Poetic License

Paul Bowers

Arthur Kent stared out the bus window. The rain beat down torrentially on the small town of Elna. Stupid rain, he thought to himself. It just falls to the ground and dies, adding to the mindless mass of water.

Mark Johnson stared out the window on the other side of the bus. He watched the small rain drops zoom downward to the gravel road. He closed his eyes and listened to the soft pitter-patter on the roof.

“There’s nothing like the wonderful sound of rain to make the first day of school bearable,” he remarked out loud. Arthur turned around and glared at Mark. Mark, whose eyes were still closed, seemed to not notice. As the rest of the kids on the bus loudly conversed, Mark somehow managed to focus on the rain.

When they arrived at Elna Elementary School, everyone except Mark reluctantly trudged off the bus. He watched the students walk by and sighed. He hadn’t been able to use his legs since birth. Once the rest of the students were off the bus, Mrs. Parker walked through the rain to meet him. She climbed up the bus steps and said a warm hello.

“So, are you ready for third grade?” Mrs. Parker asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Mark replied with a grin. She pushed his wheelchair down the aisle and carried him down the steps.

Right before they left the shelter of the vehicle, Mrs. Parker put on a stern face and spoke in a gruff voice. “They’re firing bullets at us like rain out there. We’ve got to dodge them all and get back to base!” Mark rolled his eyes and giggled. Mrs. Parker charged through the rain, screaming a strange war cry. Mark held on tight to his arm rests as he was rushed to the school.

They quickly arrived at the entrance to the school, where Mark’s assistant said goodbye.

“Thanks, Mrs. Parker!” Mark called out as he rolled off toward his class. He hurried through the classroom door and took a seat.

The late bell rang, and the teacher at the front of the classroom introduced herself.

“Hi! I’m Ms. Dugginson, and I’ll be your teacher this year! We’re going to have so much fun! We’ll write poems, essays, stories, and all that good stuff! We’re also going to study division, multiplication, and…” The excessively perky teacher continued talking for about ten minutes. Mark looked around and realized that the person sitting next to him didn’t seem too happy.

“What’s the matter?” he whispered. “Do you just not want to go to school? That’s a pretty dumb question! Nobody wants to go to school!” The kid he was talking to (Arthur) turned around and gave him a disgusted look. The teacher eventually realized that nobody was paying attention, and she slapped a ruler on her desk. The students immediately looked up.

“Excuse me, little people!” she exclaimed. “That’s totally inappropriate!” Everyone gulped as the teacher regained her composure. “Now, as I was saying, we’re going to start off the year by writing poems in groups about whatever you want. Isn’t this going to be exciting? You’ll have to show tremendous accountability! First, let’s split you up into pairs.” She walked around the room, putting people together. She pointed at Mark. “How about you and…” as she searched the room for a good partner, Arthur hid beneath his desk. “Excuse me, but that is just so inappropriate, little person!” she shouted at Arthur. Arthur groaned and sat up. Ms. Dugginson paired Mark and Arthur together, causing giggles to erupt from the covered mouths of other students.

Arthur shot a cold stare at Mark. Unsure of how to respond, Mark nervously grinned. Arthur’s eyes narrowed, and he pounded his fist into his palm. Mark raised his hand.

“May I go to the bathroom, Ms. Dugginson?” he asked. The teacher nodded and he wheeled toward the boys’ bathroom. Once he was inside the disgusting restroom, he took out a notepad and pencil. On a sheet of paper, he wrote “You wouldn’t hurt a kid in a wheelchair, would you?” Back in the classroom, Mark waited until the teacher wasn’t looking and passed the note to Arthur.

Arthur stared down at the paper. He looked up, and Mark could see the tiniest trace of a smile on his face. Relief washed over him. The teacher continued talking about the poem. Many kids fell asleep; some started fidgeting. They all wanted to make a good impression on the first day of school, but this was getting ridiculous.

Finally, Ms. Dugginson spoke the blessed words: “You may begin.” Mark wasn’t sure what to say.

“So, uh… What’s your name?” Mark asked.

“Arthur,” his partner replied flatly.

“Oh, that’s, um, a nice name. I’m Mark.” This was followed by thirty seconds of silence. Mark squirmed nervously in his chair as Arthur stared blankly at him.

“Well, what do you want to write the poem about?” Mark eventually asked.

“I think we should write about misery and grief,” Arthur answered. Mark carefully considered how to answer this.

“You write about that kind of thing a lot, don’t you?” Mark inquired. Arthur nodded. “Why not try something new, like… I don’t know, school, comedy, or-“ Mark was cut off by a petrifying glare from his writing partner. They continued to debate about the topic of their poem until Ms. Dugginson announced that it was time to move on to the subject of science.

The rest of the first day of school dragged painfully on, and the students cheerfully charged out the door once it was finally over. Mrs. Parker met Mark to escort him to his seat on the school bus. The students loudly complained about school. The bus driver had to remind them many times to shut up.

“Mr. McLane is so mean! He gave me detention for talking in class!” one kid complained.

“I don’t think I actually woke up this morning. I just slept through an entire day of school!” another pupil drearily whined. Mark smiled as he listened to the obnoxiously loud complaints. He had to admit they were pretty funny.

“Keep it down!” the bus driver, Mr. Sarkin shouted. Most of the kids just rolled their eyes and kept on talking. The driver turned around in her seat and screamed, “Shut up!” The students gasped. Mr. Sarkin glared at them, then resumed driving. Just as he turned back around to watch the road, the bus smashed full-speed into the back of a semi truck. Children screamed as they were hurled into the backs of the seats in front of them. The bus driver, who had not bothered to buckle his seatbelt, flew through the windshield, sprinkling shards of glass everywhere as his doomed body smashed against the metal back of the truck in front of him. Mark hit the seat back in front of him head first, and pain shot through his back. His vision blurred until he could see nothing. Mark let out a pitiful moan as he slumped to the floor.

“He has severe spinal damage, and he’s in a coma,” Dr. Thompson explained to Mr. and Mrs. Johnson.

“Will he be all right?” Mrs. Johnson asked worriedly.

“We think your son will come out of the coma in a few days, but…” his voice trailed off.

“But what?!” Mr. Johnson practically yelled.

“He’ll… probably be a quadriplegic.” When the doctor saw the puzzled looks on the parents’ faces, he quickly explained. “He won’t be able to use his arms or legs.” The shocked parents could do nothing but pray for their poor child.

Two days later, Mark awoke to find himself covered in tubes. It’s so embarrassing to be hooked up to an IV, he thought. He tried to pull the tubes out, but his arms wouldn’t move. He attempted again.

“Um, excuse me, I can’t move my arms!” he called out, hoping someone would hear him. His parents rushed into the room.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re alive!” his mom cried as she hugged him so hard she nearly squeezed him to death.

“What do you mean?” Mark asked.

“You were in a bus wreck,” his father explained calmly.

“How come I can’t move my arms?” he asked. His dad painfully explained what had happened to his spinal cord.

“How am I going to move if I can’t use my arms to roll the wheelchair wheels?” Mark inquired.

“We’re getting you a special chair. You can move it by moving your head on the headrest to press buttons,” his mom told him. Mark’s eyes lit up.

“That’s cool!” Mark shouted. His parents couldn’t help but be amazed at his optimism.

Mark remained in the hospital for about a week, and Arthur was chosen to bring him his school assignments. After all, they were writing partners.

The two boys decided to start working on the poem.

“All right, let’s just get this over with,” Arthur grumbled.

“I have a suggestion: Let’s try not to write about something so grim, okay?” Mark said.

“Whatever. After all, you were brutally wounded, so let’s just do everything your way.” Arthur’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.

“That’s awful nice of you!” Mark responded. He could never quite tell if people were being sarcastic. “All right, let’s write about… life.”

“What do you mean by ‘life?’” Arthur questioned.

“You know… life!”

“Whatever.” People said that a lot to Mark. Arthur rolled his eyes.

“I’ll tell you what,” Mark started. “I’ll work on the poem here, you’ll work on the poem at your house, and we’ll see what we have next week.” Arthur shrugged one shoulder, then left. Mark suddenly realized that he couldn’t write if he couldn’t use his arms.

“Mom!” he called. His mother rushed into the room with panic in her eyes. “It’s okay, mom. I just needed your help writing,” he explained. His mother nearly collapsed with relief. Mark told her about his assignment, and she agreed to write the poem for him. Mark talked for about a half an hour, giving his mom the words to write down. Let me guess, she’s proud of me, Mark thought when they were finished for the night.

“I’m so proud of you, my little writer!” his mom exclaimed. Mark rolled his eyes.

“I’m not two years old anymore,” he said. “I learned how to write poetry in school.” His mom said good night as she walked out of the room.

Ten weeks later, at his home, Mark read over what he had written of his poem so far.

Life

Mark Johnson

Life can be easy, and life can be tough;

It all depends on how you deal with stuff.

Nobody ever said you’d have it all your way,

But they also didn’t say that you’d be miserable every day.

You can’t expect your whole life to be just right,

So you’ve got to keep going and fight the good fight.

Even though the world may seem like it’s out to get you,

You know it’s not; you have your good days too.

He smiled as his mom picked him up out of his bed and put him in his chair. Today would be his first day back at school after the accident. He planned on sharing the beginning of the poem with Arthur during recess.

At school, Mark noticed people stared at him as he rolled his head to steer his chair.

“I’m moving my head to press buttons that make my chair move,” Mark explained. The other children’s eyes lit up.

“That’s neat!” one kid shouted. “It almost makes me wish I was paralyzed… almost.” Mark grinned proudly as he headed toward his class.

At recess, Mark found Arthur and decided to show him what he had written of the poem so far. Arthur read it disgustedly.

“How much have you written?” Mark asked.

“Nothing,” Arthur replied.

Mark shook his head. “I’m not supposed to write this poem by myself, you know.” Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Whatever,” he responded indignantly.

“Do you think you could come to my house after school and work on the poem?” Mark called out as Arthur walked away.

“Whatever,” Arthur mumbled.

“You like to say that, don’t you, Arthur?”

“What?”

“You like to say whatever!”

“Whatever,” Arthur answered without thinking. Mark smiled.

After school, Arthur showed up at Mark’s house.

“You know, if you always write about sad stuff, you’re sad most of the time,” Mark reasoned. Arthur rolled his eyes. The kids argued for hours, with Mark using common sense and Arthur using… well, stubbornness. When Mrs. Johnson announced it was time for Arthur to leave, he left quickly with a muttered goodbye. Mark’s mother frowned at Arthur’s rudeness.

“He’s an awfully nice fellow,” she remarked sarcastically.

“Yeah, I know,” Mark replied, completely missing the sarcasm.

At recess the next day, Mark continued to try to convince Arthur to write about something that wasn’t too grim.

“What could I write about that isn’t about misery?” Arthur asked indignantly.

“Well, you could write about the good stuff in your life,” Mark suggested.

“Such as…” Arthur responded. “Oh, I know! I’m only miserable ninety percent of the time! Is that happy enough for you?”

“Maybe that’s because you only write about misery,” Mark reasoned.

“No,” Arthur said flatly. “My dad died last month. My mom’s never home. My brother’s a drug dealer, and I have to live in a foster home.” Mark blinked. Neither kid spoke for the next few minutes. Arthur glared at everyone and everything. The kids on the playground tried not to stare.

“So, uh…” Mark started. “Why can’t you smile sometimes?” Arthur looked straight down at his feet.

“Whatever,” Arthur snapped. He stomped away angrily. Whatever, huh? Mark thought. I wonder what he means by that. Mark shrugged and headed to class when he heard the bell. Through the rest of the day, Mark wondered what Arthur meant exactly. Arthur couldn’t help but also wonder what he meant occasionally. Arthur and Mark didn’t speak to each other for the next few days. Mark went about his boring schoolwork in quiet contemplation. He wasn’t sure what to say to Arthur.

Five days later, Mark was rolling out of the building in his wheelchair when he saw something reflect the sun out of the corner of his eye. He thought nothing of it until he saw other students ducking behind bushes and whimpering. A loud bang resonated throughout the area. Mark realized that what he had seen shining was a gun. He suddenly slumped down and had to gasp for breath. He couldn't feel anything below his neck because of his paralysis, so he felt no pain as the bullet pierced his chest. As he slowly closed his eyes, he saw Arthur running to him.

“Are you all right?” Arthur asked, even though he knew the answer.

“It depends on how you define ‘all right,’” he groaned. “I’m gonna die, but I’m going to heaven. Go hide; I don’t want you to get shot, too.” Reluctantly, Arthur ran off to call 911. One second after he left, a bullet whizzed by right where Arthur had been standing.

Pandemonium broke loose as petrified students sprinted for cover. Someone in front of Arthur was shot, and he fell to the ground. Arthur tripped over the wounded child, smashing his head against the concrete sidewalk. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he heard the wail of a police siren.

Arthur woke up the next day in his bed with an ice pack pressed against his forehead.

“Mrs. Jamison!” he called. The kind foster parent opened the door to his room. “Why do I have an ice pack on my head?”

“You tripped on the sidewalk yesterday during a school shooting, remember?” she replied.

“Oh, yeah,” Arthur mumbled. He slapped himself on the forehead for forgetting, but he immediately regretted it as he felt a sharp, stabbing pain throughout his head.

“Keep that ice pack on your head for a while,” Mrs. Jamison told Arthur. “Then maybe, if you feel up to it, we’ll go to your friend’s funeral.” Suddenly, Arthur remembered what had happened to Mark.

“Whatever,” he muttered. He didn’t like funerals. He didn’t see the point in prolonging the pain of somebody dying. Besides, he hated dressing up.

Mrs. Jamison’s eyes narrowed. “You will go to that funeral,” she said through clenched teeth. “It’s a matter of respect, not of whether or not you want to go!” Arthur sighed. He had heard the same thing about his father’s funeral.

Around 6:00 p.m. that day, Arthur sat in the back seat of Mrs. Jamison’s beat-up, old Volkswagen Golf, staring dejectedly out the window.

When they arrived at the cemetery, Arthur took a seat in one of the metal folding chairs in front of Mark’s coffin. A few minutes later, a man who appeared to be a pastor stood in front of them and began to talk about Mark. Arthur’s mind drifted as the man rambled on and on.

He thought back to his father’s funeral. Arthur didn’t know how his father had died, but he suspected it had something to do with drugs. His father never admitted it, but Arthur knew he was part of a major drug cartel. He remembered the dull preacher talking endlessly about his father. The preacher had never actually met Arthur’s dad, but no one wanted to talk about him, so the preacher got the job.

Somewhere in the middle of the long, boring funeral, a man in dark clothes had wrapped one arm around Arthur’s throat and put his hand over his mouth. The same happened to the other ten people there. The men in dark clothes tied everyone up and placed them in a line in front of the coffin. As the men cocked their guns, Arthur remembered frantically digging in his pocket for his pocketknife. It was difficult to cut the ropes around his wrists, but he had somehow managed to do it. He had leapt at the sound of a gun firing, and he saw a hole blown in the side of the coffin exactly where he had been kneeling just milliseconds ago. All he could remember after that was running. He had run for hours before collapsing on the ground. The men in dark clothes hadn’t bothered to follow him. Once he had calmed down, he had discovered an open wound in his ankle. Apparently, someone had taken another shot at him as he dashed into the woods. He later discovered that the armed men were trying to kill his father’s family because they knew too much.

As his mind drifted back to the present, Arthur leaned down and pulled down his sock. There was still a scar on his ankle.

Arthur glanced around nervously, half expecting armed men to jump out of the bushes any second. He silently scolded himself. I seriously doubt Mark’s family could be involved in any kind of crime other than a speeding ticket. He couldn’t help but smile briefly. The dull service continued for another half an hour, then the pastor announced that anyone could go by the grave and pay their respects to the deceased. Arthur immediately stood up and headed for Mrs. Jamison’s car. Mrs. Jamison blocked his way. She narrowed her eyes. Arthur reluctantly turned around and rolled his eyes.

”Don’t roll your eyes at me, young man,” she whispered. Arthur walked to the end of the line of people in front of the coffin. The mourning people in front of him walked slowly by the coffin, and some placed flowers on top of it. Arthur tapped his feet impatiently. Within a minute, Arthur stood before the large coffin, and his eyes started to water. He angrily blinked back the tears and stared into the open top at Mark’s dead body.

“Whatever,” Arthur muttered bitterly.

During the long ride back home, Mrs. Jamison handed Arthur a piece of paper.

“Mark’s mom told me to give this to you,” she explained. It was Mark’s beginning to the poem. He waited until he was in his small bedroom to crumple it into a ball. He threw it at his trashcan, but missed. He didn’t bother to put it in the can. He quickly undid his tie, took off his uncomfortable shoes, and changed into more comfortable clothes. He lay back in his bed and stared at the ceiling, reflecting on the painful day.

The next day, Mrs. Dugginson told Arthur that he didn’t need to worry about finishing his poem because he didn’t have a partner anymore. Good. Now, I don’t have to write any more of that stupid poem, he thought. He leaned back in his chair as the other students continued working on their poems. Arthur smirked.

After school, and after his homework, Arthur trudged up to his room to read a book. Somehow, he couldn’t concentrate on the gripping story; his eyes kept drifting toward the ball of paper by the trashcan. He rolled his eyes and stared hard at the book.

Throughout the next day of school, Arthur’s mind kept wandering to the wadded-up poem. He had to remind himself repeatedly to do his schoolwork. After school, he hurried through his homework and ran up to his room. He stared at the ball of paper on the floor.

“Whatever,” he mumbled as he watched his hands pick up the paper and un-crinkle it. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” He reluctantly finished the poem:

Life

Mark Johnson

Life can be easy, and life can be tough;

It all depends on how you deal with stuff.

Nobody ever said you’d have it all your way,

But they also didn’t say that you’d be miserable every day.

You can’t expect your whole life to be just right,

So you’ve got to keep going and fight the good fight.

Even though the world may seem like it’s out to get you,

You know it’s not; you have your good days too.

So as time passes by, and this world keeps spinning,

Remember these words of advice, and in life, you’ll be winning:

Don’t take life too hard,

And you will go far.

After reading over the poem, he thought back to the shooting when he had hit his head on the pavement. I guess it took a bonk on the head like Mark to bring me to my senses, he thought. Then, for the first time Arthur could remember, he smiled. Mark had accomplished his mission.