Dr. Powder
“Dr. Powder was a small man.”
A very small man indeed. He wore a tweed jacket, lengthy jeans, and a lace undershirt. He was hip to the youngsters in this way, but not only in this way. He lived in a small dorm room, alone. No one had claimed him as a husband. He was left alone, in silence, on floor 27, Bracktront Hall. A single. He suffered here the most.
“I thought I told you, this is no place for you to stay,” His mother scolded.
“But there is food here, mother.” He paused, his face contorting in disgust, “Isn't that what you’ve shown me? A world in which I starve?” He stood back, agape at this revelation of the self. Then he tensed like a wounded mammal. “Well I have found one where I will not, at least.”
At least. At least.
And that is all it takes to make a dog stay. His mother had starved him. This was a place where he wouldn’t starve. That is what he believed.
Dr. Powder came downstairs thrice a day. Forty-three sets of stairs. Once in the morning, to look at the plants in the lobby. He was not allowed plants in his room, and his window showed only brick and cement. Twice, four hours later, to go to his classes. And, thrice, to go look at the stars before bed. He went to the roof for this. He was staff, to hell with it.
He was still not fit after all those stairs. He slouched and most days wore a sour stain on his clothes. The laundry room was always full.
He loved to die. He only drank about twice a week. Four, if he was feeling festive, and he always, mostly, kept it under control. There was a weight to the bottle, he said,
“Feels like it’s always been there.”
“Would it feel wrong to put it down?”, I asked. He looked at me then, but it was a fleeting expression. He did not want to be seen.
I had loved him in a wedding gown once. In my dream, he was wearing pearlescent shells that shone with perfect fairy grace. He was the ocean. I was the waves, spraying cherry mist at his face. His smile glowed like the sun reflecting off water.
“I thought about it, love, and I just don’t feel like a girl to you anymore.” Of course, who knows what a word such as that really feels like to be? Still, Dr. Powder’s sixth-grade lover had broken up with him. He couldn’t force an erection around her. He had mild hair.
There was no denying it. Dr. Powder was a human slave to a trove of troubles within the species. But Dr. Powder had poor eyes and was a terrible observer in all things self-reflection.
His students, he thought, were his purpose. But those youth were stuck in the same place he was, just had more debt on their plates, and minds full of bees. Buzzing buzzing, but never fully there. Not yet.
He desired to eat with them, to break bread and actually talk academics. But all Dr. Powder got was a few quips in classes and a few promising academics with haughty and insightful banter. And sometimes, he got nothing. Have you ever sat in a full classroom in silence, hearing nothing but your own voice over and over again?
But oh, how he yearned to go traveling, outside of this place full of rot.
But, Dr. Powder was a man. And a man's job is to marry. So, he sat in his small dorm room and rotted.
Here Lies Dr. Powder. Father to Sleep. Wanter of less. Slave to more.
His gravestone, a trilogy to his mother’s words. He thought escape was done with the position of a person. But, his mind was also a slave to radio towers. Poor Dr. Powder, his receiver was jammed, and he lost his will to teach.
“And let us lay him to rest, as he would have wanted.”
But no one knew what Dr. Powder wanted. He left a note, a handful of scribble signs. He appeared to be losing his mind. But, somewhere, a thousand years later, someone would recognize his transmission. He was calling to be home. A place only in his dreams he could create.
A young mind racing in the woods. Fueled by heartbeats and the rays of sun from the sky. Trace him back to wires and plastic and sluggish light from the hand that breeds. He was born with a name he could not recognize. He was told to bleed in a place that would not allow it to be free.
Here lies Dr. Powder. A boy, a man, a thing, a concept, none of us really knew him, loved him, felt him, but here he lies all the same, and really he’s no different from you or me. All that stands between us now is six feet deep. He is now more connected to the earth than we, now, could ever be. Here he lies, Dr. Powder. May he sleep.
And at the funeral, his mother cried. Her heart couldn’t understand it. She was grateful, and full of grief.
“My poor boy.”
He was so rich when only the sun dared to fill his eyes. But, there are doctors in this world who are not really doctors at all. There are Ophthalmologists who will slice your eyes open haphazardly for a few quips at the bar when he gets to buy the most expensive round. Round and around the earth will turn. And cry, and laugh, and wheeze, and churns the belly of a little child whose stomach hurts and nerves spike. And the doctor will give him a sleeping pill, and bid him good bill.
Jordan Crallé is a Junior majoring in English and minoring in Biology at Virginia Wesleyan University. Jordan is a professional model and actor, an artist, a poet, and a writer. He enjoys writing about bones, and hope, loss, and love most of all. Jordan enjoys lying in the sun with his cats, Lucky and Tulip. And, of course, life is fun with glowing energy and beautiful imagery.