Shape Up

Shape
Up

He is still a child at
twenty-two: stubborn at times, prone to temper tantrums, an impatient
collector of the mysterious toys in cereal boxes. All in all a child,
though certainly more figuratively than literally. His name is Robbie,
short for Robert, a qualifier he alternately remembers and forgets
depending on his excitement level.

At the moment
Robbie's excitement level is high, though not as high as the time he
forgot to turn off the tap and his bath water caused his shoes to float
right out the bathroom door. His Meemaw, who prefers baths herself but
never spills - not one drop - did not appreciate the mess, which
included a dark circle on the dining room ceiling below. &;quot;Oh,
Lord, would you look at that,&;quot; she said before pulling Robbie
to the Jesus Closet. There she pulled open the door, yanked the light
cord, and made Robbie kneel all evening in front of the candles, old
fruit, and plastic Jesus doll hanging on the closet's back wall.

Just a few moments ago Robbie attempted to dial
9-1-1 on the old-fashioned rotary phone in the hall. He spun the dial
four times before placing the receiver down on the table as he'd been
instructed to do. He doesn't remember being instructed this way;
rather, it was much like the impulse he gets when he is hungry, or
needs to use the toilet. Also he's been told never to talk on the
phone, even on those rare occasions when it rings and he beats his
Meemaw to the hall, holding the receiver out to her while a distant
voice calls, &;quot;Hello? Hello?&;quot;

Robbie
wears glasses, held to his head by a thick elastic strap that pushes
his hair up in back. He is not much for appearances. The strap - a
final solution to sixteen pairs of lost glasses and thirteen pairs
hopelessly broken - gives Robbie a headache, though he is not aware of
this. To him, the constant tugging pressure along the side of his face
and the bridge of his nose (made worse when the strap gets wet) is
simply there. What's more, he likes and wants it there. He misses it
when it isn't.

Along with proper bath taking and
eyeglass retention, Robbie is proficient in many things. He can dress
himself, and fully understands that his trouser zipper should be felt
as he passes his hand in front of him. This is more or less true for
the buttons on his shirt, if it has buttons and assuming his Meemaw has
left the shirt buttoned up so he can just slip it over his head. Left
to his own devices, Robbie finds the hard, tiny circles infuriating,
easily removed, and best left scattered around his feet.

Robbie is not allowed to touch the stove, a rule he
understands due to a vague fear of visiting the Jesus Closet. Likewise,
most metallic things with knobs and wires are off limits to him. The
year he was able to stretch out the fingers on both hands to indicate
his age, however, his Meemaw produced a small television and showed him
how to open a can of soup, pour it in a bowl, walk carefully to the
television, open it, place the bowl inside, shut it, turn the knob
sideways, press a single button, and bring the television to life. The
two of them practiced this well into that evening, until his Meemaw
backed into the doorway and let Robbie do it by himself. &;quot;You
make your own TV, eh?&;quot; his Meemaw said, clapping. Like most
people, Robbie soon found the show boring. Unlike most people, he still
stretches his fingers in the air when asked his
age.

Robbie's chin bears the scar of an automobile
accident two years ago. Robbie was the driver. He'd grown tired of
placing twigs upright in the dirt by the front stoop and, remembering
the hazy, pleasant trips he'd taken in his Meemaw's car, he decided to
give it a try. The door was unlocked. Robbie got behind the wheel,
pulled one lever too many, and rolled into the street. In fact he
didn't realize he was moving, such was his concentration on getting the
music to come out of the radio the way it did when his Meemaw sat
behind the wheel. As Robbie jabbed at the plastic buttons, Mrs.
Florentine - a neighbor down the street with problems of her own and an
old Buick with mismatched paint - slammed into the car and sent Robbie
flying into the dashboard. He'd woken to the tinny sound of approaching
sirens and Mrs. Florentine saying, &;quot;I guess the angels who
watch over the little childrens don't know his real age,
huh?&;quot;

&;quot;Bah!&;quot; his Meemaw
answered. Robbie closed his eyes in pain and promptly forgot their
conversation.

So, Robbie cannot drive a car, nor does
he wish to. He is content with the small hotrods that come sealed in a
plastic so impenetrable, so unyielding yet perfectly clear, it leaves
Robbie in a sobbing heap if his Meemaw is not quick enough with the
scissors. Of the scar on his chin, he likes how no hair grows there,
something he rarely gets to see unless his Meemaw is too tired to shave
him.

Robbie's excitement level is growing. He has
little concept of time, though day and night make sense to him. Certain
things take place when it is light, others when it grows dark. Robbie
dialed the phone when it was light; when he looks over his shoulder
towards the window, it is still light, but maybe not the same. He can't
be sure. He does know it's been dark at least once since he found his
Meemaw in her chair, the bottom popped out so she could rest her feet.
Robbie thinks it might even have been dark twice since then, or maybe
more. He stretches his fingers out in front of him and says,
&;quot;This many.&;quot; Even for Robbie, this is too much.

One thing Robbie is good at is his puzzle game. It's
a flat board, with circles and squares and stars that can be pulled
out, mixed up, and put back. It's called Shape Up, which means nothing
to Robbie. Nor do the words circle, square, or star. Still, he
recognizes the shapes, and after half an hour's worth of trial and
error can usually manage to put the puzzle back together again. One
piece, a star, was lost soon after his Meemaw bought the puzzle. She
came running when she heard his screams of frustration - the puzzle
complete except for the missing star - and quickly fashioned a
replacement piece out of cardboard covered in Christmas foil.
&;quot;His cheating piece,&;quot; she calls it, even if it never
quite fits and curls at the edges. It's the first shape Robbie places
each time he works the puzzle.

Now is no different. His tongue
protruding from the side of his mouth, Robbie moves the foil-wrapped
star into place. He is worried, but the worry comes and goes, a mental
dance that causes him to lean closer and closer to his puzzle. Also
Robbie is hungry. He's usually hungry, really, but not like this. His
stomach is a knot, folding back in on itself and becoming tighter and
tighter, and the pantry is empty of soup cans. He would like to burp,
Jesus Closet or not, but can't. He would like his Meemaw to make him
something to eat.

Robbie puts the last circle in its
place. He looks up, then behind him. It's dark outside. The dark
doesn't scare Robbie - it never has - but he's glad of the light coming
from the bulb above his head. From where he's sitting he can see the
phone, the receiver still resting on the table. His chair scrapes along
the linoleum as he stands.

Robbie knows he is waiting
for something. He'd like a better place to wait. He heads for the Jesus
Closet, approaching it slowly. He's never opened it by himself. His
hand grips the doorknob and twists. He doesn't stop to think that it's
like any other door.

Inside it's dark. Robbie waves
his hand in the air like a magician getting ready to pull something
from a hat. The light cord eludes him at first, bouncing against his
hand and back into the dark, but eventually he grasps it and
tugs.

Jesus hangs from the wall and looks up and away
from the candles and old fruit stacked below. From this angle, Robbie
can see how the candle wax has covered the table. The fruit is brown,
and he catches its smell, sharp and tangy and not good to eat despite
his hunger. Even with the light, the closet feels close, dark, like the
porch eaves when Robbie has stretched out in the grass on sunny days
and watched wasps disappear into the wooden beams.

He reaches up. He's not supposed to, he will make
his Meemaw angry, but he does it anyway. He feels Jesus beneath his
fingers, feels the roughness and smoothness of plastic. He knows this
feeling. Carefully, he pinches Jesus between his fingers and
pulls.

Jesus is light, a bit slippery. This doesn't
matter to Robbie. Instead, Robbie's eyes stay on the wall, where a
perfect outline of Jesus remains. It is so perfect that Robbie can see
where Jesus' feet poke out, where his hair breaks the straight line of
the cross. It is so perfect that Robbie wants to hide it.

So he does, putting Jesus back slowly, carefully,
right in the same spot. Jesus blends into the wall, the outline and
brightness forgotten. It's as if Jesus has never moved, as if Robbie
has done this a thousand times.