Mr. Smallwood and My Door to Freedom

Two things stand between me and my freedom at this moment: Mr. Smallwood and that large rusty push-handle door. I hear the faint hum of the microwave as it heats up Smalls’ burrito in the tiny kitchen area located about 20 feet from where he is sitting. I look at the door, then back at Smalls, then back at the door. Then back to Smalls. He grabs a hold of the fur handlebars protruding from around his mouth and pulls each end to the side, preparing the way for the burrito (which is smelling more fantastic by the second). His fold-out table is set with plasticware and a newspaper. He can barely fit his legs under the table. And he’s wearing his running shoes—not a good thing, not tonight. Not for me.

I glance up at the clock behind Smalls. 8:53pm. The caretakers will be checking our beds in seven minutes. C’mon, microwave, make haste. Behind the drywall I hear what sounds like a mouse family waking up from their day’s slumber and planning their late-night pantry strategy. Smalls stands up and stretches. 8:54. A single bead of sweat forms on my forehead. It’s not even hot in here. I gently blow upwards to keep the sweat from dripping, but the laws of physics take over.

I may have to call this off—

“Beep, beep, beep.” Yes! The burrito was done. I look at the door. It’s a 6-second sprint from this bookcase, I estimate. I look back at Smalls, who is struggling to liberate his horselegs from underneath the table. Finally, he walks toward the kitchen. I take a single cautious step forward. I have tested the creakiness of this floor in the past, a dozen times, but I don’t trust a shifty old Victorian like this. I get into my runner’s block, one knee bent and both eyes on the door handle.

The microwave door pops open.

That’s my signal!

I sprint toward the door like a hellcat. After seven steps Smalls’ deep voice opens fire from the kitchen: “Hey, who’s out there!”

I accelerate, fixed on the prize.

I finally make contact with the push handle. Contrary to my will, I glance over at Smalls as he comes flying around the corner. Our eyes meet. We both pause for a half second. No movement. No sound. Chess match. My move, I determine. With full inertia, I body slam open the door and pour down the steps. Don’t look back, I tell myself; it will only slow you down.

I look back. I see Smalls in mid-air, clearing all six steps in a single jump.

I’m in full gallop down the country road, my meandering old friend. This is my third break and I sense her pleasure in the quick kisses of my rubber soles. My eyes wander to the trees lining the road. Black Oak, Eastern White Pine, Tulip Poplar, Black Walnut, another Black Oak. Pages from the 2011 Edition Pennsylvania Tree Identification Guide churn through my mind. Sycamore, Sycamore, Sycamore, Red Maple. Or was that Silver Maple. Shoot, I need to get a closer look at the back of the leaf. I stop for a split second, but remember that I’m not the fastest runner in the world. That honor goes to Usain Bolt right now, the harefooted Jamaican. I’m probably third fastest in the world.

The second fastest is chasing me right now, so I need to find a place to hide.