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I · cross · many · states · just · to · stand · here · now
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I awoke this morning to the shrill sound of my mother's voice blasting from the kitchen, urging me to get out of bed. The incomparable force and volume of this human alarm caused my muscles to tighten and sent me through a series of awful flashbacks to equally traumatizing mornings in high school when that viscous siren's call would often commence my day. Unfortunately today, I was not so lucky to be boarding a bus to spend six hours in an institution of knowledge, but driving my sister and myself to a temple built by the devil himself: the dentist.
We were late leaving the house, but we were always late for these sorts of things. And actually, through some liberal interpretations of various traffic lights and speed limits, we made our punctual arrival to the gallows of Dr. Patrick J. Simpson. I lived in Jacksonville from the time I was 10 until just after I turned 14 and Dr. Simpson was my dentist throughout that time. We then left the country for four years, I really hoped that would be the end of our relationship. But we returned when I was 18, right after my high school graduation. With complete honesty I can say that I am bitter about this.
I never liked Jacksonville. I spent 7 years in Virginia before moving here the first time, and I considered that the place I grew up. I didn't remember the first three years of my life spent in Rhode Island, so 1515 Millington Drive, Virginia Beach, Virginia was my home. And then we moved and nothing about Jacksonville was the same. I used to spend my days jumping homemade ramps on my glorious 5 speed bike, or building Rollie pollie farms in my back yard or playing hockey with my best friend Nick. But here, I had no friends, and my parents didn't trust us to play outside. This neighborhood wasn't like that. It was the first time I really had my identity challenged, everything I knew had to be reevaluated through the defined societal norms of Landmark Middle School, a treacherous public school with 2000 some-odd students. The overcrowding was such an issue that I remember staring at a photograph of our hallway in the city newspaper. I spent three of the most awkward and difficult years of my life at Landmark and with the exception of my gifted English class teacher, whom I still consider to be one of the best teachers I've ever had, I can't really say I had too many fond memories here.
But then my parents, in their infinite wisdom, moved us back. I returned to a city I thought I had, in effect, escaped. I didn't really have any friends. Most of the loose ends left behind by our relocation had been tied up by time, and because I was going to college out of state, I didn't really feel like making the effort to make new ones.
For a while, I would spend most of my days here kind of drifting with a great resentment. My first summer, I transferred the skills from my high school career as a grocery bagger at the Commissary on base in Japan, to the Commissary here. It was a summer spent working for tips and paying for everything in one dollar bills, and apologizing for it while listening to off-handed implications from strangers that I was a male stripper. The next summer, I set my sights a little higher as a Cook/Cashier at the now out-of-business Bagel Bagel Cafe. This was a touch more tolerable, except for the initial learning curve that ultimately earned me the nickname "Shaky" because of my tendency to tremble uncontrollably when I felt overwhelmed by orders -- which was often. Last summer, funeral summer, was the culmination of a self-deprecation and dismal occurrences. Unemployed, overwhelmed by insecurities, trapped in my own household, I can't think of fewer times when I felt so lost.
The centerpiece of the waiting room in Dr. Simpson's practice was a giant-screened television that was currently tuned to a channel broadcasting a program called Hoda and Kathy Lee Gifford. Kathy Lee was absent and a man named Piers had taken her spot for the day. I watched patiently as Piers and Hoda made small talk that was so forced it seemed awkward to watch. When my name was called, I was taken into a smaller room with a smaller TV in it, this one set to regis. I knew what came next, what always came next, me in a reclining chair, the small deer-faced nurse asking me questions and me trying to answer with an arsenal of metal utensils sticking out of my face.
"How is school going Christopher?"
"Awuhum bwahash whashish"
"Oh I bet this cold weather is nothing to you huh?"
"Mmm, muhahshiba, jooshomft."
"And, go ahead and spit."
We went through the typical obstacle course. She poked and prodded and brushed and flossed. But this time Deer-face had a fancy new toy. She flipped the channel on the small TV and inserted a thick cylindrical rod into my mouth. It was a camera and in place of Regis and Kelly were very close jerky pans of my molars. I was mortified. I hate the dentist, because as long as I can remember, every trip to the dentist meant one thing: a new cavity I had to fill. I don't know how I screwed in the family, but I have rapidly decaying teeth. I brush my teeth twice a day, I usually use mouthwash, and one of my new years resolutions was to floss. It doesn't seem to matter. From 8 to 18, I have always had cavities. And here they all were, in bright Panasonic glory.
She would move her camera around, click a little button, and a still image would take up one fourth of the screen. Naturally, she did this four times and the fourth image apparently displayed a chipped tooth. Somehow, without my knowledge, a piece of my tooth had simply broken off. Awesome.
Next, of course, came Dr. Patrick Simpson himself. Our interactions were typically brief and awkward. He was a muscle-bound guy with a little too much testosterone. I could tell that if he had gone to middle school with me here in Jacksonville, he would probably have pushed me around at the bus-stop. He confirmed reports that I had indeed broken my tooth, dude.
"Woa, what happened to your eyebrow, get shot by a bebe gun?"
I forced a smile.
"Man chicks must dig that huh?"
"I don't really know."
"Whaddayamean you don't know? The only reason a guy would do that is to get chicks right? How old are you?"
"20."
"Oh yea," he says to a nurse. "That's for the chicks."
"Actually, I'm gay," I say, but only in my head. Outloud I chuckle sort of awkwardly.
"Hey it's 2010," says some disembodied voice from another office signally Dr. Simpson to quiet his chauvinistic small talk.
I walk out of the room holding a new tooth brush and curse the fact that I'll have to see that man tomorrow when I return to get my eightieth filling. Five days until I'm out of this city. Five days. |
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I'm moving over to blogspot for the semester for a little more exposure. I'll still post those entries here and keep a little this guy around in case I feel like posting something a touch more personal. But if you're interested, check out my blogspot: christofear.blogspot.com |
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from Christopher Carlon
to kevin.mcgrath@
date Fri, Nov 27, 2009 at 1:11 AM
subject from an old student
Mr. McGrath,
It's 12:41 am on the night after Thanksgiving. I'm in Buffalo, New York. I'm writing an email to my high school english teacher. I guess those are the facts. I don't even know if you still teach at E.J. King, or if you even remember me for that matter, but I felt I needed to write you this letter. You see, I was reading this book, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, it's fantastic, I'm about a third of the way through it and I started it this afternoon, (don't you love it when a book grabs you like that?) and the protagonist in the book is this inquisitive nine-year-old kid whose father died in the WTC. The book is so cool, and there's just a disjointed manner to the kid's stream of consciousness and that same theme is picked up sometimes in the syntax and flow of the whole thing. I like it a lot.
Anyways, I'm reading the book, and he just writes letters to these big important people like Stephen Hawking, Valadimir Putin, etc. and sometimes he gets responses back and for whatever reason I thought that I needed to write a letter to someone. And then I thought about how I wanted to live in New York City. I'm going to school in Ithaca right now for Integrated Marketing Communications. Sometimes I feel like a real sell-out. A lot of my friends are (for lack of a better word (sorry for the cliche)) hippies, and I guess I kinda feel guilty about going into a field so ugly as Advertising. That's what I think I want to do. Not be in charge of the advertising, but just make the ads. Mix a delicious blend of fonts, and pictures, and clever copy to create an enticing visual salad (it is thanksgiving night, excuse the food metaphors). But my hippie friends, and my own moral code have me thinking more and more about doing something else. I wish I had studied english. I love reading, and writing, and that would have been so cool (I've been saying cool entirely too much, and using way to many parenthetical, and apologizing too much. Sorry.) I don't know, I'm going to Los Angeles next semester for an internship program the college has. I have to find my own internships though. I'm gonna try and do one internship for a big advertising agency, and one internship for a nonprofit organization. Currently, I'm hoping the nonprofit will be either GLAAD (the gay and lesbian alliance against defamation) or the courage campaign. But I think after college I really want to move out to New York City with my best friend Lauren.
And I was thinking about that, when my thoughts drifted to my boyfriend daniel, who goes to ithaca, but is from outside the city, and actually lent me the book I'm reading. He's really sweet, quite intelligent, and kind, and we've only been dating for a short time, but I like him a lot. And I don't know what's gonna happen when I go to LA. I think sometimes we might break up, and that sucks and isn't fair. But he took this road trip this summer across the country with his two best friends. He saw all these cool places and used the time to really discover himself. He took a lot of great photos (I'm really into photography. I'm actually a still photography minor but I would never want it to be how I earned money because I feel like that might destroy my love for it.) And he comes back, and of all the places he visited he decided he liked Santa Fe the best. Santa Fe, New Mexico. He wants to move there.
And that made me think of you. Didn't you go to school in New Mexico? For some reason I have it in my mind that you did, but I couldn't remember. And then I just got to thinking about how you were as a teacher to me. I thought about all those essays you made us write. How everyone would bitch and bitch and bitch about having to write so many essays. You always took a liking to my writing, the quality of which has certainly decreased since my days in AP English (though I don't think it's fair to use this letter as a point of reference because it was SO spontaneous and is obviously unedited.) And in thinking of all of that I realized that you and my eigth grade gifted english teacher Mrs. Lange were probably my two favorite teachers. I always thought you were a good teacher, even though almost everyone else hated you. But so many kids at EJ King were so obsessed with such insignificant things that's it's hard to take any of them seriously. I guess I might've been that way too, but I liked your class at least.
And so I decided I had to tell you thanks. In fact, once the thought got in my head, I was obsessed with it, and even though it's super late, I knew I couldn't go to bed without writing this letter. It's 1:10 AM now, and I should go to bed because I'm getting up really early tomorrow to go shopping. The thrift store here has a 50 percent off sale; I swear I'm not a materialist.
Best of luck in life, sorry for the rant, (I swear I'm sober). Let me know if you get this. Or don't.
I needed to write it more than you needed to read it.
Chris Carlon
from McGrath, Kevin
to Christopher Carlon
date Sun, Nov 29, 2009 at 8:55 PM
subject RE: from an old student
Hi Chris,
Believe it or not, I think of you often. I doubt I'll ever forget you, and that's a big compliment, because I generally forget just about everyone. You were defniately one of the brightest sparks to ignite any of my classes, and I miss your presence every year. I smile every time I remember you. I'm smiling now. You always had that smirk like you were up to something, like you were always about three steps ahead of the rest of us, like you understood things before any of us did. And it seemed like that was usually the case. I'm honored that you wrote me, and especially relieved that you had something positive to say about me! :)
I remember writing similar letters when I was younger to my favorite English teacher, Deborah McGinn. She was something else, and I had a crush on her until about the time I met my wife. I actually hung out with her once or twice after graduation. The highlight was going on a 4th of July bike ride with her. Unfortunately, she was struck down by a Chevy Suburban, so the ride was cut short as we took her to the hospital (I'm not kidding about this). I suppose the fates were against us. That sentence seems wrong. I guess the fates were against my delusions of marrying someone 10 or so years older than me. Last I heard, she was going a little crazy. I don't think it's because we didn't end up together. But, my point in this rambling is I think it's honorable to say thank you to people who influenced you in (arguably) good ways. I will treasure and keep this correspondance as a bulwark against depression when I have those days when I wonder if I've done anything productive with my life.
It sounds like you're on that path yourself. I, also, almost went into advertising. Like you, though, I wondered if it would be an honorable way to spend one's life, and I recognized how you're basically making a living by tricking people into using resources in ways they otherwise wouldn't. I didn't see a compromise at the time. As I've gotten older, though, I've come to see more greys in the world, and realize that, perhaps, I made a wrong decision. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't trade my teaching experiences . . .well, maybe I would . . . but . . . okay, let's abandon that train of thought. Take two: Now, as I'm older, I'm seeing value in things if used more creatively. Case in point: your idea about working for GLAAD or the Courage Campaign. I'm assuming you'll be doing advertising for them. That could be a very powerful and fulfilling way to spend a part of your life. It might also be a good idea, while you're a young and promising star, to go ahead and apprentice for some big powerful firms and learn their tricks. Though, it would be difficult not to get lured into the trap of the middle/upper class lifestyle. Once you've tasted riches, it's hard to volunteer yourself back to poverty. Don't ignore that last sentence. Seriously. I don't think I could ever go back to my old jobs to teach for students and schools who truly need and deserve the best teachers. I am addicted to the money I make now.
This brings me to New Mexico. Yes, I lived and taught in Espanola, NM for five years. It's beautiful--about 25 miles from Santa Fe. If you like mountains and outdoor activities, it is paradise. But it is also a dangerous place. Santa Fe is pretty easy (and prohibitively expensive), but Northern New Mexico is steeped in generational poverty and substance abuse. It is also an ancient, proud culture that is often closed to outisiders. As a young, idealistic, and energetic teacher, it took me about two years to get accepted by most of the community, and that was truly a great feeling, but I never acheived enough power to make enough of a difference to feel I should stay. Take that for what you want. I'd love to be a college-aged person there, though. It could be amazing!
As far as romance goes, good luck. If I had a nickel for every woman I was sure I was destined to marry, I'd be able to buy a Slurpee. So many people get married, and then get divorced. It's a hard thing to be an expert on. The best advice I ever received, though, was from a priest i worked for--paraphrased, it comes to this: if you're getting married because the other person makes you happy, the relationship is doomed. The only way to have a relationship work out is for you to be totally committed to making the other person happy--to truly, TRULY wanting to sacrifice yourself for him/her. Now, I've been estacically married for almost 12 years. I'll add this: it is also, perhaps equally, important that the other person feels the same way about you. I don't think I'd be so completely and wildly in love with my wife if she weren't so wildly and completely in love with me. We're lucky. And we know that many people are not. But, I think a big reason it works out is both of us try to outdo the other in kindness and selflessness. The more we give, the more we receive, and it is a crazy, wonderful, cycle.
From what I read in your letter, I think you and Daniel will end up apart, and that might be for the best. When it's real, it is undeniable. There are many wonderful experiences to be had, however, before you find ther person who is right for you. I wish you luck, and hope the pains help you to grow in ways that will make your final relationship even more wonderful. And I am remembering those pains now. Once I had a girl leave me, and I cried so hard I actually threw up. Ahh . . .sweet love. . . I didn't think I'd ever recover, and, indeed, it did take months, but time does actually heal many wounds. I'm over all my old ex's. It's true, I sometimes wonder about each of them, but I wouldn't trade Christina (my wife) for any of them, even though I am aware that there are certain things about many of my old infatuations that are better than Christina (some were smarter, some more musical, some prettier, some more adventurous, etc.), but that doesnt' matter. What matters is the relationship, and the fact that she can still make my heart race and is fantastic in so many ways. People are people. We are all different, and you have to find that partner who works well with you as a team. Christina and I compliment each other well. We each have our strengths. As different as we are, it just works well. I don't understand it, I'm just very thankful it's happened this way. At this stage in the game, most of my friends are married, and I've seen all kinds of marraiges, and I think ours if the best. I hope you also find a partner that makes your life as wonderful as can be. The point of all this: wait until you find that mutual sacrificial drive. It is a rare thing worth waiting for. You will find many people you want to die for. That's fine. Wait to commit until you find one who is willing to die for you just as readily (and make sure none of you are suicidal!).
Reading over your letter again, I see you're thinking about NYC. Good idea. Go. Christina and I visited there and had a blast. I'd love to live there as a young (or maybe old) man. It's no place to live if you have kids (in my opinion kids need to be OUTSIDE!!!) I think you'd love it there too. You're young. You have so much you can do in this world. Do as much as you can before you get tied down to a career. Once you get a good job (or someone you're "married to"), you can get stuck, so be careful. BTW, how do gay people think about the long term comittment? Obviously, for hetrosexuals, marriage seems the logical conclusion/goal. But, b/c of the current laws, do you have a term for your "permanent" partner? I'm trying to write about this, and it's akward for me. Help me out. Thanks.
Keep in touch,
McG |
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A hand is creeping slowly into my chest. It's cold and delicate fingers are wrapping themselves tightly over my heart and tightening its grip. I'm nervous and anxious and overwhelmed. Am I really such a failure? Where did my self-confidence go? I know I'll never change the world. I just wish I had a plan. I don't know what I'm doing. I feel like I'm an airborne dart, no control over where I'm going or what I'm gonna hit. Or if I'll even hit anything at all. There's too much going on in my life. Someone toss me a lifeline. |
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"I'm graduating in less than two years and I feel completely unprepared. I know I want to go into art direction, and make something of myself, you know? I just feel like I can't do it though. Like I'm bound for failure, like I'll never measure up. The people in that field are amazing. I'm intensely hopeless." I focus at the tv that isnt on. I'm so scared, so god damn insecure. "Well son, everyone fails sometimes." "I don't want to fail dad. I want to be great." Please Dad, for once, just once in your life give me the pat on the back I've been waiting for all my life. Tell me I can do it. Tell me you're proud of me. Tell me I can be great at something if I really put my mind to it. That's all I need, someone to give me permission to succeed. Your approval for once, please Dad. "Oh you will fail. Everybody makes mistakes. I have, and you will to." "I guess so." |
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Her lips were cherry, not red. Daniel mused at how this could go unnoticed when she was bored or having a bad day. But when she smiled there was no ignoring the fullness, the life, and the juiciness along the frame of her mouth. He wished she were smiling now. Instead those lips were twisting and splitting with such sorrowful calculation that even if everything went mute, Daniel would still know what she was meaning to say. He looked at her eyes, another complexity, because they were not brown. Instead, they were neatly raked piles of autumn leaves. Hints of brown and hazel canopied by a troubled brow. |
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I'm hardly rebellious youth.
Most of the time, I sit at my desk and let my vision go in and out focus, pretending here and there the world is just a soft, indistinguishable mass of colors.
I trace swirls into the margins of my notes, manipulating the spaces made by college-ruled lines. I fall asleep in class and dream of tiny helicopters piercing the roof of my dorm and in shines the sunlight, only it's sunlight from the summer, the kind that shoots endorphins and dopamine through me like heroin needle.
I adjust the sleeves of my sweater, moving them up and down the length of arms like window-blinds.
Several times a day, I wrap my hands around a paper sleeve wrapped around a coffee cup that carries in it my bitter blood with a shot or two of creamer.
I wear shoes that don't have laces because I was born five minutes too late and I'm still struggling to catch up and tying knots seems to just get in the way.
I work my thumb around the keypad of my phone, getting the numbers to correspond to words, like 226 93 5878 8255.
I close my eyes, just long enough to forget what it all looks like
and then I open them again. |
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I'm change. I'm blurred vision and lost goals. I'm moving faster than I ever thought I could. I'm whispering in your ear with my hand on your crotch. I'm ashes on your forehead. I'm calling you with my cell and you're answering from that party, shouting and I still can't hear you over the ocean of lust and inebriation. I'm smiling when things fall apart. I'm a street sign you can't read. I'm doing drugs. I'm quitting smokes. I'm writing papers. I'm not eating. I'm over sleeping. I'm hours on a bicycle. I'm the shoulder you need. I'm the poem you didn't edit. |
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A four-door packed with the four of us blurring state lines. Those nine hours,
between Florida and Virginia,
between my home and my relatives,
where my family rolled together
on sticky seats with recycled air. Signs along the interstate,
fishhooks for tourists,
dirty restrooms
and golden arches servicing billions.
Gas stations,
convenience stores,
tired muscles stretched,
and the miles in between. The radio stations change,
my father yawns,
mom’s asleep,
and Carrie is staring out the window
at scenery changes. A four-door packed
with the four of us
blurring state lines. |
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Fireworks. I’m watching explosions in the sky. I breathe in, and summer smells so different here. I step onto the lawn with my bare feet, the grass is cool and moist. The air is so humid that clouds have to swim. Fireworks, and my cousins have a lighter. I’m watching clowns juggle jagged stones. But I don’t stop them, I like to watch the roman candles fly off into the night like a balloon at first moment of independence, until it slams into a tree and explodes. Fireworks, Bottle rockets I lit without serious premeditation, and they’re heading towards my father’s car. I’m watching every ounce of my independence rust. I step into the road with bare feet, and the gravel is rough and uncomfortable. I know they hear the car alarm shriek, and I breathe in. |
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Red lipstick wiped off loveless lips when lust retreats little vows relinquished and reality lingers: Wash laundry and walk Linus.
Look for recipes--
roast for dinner,
lackluster dialogue shared
with loser lover
and red red wine,
like all is right
like love’s not wounded. |
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I wish it would stick, I say watching the snow come down with persistence, grace, and I'm awestruck again, just like last winter. And then, it starts falling heavier and all the green on the quads goes white and the whole place just fucking sparkles and resonates quietly like just after the last note of a beautiful sacred hymn. |
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And that's how I knew. EM and both looked at each other when the screaming started -- not an angry terrified screaming, but excited, rapturous screaming, so collective, so intense, and so sudden, like a sharp breath. I shot over to my computer and there it was in bold black pixels: Obama to be President Elect. And I called my parents and screamed, and gloated, and they (both being McCain supporters for whatever god awful reason) we're already asleep, having given up hope a while ago.
EM and I ran out into the halls and celebrated with people on my floor, and from there we flooded into the streets. And so many people were already there, shouting and hollering and chanting YES WE HAVE. And more people came out and whenever I saw someone I even remotely knew I'd embrace them like I hadn't seen them in years. A boy with a bagpipe came out and we all came from our seperate buildings and unified around him and then someone shouted "TO THE QUADS!" and away we went, a happy mob of perhaps 200. And we kept going and people kept joining and someone shouted He WON FLORIDA and I exploded. And then at the quads we had to have been 500 strong and we kept going to the damn Textor Roof where so many epic moments in my life had found their place and here, another. But this moment is more than all of that, this moment is an epic moment in my life, and the lives of the -- jesus there has to be a thousand of us, all screaming and shouting and banging pots and pans, and AM has a trumpet, where the fucked she get a trumpet, and we're all caught in this impromptu whirlwind of emotion and I've never felt like I was a part of something this big, I hop up on a ledge with EM and kiss her in the middle of all of it, not because I wanted her, but because it was the perfect fucking time and suddenly, like an off-key choir of angels the Star Spangled Banner rolls off the lips of every member of that group whose same lips, months ago would've called this nation hell, and we're all part of this huge machine called patriotism and if only for a moment, that seems like enough to reverse eight years of corruption and from Chicago he gives a speech, but we don't need to hear it, we are living it, we know every word already.
This is us with our hands on the arc of history. |
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11 days until I inhale New York air again. Till then, I'm holding my breath. |
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I woke around noon. My sister had already left for Georgia to see her friend. My mouth had that sticky gross feeling it always has when I wake up. Lunch was uneventful, and the whole day seemed to pass by slowly, with nothing happening. Just slow minutes ticking by in between cigarette breaks. I make my way to work and we close down the store a lot quicker than usual. I make a sandwich and it's good. I come home and only Dad is here. Geoff calls, asks about a printer and we talk briefly about life and such. The whole conversation seems like it's racing towards it's end; existing only for the period. Emailed a lady about a job next semester. I sounded very formal, and very (I dunno) hireable. Nothing else to report really; just felt like writing.
Current Music: |
Regina Spektor - Hallelujah | Scrobbled by Last.fm | |
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I'm in my back yard sitting in some old uncomfortable patio furniture, in darkness, watching a dark purple sky occasionally ignite. Florida thunderstorms. In front of me is our fence, and I stare blankly at a segment of 15 or so boards, all nailed together, put up long before we moved here. The boards, perhaps, all cam from the same home depot, cut maybe from the same tree in god knows where south america. each board sliced by the same cookie cutter so they all mimic each other in size and shape. But still, some of the boards maintain a much crisper color than others. One board appearing siginificantly less abused than the one next to it. Both have stood for the same amount of time, burned by the same sun, weathered the same abuse. And yet, some have grown gray and ugly. It maybe only subtle differences, but you were to pick out the best looking board or the worst, it wouldn't be hard.
I'm so proud of you son, don't you know that. she says it and for the first time it feels completely sincere. |
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It's always a bit bizarre to start detailing my life again. I'll admit, there's an insatiable desire in me to put things down, to keep a record of my world. But that desire is humbled by a larger force: dehabilitating laziness. Sloth, the deadly sin of which I am most familiar with. And I suppose that's a sorry excuse for the long stretches of inactivity --not that I need excuses, I write only for myself, and well, one other person who seems to accept me regardless of the times between posts-- mostly, it just stands to make these return posts... weird. So perhaps it's best if I begin where I feel I should begin, and work around that.
Trina sat before me, blond hair, slightly crooked teeth in a friendly unsure smile, and wrinkles along her tanned forehead. A thin gold chain around her neck dissappeared under a black cotton t-shirt that read Bagel Bagel Cafe.
Jon will be here in a second. He'll go through all this paperwork with you, I'll be observing and helping. To be totally honest, I'm new too. I just started a couple months ago as a supervisor, so I'm still kinda learning the ropes.
Her smile feels honest and it made me feel all the more comfortable about the prospects of my new summer job. I was hired on the spot to be a cook at the privately own Bagel Bagel Cafe franchise. The entire thing was happen so switfly on a mountain of coincidences that it seemed like it was no coincidence at all.
They make subtle references to drinking during our half hour chat and it reminds me of the month I've spent totally sober, and how I miss being back with my friends. These days, I mostly lounge around the house, playing rock band, reading, watching tv, masturbating: anything to fill time.
Incidentally I'm nearing the home-stretch of one of the best novels I've ever encountered. The fountainhead is a terribly wonderful book but in true-spirit of the novel, I'll keep my review of it to myself.
Jon marks on how impressed he is with my resume and asks me my size.
Medium, I respond proudly. In the past three years or so, I've gone from 236 pounds to just under 180. I'm still remarkably out of shape, but it's sort of nice and slightly obnoxious that I can no longer fit into any of my old clothes. Whenever I throw on a pair of pants with too much slack at the waist, the extra space is filled with accomplishment.
I returned home in the mercedes. The car is a high end rust-bucket. My father doesn't expect it to last another 5 years, and the fact that it is a mercedes makes it sort of a safety hazard to drive. My mother is constantly afraid we're going to get carjacked, or someone will see it in the driveway and decide to rob the house. Still, it's nice to be driving alone. I just recently got my license and it feels, even at 19, like a right of passage.
Upon my arrival, I am greeted by my family. Well, sort of. Carrie's asleep and my mother seems busy with her... whatever. I spend the next few hours doing not much of anything, until I watch the Lost finale. I love the show with a shameful fervor. I've developed something of a parasocial relationship with the characters. When hunky Jack Shepard is hurt, I'm hurt. When Hurley laughs, I laugh. When Kate hooks up with Sawyer, well, a boy can dream.
Then something inside me brought me back here. To this blank space wanting to be filled with the contents of my day. Here's hoping this happens way more often. |
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A part of me keeps trying to put it all down in words, but it isn't there. I can't write down the things I want to say. I don't know why, but every time I start, I abandon ship like it's the titanic. Whatever, I'm drowning in an icy pool of failure either way. |
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(sorry if this makes no sense. It's 4:30 am.)
My feet follow the road into the preserve, around me is marshland, and it's beautiful. Farther out is construction, city, people, society, I breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth. Keep your head up and let you heels touch before your toes. My mind attempts to visualize my hand hitting my mailbox, signifying the end of this torture. The landscape is pretty, and on my third mile, I feel fine.
The dog curls up in my chest, drunken laughs from the kitchen, food in dishes cover the tables, I'm not hungry.
Fireworks, the neighbors are outdoing us. I shove six bottle rockets into the miller lite bottle and light a sparkler and put it in. I hope that it will act as a fuse to shoot up the fireworks, but instead a small fire starts in the bottle.
Keep running, you can't let yourself stop. I see a stranger up ahead, and like always, I assume that when I run past them, they will pull out a knife or a gun, and murder me in broad daylight without a motive.
My foot on the gas, slow down chris. I enjoy driving. Playing super mario galaxy. I sit out in the sun. Do something productive. I masturbate, and my toes curl to some images of random hot guys. I decide to go for a run.
I hate hannah montana, the no-talent hobag. I'm lying on the floor of my uncle's garage waiting for the ball to drop. Miley Cyrus starts to sing, or make noises with her mouth that everyone just assumes is singing, though it doesn't really sound like it to me. Fuck this, let's light off fireworks.
Why do I still do this job? Commissary, bagging, fourth day in a row. I've made 300 over the last few days, but it's a holiday and there isn't a damn person in the aisles. My last customer is an elderly woman who wishes me well in college and tips me decent.
12, 14, 15, 16. Are they trying to count down? Drunk relatives...
I'm so close to home, and the sun is baring down upon me, I want to stop, just walk the last stretch.
Phone calls shortly after midnight. Friends from new york, some of them might be drunk, I feel a pang a jealousy. Maybe ben and liana are back together? Who the fuck knows.
I push myself farther, running through my neighborhood, my house is in sight. Just put your hand on that mailbox and you can stop.
The choir of drunk filipinos gets louder, midnight is seconds away. Fireworks, ten, my dog hates them, nine, phone calls I miss you, eight, miley cyrus, seven, my toes curl, six, good luck at school, five, murdered in broad daylight, slow down chris, four, I want to just walk, three, drunk relatives, two, I'm so close to home, one.
2007 was everything I ever wanted. It's a year unlike any other. Goodbye, goodbye. Hello twenty oh eight. I've got a good feeling about this year, I tell lauren over the phone.
The ball drops, my hand taps the mailbox. |
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Stars scattered across her ceiling. The plastic ones that glow in the dark, but only after you shine direct light on them.
We're on the floor staring at those stars, lauren, liana, geoff, and myself. The soundtrack to Pocahontas is blasting. We call it mourning, and even though we all pretend like it's a joke, I think we all graze that terrible feeling of loss.
Finals are done, and winter break begins this weekend. There is a group of 12 or so of us that have bonded with a great intensity. It's only been four months, but man do I feel close to these kids. Am I ready to go back to the sunshine state? Sure. Do I want to?
No way.
I did all that I could to escape that dreadful place, and time and time again, I'm sucked back. No friends, no life, with the rather large exception of my family, nothing waits for me there.
Tonight I'm getting plastered, and for the first time ever I will be trying pot. I hope to never become one of those kids whose lives revovles around weed, but there isn't much harm in experiencing it once I suppose?
Gateway, here I come. |
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