Page 3 of Beautiful Small Things

You likely do not know that he never asked for, nor particularly wanted to have children, as he felt it would crimp his nomadic, pagan lifestyle. But one day, he answered his doorbell and found me, a tiny, infant version of myself, my violet-blue eyes closed tight in a sweet slumber, alone on his front porch.

Pushing my chair back, I examine my words. This is an acceptable place for a story to begin, but it’s hardly the beginning of Marcus’s story. I consider that it may be more advantageous to create a useful composition based on a dull and tedious question by starting from the beginning of his life.

Afterall, who he is now is a reflection of who he was then, and thus applicable to my chosen direction of this paper. Insight into my father and his associations may provide engaging reading for the committee.

At the very least, who he is maintains relevance as it directly relates to why he should be chosen for this honor. A simple Google search can answer that question, so I assume that the good people at this fine committee will enjoy a glimpse into our lives that most people are not privy to.

“Orion, call Dad,” I tell my phone. It rings twice.

“Hey, Trouble. What’s up?” My Dad’s voice crackles through the speakerphone.

“I need to hear more about your younger years,” I say excitedly with no lead in.

“My younger years? Why? What are you doing?” The mild panic in his voice makes me chuckle.

“I’m writing a recommendation essay for the Lochner Awards Foundation. They want to know what distinguishes you from your peers. It’s a simple-minded question, I know, but I’ve found a way to make it tolerable.”

“I’m scared,” he states.

“You’ve lived an intriguing life. I’m especially interested in your childhood and younger years, but I think I need to hear more about your promiscuous college era, as well.”

I hear laughter and hushed voices before my father speaks. “Iris, I’m in a meeting, and you’re on speakerphone.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sure everyone in your presence is well aware of your sexual exploits, and as one such dalliance resulted in my creation, it is pertinent to the story.”

“Jesus,” he exhales heavily. “ It’s not pertinent to my investors, so we will talk later.”

“See you at dinner, Old Man,” I tease. He laughs before hanging up.

The afternoon breeze skirts through my window, ruffling the corner of my poster of Albert Einstein, reminding me that there are likely great waves to catch. I decide my archaic assignment will have to wait until later.

“Orion, play the Beach Boys,” I say, as ‘Good Vibrations’ flows from my speaker. I laugh at my own joke. I named my smart device after my cousin so that I can vicariously boss him around. It’s a shame more people don’t find me funny. I’m very witty.

I change into my bikini and grab my board, throw it on top of my jeep, and make the quick trip to my favorite surf spot, continuing to listen to ‘The Beach Boys’ the entire time.

Chapter two

Little Marcus

Marcus

My daughter never ceases to surprise me. From the moment she arrived on my doorstep, turning my life upside down, it has been an adventure. I kick my legs up on my desk and fold my hands together, letting my head drop back as I ponder the afternoon’s events.

This company made millions of dollars today. Still, there are more interesting things that happened. My phone call from Iris topped it easily. Everyone in the room got a big laugh about our conversation. I’m reasonably confident I won’t shake my new moniker, ‘Man-whore Marcus,’ anytime soon.

She says she wants more stories about me. Those I have. In droves. Some are appropriate, and some are not so appropriate. We can safely start with a few of me as a kid. Although, I wasn’t much different then than I am now, sadly.

Marcus - Age 4

“Marcus, I’m going to have to call your mom,” Mrs. Smiley tells me. I like Mrs. Smiley. She’s my favorite teacher. She has brown Lego hair, saturated in so much hair spray that all the hairs have fused together into a shiny immobilized coif resembling a helmet. She also has kind eyes. We all think it’s funny that her name is Smiley and she is always smiling. She’s also really tiny. I think that’s why she teaches pre-kindergarten. By second grade, her students would be bigger than her.

But right now, she isn’t smiling. She’s doing her best to maintain control of the class, who have been relocated outside to the front lawn because of my “audacity.” I don’t know what that means, but all of the adults seem to agree that it describes me well.

I can’t say I didn’t see this one coming. It was a bad decision from the beginning. Someone gave me a can of fart spray as a joke for my birthday. I was warned not to spray it inside the house or take it to school. My mom even tried to hide it in the garage with the intention of throwing it away, but I found it and fished it out of the dusty box and put it in my backpack. I just couldn’t resist.

I like to make people laugh. I’m told I don’t always consider “the consequences of my actions,” whatever that means. I don’t think much past the payoff of making people laugh. It makes me feel good, and I like it.

“Marcus,” Mrs. Smiley says more firmly. “Are you even listening to me? I’m going to have to call your mom.”