FLoater Novel

---

Underneath the surface of a gentle river, schools of multicolored carp went about their day unphased by the crashing of pale-yellow beaks from their feathery neighbors floating above. That their neighbors could dive deep enough for long enough to threaten a carp’s way of life never crossed their minds. After all, floaters are floaters, and fish are fish. The laws of nature had made it that way. It’s the way it was and always would be.

***

Cooper slid a quarter into the vending machine and turned the lever. Cupping his hands next to its hinged metal door, he looked up at me and smiled. I lifted open the door. A trickle of corn slid from the chamber like a miniature gold waterfall into his uncalloused, five-year-old palms. Stepping to the side of the vending machine, Cooper extended his arms between the bridge’s burnished-brown railings and looked up at me again, his eyebrows raised as if inviting my permission. “Go ahead. It’s okay,” I said, nodding my head.

He flipped over his palms. 

Tiny yellow raindrops fell onto the river’s surface, creating a series of circles that rippled outward in every direction. Within moments, orange, brown, and yellow carp emerged from the bridge’s protective shadow. They darted back and forth beneath the surface, consuming the kernels before they sank to the river’s rocky bottom.

My eight-year-old daughter, Sophie, watched from the other side of the bridge as a family of ducks paddling against the current struggled to consume the kernels carried downstream. "Cooper, look!" she said, voice pitched in panic. "They can't catch the corn!"  Cooper raced over, arriving just as the emerald head of a male mallard duck emerged kernelless from beneath the river’s surface.  

Placing one hand on Cooper's shoulder and the other on Sophie's, I said, "Don't worry, they'll be fed." I pointed to the other people on the bridge feeding kernels into the river. “What do you say we meet up with your mom and have some fun!” Sophie looked at me crossly and demanded we stay, which we did, feeding several more quarters of kernels into the river, then carrying on with our day. Up every hill, around every turn, and through every valley of the man-made metal jungle all around us was a kaleidoscope of colors and cultures moving everywhere and nowhere at any given moment.   

At the water rides, there were girls in bikinis and boys in board shorts. At the gaming booths – jocks and geeks, gamblers and go-getters. At the food tables – meat lovers, vegetarians, fried food fanatics, and those who preferred Kosher or Hallel.

At one point, we weaved our way toward a rotating island of fiberglass boats behind a family of females wearing long black robes with colorful scarves wrapped around their heads. In an adjoining lane, three teenagers, hunched over with the backs of their T-shirts lifted over their heads, laughed and joked as a fourth teenager, walking backward in front of them, shouted gibberish and pretended to strike them with an imaginary whip.

Fed up with the theatrics, I leaned over the railing and tapped one of the teenagers on the shoulder. "Excuse me," I said. “Do you think that’s funny?” The teenager rolled his eyes and chuckled as he pointed at Cooper attempting, and failing, to lift the back of his T-shirt over his head. "Well, it's not funny," I said, slapping my hand on the railing. “Frankly, it’s downright ignorant. You and your friends should be –” 

The roar of the rollercoaster passing overhead muffled my message before morphing into a different roar that shook the cinderblock walls of my fourth-floor flat, awakening me from a deep sleep.

I checked the time. 

It was 4:55 a.m. 

I shuffled up the hallway to the dining room and fumbled with a pulley to the brown metal shutters of my flat’s front picture window. Managing to open the shutters a few inches, I peeked outside. Aside from the roar of the call to prayer - and a few old men disappearing under the green awning of the mosque across the street - the neighborhood was eerily empty and surprisingly quiet. Unable to fall asleep, I grabbed the company’s manual from the dining room table, sunk into a white cushioned sofa chair, and thumbed through its pages. After a brief history of the region that would be my home for the next four years, the manual’s next section provided advice to limit one’s cultural offensiveness. 

I tossed the manual on the coffee table and shuffled to the back bedroom. My wife, Emily, and our then three-year-old, Sophie, were nestled under layers of wool blankets with knit caps on their heads and mittens tucked under the cuffs of their warm winter coats. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stared at my reflection in the closet’s mirror-paneled doors. My black wool coat and gray sweatpants, which I had stuffed with more sweatshirts and sweatpants, appeared bloated like a tick gorged with blood and ready to pop. So, this is the Middle East in winter. I lifted my chin toward the peeling white paint on the bedroom’s cinderblock ceiling and slowly exhaled. A tube of warm liquid droplets greeted the room’s icy-cold air, creating a temporary cloud of condensation before vanishing. Grabbing my compact disc player from the nightstand, I slipped under the covers, positioned the headphone’s circular foam cushions over each ear, pulled the covers over my chin, and pressed the play button. The audiobook’s narrator started where he’d left off somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean on the flight over. In a raspy Charleston Heston-like voice, he read about 9/11. Terrorism. A clash of cultures and beliefs. A world that would never be the same.

I closed my eyes and drifted off. 

When I woke up, it was midafternoon.

I have a bachelor’s in political science from Penn State University and a master’s in theology and intercultural studies from Dallas Theological Seminary. Having lived abroad, where I taught English and wrote for a regional magazine, I am passionate about using fiction to build bridges and foster constructive dialogue across the political, religious, and cultural divides.

Have a question or comment about the book or the website? Get in touch with me using the contact form and I'll get back to you as soon as possible.