The marble pillars of the Borgen Manor still stand proudly along the side of the street, just beyond the Folly Theater. They are what little of the original home exists. Some have said that the Borgen family has occupied the land for over three hundred years. Some even date it back to the founding of the Folly Theater, or even that the Borgen's were the first family to arrive in what would come to be known as The City of Poets. It's opulence, splendor, decadence, and beauty, however, have never been called into question. The Borgen family has been wealthy longer than any record to tell, and each generation has only added to it. Yet despite all this, it was not until the birth of Helena Borgen that the manor home came to be known to all of the world.
Amateur musicians themselves, the parents of Helena declared as they presented their daughter, that the halls of their music would be forever filled with song as long as their daughter lived. And so Borgen family, with their massive wealth, commissioned an army of musicians and singers to perform in the grand hall, at all hours of the day, all the days of the year. Initially, the songs performed and sung were traditional and classical, but as the days and months and years went by and musicians came and went, the songs began more and more to reflect the time of day, the season, the mood of the family, the mood of The City of Poets, and the mood of the world. The public would gather outside the pillars of the Manor to listen to the especially talented singers and musicians, and soon to have been asked to play in the Halls of the Borgen Manor was one of the greatest honors an artist could have bestowed upon them.
Often, at night, the halls willed be filled by only a single voice or a single performer, and equally as often during gatherings and events, entire orchestras would fill the rooms with song. And what some would consider the most magnificent achievement of the Manor musicians was that after all the years of music, the songs that were played by individuals became a single song only, flowing from one voice and one instrument to the next and to the next and so on, always different, but always the same, never with a beginning or with an end, save for once.
It had been over a hundred years since the birth of Helena, nearly a hundred years of continuous song, when a great fire erupted in the Borgen Manor. A young violinist named Elorias Green, unknown by all, had just seated and begun to play when the first of the smoke filled the room, and all within the house frantically searched for the exit. But Green played on, his eyes closed, unaware or uncaring of what was unfolding around him. He was screamed at and grabbed at as the house took flight, but he played on still, as the flames took to the room, surrounded him, and consumed him.
All else in the Manor were uninjured, but all who heard Green play would swear to this day that a more beautiful, tragic, moving piece of music they had never heard, and would never hear again.
As soon as the flames had died and the town had gathered around the rubble in shock, a young woman waded into the ash, to where the corpse of Elias Green lay, and picked up his violin. It had not been touched by flame. She looked at first to the crowd, and then to the sky, and then to the ruins around her before she sat down and began to play. And so, the song resumed, and even as the house was being built, they played, as walls and floors and ceilings were built around those who would continue the concert that the Borgen family had brought into the world.
The song continues today. Some claim even that the ghost of Elias Green, now fifty years dead, haunts the hallways, adding his song to the chorus. And those who claim it would swear to this day that a more beautiful, tragic, and moving piece of music they had never heard before, and would never hear again.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
The title is as long as the story, and about as interesting.
It wasn't a very long trial, but she wasn't a very good mother.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Em
There's not a lot of imagination in this.
This is mostly true.
They found her in her apartment because she the rent was two weeks past due. No one noticed the smell, because there wasn't much of one to speak of. Her body was simply there, waiting to be found.
There was no note.
She had hung her self with a tightly wound string from the black grand piano that was one of the few furnishings in her apartment. It hadn't quite broken her neck though, and it didn't quite strangle her, and it didn't even really slit her throat. The official report stated that she died simple from “trauma”. One of the mortician interns guessed that she had spent perhaps hours hanging there. The intern's mentor made no effort to correct this thought, but new that it would have been several days, at least.
She carried no identification.
She knew no one.
She had donated her eggs at a fertility clinic weeks before.
Her daughter would grow up to become beautiful, and a poet, and very very happy.
This is mostly true.
They found her in her apartment because she the rent was two weeks past due. No one noticed the smell, because there wasn't much of one to speak of. Her body was simply there, waiting to be found.
There was no note.
She had hung her self with a tightly wound string from the black grand piano that was one of the few furnishings in her apartment. It hadn't quite broken her neck though, and it didn't quite strangle her, and it didn't even really slit her throat. The official report stated that she died simple from “trauma”. One of the mortician interns guessed that she had spent perhaps hours hanging there. The intern's mentor made no effort to correct this thought, but new that it would have been several days, at least.
She carried no identification.
She knew no one.
She had donated her eggs at a fertility clinic weeks before.
Her daughter would grow up to become beautiful, and a poet, and very very happy.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Outro music to our heroes story
He rises up, out of the impossible, when all hope is gone, and often there is dialogue, but some times, there is no speech at all. Some times there is just a gaze, or a crash, or a call from a loved one. Some times there is only silence.
He should not be here. “I’m only a boy!” he once cried out, and he was right. But he was also so much more, to us, and to our cause. He was hope. He was possibility. He was our Hero.
And so he rose up, against the odds, against all odds, to overcome where all before him had stumbled and fallen. And then he pressed on further still, through pains unknown and trials unbearable, of loves gained and lost, friendships won and friends who would fall behind, or worse. We would pray for him. He would carry us, his cross, his sword, his heart. He was all of us, and yet, ultimately, he was alone in the fight.
The crow calls. The dawn breaks. The bells sound. He is in a wasteland. He is atop a hill. He stands at the highest level of the tower, or in the deepest level of the dungeon. His eyes are blue, or green, or brown, or golden, and they are filled with righteousness, and he cannot fail. Or can he?
So many before him have fallen, and even now, with victory so near, everything is balanced on the smallest of pinheads. There is doubt. There is always the doubt. What if?
What if?
And we hold our breath and we pray, because he is us, or we are him. With heroes it can be hard to tell.
So then they battle, as they must, and we are silent. And maybe they are too. But maybe they are not. Maybe everything is coming out now. He is his father. She has betrayed him when they were born. They were envious. Jealous. Reckless. Evil. Good. Misguided. Vengeful. So sad. So alone. So lost. So right. How could he not be right? How could she not have known? How could we not have seen it? How could it come to this? The lights dim. We feel out hearts, somewhere, not just inside us, somewhere else, somewhere, waiting to see what will happen next. The music swells.
And so he rose up, against the odds, against all odds, to overcome where all before him had stumbled and fallen.
And perhaps, he too, though victorious, also falls. Or perhaps he finds peace. Or love. Or sadness. Immortality, or death, or sometimes even both. In the end, though, the Hero will triumph. And we will all know that there is, and always has been, and surely always will be, hope.
There are many ways to define a hero. Some will tell you that it’s in his strength, or his will, or his cunning. Some will say his style, his panache, his wit and his love. Some will tell you that it’s those he chooses as friends, or even those he chooses as foes. Or even his clothing, his artifacts, his smile.
Some will say it is not a choice. Some will say its fate. Some will argue stronger that it is destiny. And maybe more will even ascribe it to sheer dumb luck.
All of the above are true, but what truly, truly makes a Hero, is that, if given a choice, a Hero will choose not to have to be a Hero at all. And if he has no choice, he will never, ever give up.
And then the credits will roll, and we will smile, and we will stand, together, and know that in this world there is, and always has been, and surely always will be, hope.
He should not be here. “I’m only a boy!” he once cried out, and he was right. But he was also so much more, to us, and to our cause. He was hope. He was possibility. He was our Hero.
And so he rose up, against the odds, against all odds, to overcome where all before him had stumbled and fallen. And then he pressed on further still, through pains unknown and trials unbearable, of loves gained and lost, friendships won and friends who would fall behind, or worse. We would pray for him. He would carry us, his cross, his sword, his heart. He was all of us, and yet, ultimately, he was alone in the fight.
The crow calls. The dawn breaks. The bells sound. He is in a wasteland. He is atop a hill. He stands at the highest level of the tower, or in the deepest level of the dungeon. His eyes are blue, or green, or brown, or golden, and they are filled with righteousness, and he cannot fail. Or can he?
So many before him have fallen, and even now, with victory so near, everything is balanced on the smallest of pinheads. There is doubt. There is always the doubt. What if?
What if?
And we hold our breath and we pray, because he is us, or we are him. With heroes it can be hard to tell.
So then they battle, as they must, and we are silent. And maybe they are too. But maybe they are not. Maybe everything is coming out now. He is his father. She has betrayed him when they were born. They were envious. Jealous. Reckless. Evil. Good. Misguided. Vengeful. So sad. So alone. So lost. So right. How could he not be right? How could she not have known? How could we not have seen it? How could it come to this? The lights dim. We feel out hearts, somewhere, not just inside us, somewhere else, somewhere, waiting to see what will happen next. The music swells.
And so he rose up, against the odds, against all odds, to overcome where all before him had stumbled and fallen.
And perhaps, he too, though victorious, also falls. Or perhaps he finds peace. Or love. Or sadness. Immortality, or death, or sometimes even both. In the end, though, the Hero will triumph. And we will all know that there is, and always has been, and surely always will be, hope.
There are many ways to define a hero. Some will tell you that it’s in his strength, or his will, or his cunning. Some will say his style, his panache, his wit and his love. Some will tell you that it’s those he chooses as friends, or even those he chooses as foes. Or even his clothing, his artifacts, his smile.
Some will say it is not a choice. Some will say its fate. Some will argue stronger that it is destiny. And maybe more will even ascribe it to sheer dumb luck.
All of the above are true, but what truly, truly makes a Hero, is that, if given a choice, a Hero will choose not to have to be a Hero at all. And if he has no choice, he will never, ever give up.
And then the credits will roll, and we will smile, and we will stand, together, and know that in this world there is, and always has been, and surely always will be, hope.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
purgatory
"I don't want to be here," Alice said peevishly, cocking her head to the side. "The world I came from is above me. It is dark here but still worse below. I have been falling for quite some time, and I'd really like to climb out."
The rabbit twitched his nose and wisely said, "If you should land, you would certainly be doomed. But you would grow accustomed to it in time, the strangeness, the cruelty, the fear, they would soon become old friends. Your fate would intertwine with theirs. You would have your own tree, with a bowed branch, to rest your head upon. You would rename the constellations, and learn to defy gravity. You would swim for hours without drowning. Your companions, no longer unsavory, would console you."
Alice brightened up a bit at this prospect. "I could swim for hours without drowning?"
"You could, and you would. Your skin would bit by bit wear away, and a new skin would take its place, and then you would truly belong."
Alice began to weep softly. "I like my skin, Rabbit. How do I stop falling? I want to go home."
Rabbit sighed, glancing at his watch. "I suppose you'll have to climb."
The rabbit twitched his nose and wisely said, "If you should land, you would certainly be doomed. But you would grow accustomed to it in time, the strangeness, the cruelty, the fear, they would soon become old friends. Your fate would intertwine with theirs. You would have your own tree, with a bowed branch, to rest your head upon. You would rename the constellations, and learn to defy gravity. You would swim for hours without drowning. Your companions, no longer unsavory, would console you."
Alice brightened up a bit at this prospect. "I could swim for hours without drowning?"
"You could, and you would. Your skin would bit by bit wear away, and a new skin would take its place, and then you would truly belong."
Alice began to weep softly. "I like my skin, Rabbit. How do I stop falling? I want to go home."
Rabbit sighed, glancing at his watch. "I suppose you'll have to climb."
Thursday, May 3, 2007
she was painting her toenails when she got the news. struggling with the lid of the nail polish, she answered on the fourth ring.
before it sank in fully, she had already dropped the phone.
the color drained from the room, ebbing from the lamp shades and the curtains, dulling the upholstery and the carpet to a muted glow. suffocation squeezed her heart like a myriad of tiny tightening ribbons punctuated by an adder's persistent sting. mutely she stared at the nail polish in its bottle, glossy red droplets dripping down the side from the hastily replaced brush. a litany ran through her head like a series of commandments. i will not eat. i will not sleep. i will not talk. i will not breathe.
she marvelled at the puppeteer controlling her body as it stood up and briefly wondered if it was god.
a soft, warm sponge gently wiped her mind clean. the objects she encountered no longer had definition in form or function. dazedly she stepped outside and tried to recollect what the object in her driveway was before dismissing the effort. she sat on the bench, tracing her finger along the chipped paint of its hard wooden surface, watching a small drop of blood pool up where a sliver of wood had entered, she tilted the finger back and forth, watching the sun play with the dark red surface. she sat there some time. she shifted on the bench; it felt hard, real, uncomfortable.
quietly the forms around her regained their outlines and again had substance, suffused with painfully over-bright hues, overtaking her consciousness like wind over blades of grass, gently bending each thought, leaving brief impressions that hardened into wooden memories. her mind now raced with the quiet din of what had come to pass.
a new litany began. i loved. i was loved. i love still.
before it sank in fully, she had already dropped the phone.
the color drained from the room, ebbing from the lamp shades and the curtains, dulling the upholstery and the carpet to a muted glow. suffocation squeezed her heart like a myriad of tiny tightening ribbons punctuated by an adder's persistent sting. mutely she stared at the nail polish in its bottle, glossy red droplets dripping down the side from the hastily replaced brush. a litany ran through her head like a series of commandments. i will not eat. i will not sleep. i will not talk. i will not breathe.
she marvelled at the puppeteer controlling her body as it stood up and briefly wondered if it was god.
a soft, warm sponge gently wiped her mind clean. the objects she encountered no longer had definition in form or function. dazedly she stepped outside and tried to recollect what the object in her driveway was before dismissing the effort. she sat on the bench, tracing her finger along the chipped paint of its hard wooden surface, watching a small drop of blood pool up where a sliver of wood had entered, she tilted the finger back and forth, watching the sun play with the dark red surface. she sat there some time. she shifted on the bench; it felt hard, real, uncomfortable.
quietly the forms around her regained their outlines and again had substance, suffused with painfully over-bright hues, overtaking her consciousness like wind over blades of grass, gently bending each thought, leaving brief impressions that hardened into wooden memories. her mind now raced with the quiet din of what had come to pass.
a new litany began. i loved. i was loved. i love still.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
a beginning and an end
Once upon a time a child was born whose parents loved him very much.
...
That night the boy went to sleep and dreamt that everything was perfect and no one was ever sad.
...
That night the boy went to sleep and dreamt that everything was perfect and no one was ever sad.
Monday, February 19, 2007
may 21, 1964
I had that dream again last night, the one where Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny loom menacingly in front of me, gongs sounding in the background, cameras pointed at me, and all I feel is pure, abject fear. I told my wife about it, and she told me to stop hitting the hooch so often. It's her answer to everything. The thing is, I've started to see them in my waking life, too. If I see a man with a white beard out of the corner of my eye, I break out in that same cold sweat, and only sheer willpower keeps me from running like hell in the other direction. We now never visit Jane and Howard, friends of ours, ostensibly because they've become too busy since they had the fourth kid, but I've been maneuvering us away - they have a white cat.
Went to the bar after work with a couple buddies, that dream was in my head all day, I was hoping a few stiff ones might knock it right back out. It worked like a charm. A few hours of banter and I was feeling pretty good, walking home in the crisp evening air, I even felt up to seeing my wife. I can bear her disappointment better when everything is a little bit muted, when my brain is a little bit numb. And I can certainly bear it better without the fear that Santa Claus is lurking around the corner to get me. Sheesh, like I don't got enough problems.
She didn't seem as willing to see me as I was to see her, however. She greeted me with a cold, appraising look, then turned heel into the kitchen to remove supper from the oven. "I kept it warm for you," she said.
"Thanks, honey," I replied, grabbing her waist to pull her in for a kiss - or so I thought, but she flinched and wiggled away.
I sighed, grabbed the plate she offered, then skulked into the den. I settled into a book while eating, dropping bits of casserole on the oriental carpet that I ignored, tonight, I wasn't in the mood.
Went to the bar after work with a couple buddies, that dream was in my head all day, I was hoping a few stiff ones might knock it right back out. It worked like a charm. A few hours of banter and I was feeling pretty good, walking home in the crisp evening air, I even felt up to seeing my wife. I can bear her disappointment better when everything is a little bit muted, when my brain is a little bit numb. And I can certainly bear it better without the fear that Santa Claus is lurking around the corner to get me. Sheesh, like I don't got enough problems.
She didn't seem as willing to see me as I was to see her, however. She greeted me with a cold, appraising look, then turned heel into the kitchen to remove supper from the oven. "I kept it warm for you," she said.
"Thanks, honey," I replied, grabbing her waist to pull her in for a kiss - or so I thought, but she flinched and wiggled away.
I sighed, grabbed the plate she offered, then skulked into the den. I settled into a book while eating, dropping bits of casserole on the oriental carpet that I ignored, tonight, I wasn't in the mood.
Friday, February 9, 2007
Gretchen
I pull the trigger and the wall behind her is sprayed red. I know she isn’t dead though. Gretchen is too big of a pain in the ass to die easily.
“You bastard,” she spits. “You God damned bastard.”
But this isn’t a movie. This isn’t a novel. This is payback. This is business. Hell, this is pleasure. There will be no long winded speech. I walk up to her, put the barrel against her temple, and paint the rest of the room.
Sarah has dinner ready for me when I get home. Meatloaf. It must be Friday.
“How was your day?” she asks.
“Fine. Good. Same as usual,” I say. This is not a lie.
“You bastard,” she spits. “You God damned bastard.”
But this isn’t a movie. This isn’t a novel. This is payback. This is business. Hell, this is pleasure. There will be no long winded speech. I walk up to her, put the barrel against her temple, and paint the rest of the room.
Sarah has dinner ready for me when I get home. Meatloaf. It must be Friday.
“How was your day?” she asks.
“Fine. Good. Same as usual,” I say. This is not a lie.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Daybreak.
Last night I dreamt that I was driving in a snow storm, and when I opened my eyes I was staring at the muted sun coming through the hotel room's curtains.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Kelly and the Atheist
Friday, January 12, 2007
Amanda and the Tree
Amanda climbed higher still. She had only climbed this high a few times before, when she was younger. The last time she had, she had fallen very far. Tree was mad at her for climbing so high, but it helped her. It told her that she had broken her ankle, and that she would need to stay on the ground and rest until it healed. Tree gave her fruit when she needed it and Monkey brought her water when she was thirsty and Bird kept her company when she was lonely, and after many days she could climb again, which was good. Amanda hated being on the ground. It was always cold and wet and some times, when the wind was really loud, the rains splashed in her face and made her clothes wet and made her skin shiver, and some times the whole world lit up with light and then there was a loud crash, louder then even when Monkey screams at Bird for stealing his food. When she was with Tree, she never got wet, and the world never lit up as bright, and the crashes were never as bright, and she was never as scared. And some times, when she did get scared, she would wrap her arms around him and he would give her fruit, and Monkey and Bird would come sit with her, and Tree would tell her stories of what happened before the water started falling.
Tonight the rain was falling very hard, and the dark sky some times became very bright, and all around her some times was very loud. Amanda wanted Tree to tell her a story. That’s why Amanda climbed higher. She got to where Monkey was and sat down near him. Monkey smiled at her, and she smiled back, and then Bird came over and greeted both of them with a short song. Amanda hugged tree, and told her that she was scared, and wanted to hear a story, if Tree would tell one.
Tree began his story like he always did.
There were other people like you, he told her. Before the rains. You would live together in families. And there were others like you too, Bird. Enough of you to fill the skies with flight and song. And you, Monkey, there were many like you, who would laugh and play together and lay out in the sun.
What’s the Sun? Amanda asked, like she had so many times before.
The Sun, said Tree, was bright and warm.
Was it like a hug? Amanda asked. Monkey laughed, and bird sang, but Tree only thought for a moment before answering.
The Sun was like a hug, he said. But it was more than that. It kept things going. And it had a sister, called the Moon. The Moon wasn’t bright like her brother, but she was very beautiful and would come out at night and dance and fill even the darkest times with light. And then there were the Stars.
Amanda always liked hearing about the Stars the most.
The stars were all of the dreams that you could ever dream, Amanda, said Tree. Before the rain came, when people went to sleep, they would go places they had never been and see things they had never seen. Every time some one closed their eyes a star would come and take them away.
Amanda smiled. She didn’t know what “away” meant, but when Tree said it, it sounded mysterious, like the time she tried to carry one of his big leaves over her head out into the rains. Tree had stopped her and was mad and didn’t give her any fruit for a week. He said the rains were dangerous now. But some times, when she was sure Tree wasn’t looking, Amanda still took a step into the rains, and wondered what “away” was like.
Tree finished his story and the rains began to slow. Monkey crawled into Amanda’s arms and she held him close as Bird began to sing them a sleep song.
As she closed her eyes, Amanda let herself wonder if some day she would be able to see one of the Stars, and let it take her “away”.
A smile spread across her face, and then Amanda slept a dreamless sleep.
Tonight the rain was falling very hard, and the dark sky some times became very bright, and all around her some times was very loud. Amanda wanted Tree to tell her a story. That’s why Amanda climbed higher. She got to where Monkey was and sat down near him. Monkey smiled at her, and she smiled back, and then Bird came over and greeted both of them with a short song. Amanda hugged tree, and told her that she was scared, and wanted to hear a story, if Tree would tell one.
Tree began his story like he always did.
There were other people like you, he told her. Before the rains. You would live together in families. And there were others like you too, Bird. Enough of you to fill the skies with flight and song. And you, Monkey, there were many like you, who would laugh and play together and lay out in the sun.
What’s the Sun? Amanda asked, like she had so many times before.
The Sun, said Tree, was bright and warm.
Was it like a hug? Amanda asked. Monkey laughed, and bird sang, but Tree only thought for a moment before answering.
The Sun was like a hug, he said. But it was more than that. It kept things going. And it had a sister, called the Moon. The Moon wasn’t bright like her brother, but she was very beautiful and would come out at night and dance and fill even the darkest times with light. And then there were the Stars.
Amanda always liked hearing about the Stars the most.
The stars were all of the dreams that you could ever dream, Amanda, said Tree. Before the rain came, when people went to sleep, they would go places they had never been and see things they had never seen. Every time some one closed their eyes a star would come and take them away.
Amanda smiled. She didn’t know what “away” meant, but when Tree said it, it sounded mysterious, like the time she tried to carry one of his big leaves over her head out into the rains. Tree had stopped her and was mad and didn’t give her any fruit for a week. He said the rains were dangerous now. But some times, when she was sure Tree wasn’t looking, Amanda still took a step into the rains, and wondered what “away” was like.
Tree finished his story and the rains began to slow. Monkey crawled into Amanda’s arms and she held him close as Bird began to sing them a sleep song.
As she closed her eyes, Amanda let herself wonder if some day she would be able to see one of the Stars, and let it take her “away”.
A smile spread across her face, and then Amanda slept a dreamless sleep.
What's With That Evan Kid?
I still remember when Evan died. I didn’t know his last name, and I really didn’t know him, but his memory is something I think I’ll carry with me until forever.
Evan sat behind me in home room in high school, and a few rows forward and to the right of me in math. We never really talked, and I don’t think that he was the kind of kid who had a lot of friends. His hair looked like a hospital mop, his eyes were always tired, and his clothes looked like they were mostly second hand buys, or at best hand-me-downs from an older brother he may or may not have had.
“So, what’s with that Evan kid?” Callie would ask at lunch some times. And if some one asked me to describe him in a single sentence, that would probably be what I could tell them.
What’s with that Evan kid?
Our high school wasn’t all that big really. Maybe six hundred students in all. It was a typical inner city high school, I expect. The students were a pretty typical cross section of middle American races, classes, and creeds, though the student body was a little more liberal and a little more Hmong than I bet other schools were. The hallways were always horribly lit, so by third period we’d often find ourselves ready to doze off. At our ten year reunion, actually, I remember Barbara Rush, who was just finishing her doctorate in applied psychology, told us that she was doing her thesis on the effects of indoor lighting on teenage development.
“It’s amazing, really,” she said, “that more high schoolers don’t wind up offing themselves. We’re only just now starting to collect human data, you know, but from the studies of rats and rodents and even some small primates we’re starting to see just how prolonged exposure to low intensity lighting can severely alter attitude, eating habits, and sleep patterns. All typical causes of clinical depression.” She sounded so excited as she continued to cite medical journals none of us had ever heard of and drop names none of us really cared about. None of us had the heart to tell that she was boring us to tears, so we all breathed a sigh of relief when we realized that she was wrapping up. “I guess what I’m trying to say,” she told us, almost orgasmic after having put her research into words, “is that prolonged exposure to low intensity lighting, combined with the changes in the hormone levels that occur in the high school demographic, leads to an emotional distress very similar to the already established Seasonal Affective Disorder, only the effects some times are magnitudes higher.”
“Fascinating.” Jon said flatly as he another long drink.
So, what’s with that Evan kid?
Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it wasn’t. The point is that on the morning of March thirteenth, 1989, Evan woke up and decided he wasn’t going to go to school. Instead, he took a knife from the kitchen, walked into his closet, shut the door, and slit his wrists.
I’m not sure how I found out about it. It was a few days after the fact though, I remember that much. And I remember being so angry that I stormed out of school, walked straight to my car, and slammed the door shut. You have to remember that this was taking place before Columbine and all of that, so walking in and out of the front doors of a public high school was no real big deal. At any rate, I sat there in my car in silence just being angry. At first, I thought I was mad at the school. Why didn’t they make an announcement? Then I thought I was mad at myself, for just not being there. But that didn’t last long. I wasn’t one of the kids who teased him or anything. In fact, no one really teased him. He was just kind of there, an oddity for us to observe and debate. “What’s with that Evan kid?”
Now, I sometimes think that maybe that’s why I was angry. He took something away from us we didn’t even know we had. That probably sounds selfish, and it might not even be true, but most likely, at that moment, the real person I was mad at was Evan.
Regardless, I eventually calmed down enough to turn the keys in the ignition and get onto the road. I had no idea where I was going at first, but as soon as I saw the flower shop, I knew that I was exactly where I wanted to be.
I hurried inside and bought a single red rose. That was when my anger climaxed. Everything after that was falling action.
I drove myself back to school feeling a lot calmer. It was noon, and math class would be starting in a little bit. Again, I had no problem walking through the doors, but I got a few odd looks and blank stares carrying a single rose with me through the halls. Some girls laughed or hid blushes behind text books, probably wondering which lucky girl they were for.
Once I got into Miss McNye’s room everyone was already seated at the same desks, never formally assigned to them, mind you, that they had been sitting in all year. Evan’s desk was empty. Miss McNye was late, as usual.
Now, if this were a tear jerking, Oscar winning, coming of age, high budget Hollywood production, the room’s conversation would slowly fade out and the heads on each one of my classmates would have slowly turned to me. But no one stopped talking, and no one noticed me at all. Which was a good thing, really. I didn’t want to have to explain anything to any one. I set the flower down on top of the empty desk and took up my seat at the exact moment our teacher walked in, filling the room instantly with the smell of her lunch, which for Miss McNye was always half of a pack of cigarettes, unfiltered.
We all opened up our texts books to the page she told us to, but gradually, people started shifting uneasily. Something had changed, and ever so slowly people began to realize that something had happened. Or maybe was happening. Over the course of a few minutes, everyone’s eyes had shifted from our teacher, who was scribbling frantic triangles and cosines on the green black board, to Evan’s old desk and the single rose.
It’s hard to describe what the mood in the room was just then, but I’ll give it a try, because it’s important. It was like Evan wasn’t really ever gone. The rose did a perfect job of filling in for him by just being there. It sat there, quietly, exactly like him. The stem, crooked like an old man’s finger, proper it up in just the wrong way. The petals were already beginning to wilt. Even the way it was oriented on the desk made it look awkward and uncomfortable. And we soaked all of this in for most of the class.
Then minutes before the bell would ring, it all happened in reverse. We let it go. And things were back to normal again. Picking up conversations left an hour ago, we all filed out of the room, into the low intensity lighting, and off to our next classes. And I still remember, so vividly, lunch the next day, when Callie, plunking her red lunch tray down, opening her milk, and tossing strands of hair from her face, looked around our table and asked us,
“So, what’s with that Evan kid?”
Evan sat behind me in home room in high school, and a few rows forward and to the right of me in math. We never really talked, and I don’t think that he was the kind of kid who had a lot of friends. His hair looked like a hospital mop, his eyes were always tired, and his clothes looked like they were mostly second hand buys, or at best hand-me-downs from an older brother he may or may not have had.
“So, what’s with that Evan kid?” Callie would ask at lunch some times. And if some one asked me to describe him in a single sentence, that would probably be what I could tell them.
What’s with that Evan kid?
Our high school wasn’t all that big really. Maybe six hundred students in all. It was a typical inner city high school, I expect. The students were a pretty typical cross section of middle American races, classes, and creeds, though the student body was a little more liberal and a little more Hmong than I bet other schools were. The hallways were always horribly lit, so by third period we’d often find ourselves ready to doze off. At our ten year reunion, actually, I remember Barbara Rush, who was just finishing her doctorate in applied psychology, told us that she was doing her thesis on the effects of indoor lighting on teenage development.
“It’s amazing, really,” she said, “that more high schoolers don’t wind up offing themselves. We’re only just now starting to collect human data, you know, but from the studies of rats and rodents and even some small primates we’re starting to see just how prolonged exposure to low intensity lighting can severely alter attitude, eating habits, and sleep patterns. All typical causes of clinical depression.” She sounded so excited as she continued to cite medical journals none of us had ever heard of and drop names none of us really cared about. None of us had the heart to tell that she was boring us to tears, so we all breathed a sigh of relief when we realized that she was wrapping up. “I guess what I’m trying to say,” she told us, almost orgasmic after having put her research into words, “is that prolonged exposure to low intensity lighting, combined with the changes in the hormone levels that occur in the high school demographic, leads to an emotional distress very similar to the already established Seasonal Affective Disorder, only the effects some times are magnitudes higher.”
“Fascinating.” Jon said flatly as he another long drink.
So, what’s with that Evan kid?
Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it wasn’t. The point is that on the morning of March thirteenth, 1989, Evan woke up and decided he wasn’t going to go to school. Instead, he took a knife from the kitchen, walked into his closet, shut the door, and slit his wrists.
I’m not sure how I found out about it. It was a few days after the fact though, I remember that much. And I remember being so angry that I stormed out of school, walked straight to my car, and slammed the door shut. You have to remember that this was taking place before Columbine and all of that, so walking in and out of the front doors of a public high school was no real big deal. At any rate, I sat there in my car in silence just being angry. At first, I thought I was mad at the school. Why didn’t they make an announcement? Then I thought I was mad at myself, for just not being there. But that didn’t last long. I wasn’t one of the kids who teased him or anything. In fact, no one really teased him. He was just kind of there, an oddity for us to observe and debate. “What’s with that Evan kid?”
Now, I sometimes think that maybe that’s why I was angry. He took something away from us we didn’t even know we had. That probably sounds selfish, and it might not even be true, but most likely, at that moment, the real person I was mad at was Evan.
Regardless, I eventually calmed down enough to turn the keys in the ignition and get onto the road. I had no idea where I was going at first, but as soon as I saw the flower shop, I knew that I was exactly where I wanted to be.
I hurried inside and bought a single red rose. That was when my anger climaxed. Everything after that was falling action.
I drove myself back to school feeling a lot calmer. It was noon, and math class would be starting in a little bit. Again, I had no problem walking through the doors, but I got a few odd looks and blank stares carrying a single rose with me through the halls. Some girls laughed or hid blushes behind text books, probably wondering which lucky girl they were for.
Once I got into Miss McNye’s room everyone was already seated at the same desks, never formally assigned to them, mind you, that they had been sitting in all year. Evan’s desk was empty. Miss McNye was late, as usual.
Now, if this were a tear jerking, Oscar winning, coming of age, high budget Hollywood production, the room’s conversation would slowly fade out and the heads on each one of my classmates would have slowly turned to me. But no one stopped talking, and no one noticed me at all. Which was a good thing, really. I didn’t want to have to explain anything to any one. I set the flower down on top of the empty desk and took up my seat at the exact moment our teacher walked in, filling the room instantly with the smell of her lunch, which for Miss McNye was always half of a pack of cigarettes, unfiltered.
We all opened up our texts books to the page she told us to, but gradually, people started shifting uneasily. Something had changed, and ever so slowly people began to realize that something had happened. Or maybe was happening. Over the course of a few minutes, everyone’s eyes had shifted from our teacher, who was scribbling frantic triangles and cosines on the green black board, to Evan’s old desk and the single rose.
It’s hard to describe what the mood in the room was just then, but I’ll give it a try, because it’s important. It was like Evan wasn’t really ever gone. The rose did a perfect job of filling in for him by just being there. It sat there, quietly, exactly like him. The stem, crooked like an old man’s finger, proper it up in just the wrong way. The petals were already beginning to wilt. Even the way it was oriented on the desk made it look awkward and uncomfortable. And we soaked all of this in for most of the class.
Then minutes before the bell would ring, it all happened in reverse. We let it go. And things were back to normal again. Picking up conversations left an hour ago, we all filed out of the room, into the low intensity lighting, and off to our next classes. And I still remember, so vividly, lunch the next day, when Callie, plunking her red lunch tray down, opening her milk, and tossing strands of hair from her face, looked around our table and asked us,
“So, what’s with that Evan kid?”
transcript of a coffee shop conversation, prepared by: me
and he said “after seeing my wife give birth, I had no question about who was the stronger sex” (laughs)
(laughs)
“they talk about the work, what they do at the work, the history of the work”
“that’s nice that you get that background, it makes it a little more real”
“it’s interesting when you think back, centuries ago with women…” (lowers
“you know, the whole transformation”
“yeah, yeah.”
“you can succeed and you know, okay, blah blah blah, there are so many risks. So… that’s just, it’s kinda hard. But um..”
“it’s hard to start”
“yeah, especially because it could mean the loss of your child”
“I appreciate you listening to my worries”
(chuckle)
“as I said, definitely call me or email, whatever’s convenient for you”
(laughs)
“they talk about the work, what they do at the work, the history of the work”
“that’s nice that you get that background, it makes it a little more real”
“it’s interesting when you think back, centuries ago with women…” (lowers
“you know, the whole transformation”
“yeah, yeah.”
“you can succeed and you know, okay, blah blah blah, there are so many risks. So… that’s just, it’s kinda hard. But um..”
“it’s hard to start”
“yeah, especially because it could mean the loss of your child”
“I appreciate you listening to my worries”
(chuckle)
“as I said, definitely call me or email, whatever’s convenient for you”
type: modernism, inspiration: airplane + virginia woolf
I at the window, another at the aisle, he heaved up to us, sweat streaming down his forehead, his bulk trembling with the shortness of his breath, shirt creased and damp, is this seat taken, here in the middle? Our eyes screamed no, couldn’t he read our eyes screaming no, but we supposed he had to sit somewhere, cordially, oh, no, no, by all means and we looked at each other with despair as he heaved into the seat, thick sausage fingers clasping at the seat belt buckle, billowing elbows overflowing into my arm, all I can think about is the sweaty creases and that liquid trickle down the grey fluffy sideburns, my arm and leg scream in protest at every collision of his meaty arm and leg.
Briefly I glance out the window, the white clouds billowing underneath, and my mind flashes in fear, briefly, whatifisuddenlywentbackintimebeforeairplanesandthisairplanei’minthereforecrashestothegroundduetonothavingbeeninventedyet? Time travel, I am traveling time in my book which coincides with the travel of my airplane, almost too closely, maybe the airplane will crash after all I’m in a time before airplanes, it surely will crash.
How to sleep, how to sleep with meaty armbones and legbones and my elbows crunched up against my ribs with my boxed snack on my lap my legs are getting cramped but they recoil in horror at those hamhocks meaty legbones. Spotted grey-darkness when the fringed-lid hath closed, i think of someone and immediately my mind says rules of engagement, rules of engagement in response to my analysis of our interactions and I find that phrase oddly suiting, am pleased with myself, repeat it a few more times for good measure, oh yes, definitely, rules of engagement, we have several.
Briefly I glance out the window, the white clouds billowing underneath, and my mind flashes in fear, briefly, whatifisuddenlywentbackintimebeforeairplanesandthisairplanei’minthereforecrashestothegroundduetonothavingbeeninventedyet? Time travel, I am traveling time in my book which coincides with the travel of my airplane, almost too closely, maybe the airplane will crash after all I’m in a time before airplanes, it surely will crash.
How to sleep, how to sleep with meaty armbones and legbones and my elbows crunched up against my ribs with my boxed snack on my lap my legs are getting cramped but they recoil in horror at those hamhocks meaty legbones. Spotted grey-darkness when the fringed-lid hath closed, i think of someone and immediately my mind says rules of engagement, rules of engagement in response to my analysis of our interactions and I find that phrase oddly suiting, am pleased with myself, repeat it a few more times for good measure, oh yes, definitely, rules of engagement, we have several.
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