has been gone for years, and I miss her more and more each and every day. I almost forgot to mention this, I’m a retired baseball player and in a week’s time I’m going to be part of baseball history forever. I sit in my living room alone in the dark on my favorite leather recliner on West 34th street, Boston, and the thought still lingers in my mind. Twenty six years of lies and I’m being honored for the mistakes I’ve made. I’m forty-six, and I can feel the guilt building up inside of me as if I were just a kid again trying to keep a secret that I know I have to confess. I can remember it like it were yesterday, when Andrés talked me into making the biggest mistake of my life. I think about it every day. I’ve told myself for years that I would reveal the truth before any of this could happen, but I just couldn’t. I’m a hero back home, and if I came out and told the truth, I’d be the biggest disappointment in Boston. I’d be the biggest disappointment to Alex. I can remember it so clearly, back in Boston when I was in one of my first years in the minor league. Andrés approached me in the clubhouse and told me about a way that I can move up the depth charts in no time. Talking to him in the empty clubhouse and no one could hear us except for the jerseys that hung inside the lockers for the game scheduled later that evening. I rejected his offer at first, but the thought about making it in the Major Leagues screamed in the back of my mind. I thought about it, and hesitantly asked him about his idea. Later that week, I remember meeting him at his house on South 18th street and heading to a strange old Puerto Rican man’s office. He looked to be in his 60’s. The old man didn’t have a name, not that I knew of. He was a short, stalky man with thinning hair that was white as snow. The smell of a peculiar mixture of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne stung the inside of my nose. In no time the deed was done, and I was ready to sink my teeth into baseball history.

Driving around town in my black Chrysler 300, I think about the phone call I had with my father last night that made me think about home for the first time in years. “How are you doing son?” my Dad asked me. “Good, have you been getting the checks I’ve been sending?” I asked my Dad. ”Yes, we have, I can’t thank you enough son. Now how soon until you come home? I’ve yet to meet my grandson,” my father asked. “Soon dad, very soon,” I barked back. I hadn’t thought of it as home for quite some time. I should really have tried to make it home, but with the city’s flashing lights and being around my former teammates who were some of my closest friends, I used these as my excuses for staying. Now that’s what seemed more like home to me than that old two-bedroom house. Sitting in my current home, I can remember exactly what my first home looked like when I was a kid. The room I could remember most was my own. I was never home much as a kid, but when I was,

 I was locked away in my room. My walls were covered with the cheap baseball posters I would buy at Carlo’s drug store, if they had any posters that is. One wall was dedicated to my baseball hero, Sammy Sosa. Another wall dedicated to my favorite Major League baseball team, the St. Louis Cardinals. My other two walls were filled with posters and drawings of players and even some baseball cards I had won from some kids in town. Every room in our home was a dark brown shade of darkness. Maybe that was one of the reason I hung up so many posters, so I didn’t have to look at the walls. Growing up, my bedtime was whenever the sun went down. Our home didn’t have working lights, so when the sun was down, that meant bed time. I can remember mowing whatever lawns I could and doing manual labor jobs to help my parents, even with my small paychecks I earned. As much as I wanted to save up for a baseball glove of my own, I would come home from a “job” and place my $5 or $10 on the table. When I turned thirteen, my father bought me my own baseball mitt. I could tell it was a cheap mitt, he may have even gotten it at a yard sale, but I knew that was the best he could do for me. I loved him so much for that. I put on the biggest smile I could and embraced him. I remember standing in the kitchen when he gave me my mitt. Now, because of the baseball career I have had, I could buy my son Alex hundreds of baseball gloves.

 

Five days until I get inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Here I am, standing in my room alone, staring into my mirror while trying to practice my Hall of Fame inductee speech. Every time I start to give my speech I think about that night, and soon enough I give up and start again. When I look into the mirror I see myself twenty years ago sitting on that old Puerto Rican man’s bench, looking the other way focusing on the patterns on the wall for fear of seeing what was about to pierce my skin. I remember to this day that the walls were covered in different birds: cardinals, robins, blue jays, orioles and jet black crows. After a shock went up and down my arm, the shot was over and done with, and Andrés insisted that we immediately head to the gym and start working out. I could feel the liquid the Puerto Rican man injected me with rush to every part of my body. I was a strong kid before, but I was about to get stronger than I had ever imagined. The shot that that strange man would give me always made me mad. I would experience times where I wanted to fight my friends in the dugout, but I had no idea at the time that it was the shots that made me lose my temper like that. So I kept going back to the old Puerto Rican man for more shots. The next thing I knew, more baseball I would hit went out of the park. I was young and stupid back then and I hadn’t realized what I was getting myself into with the anger and the shots, I just focused on the results and was content with the way things were. Andrés experienced the same effects as I did. I was the second player to bat in the line-up and Andrés followed in the three spot. The year we both started getting the shots from that old white haired man, Andrés and I had hit for a total of sixty-seven homeruns between the two of us; Andrés hit thirty-one while I hit thirty-six. We were the hero’s of the Boston Red Sox nation. Hand in hand, we carried the Red Sox to the playoffs, and soon to follow, the World Series. Before the World Series, Andrés and I paid a visit to the old Puerto Rican man to … “Knock-Knock!” “Hey Dad!” Alex yelled from behind the closed door. The knocking at my door took me from my cloudy daydream, back to reality.

 

Alex wanted to go to Parker’s house to play and because it is just the two of us, I drove him there happily. Andrés was Parker’s father, so when I dropped Alex off I figured I would go in and talk to my old pal. Walking through the front door, I knew the layout of the house and I knew exactly where Andrés would be; his theatre room. Walking down the hall and making my way to the last door on the left, my eyes caught sight of all the trophies, pennants, photographs, Andrés first baseball bat from the major league, his first home run ball and “The Poster”. The old poster they used to sell of Andrés and me. The poster was split in half; on the left side was Andrés making solid contact with the ball and then me on the right side showing a home run swing. At the top of the poster it read “Boston’s Two Headed Monster.” After standing in front of the poster, mesmerized by this old poster, I made my way into Andrés theatre room. Any time I went to visit Andrés this is where he would be, watching old game highlights from when we both played. His glory days. As soon as I walked in I saw the highlight of the World Series we made it to in our first full season together with the Red Sox.

 

The game film blew my mind, bringing back old memories. On the screen now was myself digging into the box. Game seven of the World Series, and it was my chance for glory, to win us the game. I had been having a spectacular day already going 3 for 4 with two homeruns and four RBI’s. As I dug in, I hear the announcer’s voice creep up the back of my neck yelling, “Stepping into the box, number 15, Juan Sanchez!” Fenway Park erupted at this, and everyone in the stadium rose to their feet. Not a single empty seat in the house. The game was tied six to six, and I could end it right here. Joel Price was on the mound and he was notorious for throwing fast balls; my favorite pitch to take out of the park. Standing in the box, waving my bat up in the air, I was ready. Price had his sign from the catcher, wound and delivered his pitch; a fastball outside. I gripped my bat, swung as hard as I could and watched as the ball sailed out of the park. Again, the announcer screamed over the mike, “It’s high, it’s far… It’s… GONE! Red Sox win! Red Sox win the World Series off the bat of Juan Sanchez!” he shouted. My memory of the game ended, and I turned around and walked out of Andrés’ home, not saying a word to him. The last image on the screen showed a woman in the stands cheering for the Red Sox. She wore a white Sanchez jersey and a blue Red Sox cap. She was breathtaking. So beautiful. That long curly blonde hair resting on her shoulders, eyes as deep and blue as the ocean, and her perfectly innocent smile were all too real. I could have sworn Lindsey was in the room with me. Just the two of us.

 

This is it, the moment of truth. Today is induction day for the Baseball Hall of Fame. Do I tell the world what I did that night when I came home angry once again? I stood at the podium before thousands in the stands, along with thousands, maybe even millions watching me on T.V. Before I started, I thought about Alex, do I really want him to be alone in the world by himself? The only place there is left for him to go other than to a foster home is with Mom and Dad. I think to myself, no, I won’t let him live his life like that. So I give my speech about what an honor it was to be a part of the Red Sox organization. I go on to tell everyone watching about how I am the man I am today because of my mother and father. How life growing up was difficult for my family and me. After ten minutes or so my dreaded speech was over, but the memory of Lindsey still lingers in the back of my mind. Memories of my addiction to steroids and wanting to get bigger, stronger and better at baseball flooded my crowded thoughts. The life I wanted and dreams of my whole life came to a halt that night. I remember it all too clearly. I always  will. I came home from the gym on a dark and chilled December night angry, as I always seemed to be when I finished my workout. Little things would irritate me and send me over the edge.  When I came home, it was late and Lindsey had stayed awake waiting for me to come home. It was the third time I came home late from the gym that week and Lindsey had had enough. She was upset with me for being home late again, and talked in a tone quiet enough as to not wake Alex. A serge of anger shot through me and I pushed Lindsey back away from me, hard. I would never hurt her. I loved Lindsey. I still love her. But as she fell, she hit her head off the corner of our counter. She fell to the kitchen floor unconscious. At first I couldn’t believe what was happening right in front of me. Then, all at once, reality set in and knocked me out of a trance and I ran for the phone to call an ambulance. I remember sitting on the floor in our kitchen holding Lindsey in my arms, hoping she’d wake up, hoping this was all just a crazy dream and I would wake up. A week later Lindsey still hadn’t woken up, and every doctor I spoke to said Lindsey would never open her eyes again. I had to say goodbye to the only woman I’ve ever loved. I never woke up from that terrifying nightmare. To this day, the thought of what I did to Lindsey that night sends chills up my spine and makes me sick to the point that I could vomit. I wish I could take it back. I would give up my entire baseball career if it meant that I could hold her in my arms once more, and look into those beautiful blue eyes. If I told the truth, what would happen to Alex? Would he end up in a foster home until he was eighteen? Would he be sent overseas to live with my parents in the Dominican Republic? I wouldn’t let that happen to him. Now that baseball is officially over with in my life, the only thing that I have left is Alex, and I’ll never let anything happen to him. I’ll live the rest of my life in painful secret about what I’ve done.