Fin Tiltry

I visited Fin in Connecticut a few summers ago, where he proudly showed me his room before the most awkward dinner of my life with his parents. They emailed me, asking for me to visit because I had ‘such a profound impact on the boy.’ He said I was his favorite staff member at Long Lake because I ‘didn’t give a shit about shit.’ I never pictured myself visiting any of the kids I essentially worked for - some of their parents have taken me out to dinner when they were in the city, but the Tiltry's had nearly threatened me with sending Fin to my apartment if I didn't come to see them. The dinner was, as I said, awkward in the least, but Fin's bedroom was the most interesting aspect of the visit.

The Setting: A bedroom, which seemingly resembles a college dorm room, in the attic of a three-story colonial craftsman-style house. Up the winding staircase one enters the room and is taken by the height of it. The ceilings, planed in puzzle-like shapes, half pealing retro wallpaper, half flaking glue-stained sheetrock (where wallpaper once was), rise upward like the interior of a middle-class pyramid. Along one wall stands a pair of bunked beds, the bottom bed made neatly with a plaid duvet and corresponding pillow shams, the top a mass of twisted sheets and duvets. The walls, once white, are now a sort of stale eggshell color and are decked with record covers and psychedelic posters, all curled at the corner and speckled with tiny holes and wrinkles, revealing their age. Directly diagonal to the beds there is a rust-colored couch slouched between two stereo speakers and guarded by a stilted coffee table with names and dates carved haphazardly in its deeply veined wood. Thrown in the space between the couch and the bed lays a shag rug with its strands intertwined and matted. On the rug lays various items: a scratched and duct taped CD walkman (faintly playing The Eye of the Tiger through muffed headphones), a skateboard so covered with stickers its underside seems to be swelling, three wilted cigarettes that are beyond smoking, and numerous articles of clothing, all slightly tattered, worn, and smelling of boy.

The Character: Fin Tiltry is not a normal eight year old. He is, in all senses, ahead of his time. On Sunday mornings Fin sleeps until three or four in the afternoon and rises only when the light pouring in from the attics sheet-covered windows becomes too bright for his slate-blue eyes to ignore. He rises slowly from his top bunk, his shaggy blonde hair tussled and his eyes resembling slits in soft melon. First, before all else, he will scratch. It is a ritual of sorts. As his legs dangle from the top bunk he starts at his head. First rubbing his hair about, messing it further, and then gently pressing on his scalp with all ten fingers. Although he is barely awake, he considers this rubbing an essential part of his routine as it ‘wakes up his brain.’ He then gently urges at his eyes with twisted fists, removing all sleep-produced particles, and finally opens them slowly, allowing time form them to adjust to the sunlight. And then the scratching – his lower back comes first, damp from sweat, he itches rapidly. Then his hairless armpits. And lastly he claws at his entire torso and a wild motion, looking as though he is being attacked by bees. Then a sigh and a smile. His day can begin.

Nearing his 9th birthday, Fin has settled into what more closely resembles the life of an Ohio State frat boy. Two years earlier he had moved into the attic of his family’s house on account that ‘he needed more space.’ His parents, both professors at the local Ivy League and rarely caring about anything, barely raised a brow. Fin furnished his room with the things his four older brothers (all grown and gone) had left in their rooms or stored in the basement. With no help, outside of countless RedBulls (his drink of choice), Fin successfully moved all of his desired furnishings up the winding staircase of the attic and set up camp, rarely leaving. He is at peace in his bachelor pad. Only rarely does the blaring of 90’s classics disturb his parents and their only request is delivered by the family’s maid, Hilda, in the form of incessant rapping on the door at the bottom of his stairs. He rarely takes meals at the dining room table with his parents, but has repaired the dumbwaiter of their ancient house and hoists his meals up at the sound of the doorbell he has installed in the kitchen, which is only to be used by Hilda. In his room he keeps a mini-refrigerator, donated by the youngest of his older brothers, Lance, after he graduated from UPenn. He considers it a suitable addition to his space and keeps it stalked with RedBulls and string cheese. Later, when the family replaced their microwave, he hulled it up the dumbwaiter and rested it on top of the minifridge, using it primarily to cook ramen noodles and Jiffypop.