Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: 11 years old, Fighting, Home Town, Prose, Reminiscience
February 1, 2010
We’re in the backyard, it’s probably about six thirty and its pretty dark for this time of the year. Del is standing about ten yards behind us, facing us, but with his back to the shed that he does not live in, but spends most of the hour of the days of his life there. He is wearing the stained coveralls that he’s worn every time I’ve ever seen him. Rob and I are facing each other in the front of Del. We’ve been hanging out the whole day and by this point we’ve probably gotten on each other’s nerves. My guess is that we were having such a good time goofing off that we thought it would be cool if I hung out for dinner.
Looking back on it, I was probably an additional mouth to feed seeing as they lived in a three room house and there were three girls, them mom, Del and Rob to feed as it was. Whatever the case, I know that we probably were milking a fun afternoon for all that it was worth and by the time nighttime came we were probably a little sick of each other and we started bickering. Most likely it was over matchbox cars or star wars figures and who got to play with which ones. All I know is that we must have been bothering someone in the house with our rough housing. Rob and I were shoving each other and we pushed each other again. It didn’t take long for Del to stop whatever it was that he was doing in that shed of his and come into the house and literally grab both of us by our ears and drag us outside. He held us by the ears and twisted until we quit our griping. After he let go of our ears he told us that we were going to get this out of our system and we were going to do it like men and not like a couple of sissies. He told us that neither of us was going anywhere until we fought like men and until one of us drew blood. Then and only then would that be the end of it. Then he shoved us toward each other.
At first I couldn’t look at Del or Rob and all I could think about was how much I wanted to go back to my own home where this kind of thing didn’t happen. I was probably being a sissy, but at the time that’s what made perfect sense to me. I figured that Rob was probably used to this sort of thing and expected him to get the first punch in. I looked up and saw Rob’s eyes and instead of the blank stare of resignation or the false sneer of some eleven-year-old rough neck I saw a real fear in his eyes. I saw that he was pausing a bit so I put up my “dukes” as it were and we moved around in some silly circle like we were two prizefighters about to fight for the golden gloves. As we moved around this circle Del reminded us that we had to do this until someone drew blood and that he could stand out here all night and if he had to he would whip the both of us. I looked at Rob again and he had the same bright-eyed expression splashed across it. A look of “what next?” I looked at him and realized that between the two of us this could go on all night. I mean we were two friends staring at each other who had realized that we had way too much fun together to take this any further and that sharing matchbox cars or star wars figures wasn’t really all that big of a deal.
We actually had a détente and were ready to call it a night, go to our homes and hook up later in the week to pick up where we left off. But Del was having none of this. The fight was on and he was getting sick of waiting. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he was not trying to prove to us anything about how to settle our disagreements like men, or even how silly we were being, he simply wanted our fights to be real and not verbal. He didn’t want us to act like sissies and even in that moment our silent understanding was only a further act of “sissiness” in his mind. I didn’t know what to do and Rob didn’t know what to do. In the end, I just decided to punch Rob in the stomach. I realize that this would not draw blood, but I figured we had to get this started and I couldn’t hit my friend in the face. Turns out that I misjudged and what I actually ended up hitting was Rob’s belt buckle and I got the skin between my pinky and my ring finger caught in it and when I pulled back I tore the skin and blood trickled all over my hand and started to drip on the ground. I realized that this was all that Del needed so I turned to him, asked if he was “happy now”? and I walked back into the house. I got Rob’s mom to call my mom and she came and picked me up. I didn’t recount the story to her because I knew that would not allow me to visit Rob any more. Despite what kind of life Rob may be living there, I liked him and I wanted to hang out with him. I’m actually not sure I ever told her the story. I do still have the scar on my right hand between those two fingers.
January 29, 2010
Everyone could see it coming. It surprised no one, but everyone acted so shocked. She left her office and then went back into her office. She shut her door instantaneously. He left his office and went right into her office and did not shut the door behind him. He told her that it was her fault. Then he asked her what she was doing. He then told her that they had made a deal. Then he recounted everything as he remembered it. He asked her several pointed questions and as she was just beginning to formulate a response he dismissed her by brushing the air with the palm of his hand and by squinting his eyes and moving his body slightly toward the door as if he were about to leave.
They had already discussed this about six weeks ago. Most of us had shrugged it off by now. He watched her leave her office and then go right back into her office. He watched her shut the door. She sits at her desk as her door suddenly opens after the smallest and briefest of knocks. She told him that this was about personality. She told him that she had not signed anything. She told him that this was personal. She told him all that she could before she was dismissed by the breezed caused by the brushing of his hand through the thickening air in her office. The tightening sides of his eyes silenced her as he turned to walk away.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Cafeteria, Essay, Furry, memory, Prose
January 25, 2010
I am standing there staring at this “thing” on the ground. I can’t find the word, but I know what it is. What do they call it? Its odd because I know I know that the word is, but it escapes me. I’m not even making myself nervous but I can feel my cerebral cortex hardening ever so slightly as I continue to stare at this “thing”. It is not a squirrel, a rat, a mouse, a pika, a woodchuck, a groundhog, a hamster, a guinea pig, a chipmunk, a raccoon, a red panda, a cat or anything else that I could thing of. I just wish I could ask it: “Hey, what are you again”? But I can’t and now the harder I try the words just slip out of my brain. Finally I give up and walk away. I was too embarrassed to ask anyone what this “thing” was called, and then I glance back over my shoulder just to have one more look. I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe the little thing would hold up a sign declaring its species and its name in layman’s terms. “I’m minutaes furballus aka Small Furball” But that was not to be the case. I wondered off not remembering what it was called and twenty minutes later I had forgotten that I had cared. I had forgotten that as well because as I walked I caught the smell of cafeteria food. I’m not positive it was cafeteria food, but it had that smell. The canned food, carefully heated, still cooking under heat lamps. The same food eaten just after the second world war, eaten in elementary schools for about 30 years and eaten in Golden Corrals to this day. This smell sends my mind reeling back to my second grade year. I was at an elementary school and I was outside during one of our breaks. I could smell lunch. I knew that after the break we would have more class then lunch. As I walked further away from the unidentified “thing” I found myself edging closer to a fully realized memory. Or was I? Was this memory at all true? Parts of it were, but it seemed to be reconstructing itself so fast that I was sure half of it was just putty and paste that I was hastily applying in order to have it fulfilled. I remember going by the window of the lunch room and knowing that when we were done playing, something I tended to do by myself, we would have just ONE more class, maybe two, I actually don’t remember and then….what the hell is that thing called?! Nothing. I still smell the food under the heat lamps.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Bipartisanship, Dirty Dishes, free form, Obsession Compulsive, Piles, Prose, Trash
January 21, 2010
It has to be free of clutter. It has to be clean. Not spotless, but clear of debris. When that is done, then and only then can we begin. No, you have to do your part too; it has to be divided right down the middle. You do what you are good at even if they are things that you don’t want to do and I will do the same. Before you know it things will be good enough to for us to begin. Since we have begun I have noticed little piles beginning to grow. Not too many, but there are stacks nonetheless. Some are yours and some are mind. In notice that, although we are both at fault, my piles do not smell. They are only papers and some clothing. All right perhaps there is a slight odor, but that does not compare to your coffee cups and coffee pots and pans with spaghetti sauce and water and oil from the pasta stewing in the sink. This literal scent of procrastination has wafted through our lives ever since we begun. Now that it is done I’ve noticed that the piles are now stacks and that there is decay everywhere and that we’ve simultaneously thrown in the towel, thrown caution to the wind, washed our hands, joined in because we couldn’t beat them and now that we’re done, well everything is a mess. Wait a second, where are you going?
January 14, 2010
I turned to the person next to me and stared for a long time. I wanted to see if I could make them uncomfortable by smiling too much. I wanted to see if I could put them at ease by talking too much. I wanted to see if I could make them do anything at all. After a while they got up and walked away without giving me the slightest bit of attention. I am not saying that I deserved anything more, but after all the work I put into generating a response, I was surprised, actually hurt that they just got up and left without tossing a scowl, leer or head shake in my direction. Clearly, I was not reaching this person.
I turned my attention to the person in front of me and started tapping them on the shoulder in groups of threes. I did this for ten groups, totaling thirty taps. They did not turn around. I grabbed both of their shoulders and started shaking them and they did not turn around. They were showing me the utmost contempt by showing incredible restraint. They would not allow themselves to be reached by me. I resorted by plucking at their ears, both of them, top and bottom. Finally as my fingers started to tire they person in front of me got up and left and just like the person next to me. They gave me nothing.
I flung myself back into my seat and exhaled audibly. I started breathing harder and the frustration was starting to realty get to me. It was at this point that someone leaned over and spoke to me in the most soothing of voices.
“Would you please stop that? I am trying to enjoy the day and you are making it very difficult for me to do so.”
“Oh.” I said in response.
After a pause they leaned away from me and exhaled a polite, content and satisfied.
“Thank you.”
January 7, 2010
I’m not numb or denying anything. I’m not even used to it. I don’t judge and I don’t react. I don’t pretend and I don’t use any defense mechanisms to circumvent or deflect anything. I don’t fact it and I don’t just let things go. I don’t look for hidden meaning and I don’t have false hope. I don’t have hope and I am not hopeless. I am not a clock-watcher or a tale teller or a back stabber or a money grabber or a stool pigeon or a rat jumping ship. I have no reason to stay and every reason to stay. I have all the friends I will ever need and I have no one. I make enough money to get by and I don’t have a thing. I do not teeter on the abyss and I do not take for granted anything. I am suspicious or no one. I expect nothing from anyone. I am not disappointed by anyone. I am surprises by everything behind me and before me and I know exactly what is going to happen because I’ve seen it all before and I can’t wait for it to hit me again. There is nothing to be afraid of. I felt nothing. My life is free. I was in the thick of it. I am in danger.
January 2, 2010
I played by the river that afternoon like it was going to my last day on this earth. I ran all over the small hill that overlooked the marina and imaged myself a soldier on Omaha Beach taking bullet after bullet until I had to surrender to the invisible Germans hidden on the shore. So violent were the games of the day, so violent, but incredibly innocent.
I was about nine and getting a great deal of pleasure from standing at the top of the stairs and pretending that I was a gangster who had been cornered and was destined to fall. I would then imagine dying in a hail of gunfire. Then I would fall, very exaggeratedly down the stairs until I was at the bottom. My mom would inevitably ask if I was okay? I would not answer which would force her to come over to me after some time. She would look down at me and after some time I would simply say: “I’m dead.”
I think I pushed the envelope a bit a few years later when I would, without exception, enter the room she was in, usually with a guest, and ask her or maybe her guest to “shoot me”. Normally, I would be brushed off, but I would remain persistent. Eventually I got my wish and mom would usually aim her finger to me alike a gun and half-heartedly go “bang”. Sometimes, I would get lucky and her guest would play along and they would do the shooting. No matter what I had already planned my big dying scene and I would execute it to perfection. After my demise I would lie there dead on the floor until my mom would flat out tell me to go into the other room and read or play. I would like there and have to remind her that I was “dead”.
I am not sure if it was the fact that I had such a melodramatic and almost comically violent fantasy life that made my mother skeptical or complacent at best or if it was the fact that she was such a liberal, live and let live, sanctity of life sort of person. Whatever the reason she was disappointed and resigned to my games. It is so interesting how violence is so simple and even appealing when you are young. Well before I learned about options and consequences and control and moderation I was quite content to resolve any all situations by a fight to the death. Usually my own.
December 28, 2009
I awoke today and looked in the mirror like I always do and I really loved what I saw. After I read a magazine and watched three tv programs I was still very pleased with how I looked. I spent the entire day refraining from consumption. I love the way I feel. I spend the whole night sitting on my bathroom floor trying to purge all the dust I have inhaled.
I went to sleep today and dreamed of my other life. I was consuming everything around me. I met friends and ate them. I was petting my cat and I ate it too. I was in my office at work and when I met a vendor who was trying to sway me toward possibly considering a new copier I stared into his eyes and when he was done I ate him. I awoke and immediately ran into the bathroom and purged my dream.
I awoke today and decided that I would be beautiful. I was beautiful. I looked at a movie I had received in the mail. I looked at how beautiful they were. I ejected the movie and stared at the disk. I was grotesque. I stared at my reflection in the disc, in the tiles in the kitchen, the bottom of my glass of water. I ran into the bathroom and purged my reflection.
Almost there.
December 26, 2009
Why is it that when you are prepared for the worst, nothing really happens and when you’re just going about your business you get caught completely off guard even blindsided by the, well unexpected?
Does it really come down to control? If we convince ourselves that we are prepared for anything then we won’t be all that surprised by what does happen. Then again, we are prepared for the worse, or so we think, therefore whatever does happen, short of the worse, should really come as no surprise.
If we know that the buzzer will go off in five seconds does it really surprise us when it does? If we know that the sound of a bomb exploding will sound in five seconds and instead we get a small buzzing sound will we even notice it? Are we actually still waiting for the bomb?
Does it depend on your point of view, your nurturing, experiences, faith, beliefs, dreams and more? Is it how we’re wired? It’s not a question of half empty or half full, it’s a question of when. It has been established. It will occur.
Of course this also holds true for positive occurrences as well. Remember when you would sneak around in early or mid December in hopes of finding out just what you were going to get for Christmas? You already knew about Santa Claus so you were expecting something from your folks. Well, then you’d find it. No matter how cool it was, if you were cool, you couldn’t let anyone know that you knew. Then you have to act all surprised and inside you just really disappointed because the not knowing actually held some value.
In some odd ways this feeling of suspension that slowly descends into a temporary state of ennui occurs when you are given something as apposed to having earned it yourself. Then again, maybe that’s altogether different.
Here’s something to posit, as many have and do: All things considered, would you really want to know exactly when you are going to die?
The Best Years of Our Lives 