The Tower of Blue

2

 

THE TOWER

 

 

 

 

 

The rain started to pick up. Arnold Blue tightened his grip on the handlebar of the steel shopping cart and pushed the Tower through the mud. The wheels of the cart cut through the muck, flinging debris at his ankles. He paid no attention to it. To his side, cars and trucks sped along the burning asphalt of the freeway, drowning out the sounds of his struggle. He was heading north, as far as he could go, until he couldn’t recognize anything around him.

Across twisted highways, through lush fields, and over towering mountains separated by vast stretches of open land, Arnold pushed the Tower. From a distance, its silhouette was that of a warped spire skimming the edge of the horizon. It was a foreign structure, and it was taking its very first steps.

Arnold continued through the night, pushing and steering, even as the rain subsided and he had the opportunity to rest. Things rolled off the sides of the Tower with every bump in the road, but he paid them no mind. For now, everything was replaceable, except for the time he needed to get away.

Dawn broke and Arnold finally released his grip on the handlebar, his hands sore and red. He stared up at his creation: a fifteen-foot-tall towering monument, a collection of everything he and his family had come to own. The determination he’d felt less than twelve hours ago eclipsed all his doubts, and despite the fear and uncertainty, Arnold had achieved the impossible: he had created the Tower.

The sun peeked over the horizon. He was far enough now. Today was the first day of the rest of Arnold’s life.

He collapsed to the ground, exhaustion catching up with him. He swallowed deep gulps of air as he looked up at the Tower. Just as he did, it started lurching to the side, inching toward the ground. A bright orange leather bag came tumbling down. Arnold shot up and grabbed hold of the cart, pivoting the Tower upright. Underneath the steel shopping cart was a slab of wood he’d fastened to act as a kickstand for when the Tower needed to stand on its own. He swept his foot underneath and kicked the stand into place. He backed away slowly and the Tower stood tall.

He bent down and picked up the orange bag, recognizing it immediately. The unmistakable hue stood out among the various blues and blacks back home. The grained calfskin leather had been perfectly hand-stitched and detailed with the utmost care. Even the little clochette that hung from the silver-plated handle—it was all crafted to invoke some kind of societal importance. He opened it up to find a surplus of makeup and accessories, everything from brushes to lipsticks. He turned the bag upside down and dumped its contents onto the ground. He sniffed the empty bag and breathed in deeply. It had a sweet tinge that bounced around his nostrils. It smelled as if every pleasurable moment he’d ever experienced had been crammed into a space that fit into the palms of his hands. One whiff, and he understood how addictive that smell could become. He pulled his face away and tossed the bag over his shoulder.

The rest of the day carried on this way. Items that came loose from the Tower continued to roll off the sides no matter how carefully he maneuvered. Each time it happened, it was a spectacle. Arnold played a little game in his head, counting how many times the item would roll before hitting the ground. It was the only thing keeping him from thinking too much about all the things he was losing. A swirl of emotions twisted in his stomach. A layer of guilt lay hidden just underneath his glossy eyes. It was a strange sensation he was unfamiliar with. He had to stop and sit down.

Arnold pulled a wooden plank from underneath the cart and slid it toward him. It was about the width of the cart and, when fully extended, was twice as long, just large enough for him to lie down on. Underneath the plank, he pushed another wooden kickstand into the ground. He stepped onto the plank and climbed a nearby boulder roughly twelve feet high, more than double his own height. He sat down and leaned back on his hands.

He closed his eyes and looked toward the sky to soak in the warm glow. A rush of heat pumped through his veins and he breathed out a long sigh. He tuned in to his surroundings, listening to birds chirping to one another. He opened his eyes again and watched the birds soar above him and into the distance, over the open landscape of the flatlands in front of him. He watched until the birds aligned with the sun, and he stared into it for a moment before lowering his head.

Out near the horizon, a tall, shadowy figure appeared. It was an unearthly shape, like nothing Arnold had seen before. He rubbed his eyes, trying to make it out, but the black spots in his vision from staring at the sun expanded with every blink. The figure seemed to be facing his way, remaining still. A breeze wisped by. Shivers shot down Arnold’s spine. The Tower creaked and bobbed gently. He slowly got up to his feet, but as he did, the figure vanished.

“What was that?” he said, looking at the Tower as if it might answer. Then he stared back toward the horizon.

He hopped down and searched inside the Tower, pulling out a pair of sunglasses. These were his father’s, and badly scratched, perhaps by some object in the Tower they had grinded up against. He slid the glasses on and looked to the horizon once more. The figure was still nowhere to be seen.

“A mirage,” he thought out loud.

The unfamiliar terrain started to close in on him, and he was feeling claustrophobic. He thought it best to keep on. The world felt less like what he had seen on television and more like what he had seen in his imagination. It was unnerving, but not enough to stop him. He wanted to see more.

After three days of traveling, Arnold found a map inside the Tower and used it to trace a path north from his hometown. During the happiest parts of his childhood, he and his family had taken frequent summer road trips to beaches and lake houses. In those times, a paper map was their greatest asset for finding their way. Now, after years of neglect, the map had faded. He tried to quantify what three days of stop-and-go looked like, but there was no real way of knowing, so he folded the map and tore it into pieces. If he was going to fully commit himself, he had to eliminate any potential temptations to turn around. He knew that if there were an opportunity to go back, he would eventually give in. Without the map to navigate his way home, he had no other choice but to keep moving forward. He would follow his path north and trust in his decision.

“Rises in the east, sets in the west, right?” he asked the Tower.

Again, it gave no answer.

From the beginning, the Tower required a lot of Arnold’s attention. When the road became harsh, a loose can or a remote to one of the Blue televisions tumbled down the side. He always had to be on the lookout for objects threatening to fall on him.

This became very clear when, during a particularly steep climb up a hill, Arnold noticed a corner of a blanket poking out of the Tower. Curious, he pulled at it, unhinging a toaster that crashed down, just missing his head.

If he was going to make it much farther without breaking any bones, he would have to pick through the Tower carefully. The Tower was like a newborn puppy; it had to learn how to walk beside him and he had to learn how to coexist with it. But despite the rough start, the Tower held—and the only real test, Arnold found, challenged his own psyche.

Just a few days removed from home, uncertainty crept into the crevices of his mind. Every item that fell from the Tower invoked a memory he couldn’t help but reminisce about. Things he had collected over the years and forgotten suddenly gained new life—old picture books he used to thumb through when he was a child, toys of block men he’d built castles for, CDs of old games that didn’t run properly on his current computer, a shoebox of old photos from elementary school. They all found salvation from a lifetime buried in dust, thanks to the Tower.

Arnold sat in the dirt and sifted through the items, confronting the memories of each one, paying his respects to a past he had chosen to run away from. He realized that these items made the Tower feel like a friend. It was the other things, the things that belonged to his parents, that made the anger in him burn bright. The feeling of nostalgia was strong, and he hadn’t prepared for these conflicting emotions. He thought he could ride forward with nothing but anger in him, but he was wrong.

The flatlands he traversed now gave way to smooth hills. After that, the ground became flat again, with more vegetation and grass. He came around the bend of a particularly rocky section, descending to the flat, grassy plains. Just a few inches into the field, the Tower stalled, eating up chunks of grass in every wheel. With the abrupt stop, the handlebar of the cart jammed into him. He let out a grunt and rubbed his chest, then swept his foot under the cart to dig the kickstand into the ground.

“Ouch.” He looked up at the Tower, as if expecting some sort of apology.

With the Tower parked, Arnold walked to the side of the cart and kneeled down.

“Dirt, grass, weeds … everything’s in here,” he declared with a groan.

The Tower creaked.

He dug a finger in between the wheel and the metal plates bolted to each side and flung away some of the caked-on muck, surprised at how easily it had compacted. He saw now that the plates were not secured as tightly as they should have been.

He stood up and walked to the back of the Tower, reaching underneath...