Dr. Apples®: The Psychic Chronicles – Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
For the love of Red
As I am still experiencing this moment under my psychic trance……
Nestled among dense woods, with the silhouettes of shotgun houses in the background, the serene stretch of creek is the backdrop for a friendship at a crossroads. The vibrant greens of the grass and the soft buzz of cicadas starkly contrast the tension simmering between Dr. Apples and Eugene, as they stand on the precipice of a crucial moment.
Dr. Apples breathes deeply, planting his heels into the ground but not yet into a fighting stance. “Eugene, what’s in your pocket?”
Eugene steps back and whispers, careful not to let the trees overhear. “Woah. Easy. Got something for you.” His tone is low, matching the hush around them. Dr. Apples watches closely as Eugene’s hand, slow and deliberate, reaches into his pocket. The tension between them is palpable in the tightness of Dr. Apples’ fists and the set line of his jaw. A pair of red plaid dress socks emerges from Eugene’s grasp. “Here,” he says, offering them to Dr. Apples with a hint of nervousness. “Saw these at the market and thought of you.”
Dr. Apples’ fists relax slightly at the sight, a mix of surprise and something unspoken flashing across his face. He takes the socks, their bright pattern a stark contrast to the moment’s earlier strain. “Uhh, thank you, Eugene,” he manages, the words feeling heavy. Eugene’s reply is barely audible. “You’re welcome.” Silence lingers between them, filled with the unspoken and the unresolved. Breaking the silence, Eugene shifts uncomfortably. “I gotta go,” he says, avoiding Dr. Apples’ gaze. “My mama needs me to help cook dinner.” “Yeah. I understand,” Dr. Apples replies, his voice dropping lower, laden with unexpressed regret.
As Dr. Apples turns away, a shared awkwardness hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the gulf that had momentarily opened between them. In a sudden move, Eugene steps in front of Dr. Apples, stopping him in his tracks. He makes a quick adjustment to Dr. Apples’ suspenders, trying to lighten the mood. “You gotta stand tall, you know,” Eugene says, trying to recapture some of their earlier ease. With a burst of enthusiasm, he blurts, “Come to my house for dessert. My mama’s making red velvet! You’ll like my house, I promise.”
Caught in the spontaneity of the moment, Dr. Apples hesitates. His mind races for an excuse to decline, but no believable lie comes to mind quickly enough. Yet, the simplicity of Eugene’s request and the allure of red velvet cake, not just any dessert but Dr. Apples’ favorite, compels him to accept. For Dr. Apples, red velvet isn’t merely a cake; it’s a delicate balance of flavors, a divine recipe where the perfect chemistry yields an unparalleled taste experience. Despite his expertise in concocting the most potent potions alongside his mother, he has yet to master the art of this culinary delight.
After all, it’s not every day one contemplates throwing punches at their best friend’s face. “Yeah, okay,” he replies, his voice tinged with a mix of reluctance and curiosity. Eugene beams, relief washing over his face. “Great! Tomorrow around noon. My mama will be thrilled to meet you,” he says, backing away towards his home. “See ya soon!” he yells out before sprinting off.
Just then, a child’s voice pierces the quiet, calling out to Eugene from a distance, “Hey, Eugene, ready to play?” Dr. Apples holds the socks, lost in thought. He twirls the socks slowly between his fingers, the motion almost hypnotic. This gesture embodies a silent debate raging within him—a contemplation of trust and vulnerability.
Okay, let’s get to the good part. I need to fast forward time….
Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I extend my hand forward, palm facing the unseen horizon of time. With a slow, deliberate clockwise swirl of my finger - —just an inch to signify the subtle leap through time, I draw an invisible circle in the air—a symbol of the journey through the spirals of time.
I feel the pull of the future tugging gently at the edges of my consciousness. It’s a small act, yet it holds the power to part the veils between moments, guiding me through the fabric of Dr. Apples’ past with precision.
Dr. Apples is just a block away from his home as he approaches Eugene’s house. The front door, though strikingly similar to his own, bears the marks of time and a bit more grime. He knocks, and Eugene appears almost instantly, as if he’s been anticipating this visit. At home, Eugene’s attire is far less impressive than earlier: a white T-shirt, worn and slightly stained, paired with well-worn pajama pants. “Oh good! You’re here!” Eugene’s greeting barely cuts through the noise as Dr. Apples steps inside. The living room bursts into life with the screams and laughter of five other neighborhood kids—two girls and three boys, ranging from nine to twelve years old, all brimming with unchecked energy.
The children yell, “Heeey,” their excitement fills the air, but Dr. Apples instantly tenses his body as he freezes in place just beyond the threshold. His gaze sweeps over the lively scene, a slight furrow creasing his brow. For a moment, he stands still, an observer on the fringe of their chaos, his hands clasped tightly behind him. Determined not to be overwhelmed, he adopts a strategy to navigate this social whirlwind: dispensing compliments as a form of ice-breaking. “I like the bows in your hair,” he tells one of the girls, his voice steady, enthusiasm deliberately absent. To a boy flaunting new sneakers, “Very nice shoes,” he comments, his tone flat. And to a younger child beaming about a recent tooth fairy visit, “That’s quite the fortune you’ve got there,” he remarks, managing to keep his expression perfectly polite yet disinterested.
Although Eugene’s home shares the layout of Dr. Apples’ own, the differences are immediately apparent. The air inside carries a distinct twang, a mix of mustiness occasionally punctuated by the scent of fresh baked goods, perhaps an attempt to tidy up or mask the usual lived-in smell. This fragrance wafts around, occasionally causing Dr. Apples to scrunch his nose.
Emerging from the bustling kitchen, Ms. Hardy stands as a formidable presence. “Well, hello young man!” Ms. Hardy vocalizes to Dr. Apples. “Uh, hello, ma’am,” he retorts while making eye contact. Manners. Towering over Dr. Apples, her stature commands attention as she surveys the room with a practiced eye. Dressed in an oversized dress that drapes generously over her frame, she embodies the matriarch accustomed to overseeing her domain. Dr. Apples, amid the uproar of child-induced pandemonium, tightens his grip, his fists becoming a lifeline to the sliver of sanity he is trying to maintain. His eyes, wide with a mix of astonishment and a touch of horror, dart from one spectacle of chaos to another. Laughter mingles with cries and screams that buzz around him like bees, each child’s antics adding to the hive’s frenetic energy. Seeking a harbor in the storm, he navigates towards Eugene, who is seated on the couch, looking as serene and content as if he were amidst a peaceful meadow rather than a whirlwind of madness.
The promise of red velvet cake looms in Dr. Apples’ mind like a beacon of hope amid the chaos. “Red Velvet cake. Red velvet cake. Red velvet cake,” he mutters under his breath, trying to anchor himself to the thought of the dessert’s sweet reprieve.
A sudden crash from the kitchen slices through the din, halting the chaos in a moment of suspense. The room falls silent, every eye turning toward the source of the disturbance. Reactively, Dr. Apples blurts out, “Wait, was that the cake?” From the kitchen, Ms. Hardy retrieves something from the floor and places it on the counter, her voice booming, untroubled and hearty, “Nah, Sugar! That was somethin’ else. Ha! Nothing to worry about, just adding that special touch to our dessert!” Her laughter, robust and filled with warmth meant to reassure, barely cuts through the fog of Dr. Apples’ apprehension.
Eugene, catching Dr. Apples’ eye, grins and offers a thumbs-up, as if to say, “This is fun!” As the escalating frenzy surrounds him, Dr. Apples, now seated next to Eugene, tries to find a semblance of normalcy amid the chaos.
Just then, amidst the jubilant chaos, a sharp knock on the door cuts through the noise. The room falls silent for a moment, all eyes darting towards the source of the interruption. Eugene looks momentarily taken aback, his carefree demeanor replaced by a hint of apprehension.
Dr. Apples, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere and yet caught off guard by the unexpected interruption, finds himself both anxious and intrigued about what this new development might entail. As he sits there, enveloped in the unexpected quiet that has momentarily tamed the wild energy of Eugene’s living room, a single thought echoes through his mind, barely audible against the backdrop of the now hushed room, Dr. Apples mutters, “What have I gotten myself into?”