Next
When a 4-year-old boy raises himself, anything is possible.
PROLOG
The sun set the sea on fire as it slowly sank out of sight, leaving Next surrounded only by the sound of black water slapping the sloop. Talking to his father was a waste of words. His mother didn’t even blink when he hit her on the head with a bratwurst.
“I told them not to eat that moldy bread. Now they’re zombies. They forgot everything, how to talk, how to blink, how to drive the boat, who I am even. If I was older, and I had a four year old son, I would not go on a boat and eat zombie bread,” Next muttered to himself as he paced the deck eyeing the rigging.
“If only it was the future already. Then I would know how I’m gonna get us out of this mess. Well, how I got us out of this mess.”
Facing astern he took a deep breath and exhaled with all his wind hoping to propel the vessel forward. After several mighty huffs he detected movement, yawing, and teetering. As he fell, and his head hit the hard wood deck, his mind rolled forward to the future where his imagination rescued him safely to a happy land busy with incomprehensible wonders he would someday understand. Daydreams of the future were his passion and he tried to hold on to them as long as he could before they faded.
Soon his senses brought him back to his parents’ sloop still adrift at sea and Next found himself staring at the stars mirrored on the water. Looking up at the stars in the sky, he noticed they didn’t twinkle as much as the stars in the water. He wasn’t twinkling much either. Looking over the edge at his reflection, he decided he didn’t want to twinkle that much.
As hopeless as the situation was Next never considered that he might die at sea. The future was much too important and he knew unequivocally that he would live to see it. He picked up a hook and started to scratch an X on the deck to remind himself of this day. He had only scratched the first line of the X into the wood when he heard a thump below deck, and then footsteps coming topside. But when he ran over to see, his parents still hadn’t moved. When he looked down at the deck again the other line had already been scratched into the wood completing the X. A moment later the mainsail came loose and started to unfurl.
Next watched as the sloop beat to windward all by itself. The boom moved back and forth across the deck keeping the sail trimmed to a close haul. It stayed the course and continued tacking steadily west late into the night. When the first hint of sunrise appeared off the stern, Next fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter I
Not long ago, in the tiny eastern European town of Hamsterfäart, Pankakstok, there lived a boy named Scriabanextor Hugofurst. When the Hugofursts decided to move to the New Country, his parents, Peensuldöek and Barushtanka shortened their last name to “Furst.” So Scriabanextor truncated his first name to “Next.” He felt it was easier to pronounce and he liked the word because it reminded him of the future. Next loved the future and thinking about it was his favorite pastime.
Farmers by trade, raising rare livestock and curing rare meats, the Furst’s wursts were all the rage in the region, and their cheap sheep cheese was nothing to sneeze at either. So naturally the locals were sad to see them sell their familiar family farming firm. But they stood to make a killing on the land they’d made a living off when they had an offer to buy the farm they couldn’t refuse. They found a realtor overseas to oversee the purchase of a house in the New Country, not far from where Barushtanka’s Uncle Choekenmülker had immigrated several years earlier.
Choekenmülker’s Authentic Pankakstokian Delicatessan had become something of a phenomenon in the New Country, but of late, Choekenmülker was losing his battle with senility and had all but ruined the reputation of his once thriving business. The Health Department was already circling overhead, and the Fursts felt it was time to step in and save the old man’s deli from him.
But first the Fursts would need to learn the language and customs of the New Country. Next had an ear for tongues and had this one under his belt in no time. His parents would have to muddle through, though what progress they did make was owed to their sons patient tutelage. The day had come and they could delay their departure no longer.
And so, on April 28, 1985, the Furst family set sail on a seventeen-day sloop jaunt west, down the Gulf of Samandavia, through the Gayzon Straits, across the Jesuaiton Sea, and finally, to the New Country.
Only provisions that couldn’t be bought abroad were brought aboard, so for the first leg of the journey their meals consisted of Barushtanka’s wild boar bratwurst and bread from a Bulgarian bakery. Next refused to eat the bread claiming it smelled moldy. His parents were not as sensitive to the problem and ate it anyway. But less than an hour after lunch, Peensuldöek and Barushtanka were not themselves. They seemed confused, absentminded and generally discombobulated. Next was a little concerned but by late that evening there were only a few subtle indications that Peensuldöek and Barushtanka might be exhibiting some of the characteristic behavior of his parents, and now he was worried indeed.
Next suspected the bread was the cause of his parents sudden enfeeblement and when he opened one of the bags to examine a loaf, a puff of green dust wafted up into his face. Accidentally inhaling a tiny amount of the dust made him feel light-headed and moments later he couldn’t remember what had happened just moments before. What’s more, he couldn’t remember anything that had happened that day and he was even having trouble recalling many things about his life before that day.
The following morning all Next could recall of the previous night was a vivid dream he’d had in which he was playing with a loaf of bread on the deck. The bread somehow slipped out of his hands and fell overboard into the drink. For some reason it was very important to him in the dream, and he was deeply troubled by having lost his loaf. He tried to tell his parents about the dream but by now they were completely unresponsive. A few years back a rare strain of mold had been discovered growing on a particular type of rye from Bulgaria. The mold contained a powerful drug known to cause progressive memory loss.
Next didn’t remember much of what had happened that day except that he had stayed up all night and at some point early the next morning he finally fell asleep from exhaustion. When he opened his eyes again it was 5:30 in the afternoon, and to his dismay, his parents were not on board. He was greatly relieved when he went top side and saw that they had already arrived safely at their destination and both his parents were standing on the dock. He failed to realize that, when he fell asleep, they were only three days at sea which meant he had to have been asleep for two weeks.
His parents seemed lucid and alert but clearly had no idea where they were, or how they got there. Next remembered very little of the ordeal at sea but his parents remembered nothing. They stood on the dock looking around wondering what to do when a car pulled up and a tall, wiry man of about sixty-five got out and extended his hand. It was the real estate agent who had handled the purchase of their new house coming to greet them.
“Mr. and Mrs. Furst? Carson Dryver here. Can’t tell ya what a delight it is. Smooth sailin’ over thissaways I hope? Ah, the high seas! Old salt myself — gave it up for land. Haha! Why don’t ya hop right in my calaboose here and we’ll fly ya right over there in two shakes and a large fries, haha! There ya go, watch your tootsies. Oh, hey there scout! You can scoot up front and be my copilot, son. You folks are gonna flip yer flapjacks when ya feast yer peepers on this quarter acre slice of heaven. Oh and the manor itself is abso-toot-ly palatial. We’re talkin’ hardwood floors, roof, windows, the whole ninety-nine yards. Couldn’t ask for a more convenient locale. Close knit little storybook community, and the neighbors, oh! You’ll wanna have ’em over every night. It’s an ideal ‘stead to raise yer clan. Thought ya had another little crumb-snatcher, no? My mistake. Not a biggie. You folks look spry — still plenty o’ time. Ha ha! Mrs. F, I think you’re just gonna fit right in like a glove here — lotta old world broads. You can have yer quilting bees, coffee klatches, basket weaving, what have you. You folks are in livestock, correct? Oh boy, there’s a… Well, listen we got… Aw, yer just gonna love it here. It’s a stones throw to the main thoroughfares and just a hop, skip and a speed bump to the Broad Street Galleria. They’ve got a Chuck E. Cheese there, son! You like Chuck E. Cheese don’t ya, son? Haha, atta sport!”
“Psst! Peensy, he is speaking what language? I understand nothing,” said Barushtanka.
“I cannot understand him either Barush,’ but I think to his son he is talking,” said Peensuldöek
“So confused am I, Peensy. Where we are I have no idea even.”
“I am confused as you are, but not to worry, we will figure out. It will be all right.”
When they arrived at the house, they were greeted by the local police who asked to speak with the Furst elders in private. Next followed Mr. Dryver into the house but they overheard one of the officers say they had bad news about Uncle Cheokenmülker. Next knew immediately what had happened. He saw his parents leave with the police and assumed they had gone to take care of some business like making sure Uncle Cheokenmülker was completely dead before they buried him.
Mr. Dryver squatted down to Next’s level and looked him straight in the eye. “Were you and your uncle real close, son?” asked Mr. Dryver.
“I don’t know, sir, because you see, I’ve never meeted him,” said Next
“Well, sport, I don’t know how to tell you this but…”
“I know, he croaked,” said Next, “Old people do that sometimes…akshully, every time,” he added with a chuckle.
“Well now you’re just sharp as a tack aren’t ya? You know why old people die, sport?” Mr. Dryver asked, just making conversation.
“Oh yes, it’s because they get s-o-o-o many wrinkles that they forget how to poop. When I get old I’m gonna write down how to poop soze I don’t forget. then I’ll live forever!” said Next with a big smile, making a grand gesture with his arms.
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“Forever huh? That’s a whole lotta poop, sport,” said Mr. Dryver.
Next and Mr. Dryver talked for a while. It was a fascinating conversation in which he revealed many insights about life itself that would prove invaluable to Mr Dryver. Meanwhile Peensuldöek and Barushtanka were whisked off to the morgue to perform their duties as next of kin. Apparently the old man took a nasty spill while chasing some young chicks around his shop after they’d hatched in their cartons. No one could argue that, at 93, Cheokenmülker’s number was up, but clearly it was fowl play that did him in.
All that was left was for Peensuldöek and Barushtanka to sign the papers and take over ownership of the property which consisted of the storefront and a modest but comfortable cottage in the back. This seemed like a perfect arrangement for two confused immigrants who didn’t even remember the boat they were fresh off of, much less their house, or their son.
“So sorry am I, Barushtanka, for your loss. This uncle was to you quite close, yes?”
“Who? Oh, my uncle? Well, I was…the niece. Peensy, to tell you truth, I am not knowing him from John Blow. What happened to us? Of my entire past, I can remember nothing. Why?”
“I don’t know Barush’ but something important I feel is missing. A responsibility I fear we have neglected but my mind is…is…what is word…soggy. My mind is soggy.”
“Peensy, do you know if I am to you wife or sister?”
“Not sure, but as you look to me now, I hope not sister,” said Peensuldöek with a smile.
“Hee-hee, you hope same way I hope,” said Barushtanka.
“I am thinking has been a long day. Maybe to bedroom we should go, hey?”
“Ooh you very bold man, I am thinking you would never ask!” she said excitedly.
A few minutes later, Mr. Dryver called.
“Hey, howdy. Carson Dryver here, glad I caught you. Listen Pencildick–dork!–DOLT! Uh, Pencil, buddy — sorry, don’t know why I keep tripping over yer dick. Guess it’s kind of a long…NAME! Meant to say ‘name!’ Fairly common back in Hamsterfuck?–fart!–FORT! Is it? Prob’ly just like ‘John’ or ‘Dick’ here, eh? Ha ha! Anyway, I’m here with the lad and I’ve got to skeedaddle. My 7:30’s hot to trot so I’m just givin’ ya a little jingle to make sure it’s fine an’ dandy to leave yer pride an’ joy here till you good folks get back. Sound kosher?”
“Kosher?” said Peensuldöek, recognizing a word.
“Good, good, good, good, good. I’m sure he’ll be just snug as a plug in a jug, ha ha! All righty-okee-dokee-hokee-pokee. Oh, hey listen, gotta scoot. But if ya need anything feel free to hunt me down and we’ll fix ya right up, okay? Beautiful! You take care now. Mmbye bye byebye, yeah, uh-huh. (click).”
“Who was this on phone, Peensy?” asked Barushtanka, impatiently.
“It was that car driver man who spoke the strange language to his son,” said Peensuldöek.
“He is calling us why?” asked Barushtanka.
“I am not having soggiest idea what he said, but I think he is Jewish.”
“So let him be Jewish. You not finish something you start, mister. Back to the bed for you!” By the time Mr. Dryver finally left, Next was exhausted and dozed off. He dreamed he lived alone in a big house and no one ever said a word to him. So he learned how to take care of himself, and grew up to be an invisible man. It was one of those dreams that seem so real you aren’t sure if you ever really awaken from it.
Peensuldöek and Barushtanka never returned to the house they had purchased, nor to their four-year-old son, having no recollection of either. The cottage behind the deli would provide the roof they would start their lives over under. Next, after bravely spending a day and two nights alone in the strange new dwelling, cleverly sleuthed out Cheokenmülker’s address and showed up at the deli the following morning. Peensuldöek and Barushtanka assumed he was just a local boy who had wandered in, but being kind people by nature, they greeted him warmly.
“Hello,” said Next.
“Welcome, young man, I’ll be right with you,” said Barushtanka. After finishing up an order, she turned to her son and said, “next?”
Momentarily relieved, Next approached the counter and asked, “Are you and dad feeling all better now?”
“Oh you sweet little boy, this is not my father. Peensy, my father he thought you were. No darling, this my husband is. Yes, much better feeling now, getting settled in, thank you. Around here do you live?”
“Just around over there, down the road,” said Next not wanting to confuse his mother.
“Well, here you can come anytime. If you are sometime hungry, is okay you don’t have money, we give.”
“Thank you, mom, I mean ma’am,” said Next.
They fed him and made small talk. Next made a few subtle references to their hometown and the boat trip they had just taken together hoping to trigger some memories, but nothing. After a while, Peensuldöek made a little care package for Next and suggested he’d better run along home. There seemed to be no point in trying to persuade his parents to come with him. They were strangers now so Next simply accepted this and returned to the house to begin settling in. His new home was like an endless maze of hardwood and wainscoting. Wandering the halls and exploring every room, he began to feel comfortable with it all, and soon he came to the conclusion that he was simply expected to be an adult now.
Next found it disconcerting to hear his parents say, “Next? Who’s next?” all day long so after a while he stopped visiting them at the deli altogether. He maintained his daily life as well as he could, but the disproportionate ratio of boy-to-house meant there wasn’t enough of Next to physically fill all those rooms and give his home that occupied look. He never said a word to his neighbors, so people assumed he was mostly vacant and the property had been abandoned, whereas really, the opposite was true.
Next managed to maintain his existence surprisingly well in this way but his strange life was soon to take a turn for the stranger.
To be continued…
Note: thanks for reading the beginning chapter of this epic tale which I plan to post in its entirety if there seems to be reader interest. If not you’ll never get to hear how Next grows up and meets 5 other people with whom he embarks on an adventure so unprecedented that you may wish your parents had eaten zombie bread and left you to raise yourself. Because a child’s imagination is capable of things no adult would ever think of in a million years.
