Benign intervention: A type of escape which is underwhelming to the escapee, not fulfilling the demands of a break. 

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"So, would you like to buy this book? Or I should give you some more time to have a look around the place . . . see anything you like, huh?"

A gruff, chirpy laughter is not accompanied by a reply since the 9 year old kid is still far behind in compatible social interaction.

"Alright, son. I'll give you another minute."

Peter Carpenter, who's not my grandfather walks past me with a comical smile and an enthusiastic disposition as if this day is becoming to be the happiest of his life.

I mimic something that is comparatively closer to an acceptable smile.

Then I get back to the back, which is pressed under the Blue Ridge Curriculum notebook.

The heading sits in grave monotony and eyes me with intimidation.

For the last 15 minutes, I am trying to figure out what to do with the word "Intervention" which is circled in countless graphite swirls, making a metal cage, as if the word was on the run.

It is November 1, inching towards noon.

I am not at school.

In the morning, I woke up with the stolen sweets on my desk, which invited an army of domestic ants. They were committed to the cause of stealing sugar grains, coconut stripes, butterscotch droplets for the inevitable upcoming winter. They had made good progress till I intervened with the morning hastiness and blurry vision.

I devoured the candy apple, before brushing my teeth so afterwards the smell of fluoride water, menthol and germ remover, my mouth was smelling like the inside of a Formalin jar where dissected frogs, squids and dead worms live in.

As an act of defiance and a practice of free will, I decided that it's important to miss school for a day. Allegedly. If I don't take advantage of my parents lack of attention to their son, I would clearly waste a fruitful, rebellious chapter of my life.

My last year Prime Directive coat is sleeping on the large empty desk, alongside a few untouched books. This worked as an active camouflage for Dad who saw me in the respectful attire and didn't question the authenticity of my day's plan.

Missing school today will serve multiple purposes without breaking a sweat.

It will provide a subtle message to my friends that, currently I am not happy with their performances as daily companions. Especially, I am counting on Clay's sensibility because his righteous mind has the ability to break things down to understandable pieces.

Secondly, the empty house will give Dad the benefit of realizing mum's state of loneliness. I can already tell that he has started to sip from that cup since his giant shadow leaned over the kitchen door frame and dialed the number with cautious agility. Moreover, this opportunity will also establish communication with mum, her whereabouts and also the news of Margaret.

I don't want them to feel guilty. I don't know why. I should.

I have already imagined their decoded, deciphered conversations over the telephone lines.

They will talk in codes, and Dad will take the first incentive by asking, "How's the weather?"

Mum will follow suit and answer in her distant voice that, "The weather has improved much after she came and there are no chance of any showers in the next few days."

The escalation of the talk is the result of my constant thinking of the movies.

I am thinking about going to Cineplex for viewing a flick.

On my own. A solitary enjoyment.

I wonder if that will make me feel more lonely and disconnected from everyone but my inner voice is disregarding me to overthink.

A muddle conversation without conclusion is taking place behind the large bookcase. The lady voice is affirmative that this is the book that they are looking for. The 9 year old is confused about such affirmations, he is persistent that there must be a mistake of sorts because the sunflowers on the covers don't match with his memory.

For a moment, I'm a rude critique to the fact that, the most difficult equation in the life of a 9 year old is so silly and materialistic. Then, when the doorbell rings with their departure, I'm envious of him.

In the words of religion, I have already tasted a number of sins; Envy, greed and Acedia.

In the textbook and the lively pamphlets of the religion class, Acedia has been marked by a sloth, hanging out from a tree, looking excessively empty and without direction.

Acedia is the middle point of depression where no work is done and no prayer has been said.

The woman on the pavement locks eyes with me for a second, mainly because I was staring at her in the first place. From the low placed window, her right hand is clutched on to the 9 year old, still in keen examination for the golden sunflower.

Probably, she is wondering what I am doing on a bookstore on a Monday morning, instead of the school. She is conjuring, recalling all the signs of rebellious, out of control teenager that she read about, seen and heard from other mothers.

I am thinking about the seven deadly sins.

She is thinking about teenage stereotypes.

"Good, isn't it?" The gruff voice is aimed towards me.

I think of Noah Garner Newell but there is no fizz of a telecommunicated landline phones.

"Yeah." This is a reflexive reply, since my gaze is mesmerized by his facial features.

A pair of experienced eyes are nested in the middle of crumpled up skin. Like balled up paper, his cheeks have been spread to the sides, the ear lobes have been decorated in various cuts, slashes; like the rigid outside of an ornamental flower vase.

He nooks his head around, revealing the slide of his tattered up neck over the border of his jumper.

"Still at page 14?"

"Getting into it." I seep out another smirk, lips widening to validate the fact that I am not finding the book interesting.

"It takes time . . . maybe at first. But then it's hard to put down."

This could be about recovering a social shunning, a 'pick me up' from a moral stumble, a lighthouse at a distant shore. Or it could be about the book that I am reading or acting to read.

He huffs a strong breath of air, satisfied with the look of the empty bookstore as he gazes around a few seconds more.

"Salinger's very good with teen drama. I'm not surprised that you picked him from the mix."

I nod to confirm.

"Um . . . hey, how did she like the Tolstoy one? Um . . . Anna Karenina. That one?"

It takes me longer than usual to find the fact that I bought mum a Tolstoy from here, a couple of weeks ago. But the duration confuses me that it can also be a lie, which it isn't.

"Oh, yeah. Tolstoy one. Yeah. Mum loves it." My hand is arched in ways, gesturing in some learned fashions which I would use if I was in the debate's "Prime Directive."

"Of course, she does. It's a Tolstoy. No one can ignore a Tolstoy."

I join in his transforming laugh which is dancing around from gruff tone to a nasal ballad, then becoming a low husky chuckle.

I escalate my laughter to a full 7, grinning and teeth on display to mask the fact that, the paper bookmark on "Anna Karenina"(Mum's copy) is stuck on 29. For the last two weeks.

I can clearly understand that, my mother is not a fan of the book. The reason is yet to be discovered but the key sign is, the novel is still sitting on the edge of her shelf, even though she's on vacation.

If a paperback prose cannot accompany mum on a 7 hour travel to . . . wherever, then for the rest of eternity, the book will sit there and only gather dust as an accomplishment.

"Come on, let's get up on the front."

I stop at the middle of the store to let my eyes visualize the present state of it. If Dad was here, he would appoint the word "Malnourished" to describe the shop. Mum would say something socially acceptable, for example. "This is a rather quaint, little place to hang about." But on the inside, she would discredit the store for not being big enough to tag shelves according to letters.

The walls are shelves, preferably wood since there is no visible rustiness in the skeleton of the wooden construction. Unlike the Middle Mart bookstores which are brightly lid, excessively colored with chirpy paints such as yellow walls, orange bricks on white backgrounds, patches of red which are scattered around like a thriller movie set.

Instead, the brown is the primary theme for Mr. Carpenter's shop. From my stance, I can see the Literature row, stuffed spines of Fictional work and studies, the Travel shelf is overburdened with the amount of books, the Fantasy row is lacking members, Cookbooks are in place to look attractive.

To my annoyance, the Children genre has a generous amount of books. Satire is caked with a layer of dust, Prayer section is also unloved and ignored. Dictionaries and encyclopedias are trying not to look too boring.

"Nice place." I slur to conquer the distance between myself and Peter Carpenter.

"Well, it looks—alright." Mr. Carpenter gleams a polite smile.

I appoint myself as a judge of character to declare that, he doesn't have Superbia which is associated with pride and hubris.

I plan ahead for the social endeavor. Catching a good movie is impossible before 5 when the afternoon gets droopy enough for people to be entertained and especially for Monday, the chances of seeing anything with enough blood, gore or mindless violence is low.

The appropriate section to play baseball is the middle of the day, inching towards 4 when everyone gets bored enough to either skip classes or meet up near the open fields on the side of Middle Market.

I make anxious eye contact with the clock, which ticks on slowly, sloth paced towards 1.

"Get a lot of customers?" I regret it before I can finish the sentence. So the question comes as stronger than its intent. Almost sarcastic, aggravated, poking.

"Every now and then." He answers with the same smile as he fixes the book in uniform, the same shade of 5 golden sunflowers on a comic sit in detention.

"Expected sales?" I can't stop. My persona has tricked onto being impassionate, an accountant. A man of digit from "The Better Business Bureau."

Momentarily, he looks stumped which is a basic surprise response, given the situation. To his expectation, I am to ask about comics with under dressed heroines, teen fictions.

"Hmm . . . can't complain." His eyes cross for a second, then retract to its former place like an elastic waistband. He resumes to stuff the rest of the Sunflower Gold in the crease.

A thin layer of dust run away from the crammed crease.

He can complain. But he won't.

His tall posture reaches out to the top of the low shelf, almost knocking the pile of dull looking ant sized articles of the newspaper.

"The News House Editorial" peaks out from the dust top carpet, the insignia tries to look important but the grains are making it look less of a celebrated publication and more childish.

Setting of an environment has a lot to do with the build up emotions, provided allocations of what to feel and how to feel it. In the chemotherapy ward, you can never hear an unedited laughter. And if there is a case, when you can hear it, it's mixed with sorrow, desperation to live and masked cries.

Evidentially, no one looks successful or accomplished after an annual Advanced Mathematics tests. Especially Kenny who seems to wear a face that can only mean endless doubts and unanswered questions.

For instance, the border of the People's Opinion page, which is on the front of the daily fashion interest, is reminding me of Mum.

"—used to be a lot of people coming here. Still do. Well, occasionally. On Thursday, the most. Because . . . then the Middle Mart is out and I get to sell some to the desperados out there."

Carpenter's laughter is like a boom mike. I'm too engrossed in the thought of Mum to break his laugh down to examinable pieces; to search for amusement or sadness.

"So, sale's not like the olden days. But it's good. It's good." He nods to himself, then to me and lastly to another pile of books near the desk.

"Can't complain."

If a 16 year old's sudden question about sales can make you nod like a rock and roll icon to reassure yourself that sale is still good then finance is not your strong suit.

"Which ones are the best sellers . . . do you think?" I throw a question which has the potential of further thought to scratch up a proper answer. This is a strategy so that I can wrap my head around the current situation.

In the famous words of Julia Newell, 'Now ' is the only moment you have to live, in order to live fully.'

"You mean, fiction or . . . novels or what?"

"I mean, in general. Out of all of them." I point with my index finger, as if I am balancing a pencil between them.

I am a reporter.

"Oh . . . cookbooks, mainly. And a bit of this or that How to's . Textbooks get sold once in a while, when those kids come in and start flicking through to the end to see if there's the answer script."

I try to compare Carpenter's laughter with my grandfather, Noah. The distinct dissimilarity is that when Peter C chuckles, I cannot hear the overburdened speaker of the landline fizzing out with screeching tones.

His teeth widen enough to disclose the state of his gums. They are clean but the age has marked its flag from the crinkled fleshes around his upper teeth which have been presumably, roughed up by decades of daily brushing.

Adolescent educational status is a joke to him.

"What are you into?" He catches me off guard as my eyes trail away from the sides of the comics.

The rows of How To's are fitted with books that use covers with various colors, little print boxes, a slap of a line of a review and bombarded with cheery print, like wallpaper.

"Mostly, screenplay." I choose an answer that would probably flutter a little smile on Ms. Eden's lips.

Admittance to the fact is strange but also true since I have been thinking about her. And everybody else, but not in the equal proportion.

"Well, that's a pity. You won't get any of those goods here. I just have the basic—this and that. Nothing to get excited about."

"Why?"

"They won't sell. Nobody reads any of that kind, anyways. Hell, I don't even order any fiction from anywhere till I can get rid of these."

He points to the fiction shelf, where the bundles of books still fail to attract any sellers.

"That's a shame." I sound petrified.

I didn't know the marketing had such a grasp on my mental health.

"Eh, what can you do about it? I don't mind . . . not that much." He administers a believable smile in the middle of his confessional ranting.

His face flashes features that explain that his mood is neutralized and I will not have to deal with any more of business transaction.

"Maybe, it's the location. This is pretty on the side of . . . the Middle market."

I'm living in the 'Now'. And 'Now' has nothing to offer than a commercial mystery.

"Aha! That's what Ross says. Always the location. It's like we live on a hill or something!"

Carpenter is not mad. I expect him to break his routine of ranting, a schedule where he lets off steam at first, then loses his fizz but erupts again like a volcano. Accompanied by curses of land owners, modern marketing strategies and feats, unholy business transaction plans; cursing everything under God and Heaven.

Sometimes, we look for actions in other people that we want to commit. It is a sad twisted fact of human psychology.

"Ah! It'll get better. The winter's around the corner and that usually brings out some people around. Don't worry about it."

He utilizes the silent moment to inspect the map of the shelves, to figure out where the patches of dust mites need to be eradicated. One nest at a sweep.

"Speaking of vacations, isn't it school day. Today?"

Despite of being found out, my hormones are not buzzing out in danger or feat, or any emotions in particular. Whilst I prepare an answer through my embarrassed smile, I try to think of what Noah would think about my actions of skipping school.

I am disappointed by the buzz of an imaginary phone line, ringing out as the silhouette of Noah Garner disappear among a flock of mindless sheep.

"I . . .  didn't feel like going. Anyway." I sound honest, borderline emotional.

"Any tests or anything that kind? " The small brush has been appointed a break as it dangles from his loosened grip.

"Nah, nothing of that today. It's just—"

This feels like one of the blanks on Mrs. Gideon's punctuation and grammar class. Either, you can get out of a question by writing two lines, fitted with a few difficult looking words to summarize. Or there's the possibility of writing an entire paragraph with words that lack confidence from the absence of vowels.

"It's just . . . the day after Halloween . . . and I'm just too—" This is quite similar to multiple choice answers in Biology labs.

a)Bummed from fighting with my best friend.

b)Not satisfied with my father's or my grandfather's effort as supportive family members.

c)Feel disconnected, off shore, unbalanced, sidestepped.

"Too stuffed with the candy, eh?"

"And there's a rerun of the Halloween special, too." Volunteeringly, I miss out the chance of speaking out.

When he provides more attention to disciplining the books in their particular order, I give another trial of reading the page 14. I succeed in making it through 2 paragraphs before the 3rd line shoves me on to the track of my train of thoughts.

Clay's grandfather lived with them for a while, when Clay was just starting out in the primary classes of Junior. One of the main reasons for his love to debate is his grandfather who was always an idealist and too educated to be interested in anything else other than books.

I have already dreamt up my future, possible interactions with my grandfather, Noah Garner, if that day comes. There will be the dense air of awkwardness and fidgeted, tempting thoughts of running away from both of us.

I can picture my mother as an interactive guide or referee. Pointing at key devices, bullet points and topics to discuss and bond over but we have already decided not to perform any interplay.

"Hope your parents are okay with the whole skipping thing. Mine's used to get so riled up."

He steals my pause to reply as he sits down the in the chair in front. Arthritis hasn't caught up with him yet so the creek of old bones and already degenerative fragments are absent.

"I was a track runner. Well, eh, in school. A bit in college too. So, we used to line up with the jockeys and the athletes and just sprint with 'em the whole afternoon. And before you ask, yes. I did Cross Country."

I purse my lips in a shape of being impressed as I slap the book close. The narrator in the story has just been kicked out of school and given my current situation, it feels like a bad omen to make any progress to the storyline.

"Twice." He cocks his head up, in pride. Grinning.

He is practicing initiative. He knows the back and forth wall of conversation which is like the sequence of "Waltz " dancing. Unlike my father who follows the Geneva Convention rules of verbal war.

'Never speak, until spoken to.'

His tongue is the last of his pride's declare as his smile loses heat.

"Do any sports yourself? I used to be in the whole rugby league. Smashing heads, shoulders and anything that had bone and meat. But I got out of it. And now they reduced the smash and the violence, so we call it football."

His buzzing laughter croaks in his throat at first but then carries on like a smoothly wounded cassette tape.

"You do any sports?"

"Baseball." I say, smirking.

"With those arms?" He points to the stick figures under the last year's "Prime Directive" jacket.

His body language does not display any sorts of insults other than friendly pokes which are considered and measured.

I'm wearing coat indoors. I know nothing about fashion.

"What spot do you play? Not pitcher, I guess."

"Hitter . . . um hitter. I can run bases pretty solid so I drop in at 3."

"Hoha! Perfect. Well, pitching's over rated, I say. It's all in those legs. Bases get you diamonds."

He spots an invisible baseball, fired towards him and the imaginary bat yanks it out of the air with a fulfilled smile on his face.

"You have to get stuffed though, if you want those out of the park hits. Those arms are too skinny, to be honest." He reaches out to scrutinize my shoulder as his hands press though a spontaneous physique test.

"Can you hit it out of the park?"

"Most days, yeah."

"Well, you want to be able to do it everyday, am I right?"

"I guess so." I notice the first genuine laughter of myself since I am not thinking of social acceptability or anything else.

"Teenagers are usually on junk food these days."

"Yeah." We nod in unison.

In the chance of an unprecedented conversation, I am betraying the integrity of my own kind in a heartbeat.

"Home cooked meals are what you need. To get strong, buff. I was never into baseball that much. Track running is where you want to be. Because whether you win or lose, they slap a poster of you and your team on the gym and the notice board. And no one takes it down before the new team's photo shoot."

His eyes are spilling nostalgia. He deserves to be reminiscent of the past. It goes to show that he has a past that is worth to be sentimental about. In his biopic, he will always love the part, the highlight of his life when he is running the cross country and comfortable and satisfied and in place in his adolescence.

"Huh. Mickey, yeah. Mickey used to be in baseball."

"Mickey?" I ask, as if I know this character but forgot to say " Hi " to him when we met last.

"He event went to Prime Leagues. You remind me of him, a little. Yeah! Mickey had those skinny arms, too!"

"Ah, Mickey!" He makes a squelch sound with his mouth that is an indication of longing.

I refer from saying anything since this Mickey has the potential to be dead. Therefore, bringing a reel of happy memories which all will be tainted by his event of passing.

"Ah, well . . ." He shifts around the table and realizes the still existence of the duster, in its dirty glory.

"Better get back to your book, eh? Don't let me give you a pause. I actually hate it when people talk to me when I'm enjoying a good book." His waist is stuck in an invisible barrier as he hitches to a pause in the middle of his motion.

"No. It's fine. I'm . . . it's good."

"Yeah, it's a Salinger. It ought to be good. No doubt about that."

When Clay and I used to hang around the school's parking lot, the backspace which has enough windows to peer into the cafeteria and the side of the teacher's lounge from the same vantage point, we used to deduce people's mental status from their locks.

Clay used to say that people who wore glasses sometimes looked sympathetic or too dense in thought.

Mr. Carpenter isn't wearing a pair of optics but the sensitive glower is hanging loose.

"Oh, what's your name again?"

"It's Frey. Frey Newell."

"Oh, well, yeah. Frey. I'll remember that. Or try to remember that."

His chuckle has something to do with a joke that includes old people and loss of memory.

"We met . . last month, probably. Mr. Carpenter."

"Oh, yeah. We did. You were in a hurry."

I was writing the hate mail to Dolorous which caused an irreversible domino effect on everyone's social routine.

"Yeah."

"Well, good talk, by the way. And I'll tell Ross that you thought it was a location problem. He loves it when someone agrees with him."

Ross sounds juvenile and in need of constant validation.

"Great."

The sound of swatting, the duster's leaves patting the wooden pads are in the background as I peer into the book. The protagonist is in some sort of crisis of his teenage life but I can hardly care for him.

This is what I expect from Noah Garner Newell.

Grandfathers are basically forefather and presumably being on the upside of family tree, I am his successor. His sheep shearing techniques would prove to be useless unless he sees me following in his hermit footsteps of Scottish bagpipes and waking up to fluffy cloud of domestic animals in the middle of nowhere.

His experiences; the first time he got into a fist fight, the first time he snogged someone intentionally, his general theory of handling parts of one's life, communication, mutual interests, healthy interactions are expected from Noah Garner Newell.

The border of the People's Opinion stoops out of the pile, hoping to commit a dusty fall from its tower.

I eye the novel on the table, then a specific shelf where the "How To' s are situated and shining in over toned colors.

"Um . . let me give you a hand with that pile."

"Now" is the only moment.