Simplistic

Frankie Castillo also spent most of his time running. He juggled between jobs, college studies, and lending a hand at home while simultaneously trying to hoist a charismatic smile. He never left angry, never worked with a bad attitude, and never complained to anyone's face. Colleagues, friends, family; they all wondered if Frankie ever secretly exploded in his own time, how many times he thought about punching a wall or ,rather, a person. It was odd to see so much enthusiasm and optimism in today's youth, especially when it came to the cards Frankie was dealt.

"Frankie, get to work on table number seven!"

"Frankie, por favor ayuda me con los platos, mijo."

"Castillo, define a megabyte."

Not to mention, Frankie also walked dogs on the weekend, which baffled many of his acquaintances. "Every dollar counts," he'd always say, even if it was dirty work. With this economy and his motivation, people were amazed he hadn't sold one of his kidneys already. I mean, he thought about it, but it never went that far.

Frankie was walking home after a long day. He had just gotten the bus, his new mode of transportation ever since his uncle's car broke down. Public transportation wasn't the best method of getting around, but Frankie kind of liked not having to pay attention to driving. He found other activities to do that he otherwise wouldn't have time for, like reading comics or talking to strangers. Frankie was a social person and he had a certain boyish charm many found pleasant, or at least tolerable. To Frankie's dismay, however, it didn't really work on tired, British boys. Oh well, he shrugged.

Frankie lived on the borderline of Aurora and Chicago, a place rich with the Latino community. As he approached closer to the familiar neighborhood, familiar faces began to make appearances. He smiled at them, but only some returned the favor. Again, most people were tired, and frankly, so was he.

When he arrived home, his mother was cleaning around the house (as she always is) while listening to old Selena music. Selena was a popular artist before her manager murdered her in cold blood. She has nice songs. Frankie walked in, hung his coat in the closet, and dropped his backpack by the umbrellas. His stretched out his back, feeling the muscles relieve themselves.

"It's about time," His mom said in a strong, Spanish accent, "I was worried La Migra got you." She giggled to herself, to which Frankie chuckled back. Rolling his eyes, he kissed his mother's cheek and made his way to the kitchen. He began making himself a sandwich.

"Ma?" He asked, looking into the refrigerator, "Tenemos tomates? Tomatoes?"

"Fijate que no. Se me olvidó ir a la tienda. I forgot. Sorry."

"It's fine," Frankie assured, shaking his head, "I can stop by tomorrow."

In reality, he couldn't. But Frankie wasn't above sacrificing a lunch hour. He made his sandwich with the bare minimums, licked his fingers, and dug in. He jumped onto the counter and sat himself down while enjoying a glass of water. He heard his mom head upstairs, probably to take out the laundry or iron the clothes. Frankie wiped his mouth with his sleeve, a habit his mom hated but a habit he couldn't shake. His phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket. It was a Blackberry, mind you, nothing new or state-of-the-art, but functional nonetheless. It was his brother.

Frankie, come by this weekend and fix my computer. Piece of shit broke down again.

He considered his plans for the weekend. It mostly consisted of walking dogs, talking to his college advisor, or doing overtime at Debra's Diner. Not to mention homework. Occasionally, he went out with colleagues or friends, but that hasn't been very frequent ever since Frankie started college.

Maybe.

Maybe?

Yeah, maybe.

He stopped texting after that, so Frankie finished up his sandwich, washed the dishes, and headed off to his room. He needed to work on a paper for his English Modernism class. It was an analysis of William Faulkner's The Sound and The Fury and Frankie had been slightly worried about it. Frankie was majoring in Computer Science, a topic that didn't necessarily coincide with poetic literature. He was never really good at that.

He sat in front of his laptop for what seemed like ages, staring at a blank screen without a single thought in his mind to write about. After an hour really had passed and Frankie only managed to write two lousy sentences, he sighed and closed the document. He decided he'd have better luck tomorrow with a refreshed mind. Instead, he played a couple online games to pass the time and get him tired. It wasn't long before his eyes were drooping. He closed his laptop, ran through his bedtime routine, then hopped into bed. His room, which was always neatly cleaned and organized thanks to his mom, seemed timeless. He's lived most of his life between those same four, blue colored walls and he couldn't imagine a day when he'd leave.

He drifted off to sleep with the low hum of his mom's vacuum cleaner.

* * *

"That lady has about fifty years on you," Frankie said, "Her generation has ruined the economy at least twice. I'd be careful."

To understand Frankie you have to understand his undying persistence and his irrefutable obsession with being approved of. He loved pleasing others, he loved wooing them and earning their acceptance. It felt nice to be welcomed and Frankie bathed in that glory. The boy (Benjamin), who's name he never got from yesterday's bus ride, laughed cautiously but earnestly. And that was all Frankie wanted. He sat himself down on the seat parallel to him, as you already know, and even glanced toward him a couple times, which again, you already know. After awhile, Frankie just resorted to playing Bejeweled on his Blackberry to cure his boredom.

When they finally arrived at his stop, however, Frankie put his phone away and walked off the bus. He signed up for a nine o'clock class, Art History, and would only make it if he jogged the way there. Which, he did, and thanks to his many hard duty summer jobs and walking around the park with five dogs on his hands, Frankie had created some stamina. Not a lot, but enough to get by.

"Hey, Frankie!" A girl named Laura greeted. She was in his Art History class, a very impressionable student when it came to art. Frankie has considered asking her for help numerous times, but has never brought himself to ask; always forgets, never enough time, etc, etc.

He stopped jogging and matched his pace with hers, even if it was ungodly slow. She had said "hi" to him and he wasn't one to ignore people.

"Hey," He said, slightly winded from the cold breeze, "how's it going?"

"Fine, you?"

"Muy bien, gracias," Frankie joked, noting the Spanish textbook tucked under her arm. She laughed, coughed a little, then continued to laugh. It seemed the cold weather was getting to her.

"You have a nice accent," She complimented, "are you a native speaker?"

"Kind of," Frankie beamed, not really wanting to explain. He was a first-generation American, but his first words spoken were Spanish up until the age of three. He wondered what that made him. They continued to walk in a pair until they entered the building. Laura was a pretty girl, but in a very conventional way. She wore pajamas to college, much like the other students, especially those with morning classes. She had a slight southern drawl to her voice, but nothing that was too noticeable. She had short brown hair and matching brown eyes. She was also tall, very tall. Frankie had only known her for a couple weeks, which was okay because he didn't pretend to know her.

They continued to talk about mundane topics,

"How do you like the class so far?"

"How's the homework load hittin' ya?"

"What are you majoring in, again?"

Typical college questions. Frankie wasn't very stimulated by them nor found the conversation exceptionally interesting, but he was just grateful to have someone to talk to, even if the talking was a little dry. He liked to believe Laura felt the same way, but her body language told a different story. She touched his arm occasionally, laughed too loudly at his dumb jokes, and sometimes stood too close. Frankie wasn't oblivious, but chose to ignore it. It'd pass away eventually, especially once she learned he wasn't very much attracted to her extra chromosome.

They entered the class room and sat by each other. The room wasn't packed by any stretch of the definition; Frankie figured it was because it was a morning class and he felt it was a good decision to take it. He'd read somewhere that smaller classes bring the best individual results. He figured waking up a couple hours early was worth getting a better education. Frankly, anything was worth getting a better education.