Harold and the Blue Jay

Harold enters the hardware store on February 10th at 9:42 AM. His slow, calculated steps bring him through the entryway and into the warmth of the building. The door's bell activates as he gets a few steps in. Harold looks up at it.

"Good morning," the man at the counter says. Harold gives a quarter smile and nods.

He crosses the checkout counter before his strap-shoed feet turn into Aisle Four. He passes the brightly colored toys, sport balls, dolls, etc. before coming upon a small boy. Harold looks down at the child as he passes, not even seeing the boy's mother, who is on her phone. He gives her an old-fashioned hat tip, but she is zooming in on a picture.

His unhurried steps bring him to aisle's end, but not before he hears the bouncing of a rubber ball. He turns to see it approaching, bouncing left behind at the toy guns as it now rolls to his feet. He looks down at it, then to the boy. The young one smiles. Harold smiles back. A full one this time. He strains his old body down to reach the ball, gripping it tightly to ensure he won't need to bend again. He looks up once more at the boy and sort of shakes his head. Calculating, he brings his arm back a bit and bounce/rolls it towards the child. The throw is true, with perfect pace on its journey back into small hands. He smiles up at Harold, and he replies in kind.

That's enough now lad, Harold thinks to himself.

He gets a quarter of a turn away before the sound comes back.

Bounce, bounce, bounce...

Quicker than expected, Harold reaches his hand down to catch it, and looks at his 30-year-old wristwatch. 9:46. He grips again, tighter. His eyes strain towards the boy as he stands up. A breath laugh before another calculated throw.

Bounce, bounce, STOP —

The mother catches it, looking at Harold with a mix of public pleasantry and suspicion. Gaze held for a moment before she submits a big, efforted smile to him and turns towards her son.

"Let's go, daddy is waiting," she says, flashing a look back to Harold. "He's gonna make us some lunch in a bit. He needs his helper." She replaces the ball with a new one from the shelf and puts it in her basket, hurrying her child towards the checkout line. Harold gives them an honest nod off.

Harold stands, staring at the blank space left behind. The vacant pair a reminder of his own mother and former self. The tiny, unwrinkled version of Harold Winslow. The version in a nautical-striped shirt home alone with mom, playing while she cooked and cleaned and waited for letters. Splashing in the tub, his superheroes diving under the water to help submarines fight the enemy at the other end. The heroes always won. And of church on Sundays, of singing and wearing clothes he thought were uncomfortable, and reminding his mother of this feeling the morning of every week's Sabbath, but she insisted and he relented. This is what it means to be a kid, he'd think. And of meeting with everyone after church, and how sometimes he'd play with a few of the kids from other families and they'd swing on the jungle gym or play tag for around ten minutes before one of the parents came and reminded them about Sunday's Best and they'd stop. He'd look at his button-down with khakis and resent the outfit even more, while the other kids would go back to talking in a circle and he'd go sit on a bench and think about the superheroes. And then one day Mr. Robinson came over to the bench and asked if he liked ice cream. Mr. Robinson was tall and smiled differently and would eventually become a mayor somewhere in Iowa. Harold said he loved ice cream, of course, and how he actually thought it was his favorite food. And his mom looking on from some feet away and smiling at her son. Mr. Robinson brought him out for ice cream that day, explaining to Harold who he was and that he'd talked with "mommy" multiple times but young Harold was barely listening. He was anticipating only the decision ahead on flavor and topping, waffle and sugar. Of getting dropped back home after and the feeling inside he didn't really understand but felt warm. And how that continued for a while. And of months later, after he got home late for the second time in a row his mom asked him some questions and he answered them honestly. And of how he noticed he still had some chocolate ice cream on his palm while his mother was crying at the table. And of how they moved to Illinois a few weeks later to live with his mother's sister, where the air smelt differently than Ohio and it took a few weeks for him to forget this difference. And of Aunt Caroline's tub, and how he still played with his subs and heroes, even though a few of them got lost in the move.

Harold steps to the store counter and sets his things down. A power drill, Midwest atlas, toy gun, thick rope, and the ball. The man at the counter looks at him with empathy and confusion.

"Any prescriptions?" he asks. Harold nods yes before the man at the counter steps away.

Harold looks outside. Two small robins fly in unison. Looping and diving together before one breaks off. The solo robin dips and dives alone. No longer in a ballet, only what looks like a panic. A spastic path against the overcast sky. Before another, larger bird comes and begins chasing it. Panic amplified further as it evades the cerulean enemy. Harold's eyes dip and dart as he follows the action, never breaking off.

"Here we are," the man behind the counter interrupts. He rings the items up, including the white prescription bag.

"That'll be thirty nine —" but he can't finish before Harold hands him two crisp twenty-dollar bills. "...forty-two," he finishes. The man bags some of the items, still confused by Harold. He slides everything over.

"Do you need any help getting these to your car, sir?" he asks, pointing to the drill. Harold nods no this time, and looks outside to see only the larger bird remains.

"You sure? There's nobody else in here and I —"

"No," Harold says sternly. "I'll be fine young man, thank you," he concludes, lighter.