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The Way They Are

By Kraftwerker AKA somefurrypersoniguess

"You should come around more often, Mr. Hawkins! It's been a long while since you ate in this here humble restaurant!"

Ever wondered how in those sweet little moments life doesn't go the way you want but goes even better than expected, you still feel rather empty inside?

'This here humble restaurant' acting as a front for a smugglers to stash contraband from Canada in, right here in San Francisco. I'm not involved, I just act like I don't know. It's not hurting anyone, at least not that I know of. And even if it were, what am I against something that might be a hornet's nest at least a hundred times bigger than the one I'm already part of?

This hornet's nest, the one responsible for most of the treasure I find, the coverage of my identity and my protection, the one that gave me a job which I grinded for a fortune I'm not supposed to disclose. I'm rich, yet, I'm not. I like to believe I'm not rich. I'm not smug, snobbish or full of myself. Besides, I'm not the only hornet in this nest. There are better, angrier ones than me. Some of those like to have coins dropped in their coffee mug, dress dirty and live out in the streets, even while having millions behind their fake name.

This has me wondering; how knee-deep into this am I? How far do my knees sink in this greed? Has it overtaken my waist and reaching for my nostrils? I endanger myself and one more for the thrill of adventure, pride and fortune. At first, it was fun. Now, it's my duty. I don't know if I like it.

I wish I had learned guitar. I could have formed a garage band and played some grungy tunes while the neighbors were trying to sleep. Something casual, something a misguided young adult in life would do when they had no clue where to take their life to, only to find their passion.

I found my passion. My passion was cruising through the deserts of Arizona, to the cold forests of Minnesota. The treasure hunting? My second passion, the one that granted me where I currently am. But now? It's my role in life. My income, my security and my support. Is it worth it? Risk and reward, almost weekly?

Living under the fake name of Jim Hawkins. At first, just some fake papers and cards, but now, an alter ego, another me. Jim Hawkins, a man full of greed, fearless of killing for his life and his companions, but overall, just a crazed fortune seeker lunatic. Then, there's the real me. The original me. Jean Poole, a man...

And that's it. A man.

I crossed the road along a crowd of five or six other people. The warm Californian sun was warm orange in the distance, sinking into the ocean waters from our perspective. I'd always a picture a silent "tssssssss" as it would set. Sometimes I would even do the noise with my mouth, just like how I would when I were younger. Just one of the few things I carried along with myself from my childhood. Some parts of our brains just don't grow, which can be a good thing and a bad thing.

I turned right, two of the ones from that crowd following with me while the rest went their separate ways. A red roofless car drove past us, a lowrider type. It has been raining quite often in San Francisco, not today in particular, but I always wondered what the owner would do with a car like those under the rain. Put an umbrella over their head and drive one handed? This car in particular didn't have one of those roofs that'd retract and extend. I guess people who drive lowriders just have a sixth sense that warns them of rainy days. If so, they'd do good weather people for the weather channel.

I turned left next avenue and kept walking straight. My house was the last one on that row of houses. It had a good view of the docks, even though it wasn't right next to it. That'd be another few blocks down.

I went up my porch, unlocked my front door and walked right in, shutting the door behind me and locking it. Right away, I flick on the lights to my hallway, which extended a fair bit forwards, with doors to my garage, living room, kitchen and supply closet. Over the walls, are paintings and pictures, bought at souvenir stores around San Francisco, while some are from other states. Pictures of the beach, the Golden Gate, Pier 39, Alcatraz, the Victorian Houses and more. I could spend hours talking about the type of paintings I collect for my house. When I'm not outside looking at breathtaking spots, they're right here, on my walls.

I take a quick look at my potted plants around. All watered, vibrantly green. I wish I could bring some from my adventures. I'd enjoy having a cactus in my hallway, almost reaching the ceiling. In case a home intruder would try to force their way in, I could just throw it at them.

With slow steps, I made my way to my living room. The lights were off and I preferred to keep it that way. The natural light of the orange sun shined right through my blinds. The visual effect was wonderful, especially with the ones somewhat rolled up. Dust particles floated around in the highlighted areas of the sun and shadows of passing vehicles would momentarily cut off light access.

Many years ago, my dream home was exactly this. Tropical, warm, beautiful. And to think merely a few years ago, I was living in a hotel with a severe case of missing prostitutes, gangsters and a crazy neighbor who booby-trapped his room to explode in case the Secret Service would ever knock at his door. While I never heard any explosions next door from living there, I could always hear the sound of arguing, loud rap beats, gunshots and rough sex. Sleeping was for the few.

My LCD TV remained turned off. Yes, it could be a LED TV, but I don't like buying too many expensive things. I like to keep things medium-class and only go high-class for things I'd find useful. For example, my drone, which sat dormant upstairs. Taking photos of Oakland with that thing is always awesome, even if somewhat illegal. Reminds me of the time I sat on the back of a friend's pick-up truck and had it chase us around the area. We even went over the Golden Gate with the drone still in the air. Yes, that was dumb, because being outside of a car while going over the Golden Gate on winter is a horrible idea.

Right next to the living room, was the kitchen. No walls separated one room from another, the only difference being the change of tiles on the floor. One small table, two chairs, even though I lived alone. The other chair was for any guests I'd have inside. Fridge, counters, oven, the usual kitchen stuff. I had eaten out of home today because my cooking skills have been rather scrambled ever since I came back from one week in Ohio, having food made for me while I stayed at a friend's house. Cooking isn't my best, I can do five different dishes, three of which are native to my home country and I might be the only one in my neighborhood who prepares them over and over again almost daily. I was taught cooking when younger mostly by my mom. That's the farthest I want to go with that information.

I went back to my hallway and just went down it, reaching the end of it and going through the door that'd take me upstairs. I had a staircase at the center that led to the top floor in an U-turn sort of way. Heading up, was the bathroom and, right on the wall next to it, was the door to my bedroom. Double bed, laptop on it, another LCD TV resting on the dresser, with another potted plant on it, right behind the TV, kind of oddly placed, but I never wanted to move it.

If I had to count, my house had around thirteen plants in it. A lot? Yeah, but I like them. I don't know what my fascination with plants is, I'm not even big on nature and agriculture. I just adore them. They make things somewhat less dull. You can have the cutest wallpaper and the cleanest floor, but nothing beats having a nice looking plant around.

Through the window above my bed, I could see the front street and a little of the roof of the floor below. In case of emergency, I could always come out this window, hang onto the lower roof and escape after landing on the porch's stairs, preferably on my feet.

Next to my closet, was the final door. The door to my attic, which also had a hatch that went downstairs to the center of the kitchen area. There was all of the stuff I didn't know where to put. Vacuum cleaner, read magazines I wanted to keep, newspaper clippings glued on the wall along with ripped posters I only stuck up there to keep it somewhat appealing. That's where I kept all the product boxes I had no use for anymore, along with some chests with old junk inside like old clothing, tools, pots and kettles and photographs I don't want to look at anymore.

Nothing spooky goes on in there except for the Halloween decorations. I used to hang a fake skeleton on the wall which one would see right after opening the door, even gave it the name of Bob Rattlebones. I took it down after Tundra decided to go in there at 2 AM last year to find a rusty wooden spoon I had borrowed from her and had forgotten to give back. Expectably, she and her cup of water she dropped were not happy. Poor Mr. Rattlebones.

Then, I heard knocks downstairs, followed a muffled voice on my front door. Whoever it were either was shouting or had a very energetic pair of vocal chords. What they said went without understanding considering where I were, but the voice sounded female.

I went back downstairs and made my way to my front door. As the knocks went on it again, this time lacking an accompanying voice, I shouted, "One second!" As I got to the front door, I tried to immediately pull it open, only to realize I had locked it, "Oh, uh, two seconds!" I called out as I quickly reached for the keys in my back pocket and unlocked the door, pulling it open to reveal Tundra.

Tundra Fay Jones, my partner in crime, or so she calls herself and me. Not really my favorite term, but it's the one we roll with. Canadian, just a few years older than me, but from her vibrant personality, you'd swear she'd be younger. Ex-cop for the Toronto Police Department too. I owe her much for my survival in some tough situations where badly trained me would've gotten his shit kicked out twice. She trained me with my expandable baton, some regular good ol' fisticuffs and even teached me to not hold my P2000 like an idiot. Finger off the trigger, safety off, don't point it at something you don't want dead. Simple enough, but too complex at the time for younger me to understand. It's good that the only thing I accidentally shot was a chair at a friend's house, even though he were none too happy. That was the day she decided to discipline me.

"Hey Jean," she smiled at me behind those two sharp fangs, "how've you been?" She asked me. Her blue hair waved slightly in the wind along with her white body fur. Apparently things were getting cold again in this San Francisco evening.

"I've been just fine." I responded, smiling in return to her. Though, she tilted her head.

"Just fine? That's what you've been repeating for days now."

"Yeah...is...that a problem?" I confusedly responded. Tundra laughed briefly, shaking her head, dismissively waving her hand.

"Don't worry about it. Can I come in? Rain's about to pour down and I don't think I have enough time to bike back to my apartment."

"Oh, sure, sure, you can come in." I nodded as I took some steps back, making way for her, "You can bring your bike in here if you want. Just place it against the wall?"

"You sure?" She asked as she reached for the bicycle's handles, "You know how these roads are."

"No worries, I've been thinking about mopping up the house recently. Maybe you could help."

"Hah, I'll think about it, bud." She walked with her bike inside, resting it against the wall. I went to shut the door, locking it again and stuffing the keys back inside my back pocket.

Tundra and I weren't lovers, even if we seemed to be the type fit for each other. Friendship is something we decided to value the most in a relationship that has already plunged itself into the lifestyle we chose. Fortune seeking. Being lovers in such case could make things...complicated, as I've learned before. We're both in this, yet, we don't thing dedicating our lives to each other would be worth it, at least not right now and specially, not so soon. Neither of us are ready and we both prefer sticking to the friendzone, if that's what you want to call it. I'm fine with it and so is she.

"Man, that lowrider guy better find a garage." I remarked to myself as I crossed my arms, leaning against my wall.

"The red one? You saw him too?" Tundra looked up to me, "The bastard nearly ran me over and honked at me. Maybe he saw that the clouds were turning black and got in a rush."

I chuckled, "Should've gotten a roof."

Tundra took a moment to look up and down at me, "Are those new clothes?"

"Hm? Ah, yeah, they are." I looked down at myself. I had finally broke the loop of wearing the same similar jacket, shirt, jeans and shoes and gone for something else. While the jeans remained, I had gotten a new green, Travis Bickle sort-of jacket. Unfortunately, it didn't have any of the cool patches, but that didn't mean I could get them later. Underneath, was just a black tank top, "Give me sunglasses and a mohawk and maybe I can become a taxi driver."

"...You honestly look like a gas station attendant." She laughed, simply wandering right into my living room afterwards. I turned to her, following her in.

"No, I don't!" I shouted, feigning to be mad, "While I'm wearing this, you should be calling me Robert!"

"What do you say whenever a customer drives in, Rob?" She vaulted over my couch as she used to do, landing on it on her rear and reaching for the remote, "You talkin' to me?'" She made a finger gun with her hand while looking at me.

"Yeah, I do that while holding the fuel nozzle at them and squirting gas on their face."

I sat next to her, kicking off my red sneakers and not putting my feet up on the small glass table right in front of the couch, over the yellow carpet. On it was, you guessed it, another potted plant and a book I hadn't yet read. Captain Underpants #7. Tundra took notice of it.

"...Jean, don't tell me you read middle school books."

"Uh...yeah, I do." I shrugged as I turned my head to her, "I have the entire Diary of a Wimpy Kid anthology in my dresser upstairs. They're funny, ironically and unironically."

"...Right." She nodded, giving me a sarcastic smirk with a snicker, "Still holding onto the past, huh?"

I laughed, "Not really, no...been moving on a lot from things."

"Is that so?" She questioned. I kept looking at the reflection of both of us on the TV, "...Well, if you say so." She pointed the remote at it and turned it on. Right away she'd go to Netflix, browsing curiously on my recently watched list. I let her, after all, it's not like there was anything embarrassing there.

I noticed the droplets of rain hitting the windows, all while the outside began to turn a light shade of blue, darkening the ambience inside the living room, the only light coming from the TV and the hallway behind us, "...I'll turn on the lights."

"No, no, don't bother. I like it this way."

"Suit yourself." I crossed my arms. Movie after movie scrolled past, TV show after TV show. One of my eyes turned to the remote and how her thumb vigorously kept tapping on the directional buttons. The droplets of rain outside hit the window growlingly harder. I heard the passing sounds of cars probably heading home, kicking up water onto the sidewalk. I heard the wind blow against the house, making that creepy noise I dreaded as a kid, but grew to adore. I heard people walking and running outside, a car door closing, horns in the distance.

In my mind, I could picture a soft synthesizer playing a soft, continuous relaxing drone. She kept tapping on that controller. Her lips moved but I could not hear what she were saying. In my mind, I drifted. A second synth joins in, making a soft, continuous melody at a higher tone.

This is me. I'm Jean Poole. I live in San Francisco, California. I have the house of my dreams and a friend I would never be the same without. My body is here and grounded but my mind is free and limitless. I know everyone and everyone knows me. I love them and they love me back, in this temporary bliss caused by Californian rain. In this bliss, I am the person I wanted to be. But only for this bliss. Only for now.

"Jean!" Tundra shook me on the shoulder, bringing me crashing back down to the real world, "You drifted again, didn't you?" She asked, giggling like a schoolgirl.

"Yeah, I...I did." I rubbed my forehead, trying to recollect myself. What was I thinking of? I can't remember. Probably nothing important, "Did you find what you wanna watch?"

"Yeah! Bojack!"

"Bojack Horseman? Man, I haven't watched that show in a while. I stopped at the fourth season. I was excited to continue, but...I dunno, I felt like I had to stop."

"You...had to stop?" She asked, tilting her head, furrowing her brows.

"Yeah, just...felt like I had to pursue my own thing after getting inspired enough."

"Oh, are you talking about that slice-of-life novel that you wrote by the end middle of last year?"

"Yeah, that one...the one that didn't go anywhere."

Tundra gave me a soft pat on the shoulder, "Oh, don't be like that, man. It went places. I enjoyed it a lot! You really wrote your heart into those pages, hun."

"I wanted to finish it, but I just lost interest, as usual. I don't consider that a win. I just consider it a failure." I sighed, looking up to the ceiling, "What's the point of doing something if you won't finish it?"

"Hey...every finished page was a victory, Jean. I saw your writing go better and better. I loved watching that, just like how I loved watching you improve your melee combat."

"...I haven't written in a while now, though. What if I got rusty? What if I'm back at stake one?"

"You're not. Writing is muscle memory, Jean, just like fighting. Once you learn, it's part of you. It's something you don't forget."

"Hm...guess you're right."

She smiled at me, gave my shoulder some rubs, "Don't worry about it for now. Just remember that when you want company to help your writing, I'm always there. I'm no writer myself, but, hey, I wanted to be a cheerleader in high school and...even though I completely failed at that, my desire for cheering people on never died down."

"...I can imagine you doing that." I chuckled, "How'd you fail it though?"

"Well, back at the time, let's just say I wasn't the most fit type. I mean, I'm still kinda fat even nowadays, but I'm much more athletic, right?"

I nodded my head.

"Well, I was completely willing to lose some weight through the year if it meant I could join the cheerleading team. For the first weeks, I put my best into it, but then...well, my mood for it was killed when the cheerleading team itself I wanted to join began gossiping around that 'the fat big-toothed girl wants to join us'. My best friend told me that, heard it from one of the girls in the locker room."

"What total bitches." I spitefully commented.

"Yeah, right? Didn't want to cheerlead after that. But just to get back at those jerks, I continued to lose weight anyway. Look at me now." She pulled up her shirt just a little to show her furred stomach. Tundra still had some fat present, but her type had become much more athletic, especially after she began hanging out with me. She's still trying to get rid of that little remaining fat from her body with gym work and diets, but, it just kind of remains there.

I could tell that this little fat remaining in her troubles her. Many times where we'd go shopping together, she'd argue that something doesn't fit her just because a little bit of her belly pokes out. Trying to tell her to not worry about it is like arguing against a wall. These diets she goes through sometimes puts her through fasting. And yet, that little piece of fat just never goes away.

I've tried telling her that maybe it's natural to her body, but she doesn't listen. She wants it gone, but nothing she does gets rid of it. She's been considering surgery lately but I've been trying to convince her to not go through with it and just let it go. While the surgery is something she's postponing, the 'let it go' part isn't really going anywhere, no pun intended.

I remember the time she even asked me if I thought she were fat. Yes, that same stereotypical cliché question I've heard around, in those exact words. I told her no. Luckily, she believed me. Or I think she did.

I don't know. Tundra is very insecure with her body. I find it stunning. She finds it...decent and that it 'could be better'.

"Jean?" Some fingers snapped a few times before my eyes, "You drifted again. Did you get enough sleep?"

"Yeah, I did. I've just been rather thoughtful lately."

"Thoughtful of what?" She leaned a bit closer to me, as if trying to hear my mind.

"...Things. Life. Feelings. Securities and insecurities. How much I should listen to my emotions, if at all."

"Sounds like the usual for millennials like us, eh?"

"I guess...there's so many people on this boat with me and trust me, I've talked with them. But, the more I do, the more we discuss our personal troubles, it just feels like hope fades further and further away."

"...What do you mean, hun?" She rested her arm on the back of the couch, putting her head on it, "...Let it out, c'mon."

"Mental health is something that has been far more discussed recently. Possibly far more than ever. We are reaching this age of breaking taboos and turning things that our parents found to be ridiculous into the light, showing how problematic they really are. Depression, mental illnesses, phobias...things should be changing, right?" I looked at her, getting my eyes stuck on her emerald green ones, "...Why does it feel like it's not? Why are people still ignorant? Why is it that when our emotions are stirred up, we act just like how our ancestors did? We ignore the other one's feelings and try to discipline them on the correct way to act. But...what is the correct way to act? Setting emotions aside and focusing solely on our 'true' thoughts that are only seen when our feelings aren't scrambled? That's impossible. I've been mentally trained by myself to survive the harshest environments as part of our treasure hunting and yet...I feel like I have nothing in control. Nothing in myself feels under control, except for the physical things I already do."

"...Jean..."

"Why is it that the pain I feel inside my chest hurts for longer than a bullet? I don't feel satisfied with my current position in life, yet, at the same time, I do. I have you. I have so many fantastic friends. I have my own house, my own money, my own furniture, I accomplished so much. And yet, I still feel so empty inside. I feel selfish. I feel like I deserve more and at the same time, I feel like I deserve nothing at all for thinking I deserve more."

A hand was placed on my shoulder. I kept talking.

"...I've hurt so many friends with my scrambled emotions...I don't want them. I wish I couldn't feel them...but then I wouldn't be able to feel empathy. I wouldn't feel friendship." I looked away from her, to the TV, that cartoon horse still displayed on the TV, "...I wouldn't have most of the things I have now...but would I be happy...?"

A kiss was placed on my cheek. Her chin rested on my shoulder. Finally, I kept quiet. I turned my head back to her, her eyes looking up to my blue ones, "...Some things are just the way they are...and cannot be changed. You just gotta live with it."

I looked into her eyes. I noticed how heavy my breathing had become. I closed my eyes, squeezed them shut and opened them again. A tear ran down one of them. It doesn't matter which.

I shut my eyes again, turned my head away once more and put my hand over my face. I feel her embrace around me as he hugs my body to hers.

Some things are just the way they are and cannot be changed. You just gotta live with it. If that's the case, then how come is she so desperate about a little bit of fat on her body?

Do I question this? Or do I just accept that it's the way it is?

Minds are so complex to understand. So perfectly flawed. Impossible to be replicated by our hands without being artificial, wired, just like the way we want it to be.

Nature doesn't let us choose how we want it to be. We're just born the way we are. We suck it up and we make the best of it. If possible.

I would've turned my gun to my head a long time ago if it weren't for her. I think she understands my brain more than I do. Even then, some of the things she say, I doubt. But I don't know if I doubt because they are wrong or because I just disagree with them. I'd say the latter, but, they sound like things anyone else would agree to. Maybe I'm just vastly different from everyone else? Would that explain the loneliness inside my heart? The horrible feeling inside my chest and on my back? The nausea? The shakes?

Some things are just the way they are...I don't know if I like that or not.

I really, really don't know.