Story Time

I stepped down off the last stair from the attic and left the light behind. I gave a cursory glance at an armoire and headed downstairs. Once I got there, a hand appeared out of nowhere to shove a red solo cup in my face. I muttered a thanks to the passing bro without meeting his eyes.

Maybe I should back up. This was my first college party, and I didn’t really know anyone there. I wasn’t even in college yet, to be honest. But my brother was already partying hard at fourteen, and had gotten progressively more ambitious in his exploits in the past year. What with him getting in trouble every other day, my parents had long since forgotten about me.

So when I went to the party, it was with the intent of getting in a little trouble. Nothing too crazy, mind you, but maybe if I came home hungover, my parents might notice me for once. I resolved to go to the party on Saturday, and come home Sunday morning...not necessarily a man, but more grown up than when I’d left.

The booze tasted exactly how I had expected it to: terrible. I forced it down anyway, instinctively knowing (so I thought) it was the cool thing to do.

I wandered around with my beer, only halfway recognizing these older kids from around town. I raised my eyebrows when I saw someone start bringing in a drum set. Clearly there was going to be live music, and from what little I knew of college rock bands, I didn’t expect to like it much. I kept an ear out for sirens. I wasn’t so ready to grow up that I wanted to get caught if the police showed up.

I liked being in the old house, though, indeed much more than I liked being around the people in it. After I had explored the ground floor, where a few couples were only huddled close together and talking, I made my way up the staircase near the back of the house. Upstairs, I spotted more couples finding rooms together and shutting the doors behind them. I may be innocent, but not naïve enough to doubt what was happening behind those doors.

Downstairs, the band started playing. They were loud, as college bands often were, with a drummer and guitarist that covered up the bass and vocalist, so that you could barely make out any words. I grimaced. I was right about not liking it. I kept walking and admired an armoire in the hallway. Whoever owned the place, I thought, they must have been loaded to afford all of the pieces in this house. The armoire itself had some of the most detailed woodworking I had ever seen. I could make out various nursery rhyme characters on it, like Mary with her little lamb, Humpty Dumpty, and the cat with the fiddle.

It was as I passed a door with a heavy brass handle that I heard a voice distinctly call out, “Hey, could you keep it down? I can’t think up here!”

Curious as to who on earth had come to this party assuming they could get any thinking done at it, I approached the door and turned the handle. It opened onto a narrow staircase, with only a dim light coming from beyond the landing at the top. I stepped in and closed the door, lighting the flashlight on my cell phone as I ascended.

“Hello?” I said hesitantly, seeing a figure sitting with his back to me. He looked very thin, and what little hair was on his head was the color of dirty snow. He turned around at my voice, and I recoiled slightly.

His eyes were black and sunken, and most of the teeth had gone from his mouth. From the wrinkles on his face and neck, he must have been about seventy years old. His skin wasn’t leathery like my grandfather’s was, earned in the sun. It was pale and waxy, and looked as though he hadn’t been outside in fifty years. His clothes were faded and ragged so that I couldn’t tell what color his shirt used to be. The dim light was, surprisingly, coming from a cell phone in his lap.

“Who are you?” I asked in what I hoped was a friendly tone, but it rang in my ears like an accusation.

“Tell me a story,” said the old man. It was almost pleading, the way he said it. “Have a seat.”

“Who are you?” I asked again. “Do you live here? Are you okay with the party downstairs?”

He looked down at the phone in his lap. “I can’t quite remember now. It may come to me soon.” He looked back up at me, and the black eyes glinted. “Tell me a story, and I will try to remember.”

His words caught me by such surprise that I couldn’t help but take a seat in front of him, with my back to the staircase. “What sort of story would you like to hear?”

He chewed on his lip. “I don’t know any stories myself. I think I did once, a long time ago, but they’re all gone now.” He held both hands up, cupped together, and then separated them. “All gone.”

I thought for a moment. I didn’t know this man, and it was clear that he didn’t know himself. I thought about going back downstairs, but I found I now didn’t care to be a part of anything down there. I didn’t know anyone there, and soon questions would be asked if I was noticed too much. I couldn’t go home though, not so soon, leaving adult adventures unhad. Whatever stories I told this man, I would certainly have one to tell when I got home.

“Tell me a story,” said the old man again, and I started speaking without any more hesitation.

I spoke to him of the stories I had grown up with, of nursery rhymes and fairy tales. I told him of Humpty Dumpty and Cinderella and Peter Pan. The stories came to my mind easily and flowed out through my mouth like a river of words. I surprised myself with how readily all of the Disney movies I had ever seen rushed forward to my consciousness, and I just kept on talking, because the man kept listening.

I wasn’t aware of time anymore, and I forgot about the party downstairs, now being interrupted by police. As I moved from fairy tales to books I had read and movies I had seen, I forgot about my brother, who was always getting into trouble. I spoke of all of the Joseph Campbell heroes, of Arthur and his knights, of hobbits and their magic ring, of wizards, and of galaxies far, far away. I forgot about my parents, who had ceased to worry about my well-being as their attention was swallowed by my brother.

As I ran out of stories to tell, I began to tell this old man, who was not looking quite so old anymore, of my own life. I told him about being in band, and for some reason forgot what I played. I told him about building an electromagnet for a science project, and forgot what a magnet did. The man was looking younger, his sandy blond hair fuller. His shirt was striped with blue and green, and his blue jeans were faded, but with no holes in them. His eyes had become a deep green color, and I found myself lost in them.

It was then that I realized I had told every story I had ever known, and that I no longer knew any of the stories at all. My eyes widened when I discovered that I no longer knew who I was. I didn’t stop the young man as he took the lit up device in his lap, stood up, and disappeared behind me. I heard a door open and close.

I’m not sure how much time passed, but much later, as I tried to remember who I was, I heard loud noises coming from beneath me. “Hey, could you keep it down?” I called. “I can’t think up here!”

I heard a door open and close, heard footsteps on the stairs, and realized a light was growing brighter behind me. “Hello?” said a voice, and I turned around. There was a vaguely familiar face staring at me, but I couldn’t quite place it. He had light hair and a striped shirt. The light came from something he held in his hand.

“Who are you?” he asked in a shaking voice.

“Tell me a story,” I begged him.