Something
Silver Nissan Versa Hatchback, no true amenities, save for the air-conditioning, the CD player, the AM/FM radio tuner, and a black cloth interior. The last of these items really not being an amenity at all. Scott closed the hatchback door as he had probably ten thousand other times and hoisted the small suitcase which contained one cotton pillow, several neatly folded double-size bedsheets with face cradle covers neatly enfolded inside them.
In one of the compartments was a plastic bottle with a pump containing the latest and greatest massage oil, fully hypoallergenic, and completely scent free. This plastic bottle with pump-action sits inside a holster specially designed for such bottles.
Scott is a licensed massage therapist of Texas and yearns to be something more, to do and see and think things in a different way. Life has become rote, for lack of a better way to put it. He works for a company that farms him out to families that have children with disabilities of various kinds. Typically he encounters kids with different degrees of autism. Some of them have muscular dystrophy, and other have cerebral palsy.
The variety in disabilities is staggering, and if he isn't careful...heartbreaking. Scott likes to write. Scott can see human auras. Scott has a multitude of qualities, characteristics, gifts, and talents that occlude the relative squander he now finds himself in. He has within him, the power and potential, to make great strides out of life, whatever those are.
Scott hoists the suitcase packed with massage materials off the ground has he takes another look back at this back-breaking vehicle that is a service to his service...and yet is a total disservice to his body. The sky above is blue with thin whisks of cloud streaking across it.
The air around him is mild, not particularly the hot Texas weather one becomes accustomed to here only after a few years of experiencing it. He enjoys the fact that he can adapt to climate, can adapt his mind and body to just about anything. A problem being him is the fact of getting sick easily if others around him are sick. His immune system is usually a bit low due in large part to a sedentary lifestyle (all the driving, over 150 miles a day usually) and the diet—fast food and restaurant foods he is faced with while on the road.
In his mom and dad's house now, calling it a house is a bit of a pleasant overstatement...but it is a home. It's a pre-fabricated house, but it sits on an unforgiving seven and a half acre lot of land. The driveway is loose gravel and shell mixture. Scott goes to his room. Scott is only twenty seven years old, but feels like a child sometimes. Still living with his parents at home (with a six month 'on his own' experiment, to be fair) gives him this feeling sometimes.
Scott sits down at his only solace, his only escape aside from the TV which is to the side of his number one companion. He flicks on the computer screen, types in his password, and fires up the Internet. There are no emails waiting in his gmail account. He looks at his cell phone and it too is empty of messages or missed calls. Apparently the advertisements he created for the web etc. did him no good. Big surprise there. He surfs to Wired.com and then on to Fark.com but finds nothing of much interest there save a couple of articles from each which turn out to be lacking in their overall content and or food for thought.
Scott turns his computer screen off and turns his TV on, content with feeling discontent. Knowing that the future would be as liquid as always, knowing that nothing stays the same—it never had stayed the same. What things were now would not be later, and vice versa. It was the law of the world that things spun in cycles, but ever new and different cycles at that. Content to be a little too heavy, to get winded at the slightest bit of physical activity, to fancy himself more important than he currently or realistically was in this moment, Scott lost himself in the annals of television.
