B   x#
 F                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    *1*                                                                                                                                                        TYPE 4 2.00                                                                                                                                                                                          2.00 **                                                   1,5                                                       
F
F                                                            

F 
                                                    Second Sight                          Mike Stutz                 Creative Writing, Dr.  Kirk                                                                               "Gimme another cigarette here."      Mark extended his hand and waited as Jamie dropped one of her cigarettes into it.      "A Cancer," Dave said.      Mark didn't look up.  "You don't mind, do you?"      "No, go ahead.  But they're really cancers.  That's what they should be called, anyway."      "Yeah," Mark replied, legs shifting and hitting an array of bottles and cans that they had laying there.      "Is there anything left in that bottle?" Dave asked him.      "No," Mark said, eyes focused outside on the snow.      They were sitting in the cold, paneled living-room floor of Dave's new apartment.  Mark, with his back to the droning heater, was closest to the glass balcony door.  The smoke from his cigarette drifted to the ceiling, where it lingered and slowly ebbed.  Jamie was sipping a cola next to him. Dave was across from the two of them, sitting Indian-style. The walls of his apartment were painted in bland colors, mostly pale yellows and deep greys.  The room had Dave's extensive stereo already plugged in and playing his AC/DC, but was otherwise completely bare.  There were two doorways on the other side of the room, one of which led to the bedroom and bathroom, the other to the kitchen, a small coat room, and eventually the front door.      They'd been cleaning the place up and moving things in since Jamie got home from school, which was about four o'clock, and were taking a break.  The bed had been the hardest item to bring in, for it had barely fit in the doorway.  Dave's small fridge, the stereo, a dresser, and a medley of breakables were also brought in.      Jamie turned and looked at Mark, whose eyes were still fixed outside.  The few banks and office buildings down the road had closed for the weekend, for it was already late in the day.  Rush hour traffic was at its peak, and many of the motorists, having a fourty-five minute trip into the city, drove impatiently toward the highway ramp.  Leaves, heaped in piles by the road, were motionless and smattered with snow. Across the street, an ice cream shop, closed for the season, was flanked on both sides by a sparse northeast Ohio woods. The large painted cone on the structure's side, whose top was covered with a gentle sprinkling of snow, looked like it was to be a celestial treat for the gods.  About one hundred yards to the left the big rotating sign of a supermarket turned but went nowhere, and yet the snow continued to cheerily frolic through the air.      "This might be a bad one," Jamie said as some of the delicate snow touched the glass door, where it instantaneously changed into tiny droplets of water.      "Yup," Mark said between puffs.  "It's been this way every year.  The first snowfall is always rotten.  At least you have heat, Dave."      "Yeah, but you're going to have to show me how to use the thermostat.  You know how I am with these things.  I couldn't figure it out on my own."      "Don't worry," said Jamie.  "You know, I can't believe that you've finally did it!  Out of all of us, you've been the first to move away from home.  And this is a nice spot, too.  Close enough to you parents and us that if you need anything..."      "But far away enough to get away from it all," Dave interjected.      They sat there for a while, Dave's ubiquitous mirrored sunglasses reflecting a distorted image of the room, and Mark still gazing out the window, only moving to drop his ashes into the almost empty soda can beside him.  Jamie, staring at the two of them, started to feel a bit uneasy and said something to break the silence: "You know, it seems like it was just yesterday when we were kids.  Remember Dave, the time when you first got a skateboard?  Mark and I had wanted so badly to ride it, and you wouldn't let us -'til we stole it and I fell and skinned my knee something awful.  You caught us just as I was running home balling my eyes out. Remember?"      Mark looked up.  "And I was the one holding on to the board.  I remember, Dave, you looked mad!"      Jamie continued.  "It's funny, 'cause I still have sort of a mark on my right knee.  And to this day, I won't even go near those damn things!  Hey - and how about when we'd all play tag in the woods?  We were always too scared to go near that old shack across the creek, even when we were twelve or thirteen.  Remember that?"      "Yeah," Dave said.  "That was a long time ago.  And if I remember correctly, it was YOU that was scared to go near that shack.  You called it the Devil House.  Don'tcha remember that?  Mark and I hid all of our comic books there."      "You guys did not!"  She smiled.      Mark laughed at the childhood memory.  "It was a good spot 'til that Ronnie Cummings kid -- was that his name?  -- found them and took them home."      "Hey, I remember him," Jamie said.  "He was a real jerk. I'm glad he moved."      "Yeah, he was the one who was always mocking the girls in the playground just to make them cry... no one seemed to like him too much," Dave said.      "Hey, uh... guys?  I think we'd better get to moving the rest of the stuff in, or we'll be sittin' here talkin' all night," said Mark.      The three of them walked out into the hall, whose pine green carpeting was well-worn and whose walls were papered in a garish silver and blue print that played tricks to seeing eyes.  The halls had a strange odor to them, one of ethnic tenants and chlorine.  In the lobby, Jamie gave a weak smile to an older man sitting in one of the worn, tattered couches. The vigor of his youth was long gone.  The wink he directed to her looked not charming but more like an obscene gesture.      Mark's van was parked by the side entrance, and they gathered around the back hatch, which Mark unlocked.  "Let's see here, Dave, we've got your couch, the table, two more chairs, and lots of clothes."      "I guess I'll take the clothes," Dave said.  Flakes of snow stuck to his glasses and wet his blonde hair.      Jamie looked comfortable in her suede jacket, and her long auburn hair kept her head sort of warm, but Mark, who said he was cold, looked like he had no intention of loitering in the wintry weather.  He handed a chair to Jamie and took one for himself.  Their loads were brought back to the apartment, after which they came back down for the couch. In passing the lobby, Jamie intentionally avoided being probed by the old man's eyes by inconspicuously hiding behind Mark's other shoulder.  The man's mere presence gave her an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach.  She took a deep breath, and released it when they went outside, where it became a cold wisp of vapor for a brief moment.      "Doesn't it smell good out here?" Dave asked.      "Yeah," said Jamie.  "It's kinda fresh, countryish sorta."      "This IS the country, sorta," said Mark.      Jamie thought for a second.  "Hmm... maybe that's why."      "Jamie, you wanna hold that end?  I can't carry this couch alone."      They brought it up to the apartment, and by their last trip out for the table, they'd already gotten used to the hallway's smell.  The old man erupted into a terrible fit of coughing, and put his head down.  The table was surprisingly lightweight, and they were able to bring it into Dave's kitchen with ease.  After things were pretty much in order, they were feeling parched and hungry.  "It's only eight- thirty on a Friday night," Mark said.  "Hell, we should order somethin'.  You guys wanna pick up some pizza or something like that?"      Dave got up from his chair.  "Anything but Chinese food, I don't want to be hungry a half hour later!"      "Yeah, well I'm starving," Jamie said from the couch. She got up, put her jacket on over her wool sweater, and lit up a cigarette.  She motioned the box to Mark, who eagerly took one.  She then handed Dave his white cane.      "Ahh, thanks, Darling," he said.      "My pleasure," she replied.  "Do you want to drive?" Mark laughed and placed his keys into Dave's hand.      "Okay," Dave said with a chuckle.  "Let's go!"      "Then c'mon, partner," Jamie told him and she placed her hand on his shoulder.  He appeared exalted through his scratched shades.  Mark was already out the door.  "Well, dudes, I'm wait-ing."      They locked up the apartment and strolled down the hall, Dave using his cane in the way a swordfighter brandishes his weapon.  "Touche!" he said as he blindly took a swing, gently striking Mark on the back.  Laughing as they went out the glass door into the chilly evening, Jamie didn't even look at the old man.  She was too busy talking to her friends. 

F 
   