Duane the Younger
Short Story
By Duane L. Herrmann
“Duane!” A young female voice called his name as footsteps rushed up the stairs. “Daddy said you've been in bed long enough.” A little girl, about twelve, burst into the bedroom.
“All right, all right,” the boy replied grumpily. “Now go away so I can get up.”
The girl vanished immediately shutting the door behind her.
'Where am I?' The boy wondered as he groggily looked around the room. It was a room obviously full of boy stuff. 'Daddy? She said, Daddy. My dad has been dead for fifty years. Who was that girl?' He pushed the blanket off, swung his feet to the floor and glanced down. His deformed toe was whole and normal. He wiggled it, which he'd not been able to do since the accident decades before. Then he felt his stomach; he was hungry. It had muscles where there never had been muscles before in his sixty-plus years. He felt amazingly energetic.
Something was not right. He looked wildly around the room. There was a mirror over the dresser, one that looked just like the one his great grandpa had had in his bedroom. He quickly strode to the mirror and looked.
The face that looked back at him was one that he had never seen before!
'Oh, my God! What's happened to me?' He touched the face and felt the skin was soft. There was no stubble of a beard. No trace of ever having shaved. Then he realized it was the face and body of a teenager. He flexed his arms and found more muscles than he'd ever imagined having.
'Who is this? Where am I? WHO am I?'
“Duane!” A deep male voice carried up the stairs.
“Coming!” He automatically called and looked around wildly for some clothes to put on. Nothing was familiar. 'Jeans will have to be enough,' he thought as he slipped on a pair that were lying on the floor. Just as he was going out the door, he noticed a shirt on the desk and grabbed it to put on as he hurried to the stairs.
As he rushed down the stairs, and the room below came into view, he realized he'd never seen this room before. He'd never been in this room, this house, before. But he couldn't think about that now; he needed to get to wherever it was that he heard people moving and talking. One of the voices was that of the little girl. He followed their sounds through unfamiliar rooms and came to the room with people, the kitchen.
“Well, you're not completely dressed yet,” the man said looking at him up and down. “But, at least you're here.”
“Here are some pancakes, dear,” the woman said as she put a plate down at a place at the table that was obviously his. “There's eggs and sausages,” she pointed to the plates on the table holding them.
“Mom? Dad?” The boy asked in a strange voice that almost choked him.
“Yes,” they both answered and looked at him curiously and waited.
“I...I....” he stammered. “I'm sorry I'm late. It just felt good to stay in bed a bit longer.” He finished lamely.
“Since, it's Saturday, that's alright, up to a point,” the man said. “Now, eat your food before it gets cold.”
The boy sat at the place indicated, poured syrup over the pancakes, and began to eat. The man and woman resumed talking about something. He heard the word Bahá'í but paid no attention. He focused on the man. He looked and looked at him. Something was familiar about him, but what? He hadn't seen him before. He'd never been in this house before, yet the man was somewhat familiar. How could that be?
As the boy ate, something jiggled in his brain.
He HAD seen the man before! But he'd not seen him like this. It clicked. He'd seen a school photo of him and a slightly older, college photo of him, in his mother's yearbook.
OH MY GOD!!!
This man, this man who was his “father,” this man – was the boyfriend his mother didn't marry! This was the Duane he was named after!
OH MY GOD!!!
The boy was so surprised, he choked on his food and began to cough.
“Duane Lawrence?!” His mother rushed over with concern.
“Slow down, son,” the father said as he got up and came behind him. “I'm going to squeeze your chest to push it out.” The man reached down, around the boy, and gave him a quick, tight hug. The pressure forced air out of his lungs, and the food came flying out of his throat and mouth.
“Ewe UCK!” Exclaimed the girl. “All over the table. That is SO GROSS!!!” She got up quickly and flounced out of the room.
“Here,” the woman wiped his mouth with a washcloth, then began to wipe up the mess on the table. “I'll fix you another plate. You'll be alright. Sometimes things happen.”
“You better son?” The man asked with concern.
The boy simply nodded, too afraid to say anything.
“Cool!” A little boy, younger than the girl, said. The boy had not noticed him before. “Can I do that?”
“You certainly can NOT,” said his mother.
“You try that, young man,” his father said. “And I won't rescue you!”
“Ah...” he said and hung his face between his hands with his elbows on the table. When the adults settled down, he looked up at the older boy. “That was so neat!” He whispered and grinned.
“Mark William, I heard that.” His father said sharply.
The little boy looked down again and began to seriously stuff food into his mouth.
“Slow down!” His father said sternly, as he pointed his fork at the little boy. “You're going to push me yet,” he threatened.
The little boy looked straight ahead, blankly, and began chewing at a more normal pace.
“Here are some new pancakes, Hon,” the woman said as she put a clean plate with new pancakes in front of the boy. “Don't rush. There'll be more if you want more.”
“Thank you,” the boy said softly, as he nodded and began to pour syrup over these new pancakes. All the while his mind was racing. 'This is the man mom didn't marry. I'm now his son – and I'm a teenager again. It's like, it's like I'm back in time, with a new family, one that could have been mine, maybe – or something...' None of this made any sense to him.
He quickly glanced around the room. There, on a wall, he saw a large calendar. It was June 1976. 'At least the war in Viet Nam is over,' he thought. 'I won't have to worry about the draft getting me. This man married later than Daddy. I was on my own and in college by now. My God! This is so strange. Am I going to live my life over? But it won't be the life I've already lived; it will be this new life. Oh, my God!' The boy ate slowly and pondered this new reality.
“I'm going to take Mark William to get some new shoes for school,” the mother remarked. “He's scuffed up the others so much, they look awful.”
“Nikes?” The little boy looked up hopefully at his mother.
“That depends on you, young man.”
“I'll be real good with them.”
“I've heard that before,” his mother said, shaking her head, knowing he wouldn't be able to carry out his fleeting, but good, intentions.
This mother was not, the boy noted, the screaming self-absorbed monster who took revenge on anyone and anything that displeased her, such as chopping up ink pen refills when they were too dry to write and yelling obscenities while doing so. This mother was even kind to her children. 'I wonder what that would be like,' thought the boy.
“I'm good, mom,” the little boy said.
“So, what are your plans for today?” The boy asked as he looked at his new 'father.'
“There's a new exhibit at the university library of ancient papyrus manuscripts that just opened, and I thought you and I might go and take a look at it, if you're interested, that is,” the man chuckled knowing he would be.
“Really?” The boy asked in astonishment. This was NOT the father he knew in his other life. Not that he had any objections about that father, but this was not his bag. Here, this new father was offering a tray of treats for him to enjoy. “Yes, that's awesome! I'd love to go!” And he began eating faster.
“Slow down,” the man said calmly. “There's no rush. It'll be open all day, I think even extended hours for the weekend, and it'll be open for a couple months.”
“Sorry,” the boy said and tried to calm down. But he wasn't calm on the inside. His other father had had to work all the time, more than one job. He couldn't afford to take any time off, especially for something as different as this. He loved his son, but some things were simply beyond him. 'Maybe this life won't be so bad after all,' the boy mused. Ancient things were his passion, always had been, but he'd had to keep this interest mostly to himself. Now, here, in this life, maybe it would be different.
Duane L. Herrmann, internationally published, award-winning poet and historian, has work in print and on-line: Midwest Quarterly, Little Balkans Review, Flint Hills Review, Manifest West, Inscape, Gonzo Press, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, over one hundred other publications, over sixty anthologies, plus a sci fi novel. With branches of his family here before the revolution, and a Native branch even longer, he writes from, these perspectives.
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