I witnessed my death three times. I was there, the moment my mind left my body and searched the air to come back in. I waited 11 years to construct the story.
When my father met my mother, he thought she was “eccentric.” She had an untamed afro, and long curly nails. She had just finished a few years of college at Xavier and AU. It was the summertime.
She was then, as she is now, a little headstrong, much too confident and brave. She maced a couple of men in New Orleans, and proclaimed to the New York relatives that she was going to explore Harlem to “get in touch with her roots.”
“You're going to end up getting stabbed,” they said. My father was the same, after serving in Vietnam, and returning home to find his “crew” shotting up heroine. “That was the day I left them,” he said. He got straight, clean, married, divorced. He never proposed to my mother, but they just “agreed” to get married. They wed without fanfare in a small courthouse and I came shortly after. Fathers job at Exxon moved him to Leigh Acres Florida, a small retirement community, small enough to have town hall meetings and town carnivals.
In pre-school a guest speaker came to my class. We gathered in a circle around the classroom rug. We faced the windows and I could see another typical Florida creek.
“What do strangers look like?” asked our guest speaker. She was blonde, outfitted in 80s garb. Massive shoulder pads hid beneath a blue suit on her small frame. She spoke with an artificial diction.
I rose my hand.
“Strangers wear all black, and they hide in the bushes wearing a mask,” I took both of my tiny hands and drew them across my face.
“No,” our speaker said. “Strangers look just like you and me. A stranger is anyone you don't know.” She widened her eyes. “A stranger is anyone you don't know.”
My mother had given me similar lessons, long drills on safety in the afternoons. I came home that day and told her what had happened.
“Ariel!” she said. “You know I've taught you that before.” And she had. She taught me my address, my phone number, how to scream when someone grabs you and how to page her if I ever got lost at the grocery. My sister and I also learned how to cross the street, swim, how to turn down unhealthy food politely, and mother made a song to teach us about the alligators.
When I drove twelve hours to Pensacola, Florida I was confronted with monsters. As a child strangers were always the enemy. But sometimes it's not the strangers at all.
My grandmothers house sits by the interstate and a gulf. It's peeling pink paint and covered in weeds. Seven of her nine children still live at the house. They have become drug addicts, they float in and out of jail performing sexual acts for bags of cocaine. My grandfather, the alcoholic, was like a dragon. He sat all day in the darkest corner of the darkest room, in an easy chair smoking cigarettes. You could only see the glowing ember of his cigarette in the dark, and the smoke floating over him like a hologram. His voice was always muddled like Louis Armstrong.
I was five on this trip, and it would be the first time that I died. I do not remember the season, the weather, or the drive there and back. But I do remember the sounds--”Love and Marriage” on a TV set, blue sheets covering a pair of bunk beds, the wood paneling and burglar bars, and inability to speak, to know that I could speak. I was wearing red polka dotted shorts with buttons shaped like strawberries and a white button down shirt. My sister was gone, and my parents gone too, I was all alone with a cousin five years older, ten or more.
“Don't tell anyone,” he said sternly, and I nodded, being more fearful than I had ever been. “Or I'll burn your house down.”
The next morning my eyes followed the flower print pattern wallpaper in my grandmothers bathroom. My sister sat on the toilet in a towel, and my mother stood drawing a bath. I found myself nervous and stammering for days, and even on that morning. I struggled to paint a picture of the happenings to my mother, requesting to talk to her in private.
“Later,” she said. She ordered me to sit on the couch and my cousin was there, with his arm slung over the back of the sofa. I glanced at him, he was so threateningly close to me.
“What?” he said. I was starring but I hadn't noticed. I said nothing. “What?”
The tale was old news the next day, as we pulled out of Pensacola. We would never be back until years later. I would keep it a secret, and thankfully the monsters of that house would be 11 hours away.
Two years passed, and I attempted again to explain to my mother the event of my death. Frequently, we stood in my pale pink room, and she extracted my strawberry shorts from the closet.
“Do you want to wear these? Why don't you wear these anymore, they used to be your favorite shorts,” she would say. I would hang my head silently and say nothing.
In those days, and still, I turned my head from the TV when “Love and Marriage” came on, and my heart would sink when his mother called on the phone and spoke to me.
“Hello Jennifer,” I would say.
“Aunt Jennifer,” she emphasized.
I began to have night terrors. Ants consumed me in my sleep, a large green bird in a cage turned into a spider. We lived in a split plan house then, and when I ran to my parents room, I jumped over translucent hurdles and road blocks near potholes. Years later I would speak to a psychologist who would tell me that night terrors were common in sufferers of childhood sexual abuse.
One night I screamed so much, the whole family sat in the master bedroom by my side. I couldn't separate dream from reality.
When I was seven, father was relocated to Mobile, Alabama.
“It's only an hour from Pensacola,” she said. “We can go there any time now.” I saw my cousin twice a month. He had grown. He liked baseball and the “Malcom X” film. He acted as though nothing happened.
My parents would abandon my sister and I with him in the dragons cave. I focused my attention on protecting my sister— and felt the stress of the possibility of her death. I sat by the door when she used the bathroom and would not let him sit next to her on the couch.
A photograph was taken that Christmas, when I wore a red poofy dress, frilly socks and paten leather shoes. I stood by the sofa in the cave, which is unusually bright because the door is left open. I am facing my sister protectively, and my cousin stands beside me, looking at my body with a predatory stare.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
Saturday, February 24, 2007
from Hallucinations to Recovery
The ceiling fan is completely motionless. It’s the focal point of an almost pitch-black room. I focus on the small islands of dust that have gathered on the outstretched blades and wonder how long it’s been since it’s even been turned on. I haven’t stayed here in months. I want to close my eyes but I feel a presence in the room. Random noises fuel my curiosity and fear. I can’t help but pull the oversized comforter all the way up to my nose, barely peaking over the edge into the darkness.
A dim light from an old computer shines on the ceiling fan. There’s nothing that could possibly be current on the computer, but Dad still keeps it plugged in, just in case he ever wants to look for something he’s misplaced in files he’s forgotten the names to. My whole body is itching so bad that I can’t help but do full body scratches every 30 seconds. The computer screen suddenly turns on, and I find myself scurrying to the head of the bed against the wall.
“You didn’t deserve it. You know that right?”
It’s Momma’s voice, but where is she? I swear if I weren’t so constipated from the pills, I would shit myself right now. I hear the phrase again as I notice the light from the computer screen growing. It is slowly illuminating the entire room and the phrase is on repeat, echoing into oblivion. I can’t make it stop and I feel like my head is going to explode. It grows so loud that I can’t even hear myself think.
“STOP IT!!!!!!!!!!”
I notice my jaw is hurting from being tightly clenched. The feeling of rushing blood makes my face tingle as the wrinkles unfold and the color reenters the creases beneath my eyes. The room is still illuminated by the light from the computer, but it is filled with an eerie silence. I notice the french doors are open. It’s freezing outside and I can feel a damp wind. These doors haven’t been unlocked in years. Why isn’t the alarm going off? Maybe the censor has shorted out.
I fold the covers back and realize that my dog is no longer snoring beside me. Great. He’s my false sense of security, as if a 13-pound dog is going to guard me from any impending doom. Maybe he will sniff ‘em out and growl or something, I don’t know. He probably ran outside to pee. He might have gotten another drink of water before scratching on my door. Momma said he missed sleeping in the bed with me. Better go outside and call him.
“Elvis! Elvis, come here boy!”
Nothing. He never comes when he thinks he’s in trouble. I finally see him trot out from behind the shed in the backyard and I immediately feel a sense of relief; a flush and chill from head to toe. Instead of coming straight to the part of the back porch that leads into my room, he takes the stairs and sits attentively at my side as if to say, “All done.” I turn to walk back into the French doors but they are closed. Locked.
I look down to find that Elvis is no longer by my side and I feel my heart pounding. It’s beating so hard that my vision is blurred with every pump. At the end of the porch, where the dog came up the stairs, there are six demons staring straight through me with blood-red eyes. They’ve come to kill me. They want to finish the job. They’ve found me. How did they find me out here? My legs won’t move fast enough and I am crying. I don’t want to die. There’s so much I still want to do, and they are so close now. My lungs hurt with every cold breath and blood curdles from the inside of my throat as I fail at repeated attempts to scream. I feel twelve hands stop me in my tracks and I fall limp in their grasp. I pray that it will be as painless as before.
“Please. Knock me unconscious. Please? Don’t make me watch.”
“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!” I hate it when Dad wakes me up. He’s always in such a great damn mood in the morning. He’s always in such a great damn mood in the morning. “I called Dr. Halbrook and he said he would see you as soon as we get there, so hurry up and jump in the shower. Here. I came in earlier and saw that your nose bled again last night. It’s all over your face boy. Momma’s gonna want to change that pillow case.”
“Thanks Dad. D’you get in touch with the lawyers?”
“I talked to Scott and he wants you to find out everything you can about what happened that night before we do anything else. You need to sit down and write it out on a timeline. Call Shawn, he’s the key. Scott really wants to help, but until you find out what happened, his hands are pretty much completely tied. Just get in the shower so we can get your teeth looked at, and we’ll see where we can go from there.”
This bathroom hasn’t changed a bit. My shampoo is in the same cabinet as before. Same brand. I look at my face in the mirror, carefully examining the bruises. I can’t believe those pieces of shit jumped me for no reason. My tongue is so swollen I can barely talk. I’m lucky. If my overbite weren’t so bad I would’ve bitten the damn thing straight off. I play with my nose for a bit to see if the swelling has gone down enough to set it back in place. No luck. The cartilage still floats on an underground river of puss and blood. I’ll never look the same again. It’s been eight hours since my last hydrocodone and it’s definitely time. I can tell it’s time for another pill when my jaw and teeth start hurting. Eight broken and chipped teeth are highly sensitive. I take the pill and drink some water through a straw. I have to bypass the pain somehow. The shower feels great as I wait for the pills to set in. Every time I’ve washed my hair for the past two days, I’ve started with too much shampoo. I forget that I had to cut my hair to keep my attackers from recognizing me. I finish rinsing off and the drain is stopped up. There’s a puddle of blood. What in the world did I do to deserve this? How much of my blood is even left?
The dentist’s office is filled with kids and their moms. I’m so tired of people staring at me. Believe me, you don’t really want to know what happened. I don’t want your kids to know how scary the world can be. Not yet. The constant sound of a drill grinding at teeth is driving me crazy. The world is fuzzy and all I want to do is sleep. If only I could. Hydrocodones change me. I feel the urge to do something, anything. There is a bathroom in the corner of the room. I can get a small break in there.
There’s nothing special about this bathroom. Some kid probably just finished brushing his teeth in here. The toilet paper is completely unrolled into the wastebasket. I can remember having to brush my teeth here before every visit. I haven’t had my teeth checked in a while. Maybe this will be a good opportunity to fix some cavities. I sit down on the toilet and look through my phone. Seventeen missed calls. I hope they understand. I’m not ready to talk. I’m too angry to speak with a clear mind right now.
I stand up and walk to the mirror. My left eye is almost completely swollen shut. I’m still mad at those doctors for not even giving me ice. What the hell are they there for anyway? I get sent home with a shot in the ass and they suggest Motrin for pain. Motrin for a broken freakin nose and eight chipped teeth. Maybe I should go to medical school. I can tell people to take Motrin.
I squirt some soap into my hands and reach for the faucet, but the water starts on its own. I look back up to see that my eyes are bleeding.
“You didn’t deserve it. You know that right?”
Get me out of here. The water pouring from the faucet is turning to blood and I can’t see my reflection in the mirror anymore. My feet seem to be stuck to the floor. It’s these damn shoes. I hate them. Why is that phrase repeating over and over?
“Stop it Momma! I can hear you! I heard you before, stop!”
My feet are finally free and I make a mad dash for the door, but when I open it, everything is different. The waiting room has changed. It’s much bigger now and there’s no one sitting in the chairs. Where did my family go?
“Dad? Dad!!”
What the hell is going on? The doors to the examination room swing open and there they are: six huge demons with blood-red eyes.
“Why are you here? All I want to do is get my teeth fixed. Why do you want to hurt me again?” No answer. I can’t stop crying and my jaw hurts. I can feel my heart beating in the cracks of my broken nose. There’s nowhere to run this time. They know it. They’re just walking toward me.
“LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!!”
I turn back around to run into the bathroom. Maybe there is a lock on the door. I turn the handle but it won’t open. It’s locked from the other side. I start pounding on the door and screaming. There’s blood everywhere. Suddenly the door opens and it’s my best friend.
“Shawn. They’re back. They keep coming after me man; they want to finish me off. Help! Help me! They’re afraid of you.”
“Kennon, seriously, it’s alright brodie. You just have to run straight at them. You have to show them you’re not afraid.”
“I can’t man. I didn’t even see them coming when they got me the first time. Why is this happening to me? Why did any of this ever happen to me? They want to kill me.”
“Alright, calm down. I’ve gotcha. Stay here.”
“But what are you gonn…”
“Stay here!”
He disappears around the corner with a broad sword drawn. Where in the hell did Shawn get a broad sword? My head is hurting so bad. I don’t understand. Those demons didn’t have swords, but shit they were big. Blood is spilling over the tiles in front of me. I can hear Shawn grunting with each stroke of the sword. I drop to the ground and curl up into a small ball. If I close my eyes they can’t see me. If I close my eyes they can’t see me.
“Kennon. It’s ok they’re all dead. Come on out and see. Kennon? Kennon!”
“Kennon! Wake up bud. They’re calling you.” Dad is peering at me over the top of his glasses. I must have fallen asleep in the waiting room.
“Do you want me to go back with you?” Momma’s been working on a smock outfit for my nephew. She’s so cute. She’s really getting into this whole grandma thing.
“No Momma I’m good. You can stay out here.”
“Well just go on back and we’ll come back there in a little bit. Remember to ask about your jaw. If your molars aren’t lining up, there might be something wrong besides the swelling.”
“I’ll ask him. I’ll see you in a little bit.”
A dim light from an old computer shines on the ceiling fan. There’s nothing that could possibly be current on the computer, but Dad still keeps it plugged in, just in case he ever wants to look for something he’s misplaced in files he’s forgotten the names to. My whole body is itching so bad that I can’t help but do full body scratches every 30 seconds. The computer screen suddenly turns on, and I find myself scurrying to the head of the bed against the wall.
“You didn’t deserve it. You know that right?”
It’s Momma’s voice, but where is she? I swear if I weren’t so constipated from the pills, I would shit myself right now. I hear the phrase again as I notice the light from the computer screen growing. It is slowly illuminating the entire room and the phrase is on repeat, echoing into oblivion. I can’t make it stop and I feel like my head is going to explode. It grows so loud that I can’t even hear myself think.
“STOP IT!!!!!!!!!!”
I notice my jaw is hurting from being tightly clenched. The feeling of rushing blood makes my face tingle as the wrinkles unfold and the color reenters the creases beneath my eyes. The room is still illuminated by the light from the computer, but it is filled with an eerie silence. I notice the french doors are open. It’s freezing outside and I can feel a damp wind. These doors haven’t been unlocked in years. Why isn’t the alarm going off? Maybe the censor has shorted out.
I fold the covers back and realize that my dog is no longer snoring beside me. Great. He’s my false sense of security, as if a 13-pound dog is going to guard me from any impending doom. Maybe he will sniff ‘em out and growl or something, I don’t know. He probably ran outside to pee. He might have gotten another drink of water before scratching on my door. Momma said he missed sleeping in the bed with me. Better go outside and call him.
“Elvis! Elvis, come here boy!”
Nothing. He never comes when he thinks he’s in trouble. I finally see him trot out from behind the shed in the backyard and I immediately feel a sense of relief; a flush and chill from head to toe. Instead of coming straight to the part of the back porch that leads into my room, he takes the stairs and sits attentively at my side as if to say, “All done.” I turn to walk back into the French doors but they are closed. Locked.
I look down to find that Elvis is no longer by my side and I feel my heart pounding. It’s beating so hard that my vision is blurred with every pump. At the end of the porch, where the dog came up the stairs, there are six demons staring straight through me with blood-red eyes. They’ve come to kill me. They want to finish the job. They’ve found me. How did they find me out here? My legs won’t move fast enough and I am crying. I don’t want to die. There’s so much I still want to do, and they are so close now. My lungs hurt with every cold breath and blood curdles from the inside of my throat as I fail at repeated attempts to scream. I feel twelve hands stop me in my tracks and I fall limp in their grasp. I pray that it will be as painless as before.
“Please. Knock me unconscious. Please? Don’t make me watch.”
“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!” I hate it when Dad wakes me up. He’s always in such a great damn mood in the morning. He’s always in such a great damn mood in the morning. “I called Dr. Halbrook and he said he would see you as soon as we get there, so hurry up and jump in the shower. Here. I came in earlier and saw that your nose bled again last night. It’s all over your face boy. Momma’s gonna want to change that pillow case.”
“Thanks Dad. D’you get in touch with the lawyers?”
“I talked to Scott and he wants you to find out everything you can about what happened that night before we do anything else. You need to sit down and write it out on a timeline. Call Shawn, he’s the key. Scott really wants to help, but until you find out what happened, his hands are pretty much completely tied. Just get in the shower so we can get your teeth looked at, and we’ll see where we can go from there.”
This bathroom hasn’t changed a bit. My shampoo is in the same cabinet as before. Same brand. I look at my face in the mirror, carefully examining the bruises. I can’t believe those pieces of shit jumped me for no reason. My tongue is so swollen I can barely talk. I’m lucky. If my overbite weren’t so bad I would’ve bitten the damn thing straight off. I play with my nose for a bit to see if the swelling has gone down enough to set it back in place. No luck. The cartilage still floats on an underground river of puss and blood. I’ll never look the same again. It’s been eight hours since my last hydrocodone and it’s definitely time. I can tell it’s time for another pill when my jaw and teeth start hurting. Eight broken and chipped teeth are highly sensitive. I take the pill and drink some water through a straw. I have to bypass the pain somehow. The shower feels great as I wait for the pills to set in. Every time I’ve washed my hair for the past two days, I’ve started with too much shampoo. I forget that I had to cut my hair to keep my attackers from recognizing me. I finish rinsing off and the drain is stopped up. There’s a puddle of blood. What in the world did I do to deserve this? How much of my blood is even left?
The dentist’s office is filled with kids and their moms. I’m so tired of people staring at me. Believe me, you don’t really want to know what happened. I don’t want your kids to know how scary the world can be. Not yet. The constant sound of a drill grinding at teeth is driving me crazy. The world is fuzzy and all I want to do is sleep. If only I could. Hydrocodones change me. I feel the urge to do something, anything. There is a bathroom in the corner of the room. I can get a small break in there.
There’s nothing special about this bathroom. Some kid probably just finished brushing his teeth in here. The toilet paper is completely unrolled into the wastebasket. I can remember having to brush my teeth here before every visit. I haven’t had my teeth checked in a while. Maybe this will be a good opportunity to fix some cavities. I sit down on the toilet and look through my phone. Seventeen missed calls. I hope they understand. I’m not ready to talk. I’m too angry to speak with a clear mind right now.
I stand up and walk to the mirror. My left eye is almost completely swollen shut. I’m still mad at those doctors for not even giving me ice. What the hell are they there for anyway? I get sent home with a shot in the ass and they suggest Motrin for pain. Motrin for a broken freakin nose and eight chipped teeth. Maybe I should go to medical school. I can tell people to take Motrin.
I squirt some soap into my hands and reach for the faucet, but the water starts on its own. I look back up to see that my eyes are bleeding.
“You didn’t deserve it. You know that right?”
Get me out of here. The water pouring from the faucet is turning to blood and I can’t see my reflection in the mirror anymore. My feet seem to be stuck to the floor. It’s these damn shoes. I hate them. Why is that phrase repeating over and over?
“Stop it Momma! I can hear you! I heard you before, stop!”
My feet are finally free and I make a mad dash for the door, but when I open it, everything is different. The waiting room has changed. It’s much bigger now and there’s no one sitting in the chairs. Where did my family go?
“Dad? Dad!!”
What the hell is going on? The doors to the examination room swing open and there they are: six huge demons with blood-red eyes.
“Why are you here? All I want to do is get my teeth fixed. Why do you want to hurt me again?” No answer. I can’t stop crying and my jaw hurts. I can feel my heart beating in the cracks of my broken nose. There’s nowhere to run this time. They know it. They’re just walking toward me.
“LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!!”
I turn back around to run into the bathroom. Maybe there is a lock on the door. I turn the handle but it won’t open. It’s locked from the other side. I start pounding on the door and screaming. There’s blood everywhere. Suddenly the door opens and it’s my best friend.
“Shawn. They’re back. They keep coming after me man; they want to finish me off. Help! Help me! They’re afraid of you.”
“Kennon, seriously, it’s alright brodie. You just have to run straight at them. You have to show them you’re not afraid.”
“I can’t man. I didn’t even see them coming when they got me the first time. Why is this happening to me? Why did any of this ever happen to me? They want to kill me.”
“Alright, calm down. I’ve gotcha. Stay here.”
“But what are you gonn…”
“Stay here!”
He disappears around the corner with a broad sword drawn. Where in the hell did Shawn get a broad sword? My head is hurting so bad. I don’t understand. Those demons didn’t have swords, but shit they were big. Blood is spilling over the tiles in front of me. I can hear Shawn grunting with each stroke of the sword. I drop to the ground and curl up into a small ball. If I close my eyes they can’t see me. If I close my eyes they can’t see me.
“Kennon. It’s ok they’re all dead. Come on out and see. Kennon? Kennon!”
“Kennon! Wake up bud. They’re calling you.” Dad is peering at me over the top of his glasses. I must have fallen asleep in the waiting room.
“Do you want me to go back with you?” Momma’s been working on a smock outfit for my nephew. She’s so cute. She’s really getting into this whole grandma thing.
“No Momma I’m good. You can stay out here.”
“Well just go on back and we’ll come back there in a little bit. Remember to ask about your jaw. If your molars aren’t lining up, there might be something wrong besides the swelling.”
“I’ll ask him. I’ll see you in a little bit.”
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
McDonald's Field Trip - Respond Under this post
Memory is about choice.
The act of it should be precise, like cutting the tip of your thumb with a pocketknife and saying “Remember this!”
The redder it is, the better you remember. The trick to remembering is finding the emergency in any situation, to look past the window as clear as a stream, to see the war outside, to see the signs of the picketers outside as crude weapons, pieces of wood with nails that say “No” to the Starbucks. They don’t want the Starbucks here that’s been built beside the McDonald’s Restaurant where I sit.
On the surface, nothing seems to happen here. And if I wanted it to be so, that’s all I would remember: nothing.
My mind would be as clean as this McDonald’s Restaurant—like we imagine heaven might be. I would remember nothing if I only sat waiting for something to happen.
Someone decides to do something—I admit I wasn’t paying strict attention. One of my creative nonfiction students, Elizabeth, and perhaps another gets up and goes to the nostalgic jukebox that sits next to the wall behind us. It doesn’t work. Nothing.
I see that my students in this creative nonfiction class are bunched together—defending themselves from barbarians: the woman with her hair shorn like a field of milkweed, the Mafioso with black leather jackets and slick hair. The Spanish girl saying “queso … mesa.”
I realize that soon my students will all be dead. Killed—bored to death. So I say, why don’t you go sit there or there or there. They say they are scared.
She hands me a cup and whispers “Don’t worry about it.”
We are conspirators.
The ones in the back, the ones that sweep and wipe and clean, are all, as we have been taught to say, African-Americans.
She walks in her heels stomping the floor. She’s angry but restrained. She says where’s her order. She’s been waiting for a long time.
“Oh, I’m sorry miss,” says one of the workers. Someone else gets the woman’s bag and hands it to her. “We apologize for your wait,” she says. The woman takes the bag, stomps back out, gets into her car and drives away.
The next day, in class, Eric says, "Can we go somewhere more interesting on our next field trip. Nothing happened there."
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
The Wedding
He had dreaded the wedding ever since the invitation had arrived in the mail; a gaudy invitation, run-of-the-mill and tasteless, with a couple standing on a bridge.
Though he was in the car making the long drive home, he still wasn’t sure why he was going; part obligation, part pure curiosity.
The guy Paige was marrying, Blake, had been three years behind them in high school. The boy had always pictured Paige with someone older; but this wasn’t what bothered him the most. Blake was an ex-con. He had been arrested for stealing guns from more than one home in their small little town. Paige had waited, patiently and lovingly, for him to be released from prison so they could marry. He most likely would have been in prison much longer, but it was his first offense, and he was 17.
During high school, the five of them were inseparable; Paige, Michael, Stephanie, Kelly, and the boy.
For junior prom, they had all gone together; Paige had gone with Michael, Kelly had gone with her boyfriend, Daniel; and Stephanie had gone with the boy. The all danced up until the very last song.
After prom, they had gone bowling in their gowns and tuxedos. It seemed like something high school kids would do in the movies. They were all very happy.
The boy was running late for the wedding. He wondered to himself if it was tacky to be late to a tacky wedding.
He took his mother along. She was sort of his partner in crime. They rode in silence to the church because the boy was deep in thought.
How could he relate to these people after so long? How does he explain to someone what it’s like to stand in the Tate Gallery in London, looking up at Waterhouse’s The Lady of Shallot? How does he describe to someone the taste of sushi at 2 a.m. while listening to live jazz? How can he relate to someone the feeling of being on the dance floor, techno rhythms keeping a steady beat in his head, lights spinning dizzily, men wall to wall; an establishment of sex and alcohol?
The fact was that he couldn’t bring them to understand these things. The bigger fact; they wouldn’t ask. He hadn’t seen them in three years.
Three years ago, Stephanie and the boy had lain on top of his Red Chevy Blazer in Jackson’s pasture. The night had been a very humid 11 p.m.; a July night, suffocating with the breeze merely stirring the heat.
They had been in their swim clothes, and the sweat beaded on their skin, sliding off their cheeks, their stomachs, and their thighs to collect in puddles on the hood of the Chevy.
The grass was so high. Sweet and fragrant, it was tall summer grass that would cut for hay in the fall.
The sky had been amazing; at least one millions stars, a concentration only seen in the country.
The boy was on his back, hands behind his head. Stephanie was on her side so she could glance over at the boy from time to time. They talked of their futures and what they wanted out of life. Then, Stephanie began to talk of their immediate futures, beginning in about ten minutes.
“I just don’t want to be in a relationship right now,” the boy had told her.
“But why?” she asked, shocked because didn’t everyone want to be in a relationship? Wasn’t that the number one goal in life?
“I just don’t. I don’t understand why everything in high school has to have a label. Don’t people just date anymore? Our parents dated, didn’t they? It wasn’t steady or nothing.”
Stephanie leaned the back of her head on her hand. She loved the boy. He had made her believe anything was possible. He had shown her new music, new movies, a new way of thinking. She would follow him anywhere.
The wedding was excruciatingly long. When it was finally over, the boy and his mother stood to make their way out. In the entranceway Stephanie stood with her husband, Michael. Stephanie made eye contact with the boy, and smiled. They embraced.
She had gained so much weight; so had Michael. Is that what happens when you get married, the boy wondered. Do you just stop caring?
They had all had big plans. Stephanie would go to a school in Georgia and study music. Clarinet was her instrument, and the boy thought she was the best to ever come out of Beulah. Michael wanted to be a nurse. Paige planned to go to vet school. Kelly wanted to start her family with Daniel. The boy was going to Mobile to be a writer.
They talked about the future incessantly; but it wasn’t always serious. Sometimes it was merely frivolous. They would play stupid games, like guessing who would loose his or her virginity first. The boy played these games though he had one before they ever began. He had won when he was 15 to an out-of-town guy. There was no reason for them to know that.
At senior prom, Stephanie went with Michael. She had finally given up on the boy. Paige went with a mutual friend of theirs, Chad. Kelly, of course, went with Daniel. The boy went with a co-worker, Erin.
He had come out to his co-workers, and they were what his high school crowd called “the other friends.” He was very careful not to mix the groups. They invited the boy and Erin to dinner with them; the boy declined.
After prom, the boy took Erin home and ended up at Paige’s house with the rest of them. Michael went home early, ever the gentleman. Stephanie went to bed. Paige, Chad, and the boy played cards until almost dawn, then Paige retired, exhausted. The boy slept with Chad.
At the reception, the boy, Stephanie, Michael, and Kelly sat together at one table. Daniel, Kelly’s husband, couldn’t make it.
“How’s English going?” Stephanie asked the boy.
“I changed to print journalism?”
“Oh.” The boy had not gone to Stephanie’s wedding. He wasn’t sure he was really wanted their. He always felt like he had ruined her life. He always felt that if he had not been the way he was, he could have guided her to Georgia to study music. They could have had a life together that would have saved her from small-town mediocrity.
“Well, now you’re the only one who isn’t married,” Stephanie said. The boy looked off. “Maybe you’re the smart one,” she laughed. The boy hadn’t said it, but he had thought it.
“I can’t exactly get married,” the boy said. Their was an uncomfortable silence.
Though he was in the car making the long drive home, he still wasn’t sure why he was going; part obligation, part pure curiosity.
The guy Paige was marrying, Blake, had been three years behind them in high school. The boy had always pictured Paige with someone older; but this wasn’t what bothered him the most. Blake was an ex-con. He had been arrested for stealing guns from more than one home in their small little town. Paige had waited, patiently and lovingly, for him to be released from prison so they could marry. He most likely would have been in prison much longer, but it was his first offense, and he was 17.
During high school, the five of them were inseparable; Paige, Michael, Stephanie, Kelly, and the boy.
For junior prom, they had all gone together; Paige had gone with Michael, Kelly had gone with her boyfriend, Daniel; and Stephanie had gone with the boy. The all danced up until the very last song.
After prom, they had gone bowling in their gowns and tuxedos. It seemed like something high school kids would do in the movies. They were all very happy.
The boy was running late for the wedding. He wondered to himself if it was tacky to be late to a tacky wedding.
He took his mother along. She was sort of his partner in crime. They rode in silence to the church because the boy was deep in thought.
How could he relate to these people after so long? How does he explain to someone what it’s like to stand in the Tate Gallery in London, looking up at Waterhouse’s The Lady of Shallot? How does he describe to someone the taste of sushi at 2 a.m. while listening to live jazz? How can he relate to someone the feeling of being on the dance floor, techno rhythms keeping a steady beat in his head, lights spinning dizzily, men wall to wall; an establishment of sex and alcohol?
The fact was that he couldn’t bring them to understand these things. The bigger fact; they wouldn’t ask. He hadn’t seen them in three years.
Three years ago, Stephanie and the boy had lain on top of his Red Chevy Blazer in Jackson’s pasture. The night had been a very humid 11 p.m.; a July night, suffocating with the breeze merely stirring the heat.
They had been in their swim clothes, and the sweat beaded on their skin, sliding off their cheeks, their stomachs, and their thighs to collect in puddles on the hood of the Chevy.
The grass was so high. Sweet and fragrant, it was tall summer grass that would cut for hay in the fall.
The sky had been amazing; at least one millions stars, a concentration only seen in the country.
The boy was on his back, hands behind his head. Stephanie was on her side so she could glance over at the boy from time to time. They talked of their futures and what they wanted out of life. Then, Stephanie began to talk of their immediate futures, beginning in about ten minutes.
“I just don’t want to be in a relationship right now,” the boy had told her.
“But why?” she asked, shocked because didn’t everyone want to be in a relationship? Wasn’t that the number one goal in life?
“I just don’t. I don’t understand why everything in high school has to have a label. Don’t people just date anymore? Our parents dated, didn’t they? It wasn’t steady or nothing.”
Stephanie leaned the back of her head on her hand. She loved the boy. He had made her believe anything was possible. He had shown her new music, new movies, a new way of thinking. She would follow him anywhere.
The wedding was excruciatingly long. When it was finally over, the boy and his mother stood to make their way out. In the entranceway Stephanie stood with her husband, Michael. Stephanie made eye contact with the boy, and smiled. They embraced.
She had gained so much weight; so had Michael. Is that what happens when you get married, the boy wondered. Do you just stop caring?
They had all had big plans. Stephanie would go to a school in Georgia and study music. Clarinet was her instrument, and the boy thought she was the best to ever come out of Beulah. Michael wanted to be a nurse. Paige planned to go to vet school. Kelly wanted to start her family with Daniel. The boy was going to Mobile to be a writer.
They talked about the future incessantly; but it wasn’t always serious. Sometimes it was merely frivolous. They would play stupid games, like guessing who would loose his or her virginity first. The boy played these games though he had one before they ever began. He had won when he was 15 to an out-of-town guy. There was no reason for them to know that.
At senior prom, Stephanie went with Michael. She had finally given up on the boy. Paige went with a mutual friend of theirs, Chad. Kelly, of course, went with Daniel. The boy went with a co-worker, Erin.
He had come out to his co-workers, and they were what his high school crowd called “the other friends.” He was very careful not to mix the groups. They invited the boy and Erin to dinner with them; the boy declined.
After prom, the boy took Erin home and ended up at Paige’s house with the rest of them. Michael went home early, ever the gentleman. Stephanie went to bed. Paige, Chad, and the boy played cards until almost dawn, then Paige retired, exhausted. The boy slept with Chad.
At the reception, the boy, Stephanie, Michael, and Kelly sat together at one table. Daniel, Kelly’s husband, couldn’t make it.
“How’s English going?” Stephanie asked the boy.
“I changed to print journalism?”
“Oh.” The boy had not gone to Stephanie’s wedding. He wasn’t sure he was really wanted their. He always felt like he had ruined her life. He always felt that if he had not been the way he was, he could have guided her to Georgia to study music. They could have had a life together that would have saved her from small-town mediocrity.
“Well, now you’re the only one who isn’t married,” Stephanie said. The boy looked off. “Maybe you’re the smart one,” she laughed. The boy hadn’t said it, but he had thought it.
“I can’t exactly get married,” the boy said. Their was an uncomfortable silence.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
Green Route of Memories
The cement bench was cold to sit on and it was hard for me to concentrate on the assignment because I kept reliving the aggravation of the previous morning. I was still upset at that crossing guard. I mean, who was she to call me out in the middle of traffic? Why didn’t she just mind her crossing-guard business and let me be late to work without causing a scene? Then that stupid ass-manager of mine had to change the schedule, so I went in to work for nothing. Turns out I wasn’t late at all.
The JagTran squealed from a short distance away, and my thoughts came back to where they were supposed to be. I noticed the Asian couple walking hand-in-hand and speaking in their native language. They reminded me of Icksoo and the story he told me about riding his bike to Wal-Mart all the way from campus and carrying his groceries in a basket on the front of his bike. When he finally did get a car, it broke down while he was driving back from purchasing it – in the rain. I told him I would have cried and gone home to Korea. The bus stopped in front of us and once again I tried to focus.
“Sounds, sights, smells…,” I thought. I was trying to take it all in so I would have something decent to write about and turn in on Friday. Everyone else was scribbling in their notebooks or taking pictures. I remembered to take a few videos, but my mind kept wandering. I guess I’m too introspective for these types of adventures.
The seats were surprisingly comfortable for a bus; nice and cushiony. Those seats were a great place to get comfortable and concentrate on writing. I can’t concentrate when I sit in the chairs in my dorm room because they are not comfortable at all. That’s why I usually end up on my bed to study, watch television, or just sit. I wish I did have a comfortable chair. I should have been smart like Kevin and brought my own comfortable chair. Kevin’s just particular like that, though. He even lays his clothes out before he gets in the shower. Who has time for that?
The bus approached the stop near the life sciences building, and once again my mind returned to the task at hand. “I have GOT to start taking some decent notes,” I thought. I watched as a few students got on, and a few got off. Observing the students walking toward the building reminded me of the class I have with Emily. I like Dr. Raczkowski. Emily and I didn’t even plan to take that class together.
I wonder what Emily’s doing right now? I hope she’s not alone in that apartment again. Prashant is always working so much. Did Anne ever harass Prashant again? I remember that one time I helped her sneak out and Anne rang my doorbell at 2:30 in the morning. I have never been so terrified of a friend’s parent before or since. I don’t see what the big deal was. It was only salsa dancing. Those were the days. I’ll always be a little mad at her, though, for the time she rolled my house. Ninety rolls is a ridiculous amount of toilet paper for one house.
How many times has my house been rolled? I remember when Emily was the culprit with Heather and Tiffany. Then there was Thea and Sara whose primary form of attack was feminine products. That’s right, they were the ones who stuck pads to bedroom window in the shape of a smiley face. Someone rolled the house to get at my sister once, too.
I snapped back to reality when we were turning off the traffic circle on the road that goes to Fraternity Row. I was desperately trying to pay to attention to the details around me, but it was so hard. “Okay, I can do this,” I repeated to myself a few times.
It looked like something out of a professional photograph to see the sunlight hit the paper on the notebook of the student across from me as and she wrote. I wish I could take pictures that turn out like postcards. I wonder if I could take one right now…
A sheet that was painted to endorse a member for homecoming queen flapped in the breeze and caught my eye. Speaking of which, I wonder when I get that e-mail. How do I vote, exactly? I should ask this girl sitting next to me. Crap, I don’t remember her name. Maybe she won’t notice that.
“When do we vote for homecoming?”
“You’ll get an e-mail because it’s online this year. There’ll be a link that you just click on.”
“Oh, okay. Do you have anyone in particular you’re voting for?”
“No, I don’t know anyone who’s running.”
“You should vote for Manaz, then. She’s an international student in my Spanish class who’s up for queen.”
“Oh, okay.” She wrote down her name, and probably spelled it wrong. It was okay though, because I had no idea how to spell it either.
Just then we stopped in front of the Deltas. I really just wanted to get off right there and go to my room and go to bed. All I wanted was a shower. I had to go to class smelling like chicken because that ass-manager screwed me over with the schedule. Who’s stupid enough to make a change on the schedule AFTER it has been posted without informing the employee? Stupidity does exist in the world, after all.
Then came the stop between the Deltas and the Betas. “Seriously, stop having a pity-party because you had a rough morning. It happens to everyone. Focus. You’ve got to do this.”
I looked up the hill at the Betas and wondered if Meagan was home. If she was, she was getting ready for work. Hopefully she never told the secret about when Kevin, James, and I played with Maressa’s exercise ball and launched it from the second floor to see how high it would bounce. That wasn’t pretty. Amber might be there. Maressa is asleep, more than likely. Jordan is never there unless she is sleeping, and I wouldn’t doubt if she found somewhere else to do that, too. Speaking of Jordan, how’s Aaron doing? I haven’t talked to him in a few days. I bet he and Jared are having loads of fun counting hats at work. Is Missy still mad at Jared for hanging up on her Sunday? Gosh, it’s been so long since I’ve talked to anyone.
Then it happened – our last stop. The field trip was over, and I wasted it wondering about gossip and remembering events from high school. I could kick myself. “Oh well,” I thought, “I guess I just won’t have anything to write about.”
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