Crowded
Bertram Tull hated apples.
The kitchen light flickered faintly as he stood in his pajamas and slippers, glaring at the fruit basket like it had offended him. Round, polished red orbs gleamed in the morning light, mocking him with their perfect, waxy surfaces.
His breakfast—as usual— two eggs cooked precisely three minutes, two strips of bacon crisp but not brittle, and one buttered slice of toast—sat warm in his stomach, but a faint hunger remained. He wanted something more. Pancakes, maybe, or sausage. A little sweetness. A little indulgence.
But indulgence wasn’t in his vocabulary, at least not since childhood. His mother’s voice rang through his mind, sharp and brisk: “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.”
Bertram sighed, his scowl deepening. He wanted a banana, not an apple. Bananas were soft and sweet, but his mother’s old disapproval of them—“too much sugar!”—lingered louder than his cravings. He reached for the reddest apple, its cool skin like glass against his fingers.
The routine was automatic: rinse the apple under the tap, scrub it with unnecessary vigor, and dry it meticulously with a towel. Each movement was deliberate, like every other part of his life. Bertram bit into the apple. The crunch echoed in the empty kitchen.
The sourness hit his gums sharply, but he chewed. Once, twice, sixteen times—always sixteen. His first-grade teacher’s rule had been branded into him. Proper chewing was essential to digestion, and good digestion was the foundation of health.
The apple softened into pulp as he forced himself through the rest. The core hit the bottom of the trash can with a dull thunk. For a moment, he considered wiping his wet hands on his pajama top, but then, as he’d been taught, Bertram reached for a napkin and wiped away all evidence of the apple from his hands and lips. He turned to the calendar hanging on the wall beside the white refrigerator. He remembered the day he bought it. “White is a classic color,” the sales lady said. “Sensible. Colored refrigerators are for show offs.” Bertram remembered coveting a “groovy” green one with smoked black edges,” but he had held his tongue and bought the “more sensible one.” And he certainly had not uttered a word like “groovy” aloud.
He considered the calendar again.
June 16, 1967.
Using the pencil dangling from a piece of string taped to the wall, he drew a crisp X across the day. Another victory over time. Another day lived exactly the way it should be.
The bathroom was as immaculate and unimaginative as the rest of Bertram’s flat. White tiles gleamed under the flickering overhead light. His reflection stared back at him from the spotless mirror: pale skin, thin face, brown hair curling just slightly over his ears.
He tilted his head, studying himself. His hair was longer than usual—an oversight he hadn’t yet corrected. For a moment, he wondered what it would look like if he let it grow.
“You look like a hippie,” his father’s voice growled in his memory. “Hair like that is a sign of laziness.”
Bertram’s hand drifted to his jaw. A beard, maybe? He liked the idea of a beard. They had a kind of ruggedness to them—a sign of independence.
For a brief moment, he let himself imagine it. He’d never grown one before, not really, but maybe…
The thought sparked a small thrill, like the first taste of freedom. But the voice of his father roared back, extinguishing it. “Beards are for lazy men, Bertram. Signifies lice, not brains.”
Bertram sighed. His hand hovered over the razor resting on the sink. He could skip it, just this once. No one would notice. But the voice pressed on: “Skipping shaving? What’s next? Skipping showers? Cleanliness is next to godliness.”
The razor felt heavy in his hand. The blade scraped against his cheek in long, mechanical strokes. Foam gave way to smooth, pale skin, erasing the idea of rebellion with each pass. When he was done, his reflection stared back at him—tidy, polished, and unremarkable.
He didn’t hate how he looked. But he didn’t like it either.
At exactly 8:00 a.m., Bertram sat at his desk. His tie was snug, the knot perfectly symmetrical. The typewriter sat in front of him, its keys gleaming. The plastic hula girl perched on its arm swayed slightly with his movements.
“Good morning, Leilani,” he said softly.
The room was silent except for the faint hum of traffic outside. Bertram adjusted his posture, sitting straight-backed. His mother’s words rang in his head: “Good posture is a sign of good character.”
“Good morning, Bertie,” a voice replied.
Bertram froze. His hands hovered above the typewriter keys, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, he turned his head.
Leilani was no longer plastic. She sat on the desk, her legs swinging lazily over the edge, her grass skirt swishing as though caught by a breeze. Her smile was alive, warm, teasing.
“You’re not real,” he whispered.
“Neither are you,” she said, her voice light but certain.
The air in the room grew heavy, oppressive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugged, leaning back on her hands. “You tell me. I’m just your hallucination, right? Everything I say is already in your head.”
Bertram turned back to the typewriter, his hands trembling. “Go away,” he muttered.
“Why?” she asked, hopping off the desk. Her bare feet made no sound as she crossed the room to the window. “You don’t talk to anyone. You don’t even talk to yourself. You just follow the rules other people left behind.”
Bertram’s chest tightened. He gripped the edges of his desk. “I like my life just fine,” he said through gritted teeth.
Leilani glanced over her shoulder, her expression softening. “No, you don’t,” she said quietly. “You’re too afraid to live it.”
She turned back to the window, peering out at the street below. “She’s cute, isn’t she?”
“Who?”
Leilani nodded toward the blonde woman across the street. She was laughing with her friends, her freckled face bright with sunlight.
“You watch her every morning,” Leilani said.
Bertram’s face burned. “I don’t—”
“You do,” she interrupted. “You wonder what it would be like to talk to her. To ask her out. But you never will.”
He swallowed hard, his throat tightening.
“What are you so afraid of, Bertie?”
He didn’t answer.
Leilani stepped closer, her gaze steady and unflinching. “What would you do if you weren’t afraid?”
Her words lingered in the air, sharp and heavy. Bertram’s heart pounded. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he stood.
Bertram hesitated at the blonde woman’s door. He remembered her being called “Mary” and he hoped he’d heard right. His knuckles hovered over the polished wood, trembling. He adjusted his tie, though it was already perfectly in place. His heart hammered in his chest, loud enough to drown out the voices in his head.
“She won’t like you,” his mother’s voice whispered.
He swallowed hard. His tie suddenly felt like a noose around his neck, cutting off his air. He should turn back. This was a mistake.
But then the door opened.
The woman—Mary—stood in the doorway, framed by soft light. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, golden against the pale green of her shirt. A faint scent of patchouli hung in the air, mingling with the sweetness of the flowers tucked into her hair.
“Oh!” she said, her mouth curling into a surprised smile. “Hi.”
Bertram stared at her, his throat dry. Words piled up in his head, but none made it to his lips.
“I, uh…” he stammered. “I’m Bertram. I mean, Bertie. I live… I live next door. I was wondering if…”
Her expression softened as she tilted her head, waiting.
“…if you’d like to go to Music Fest. With me,” he finally blurted. The words tumbled out in a rush, awkward and uneven.
Mary’s eyes lit up. “Music Fest?” she asked, her smile widening. “You could totally go with us.” She glanced back into the apartment. “Hey, you guys! My neighbor wants to come with us to the festival this weekend!”
“The square?” he heard someone ask from a side room.
Bertram felt his face flush hot.
“Don’t call him that,” Mary shouted back. “He seems alright.”
She turned to him quietly. “Barry doesn’t mean anything by it. Honest.”
A moment later, as if to make an honest person out of her, the same voice called back, “Sweet, the more the merrier!”
Mary turned back to Bertram, her smile warm. “Wanna ride with us? We’re gonna go out and camp there the night before.”
Bertram’s pulse raced. Outside of boyscout camp, Bertram had never considered going camping. “Sure,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Three days later, Bertram stood in the middle of the Music Fest crowd. Thousands of people surrounded him, their laughter and voices blending with the hum of guitars and the steady beat of drums.
Mary was beside him, her blonde hair catching the fading sunlight. She swayed to the music, her movements unselfconscious and free. Bertram couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“This is amazing, isn’t it?” she said, turning to him.
Bertram nodded, though his words caught in his throat.
Mary pulled a joint from her bag, lighting it with practiced ease. She took a drag and passed it to Bertram, her eyes sparkling.
He hesitated, his fingers brushing hers as he took it. The smell was sharp, earthy, unfamiliar. He brought it to his lips and inhaled, the smoke burning his throat. He coughed violently, doubling over as his eyes watered.
Mary laughed, her hand resting on his back. “First time?” she asked.
Bertram nodded, his cheeks burning.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it,” she said, still smiling.
He took another puff, this time slower. The burn was still there, but less intense. The edges of the world seemed to soften, the colors growing brighter, the music deeper.
The band on stage launched into a new song, the guitar screaming through the air. The crowd cheered, a wave of sound that sent chills up Bertram’s spine. He laughed—an unrestrained, raw sound that felt foreign and thrilling in his throat.
Mary grabbed his hand, pulling him closer to the stage. “Come on!” she shouted over the music.
Bertram followed her, his heart pounding—not from fear, but from exhilaration. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t thinking about what his mother or father or anyone else would say. He wasn’t thinking at all.
He was just being.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the festival in hues of orange and purple, Bertram lay on the grass with Mary and her friends. Another joint passed from hand to hand, the scent lingering in the cool evening air.
Mary leaned back on her elbows, her gaze fixed on the sky. “The stars are going to be amazing tonight,” she said.
Bertram looked up, following her gaze. The first few stars were just beginning to peek through the fading light. He felt a strange warmth in his chest—not from the smoke, but from something deeper.
Mary turned to him, her smile soft. “You’re pretty fun, for a square,” she said, nudging him playfully.
Bertram laughed, the sound surprising him. He tried to sound cool “You’re not so bad, yourself,” he meant to say. It came out more like “You too. Fun. I mean. I like you.”
The next morning, Bertram woke to sunlight streaming through his window. The scent of marijuana and bonfire smoke clung faintly to his clothes. His tie was crumpled on the floor, and for the first time, he didn’t rush to pick it up.
He sat up slowly, his gaze drifting to the calendar on the wall. The pencil dangled from its string, waiting for him to mark the day.
Bertram stared at it for a long moment. Then he smiled.
A year later, Bertie stroked his beard and pushed his long wavy hair from his face to watch as Mary bent over in a tattered Rolling Stones t-shirt and tiny panties to pull milk out of their new olive green refrigerator with the smoky edges.
”Hey, Square,” she teased him, affectionately, “Do you have time for pancakes? Or are you working through the weekend, again?”
“With chocolate chips?” he asked as he reached for a packet of Zig Zags, a wooden grinder, and a bag of weed.
“Of course,” she replied cheerfully. “With chunks of fresh banana.”
He looked at the calendar beside her on the wall where he had marked off a perfect X when he’d stumbled into the kitchen earlier to start a pot of coffee. June 16th.
He smiled happily. “Groovy,” he said as he fastidiously rolled a perfect joint.
Well thank goodness for hallucinations....especially for Bertram.