Fred’s car was nice. It had a wave-like interior which, combined with fine, retro upholstery, made Tim feel like he was experiencing the peak of luxury. There was a large, bright monitor in the center console with all these different settings and functions. It was apparent that the vehicle had an advanced computer system that added to the air of futuristic elegance. Rain beat down on the road and blinded the two, yet Fred continued forward with no hesitation or worry. It had been a long time since Tim the Printer Guy had felt secure with another.
“So where are we heading to?” asked Fred.
Tim thought about his apartment, the mound of despair and trash—he would surely scare this man away with the smell.
“Oh… I don’t know,” Tim said coyly.
“Well where do you live?”
“I don’t uh… remember,” Tim the Printer Guy stammered, hoping that Fred would just drop the subject and drive somewhere else. “You can just drop me off at that gas station up ahead, and I will call someone,” he said.
Fred kept watching the road. There was a moment of silence between them until he asked, “Do you have a home or are you homeless?”
Tim looked down and thought about the apartment and Skeeter. “I live in my car,” he said.
“That’s terrible,” said Fred. “I guess you can spend the night at my place for the time being, I have a spare room.”
“Your house?”
“Yeah, it's not too far.”
Tim the Printer Guy was floored by this man’s kindness, yet he was unsure of how to judge his intentions. No one had ever been this kind to him, without expecting something in return. Tim’s own father would, at points, treat him with kind gestures, though they all later required acts of gratitude. Whether it be cleaning the dojo, polishing the bokkens, or dedicating more hours to his training, Tim was subjected to the strict values of the Japanese household. Respect was everything to his father, who instilled those thoughts into his son’s mind.
“Is there anything I can do to repay you?” asked Tim the Printer Guy.
Fred smiled very wide. “We will think of something,” he said.
As Fred and Tim continued to drive through the night, the grinding of the road began to wear the printer guy down. They started to venture into the back roads which extended far into the country. Forest, rain, and darkness clouded their surroundings and made it impossible for Tim the Printer Guy to know where he was. Fred was silent, though would occasionally glance at Tim, who was still studying the car. Tim the Printer Guy started to notice new things around him with each turn of his head: a duffle bag in the back seat, a bunch of small wadded up papers around the floor, and a few small, brownish stains on the door handles.
The lulls of the wind whizzing through the window was a constant drone that coincided with a smooth vibration of the road. Tim the Printer Guy began to slowly close his eyes and drift into unconsciousness. As soon as the lulling darkness fell across his eyes, prompting his mind to cast dreamy visions… BANG! The car jolted around. Tim the Printer Guy looked out and saw a long stretch of rocky, dirt road.
“Are we almost there?” asked a sleepy Tim, rubbing his eyes and coming back to his senses.
“It's coming up. Don’t worry, I know you must be pretty tired,” said Fred, giving Tim a little side-eye while still trying to watch the road. “I bet you can’t wait to get into a real bed for a good night’s sleep.”
Tim the Printer Guy was confused but then remembered his ruse about being homeless. He looked down at the floor. “Oh yeah, but I can just sleep on the couch…” said Tim.
“Nonsense! I have that room up there and I never use it. Plus I have extra pillows and sheets.”
“You are a very kind man,” said Tim.
“Oh no… Don’t be thinking that. Then you will start to take advantage of me,” Fred said, then paused uncomfortably.
Tim the Printer Guy waited for a moment, a little concerned that he may have offended him, but spouted a hesitant apology. “I uh… did not mean…”
“Hey!” Fred cut him off, “I was just pulling your leg.”
Tim awkwardly chuckled, as he wanted Fred to know that he understood the humor, which still lingered in the air in an odd way. Tim the Printer Guy was more unsure of how to interact socially with this person, as, at the moment, he seemed very quiet and reserved compared to their early conversation in the store.
“I can give you money for letting me stay the night,” said Tim.
“I don’t need your money,” said Fred, “but I still have those cameras that need to be set up. I could sure use a hand if you are interested.”
“Of course!" exclaimed Tim. "Anything you say."
Moments later, they arrived at a patch of forest, miles away from any other sort of civilization. Tim the Printer Guy followed Fred out of the car and stared at a large house that had tall windows. It was triangular in shape, and protruded out from the darkness and the thick, surrounding vegetation. The house looked fairly modern and intricate; having the appeal of luxury, yet minimal and almost sterile. Tim the Printer Guy could see a tiny bit of moss growing on the side of the house, along with tree branches extremely close to the rooftop, almost swallowing the property.
“This is my place,” said Fred, ushering Tim to get out of the car.
“Where are we exactly?”
“I know it's a little far away but it's not that hard to get to or find. Red Flow Lake is really close by, so I sometimes get those assholes from the neighborhood getting on my property.”
“Is that why you need the cameras?” asked Tim.
“I need more than cameras! I really need bear traps and stuff around. It will teach those fuckers a lesson,” said Fred with a chuckle.
The two of them opened the door, and Tim the Printer Guy was met with an equal blackness to the outside; it was deep and mysterious. Fred squeezed past him and flipped on the light switch, revealing a small foyer with a stairwell that went up.
“You can take your shoes off here and just go up those stairs,” said Fred, putting his keys on a hook.
Tim the Printer Guy did what he was told and ventured up. The rest of the house was overwhelmingly large. There was a wide living room with many different types of couches, as well as a large television and a connected kitchen with lavish, expensive appliances and cookware. Everything was still in that minimal style which made the room seem more spacious and grand. The walls were mainly white, yet around the corners Tim the Printer Guy could see dark gray accents. A soft yellow glow resonated from many different types of lamps. Tim had never seen anything so impressive.
“You have a lovely home,” Tim the Printer Guy said.
“Eh… it ain’t much, but I like it,” said Fred, looking for the closet.
“What do you do for a living?”
“I am retired now, but I used to be in marketing, y’know,” Fred pointed up at a hallway, away from the living room. “Your room is the first bedroom on the right,” he said.
There were many different art pieces all around the house, ranging from sculptures to framed prints of photography. The prints hanging on the walls depicted body parts which were twisted and closely photographed, all of which were visceral and distressing. Arms, hands, legs, all in expressive positions, shot in an overexposed black and white filter. They kind of disturbed Tim and as he continued to look through the house. He found more and more of the same types of prints as he went, yet the models varied.
“What kind of art is this?” asked Tim.
“That is something I used to do, a long time ago…” said Fred wistfully.
“You took these?”
“I used to go to school specifically for photography, but…” Fred stopped, while looking at one of the pieces, of a mangled arm, which was possibly broken. “It all was taken away from me.”
“I went to an art college too, for painting,” said Tim the Printer Guy. “In Chicago.”
“Chicago?” asked Fred, staring Tim down intently.
“Well… I… did for a bit.”
Tim’s eyes were wide with the memories of his youth. The time he spent in school was intoxicating, and Tim had felt that he learned so much from being there. He was always haunted by the pain of being rejected by the school and the art community.
“Did you continue with school?” asked Fred.
Tim the Printer Guy felt the inevitable tears swell in his eyes. He looked away.
“No, I was unable to continue… They took away my scholarship,” said Tim.
“That sounds terrible. What happened?”
Rain continued to beat down and, as Fred asked that question, thunder rattled the house. Tim’s heart was racing and forcing pressure into his face—the anxiety and the pain bashed his psyche. He had never explained his story before. Tim the Printer Guy assumed that it was possible to just be able to forget and run away, that he would never again dig up the rotting corpse of his college years…
Tim the Printer Guy was once a young boy, obsessed with art. Days would be spent in his parents’ small tea garden, sketching and painting the different flowers and plants. From afar, he would watch his neighbors and quickly scrawl their faces as they walked past and out of focus, in a form of expressive scribbles which continued to strengthen his eye for detail. His mother would always see him, spending hours in the garden painting and sketching, and remark on his loneliness. Pretty soon, she saw her son transform into a Nihonga master, who could create beautiful pieces that rivaled even Hokusai. She continued to nurture his creativity, by spending what little money she had on paints and canvases. Tim even took lessons from a local artist in the area, which his mother paid for by providing services for the man. His mother was his creative muse, inspiring him with her ravishing beauty and love.
Yet, there was always the overbearing presence of Tim’s father, who saw nothing in his son’s talents. Night after night, he would reappear after a drunken stupor and find the young Tim the Printer Guy painting portrait after portrait of his mom’s elegant, though hauntingly masculine face.
“Whaaat isss thissss, gaijin?” his father would aggressively mumble.
“That is Mother, she wanted me to paint her,” Tim would reply, feeling his father’s stink wafting over him.
“Youur mother!” His father would slap away his materials. He would then take another hefty swig from his sake jug. “Do not waste your life on this!” he laughed, and would always retreat back to his shed to pass out after throwing up in the koi pond.
Tim the Printer Guy would endure his father’s bullying for some time, as it increasingly got more severe. Early on, his father would just slap away his paints and brushes, but that soon escalated to slapping him.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
“You are too much like a woman, boy! You know nothing about defending this house—defending my house!” his father yelled.
“But Mother likes my gifts. She says that I have an eye for beauty, and that I should cherish that!”
“You shall only know war!” His father finally smashed his jug on the ground, signaling an end to Tim’s creativity. “There is nothing for a man who sits around and doodles all day. What are you to do if an invader takes everything from you?” He snatched away Tim’s paints. “You are helpless and weak!”
The next few years were filled with pain. His father, the intolerable drunk suffering from a deteriorating mental state, began to train him as a samurai. Day and night he would practice kendo, judo, aikido, and karate, none of which would lead to a healthier lifestyle, as his father did not particularly know much about those styles of fighting. But throughout it all, Tim's father would maintain a grasp on his precious sake jug and would conduct his training with conviction, focusing on “toughening” his son’s emotions. This would usually involve yelling at him, throwing things, and overall just humiliating him. Tim would have to endure something that his father called “Raijin’s Trial”. This would involve young Tim the Printer Guy being forced to hold a huge boulder over his head and attempt to balance on a platform for several hours.
All this training just drove young Tim towards an overwhelming amount of stress. He would begin to eat and eat, despite his father not keeping much food around the house. Tim began to sneak away and steal to feed into his compulsions. And soon enough, his father caught wind of this and barred Tim from leaving the house altogether. Tim the Printer Guy’s mother could do nothing to stop this abuse. If she ever spoke out to her husband, he would shout back at her, often turning towards physical violence to get his way. Tim’s father would strike her and lament about not having an obedient Japanese wife.
Tim the Printer Guy would begrudgingly put up with the torment on behalf of his mother—his muse. Seeing her in pain was too much to bear, until something happened that changed everything for Tim. At the time of Tim the Printer Guy’s twentieth birthday, he received a letter in the mail. It was from the Art Institute of Chicago ,offering Tim a full ride to attend their prestigious school. This was unbelievable, a dream come true, yet how was this possible? Tim had been removed from public school at the age of fifteen to further devote time to his father’s own deluded bushido. While Tim read the letter he felt faint with excitement, though at the same time worried that his father would interfere. He rushed inside to tell his mother ,who was not the least surprised.
“I always knew you could get in,” his Mother said.
Tim the Printer Guy took a moment to understand his mother’s words. How could she have known about this unless…
“I sent your paintings to them,” she said. “I also forged your transcript a bit, to omit some of the things your father did, but it was all to give you a way out of all this.”
Tim looked at his muse with tears in his eyes. At the time, he was wearing a modest kimono, wooden sandals, and his once long hair was tied in a chonmage. There was a tantō knife on the wall near the doorway. After taking the blade off the wall, young Tim the Printer Guy sliced off the top bun of his hair.
“Now I am free from my bonds,” he said, dropping the hair on the ground—a symbolic relinquishing of the hold his father had on him.
“Whaaat aarree youuu doinggg?” his father slurred, stumbling into the genkan and seeing Tim slice off his bun.
“I no longer serve you!” declared Tim, who showed his father the letter from Chicago. “I have been accepted at one of the finest schools of art in the country. They appreciate my gifts and they are allowing me to train with them!”
“This is not possible you foolish boy,” said his father. “You will learn nothing from this school. The way of the warrior—my teachings—are the only thing you need. I am not going to pay for someone to teach you how to waste your life away!”
“I will go for free!” shouted Tim.
“There is no such thing as ‘free’—full ride. They may tell you that you do not need to pay, but pretty soon you will be bound to them. Leave me and find yourself in servitude to something far worse, I guarantee,” his father said.
Tim the Printer Guy swelled up with anger. Tears streamed down his face, while his voice undulated through the stress. “You know nothing about the samurai!”
Tim’s father stopped and stared at his son in silence.
“The bushido teaches that a true samurai is skilled in all facets of life. Poetry, art, and fighting were all valued equally by the traditional samurai!” Tim cried.
“Who taught you this?” his father demanded.
Tim the Printer Guy looked at his mom and saw her eyes fill with tears as well. He quickly turned his head towards the floor to give no indication to his father that her influence was far greater to him than he ever was.
“It doesn't matter. I need to find my own way and leave this household,” said Tim, proudly lifting his head and standing straight in defiance.
“Then you have made your choice.” Tim’s father looked at him sternly before turning his back and walking into a dark room. He reemerged fairly quickly, holding a large black leather box. “You have chosen a life of betrayal and dishonor by leaving your family. If you ever decide to return, I will only accept your servitude if this blade is adorned in the blood of an enemy.” He opened the box and revealed a katana. “Shōgun no fukushū,” he continued, “and if by chance I do see you again and this blade is clean, stolen, given up or lost, then I will have no choice but to smite you myself, as you are an enemy and no longer my son.”
Tim the Printer Guy took the katana. He looked into the eyes of the man who had caused him so much pain. “I was but a lost child until this moment. I will respect your gesture and take this gift, though do not think that I will ever return to a life of servitude under you. It is my opinion that you are undeserving of Mother and do her great dishonor. I will come back, but only for her.”
The old man looked at Tim with a hateful scorn. His wrinkled eyes searched for an inch of weakness, yet Tim the Printer Guy was steadfast, and responded to those looks with nothing but stoicism. It was understood to his father that Tim meant every word he spoke.
He then walked to his bedroom and started to put all his belongings into a drawstring backpack. His mother walked in to give him a final goodbye.
“I know you will accomplish great things, my precious plum,” she said.
Tim took a long breath and looked out the window, towards the horizon. “My purpose will be to give you light and pride. You gave me a chance to become myself again, and I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”
“By taking this opportunity… You already have Tim,” said his mother.
Tears again caressed his eyes and brought him to his knees.
“Please do not cry, little one,” Tim’s mother said, shushing him and cradling his head. “Go and make your dreams come true.”
“I will return to you, I swear!” said Tim.
“I know you will.”
Young Tim the Printer Guy got up from his blubbering state and wiped his face. His mother walked away, but soon returned with a gift.
“Take this to remember me by,” she said holding a black box ornamented with gold and dragons.
“No, I cannot take your kimono!”
“Please, this is my gift to you. I know you always loved it as a child,” she said, pushing it towards him…
Tim looked out the window of Fred’s beautiful house and watched the rain beat against the glass. He was still unable to confront the memory of losing it all. The only thing on his mind was how much he failed his muse, and how much he needed her again.
“What happened to school?” Fred restated.
“It was nothing, perhaps I will tell you another time,” Tim the Printer Guy said, still looking at the rain. “I just don’t like to go into it.”
“Well let me show you your room!” shouted Fred. He walked Tim down the hallway and into one of the guest rooms.
It looked comfortable, complete with a big bed covered in white and gray sheets and a window overlooking a large yard immersed in the forest. Upon closer inspection, the sheets were rough and thin. They were tightly cinched down and hard to pull apart. Tim the Printer Guy turned around and saw another large print on the wall, facing the bed. It was of a naked man, sleeping in that same bed, and taken in a way to mimic a mirrored effect. The photo looked to have been taken from the foot of the bed, and the man laid in an awkward fashion—spread out. He looked pale and unhealthy, with the same dark curly hair as Fred, though his face was beguiling and young.
“Who is that?” Tim said, pointing at the picture.
Fred looked up and scrunched his face. “Oh, no one,” he said. “Just a model…”
Tim then turned and saw that he had his own bathroom.
“You got your own bathroom!” Fred exclaimed, seeing Tim the Printer Guy venture over to the sink.
There was a mirror over the faucet that revealed a medicine cabinet. Tim opened it, revealing a wide variety of pills and creams. He turned to find Fred, who had disappeared from the room, and looking down the hall he was also nowhere to be seen. Tim returned to the medicine cabinet to shut it, but stopped and saw a very familiar sight. It was the same pill bottles the Doctor had prescribed to him—to get rid of the pain! It was unbelievable and they were full too. Tim the Printer Guy took one of the bottles in his hand and poured out a hefty amount to inspect. Not wanting to wait any longer, he scarfed down what he could. He then heard steps coming down the hall and quickly shut the cabinet door as Fred made his way back in the room holding a towel.
“Here you go, for the morning if you need a shower,” said Fred.
“How can I ever repay you for this generosity?” Tim asked, taking the towel from Fred.
“Eh. You can paint or something, I bet you are talented.”
Tim the Printer Guy blushed. He started to giggle and excitedly anticipated the connection he would further with this new friend. Then he began to think about how different this was to that of his precious Adonises. Their beauty was otherworldly and placed them high above the mountain tops. How could Tim reach them, relate with them, or talk to them in any way that wasn’t regarding ProSales? They never asked about his life, his art, or how his job was. They only showed him that perfection was out there, but it was so different to that of himself. They reminded him of his life, Skeeter and how this depression was inescapable. Every moment with them gave Tim the Printer Guy a rush, but would soon send him down a spiral of woe that always ended with reliving his past failures. Was it possible to rid himself of this attraction he had towards them and to relinquish the hold they had on his life?
Here was a man who provided something more to Tim. Fred Shudnow did not possess any form of physical attraction, though he valued Tim the Printer Guy and gave him something equally beautiful. Tim the Printer Guy now felt broken inside, as he had previously lied to Mr. Shudnow.
“Listen,” said Tim, “there is something I need to tell you.” He took a deep breath and a moment of silence to calm his nerves. “I am not homeless. In fact, I have an apartment just off the highway.”
Fred stopped and dropped his energetic demeanor. “Then why did you tell me you were?” he asked.
Tim the Printer Guy felt his stomach swell up with anxiety. “I was embarrassed,” he said. “I live in squalor and filth and you were so kind to me… I did not want you to see that.”
“You live in squalor?”
“I am a peasant, yes!” Tim yelled as he broke down in tears yet again. “I don’t even technically own the apartment, I just live there because my boss pays for it. He owns my home and reminds me every day that he can fire me and kick me out. It is a cesspool of filth! I struggle to even find the desire to paint or to create.”
Fred Shudnow gave him the towel. “Dry your tears,” he said. “If you do not own your home then you are homeless.”
“I lied to you!” cried Tim the Printer Guy.
“What are you talking about? You seem to be telling the truth. You have no home and came here. You are still welcome to stay as long as you want.”
“Thank you,” Tim said while groveling at Fred’s feet, still in those grimy, wet rubber sandals.
“Soon, we can work on the cameras.”
Tim lifted his head and saw Fred giving him a wide, toothy smile. “Of course,” he said.
“Well,” Fred yawned, “I think it is time for the both of us to get some sleep.” He motioned for Tim the Printer Guy to get onto the bed. “If you need anything that will help you get to bed, I also have some pills in my medicine cabinet.”
Tim’s face lit up. He also needed to tell his new friend about the pills he had stolen from him, which were in the process of being absorbed in his bloodstream.
“Well, another thing…”
“I see that you already got to these ones,” Fred cut him off. “But I got some sleeping ones in the back too.”
Tim the Printer Guy was stunned that he knew--- although a lot had indeed been taken. Fred could have just been playing this off with a bit of humor, but Tim felt that he needed to explain.
“Well I…” Tim stuttered.
“That is fine,” Fred cut him off again, continuing to fumble through the cabinet and finally finding the bottle he was looking for. “This will make you sleep really well,” he said and handed the bottle to Tim the Printer Guy.
They were indistinguishable from the other set of pills. A mysterious bottle, lacking a label, containing small white capsules that made Tim’s mouth water. He was surely under the thumb of the Doctor, who it seemed prescribed Fred with the same remedy. Knowing this to be from the same source, Tim the Printer Guy was eager to taste their coating and succumb to the effects.
“Where did you get these?” asked Tim.
“The Doctor prescribed them to me. They do wonders for my insomnia,” said Fred, urging Tim to take another handful.
“I have to take these for some pain I have in my face,” said Tim.
“Pain, are you hurt?”
“Someone hit me, a few weeks ago and the pain still lingers. I ran out of pills, so I am sorry that I took yours.”
“No, you are fine. Take as much as you need. I have plenty to spare.”
Tim the Printer Guy took the sleeping pills from Fred and shoved them in his mouth. Instantly, the dullness took over his body and pulled him down towards the bed. Still trying to force his eyes open, he saw the fading light from a ceiling fan. It languidly turned, which sent Tim into a hypnotic state. He felt nothing and knew nothing, as every thought in his brain latched itself onto the turns of the ceiling fan. Fred moved over to the door and whispered into Tim the Printer Guy’s ever-deadening ears.
“Sleep tight, printer guy.”