The White Room

Robert James

              I couldn’t tell you how long I’ve been here. Ever since my conviction I’ve been trapped in the same mundane routine, day after grueling day. Most of the people here belong here, but me, I’m guilty of nothing more than being an opportunist. I’m glad I’m here, the rooms are nicer with white walls, floors, and ceilings, certainly better than the greyscale alternative. I could do without the incessant glare of those fluorescent lights, but I love having my own private bathroom. Don’t let the word bathroom fool you though, it’s a closet painted white, with a white toilet and a white sink, but it’s better than a shared bucket and most important, it’s mine. Everything here is white, even the tray they serve lunch on. When we are lucky, we eat lunch outside with the other inpatients and see the “trees and breeze” as they call it.  After those rare (and welcomed) occasions, my room smells like lemon and bleach for 2 days. It’s a nice change of scenery.

              You see, I don’t share well. If I see something I like, I take it. It started in college while studying accounting. I wanted the fast cars, the money, and the summer homes so I applied myself. I befriended the professors, got the inside tips. I would bring the advisors lunch and gossip long enough to know the easiest courses to take. I even talked old professor Curt into giving me the questions for our final. Then when I finished my degree, Curt got me a job at his friend’s firm where I started cooking the books on day one. I took anything I could. If a dollar could go missing, it would find its way into my account. The company paid for all my travel, dining, hell, they even bought my suits. I whitewashed everything. My only mistake was I got careless and my picture-perfect island vacations turned to courtroom discussions overnight.

              Jail doesn’t seem like a place for people like me. I didn’t hurt anyone. All the stolen money was covered by insurance, and insurance companies are the devil, no harm done. Still, I took my lawyer’s advice like any reasonable client would. Now I sit in this room, counting the stitching on the walls, waiting for the nurse to bring the next cup of water with half a sandwich and a rainbow of pills on that damn white lunch tray.

The Invisible Man

Robert James

              I waited in line for 3 hours to see The Invisible Man. It was my 11^th birthday present from Uncle Ricky, a meet and greet and autograph from The Invisible Man in person. I love The Invisible Man’s games. I own every board game (My favorite being Higher or Lower) and the video game Moroccan Winter. I begged mom every day for a computer that year, and come Christmas, Santa brought me a computer with Moroccan Winter. I must have played 500 hours of that game in the 2 and a half years I’ve owned it, and I still can’t wait to play again.

              Uncle Ricky was always the cool Uncle; he introduced me to The Invisible Man. He told stories of meet and greets where some fans fainted, others screamed, and most stared in awe. They had gone to parties that never ended. My Uncle Ricky was the first person to play Higher or Lower! I was hooked. What was there not to love? The Invisible Man makes games, throws parties, and signs autographs, it was all I could think about. Every day I quizzed Uncle Ricky on the address of the hotel, the conference hall number, and what time it started. Twice a day I would check that I still had the picture for my autograph (my character from Moroccan Winter). It didn’t feel real standing there about to meet my idol.

              I knew there would be a wait, but I didn’t realize how painful it would be. The carpet’s pattern repeating endlessly as the elevator chime became a constant 3 hour ring. It felt like a runway to purgatory. At last, the girl before me was allowed in with her mother. I heard her scream from behind the door but couldn’t tell if it was excitement or fear. It made me nervous. I remember feeling overwhelmed, anxious, and I stared to sweat. When I turned for help, the door opened and the girl and her mother walked out.

“I saw The Invisible Man! I saw The Invisible Man!”, she cried.

” I know honey wasn’t that so nice?!”.

The security guard turned to us.

“Ready champ?”.

“We sure are!” cried Uncle Richard. It was too late to run. I took a deep breath and nodded my head.

              We walked into a room with 12 ft ceilings and enough space to hold a small concert. Every footstep echoed as we walked toward a striped lilac sundress floating under a tilted white Sun Hat. The dressed swayed in the air as we approached and with her seductive voice asked.

“Hello, what’s your name?”

“Ben” I replied, too shy to look up from the floor.

“Is that you in Moroccan Winter?” she asked as the sleeve of the dress gestured towards my picture. I kept my gaze on the floor but nodded in approval. She asked more questions, but I was too nervous to reply. Uncle Ricky answered a few for me as she signed my picture and thanked us. I was speechless on the drive home.

              The picture is on display on my bedroom wall, It’s the first thing I show guests when they visit. Uncle Ricky started bragging about how cool he is for taking me, and all my friends are jealous. We still play countless hours of Moroccan Winter and we’ve all preordered Moroccan Winter 2. I’ll never forget meeting The Invisible Man , I only wish I had the courage to thank her for the memories.