Harry hummed as he put on his moccasins. He tied the laces and looked at his watch: 12:00, and time for his night walk. No, it was not midnight, but noon; Like most stories fraught with angst, anger, and avocados, this story has its tearful beginning in the confusion that can only be achieved in the mid-life crisis of a man in his twenties. If only his eyes had not been so brown, IT may never have been forced to happen.
"Hmm hm hmmm hmm!" Harry continued to murmur. Other people had always told him that the purpose of humming was to carry a tune. "Preposterous!"he would always reply, "That is the point of whistling. A good hummer never reveals the song he is thinking of." After discussing the deep meaning of a cappella bands, the history of monotone speaking, and the best qualities of guacamole, he would start to mumble, falter, and then stop. At this point, most of his friends would be gone, and he would be left talking to the cheese stains on the wall. That was one of the odd things about Harry's life: wherever he went, there seemed to be cheese stains on the wall. He always kept this thought on the back of his mind, the way he would keep leftover meatloaf in the back of the fridge.
Harry finished tying his slippers, a hard task considering the total absence of string, and looked at his reflection in his front door. He flexed his muscles, and smiled like one who steps on a scale and does not realize they are seeing their weight in kilograms. He wiggled the small brown mustache on his face and stepped out the door.
Harry T. Johnston was greeted by a warm sunny day as he started to jog around his block. Every day he would follow the same pattern: wake up, brush his teeth, read the paper, have a nap, eat lunch, watch some soap operas, get the mail, and then go for a jog. Harry did not know it yet, but his uncallused right hand was destined for destiny. Although he thought that he jogged the path that he did because of the view of the park on his left hand side, and the view of the wall on the other, Harry jogged around his old school because he was meant to. He could not explain it at the time, but later, after IT happened, Harry would always say that he felt that something was going to go right for him.
As he jogged, Harry looked at the birds in the sky. This was part of his renegade phase, because his mother had always told him to look down when geese passed overhead. Of course, Harry was only partially disobeying his mother, because his long bangs prevented him from actually looking up. However, if he looked in the general direction of the sun, he could at least see the ground for a change. His purpose this morning, apart from getting a little exercise, was to refill his stock of lottery tickets. No, he was not a heavy gambler, as some more judgmental people might guess from the tattoos on his arms, he simply like the odd lottery ticket. In fact, if those same judgmental people looked past the tattoo that said 'I am a heavy gambler', they would have seen the tattoo that said 'I buy lottery tickets so that I can make paper airplanes out of them and then be a good role model by crumpling them up and then putting them in the garbage can after which I do not buy cigarettes.' -they were not wide, muscled arms, but they were long.
After 10 minutes of walking, Harry made it to his corner store. He looked at the people already there: the clerk, and that was all. The clerk looked at Harry, and saw the same thing that most people saw in him, the steel of his fiery eyes. Actually, this was quite a combination, because the steel would occasionally melt, and you could see little impurities in his pupils that were removed through the 'puddling process'. Someday, the clerk knew, this man's thin body would do great things. "Greatness is relative," the clerk thought, "so I'll bet this man must have some famous uncle in his ancestry." John Terwillager(for that was the clerk's name, if one bothered to read the tag on his striped green uniform) was absolutely right, but Harry's uncle Fred has no relevance to this story, as what's legal in only seven states is not the best thing to win a world record in.
"Could I have some lottery tickets?" Harry casually asked the gumball machine, for that was where he was facing. His blue jeans stood rigid, as if saying: 'That's right, we're blue, and what are you gonna do about it?'. His baggy shirt, however, stood quiet, it had learned its lesson to not argue with the pants when they got angry.
"Yes, yes you can." The clerk replied, and so began the epilogue that is the road to IT.