THE FRIENDS IN MY ROOM
by R. David Kilgore  

    Life in my room was always quite interesting, for it was there I spent most of my time, and it was there I discovered
most of my friends.
    Early on, my friends came in all different sizes, shapes, and colors, and it was due to this fact I never developed any
social prejudices.  Friends come and go, but most of my friends stayed for the duration, and will probably still be around
long after I’ve gone.  In this life, however, one way or another, the joy of their existence will always be with me.
    Nothing ever ate as much as my old typewriter.  It kept ingesting paper, making errors, and starting over again.  
Sometimes I would sit and watch for hours as it went through fifteen, sometimes twenty sheets of paper, attempting the
same opening paragraph, never once producing acceptable copy in return for room and board.  The old machine would
tempt me, as if to say, “Hey, let’s write something”, and we would sit and stare each other down, each waiting for an idea
from the other.  I’d pound the old noisy keys, we’d look at what we’d done, and quickly feed the waste basket another
copy of our latest attempt, neither of us being any the wiser or happier for it.
    Nobody ever got much sleep in my room.  Everyone was always looking, teasing, laughing, or at least thinking.  Each
seemed to have its own thoughts, some majestic, some silly, but all had their secrets they were keeping from the others.  
I was the only one who ever got any sleep, and I think those were the times they did the most talking.  They would
exchange stories, sometimes laughing boisterously, waking me in the middle of the night.  But they were clever, and
always aware, for the moment my eyes popped open, everyone was quiet and the air was still again.
    I could only imagine what wild, romantic, wonderful tales were being told while I slept.  I pictured the old terrarium
spinning yarns of all its ancestry, dating back millions of years.  The sand that had been collected to make its glass
shell, each grain with its own memories of the oceanic tides that had engulfed them in their previous lives.  Each rock
telling of its own capture and travels that had lead it to its present home on the shelf in my room.  The dirt and the roots
proclaiming inseparable partnership and teamwork in producing the fine greenery.  A world of its own, sitting quietly
between the books on my desk.
    There were many, many books, and they all knew each other fairly well.  They were close, and shared a lot of what
they knew with each other, each becoming familiar and even versed in the subjects contained in all their peers.
    The books, being more educated than most of the other objects in my room, would in conversation generally stay in
their own clique, occasionally snickering and poking fun at the electronic members of our little commune.  The television
never remembered anything it said, the VCR and cassette deck just babbled the same things over and over, the antique
phone usually never spoke unless it was spoken to, and the old FM receiver would sing mindlessly until drifting off into
static.  But still, each one of us had our place and purpose for being there.
    I imagined the curtains waiting anxiously to tell everyone when the sun was about to come in again, while the empty
vase sat open-mouthed, waiting to reflect and glitter in the morning light.
    I even pondered thoughts of the paintings on the walls complaining profusely that the public would never be able to
marvel at their beauty as long as they were stuck hanging around here with the rest of us.  But we all got along pretty
well, despite our differences, and life was generally pretty calm.
    I learned early on in life that the inanimate objects in my room were no more inanimate than a TV evangelist was
shy.  My parents also were quite aware of this and decided to let me find out in their own cute, inimitable way.
  One Easter, some time before my seventh birthday, they ever so cleverly purchased one of those typical, medium
sized Easter baskets with marshmallow chick, jelly beans, chocolate eggs, and a blue and white long eared fuzzy fake
bunny rabbit.
    By day, this cute little cuddly was my best friend, by night he was my most horrid fear, keeping me terrified until I fell
fast asleep.
    My parents had strategically placed him on my window sill, just above and to the right of my bed.  Though he smiled,
and sat serenely through the day without ever once complaining, come bedtime the moonlight would sneak in the
window and cast an eerie glow across the rabbits profile, somehow magically releasing the evil from within it.  With the
light on, as we all know, I was safe.  The moment the light was out, however, if I wasn’t protected by full cover of my bed
sheets, I knew that rabbit was going to jump down off the sill and tear me to shreds.
    It was for this reason that every night before bed, I had to pull back the covers, stand as close to the bed as possible
while still being able to reach the lights switch and make a mad dive under the sheets.  Once it was calm and I felt fairly
safe, I occasionally would peek out to make sure the rabbit hadn’t moved.  He was still there, staring down at me like a
cougar at its prey, but I never pulled back the covers far enough for him to have time for a good lunge at me.
    It was through this experience that I realized everything in my room had a mind and a life of its own.  It’s well known
that we always fear what we don’t understand, and I know now that the rabbit never meant any harm.  I guess I realized
this after a good number of mornings waking and seeing that I had kicked the covers off during the night, but still woke
up alive and without a scratch.  I figure he only looked mean because he was busy watching over me, protecting me
from any evils that really were there.
    He and I played a lot later in life, then through schoolwork and other unavoidable activities, he ended up in the back
of a closet somewhere.  I lost touch with him, and eventually lost him completely.  I think he was getting old and my
mother threw him away.  A terrible fate for a friend one holds so dear, but I guess we all must go sometime.  We had lots
of laughs, and I’ll miss him terribly.
    Since then, I’ve become familiar with a good number of the objects in my room, and we all have shared a lot with
each other.  The books and I have learned together, the typewriter and I have written together, the paintings studied me
while I appreciated them, and the television and I have spent a lot of time just staring blankly at one another.  I’ve even
branched out and started working with that antique phone to find new friends outside of my room, and I think I’m
beginning to like it.
    I have decided now, after these experiences, that a friend is a friend, no matter what form he, she, or it may come in,
that true friends are hard to find, and that from now on, for the rest of my life, every friend I have will get all the love,
respect, and attention I can give.
    After all, what are friends for?
Copyright 1988, R. David Kilgore