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Reconstructing Geoffery Krawczyk
By Derek Randall
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As
he unlocked the bolt lock on his door and turned the doorknob
letting him into his house, he checked his watch and saw that
it was two o’ seven before he opened the kitchen door to let
the dogs run around the house a bit before he let them outside
through the patio and onto the back porch.
He closed the patio door and walked over to the refrigerator
to get the Corn Flakes off of the top next to the Saran Wrap
and opened the door to get the milk and take it over to the
counter underneath the cabinet that had the bowls and the drawer
that had the spoons when he stopped and placed his hands on
the counter and hung his head.
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He
checked his watch. Two
eighteen.
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He
closed the refrigerator door and put the cereal back.
He went into his room and stepped over the white shirt,
two pairs of sweatpants and sweater that lie on the floor to
his dresser at the edge of his bed.
He slid open the top left drawer and moved his underwear
and t-shirts out of the way to get to his box.
He opened it, and sifted through the poems and drawings
to find a clear Zip-lock bag.
He took it out, put everything else back, and closed
the drawer as he cleared off a spot on his mattress by throwing
the socks and t-shirts off of the edge of his bed.
He opened the Zip-lock bag and emptied its contents all
over his mattress. Four
hundred and fifty-two dollars and seventy-four cents.
He opened his front cargo pocket as he took the bills
and stuffed them there, closing it before he looked in the corner
of his room and grabbed his skateboard with No Fear logo
and the yin-yang sign on the top.
He checked for his wallet and keys as he cradled his
skateboard underneath his left arm and paused to look at himself
in the mirror. He
would show them; he would show them all.
He could be beautiful.
He could be radiant.
Hell, he could even be popular, too.
He took a deep breath and exhaled as he turned and left
the room and headed to the front door, locking it, along with
his nightmare, behind him as he put his board on the ground
and went to the mall.
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The
smoke from her cigarette floated over her head in a mist that
enveloped everyone that was within ten feet of her table as
she rhythmically chewed her gum with a smack. . .smack. . .smacking
sound that she didn’t even hear over the tap of her fingers
on the tabletop as she wondered where in the blue hell he was.
She had waited in front of his house for over twenty
minutes blowing the horn and all she heard were the barks of
his dogs from the inside of his house.
She hadn’t seen him all morning and she was starting
to get worried. She
looked from her right to her left as she tapped her fingers
and took another puff from her cigarette and tilted her head
up, closing her eyes and trying to blow the smoke out slowly
as to calm herself down.
She tilted her head down and opened her eyes and looked
toward the cafeteria doors when she opened her mouth in disbelief
at the sight of him.
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first thing she had noticed was his hair.
He had cut his hair.
All of his shoulder length black hair was gone, and in its
place was this new Spaceman Spiff bowl haircut that made him look
like the bastard child of Leonardo DiCaprio and Jim Carrey.
He wore a brown turtleneck sweater that looked like it had
come out of a Gap ad and made him look like a Charms Blow-Pop
because it was so large on him and he was so skinny, and he wore
a pair of Calvin Klein jeans with a braided brown leather belt that
he had bought long and wrapped the extra leftover into the front
pocket of his jeans. Gone
were his boots. She
couldn’t believe that he would get rid of his boots; he loved his
boots. In their place
were a pair of Eastland brown leather canvas shoes that made his
feet look small probably because they actually fit.
And he had shined them.
He actually shined his shoes.
Valerie was flabbergasted.
He walked up to their table and sat across from her, a queer
smile on his face as he folded his hands and looked her in the face
as the ash on her cigarette was about to fall from her hand and
burn her. |
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| “Well?”
he asked as he leaned back and crossed his arms, that same queer
smile painting his face as he continued to wait for her reaction.
Valerie was about to speak when she held her words because
she smelled something --- cologne.
He smelled like cologne.
He actually had the nerve to put on cologne!
He beat her to the punch, opening his hands at her while
asking, “What do you think?” |
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| She
didn’t know what to say, that he looked extremely handsome, that
he looked completely retarded, or that he looked like a flaming
homosexual. She opted
for the latter. “You
look like a flaming homosexual,” she replied.
“and you smell like one, too.” |
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| He
tilted his head back and bellowed a hearty laugh that she could
tell was completely fake.
Yes, that was what was bothering her.
He was fake. He
was a phony. This wasn’t
Geoff that was in front of her, but some cardboard facsimile.
“Geoff,” she struggled to find the words.
“. . .why?” |
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Originally Posted October 14, 2001. Reposted
on February 3, 2005.
Copyright 2005, 2001 by the Labyrinth and the United States Naval Academy,
http://www.usna.edu.
All rights reserved. Unauthorized reproduction or duplication is strictly
prohibited. The views expressed on this site are those of the author(s)
and do not necessarily reflect the views of the US Naval Academy, the
Department of Defense, or the US Government.
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