RSS

Category Archives: Serious Emotional Beatdowns

I Was Lying About Monsters

The sound of an airplane overhead drew me outside – there were no airplanes in the sky over America that afternoon, not anywhere in the country. You could go out in your yard and hear the silence, a sound unto itself, like when an air conditioner kicks off in the middle of the night.

So I was standing there in the driveway watching the sky, hearing its hidden vacuum cleaner sounds, looking for vapor trails.

It was Air Force One, I found out when I went inside. The President of the United States, escorted by a squad of fighters, on his way to do whatever it was he needed to do that day.

No one knew if this was the beginning of the attacks or the end. It seemed like mushroom clouds could bloom on the horizon any second, and I found myself thinking about military targets in central Ohio – what was here that might be attacked?

DCSC, I thought – a defense contractor or military base or something, I didn’t know exactly what it was. But it was right there on the east side of Columbus, and we had a Federal Building downtown. And an international airport, too.

Ellen was three and a half years old. I picked her up at preschool and found a sign on the wall which asked us not to discuss the attacks with our children, since they’d only spend the next few days freaking each other out.

I remember not liking it, not liking the idea that anyone might instruct me on how to talk to my daughter about this – or how not to talk to her. And anyway, it wasn’t an option for me. Ellen is a little Deanna Troi from Star Trek, an empath, and she always has been. She can’t quite read your mind, but she can feel your emotions about as clearly as you can.

Try lying to her about being terrified – go ahead. You might as well try and convince her it’s winter on the Fourth of July.

Big Uncle Shawn had come over. His mother was in Cincinnati with her husband, and he was as convinced she was safe as one could be, and so he came to our house. If society collapsed and we had to make a break for western Canada, well let’s just say that was something we were prepared to do.

We had only recently brought a television back into the house – we hadn’t had one for years – and we moved it downstairs into the den so we could watch the news without filling the whole house with it. Ellen didn’t care if we wanted her to see it or not; she already knew something was horribly wrong, and a round of Polly Pockets was pretty much off the table.

She crept in quietly while we watched the cavalcade of non-Hollywood explosions, filthy and gray and quick, devouring New Yorkers like a freakish sandstorm. Human beings were jumping out of windows a half a mile in the sky, to escape the heat.

Ellen was simply standing there all of the sudden, next to us. She said, “Why are they jumping, Daddy?”

Shawn was accustomed to Ellen’s little girl ways, but by no means was he prepared to answer that one. I shrugged and told her the truth. “Some people crashed some airplanes into these really tall buildings in New York, and knocked them down. It’s a big deal. A lot of people died, Ellen.”

“On purpose?”

“Yes, on purpose.”

She chewed on it with her brain and then asked, “Did they die, too?”

That took me a second to figure out. She wanted to know if the guys who flew the planes into buildings on purpose had died. I hadn’t really thought of it that way – at least there was that.

“Yes, they died, too.”

Still too young to really get a grasp on death, it troubled her. With no religion to simplify it for her, we’d been forced to be as honest with her about death as I was being about the attacks – we don’t know what happens when you die, that’s all there is to it.

She said, “Why would they do that?”

More people on the television fleeing down the street as another rumbling cloud of debris overtook them, and then the camera itself. Shawn turned it off.

I said, “There are people in the world, Ellen, who are just monsters. I don’t know how else to put it. They were monsters and they did something terrible.”

She had climbed onto my lap as I answered, and now she looked up at me, her eyebrows furrowed in a level of concentration usually reserved for chess players. She said, “You told me there was no such thing as monsters, Daddy.”

That’s exactly what she said.

And I’ll never forget the look Shawn and I exchanged as that little piece of her innocence fell away, the chilling realization that these people, these monsters, these terrorists, whatever you wanted to call them – they’d done exactly what they’d meant to do.

I told her, “I’m sorry, Ellen.” And I was.

Because there wasn’t anything else to say.

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Bullying And The Suicide Fantasy

A sincere word of caution to my fellow parents and to the genuinely well-meaning media:  We need to be very careful how we frame this discussion about bullies.  In particular, one thing about the discussion needs to change immediately, or some teenagers are very likely and literally going to die.

Without going into too much detail, I have some experience on this matter.  I was a pallbearer in the eighth grade for a friend who committed suicide.

Depending on who you talk to, my friend killed himself for a variety of reasons.  If you go by his very lengthy suicide note, he killed himself because of practically everybody around him including me.  Teenage love triangles, social rivalries, underhanded tricks, name-calling – it was all there.

Which piece of it caused him to kill himself?  Was it all of them?  Or none? 

I don’t know – nobody does.  It’s like when a kid would listen to a heavy metal band in his room for three months and then kill himself.  Was it the evil heavy metal music?

Doesn’t seem likely, when millions of others listened to the same heavy metal music and survived.  Similarly, although there is no doubt that bullying is a big issue, it’s well worth keeping right at the front of our minds that when it ends in suicide, there were almost certainly other factors involved.

In my friend’s case, there was definitely a lot of social bullying.  He was getting some of it, and he was dishing some of it out.  I was right there, and all I can tell you is, I caught it a lot worse than he ever did.  You want to know why he snapped and I didn’t, I’ll tell you it was because I was stronger.  That’s it.

Bullying is a fact of life, an extension of the same struggles for dominance that you see everywhere else in nature.  Because we’re rational, we can do something about it.

But it’s not a war on bullies.  There is a bully and a victim in every single kid out there, and just like the old Indian proverb about a good dog and a bad dog fighting in your soul, you know which one wins, don’t you?  It’s the one you feed the most.

It’s not just our responsibility as parents to be aware if our children are being bullied.  It’s our responsibility to be aware if they are the ones who are bullying.   We’ll never rid ourselves of the concept of bullying.  Some of it is ingrained right there in the school experience – Seniors vs. Freshman, girls vs. boys, school vs. school.

I go back to that time and find fresh, aching memories all the time, every time I see a story on the news about a kid who committed suicide.  And it gives me chills because I’ve been sitting around thinking about this for over twenty years, thinking about what goes through a kid’s mind when he gets to that point.

I’ll never know what my friend wanted, what he seemed to think would happen once he printed his note and pulled the trigger.  But I know that getting his note out to the rest of the kids – to the rest of the world – was his primary goal.  He did it, too.  He hid backup copies for his friends to find after the cops and psychiatrists had gone.  They didn’t want the note out, and he knew they wouldn’t want it out, so he was able to make sure that it got out – a smart kid.

A real waste.

All I can tell you is what I believe he wanted, and that was to be on the news, and to be famous.  He thought everyone would see what he had done, and then they’d punish all the people he told them to.  That the whole world would join hands and say, “Look what they did to this boy, these horrible, horrible people.”

And there would be nothing we could say.   

It seems like a common fantasy, doesn’t it?  I’ll show them, I’ll make them all sorry.  They’ll wish they never messed with me.

And I’m very, very afraid that we are playing into it.  That we are flirting with the glorification of suicide.  That thousands of lonely kids who are already thinking about it are watching right now, watching another kid who did it, seeing her picture on the news.  Watching her receive the sympathetic attention of the entire world, and coming down hard on the kids who were picking on her.

In no way am I suggesting that the conversation about bullying should end – I think it’s essential.  But we have to be careful before saying that the bullies are causing the suicides, because if we aren’t, a lot of kids who are right on the edge are going to think that being bullied justifies the barrel of a gun.  It does not.

What to do about bullying isn’t really my point.  My point is a very specific one – there has to be a way to create a meaningful and constructive dialogue about bullying without turning a handful of kids who made horrible, deadly choices into martyrs for the victims of bullies to look up to.  It seems statistically quite obvious that some of them are going to follow suit.

Just a sincere observation from a guy who remembers how an eighth grader’s casket handle feels against the palm of his hand.  This topic could not possibly get any more serious. 

.

Earlier:  Night Side
.
And later: Constructive Bullying Strategies

 
8 Comments

Posted by on October 16, 2010 in Serious Emotional Beatdowns

 

Tags: , , , , , , ,

I Was Lying About Monsters

The sound of an airplane overhead drew me outside – there were no airplanes in the sky over America that afternoon, not anywhere in the country. You could go out in your yard and hear the silence, a sound unto itself, like when an air conditioner kicks off in the middle of the night.

So I was standing there in the driveway watching the sky, hearing its hidden vacuum cleaner sounds, looking for vapor trails.

It was Air Force One, I found out when I went inside. The President of the United States, escorted by a squad of fighters, on his way to do whatever it was he needed to do that day.

No one knew if this was the beginning of the attacks or the end. It seemed like mushroom clouds could bloom on the horizon any second, and I found myself thinking about military targets in central Ohio – what was here that might be attacked?

DCSC, I thought – a defense contractor or military base or something, I didn’t know exactly what it was. But it was right there on the east side of Columbus, and we had a Federal Building downtown. And an international airport, too.

Ellen was three and a half years old. I picked her up at preschool and found a sign on the wall which asked us not to discuss the attacks with our children, since they’d only spend the next few days freaking each other out.

I remember not liking it, not liking the idea that anyone might instruct me on how to talk to my daughter about this – or how not to talk to her. And anyway, it wasn’t an option for me. Ellen is a little Deanna Troi from Star Trek, an empath, and she always has been. She can’t quite read your mind, but she can feel your emotions about as clearly as you can.

Try lying to her about being terrified – go ahead. You might as well try and convince her it’s winter on the Fourth of July.

Big Uncle Shawn had come over. His mother was in Cincinnati with her husband, and he was as convinced she was safe as one could be, and so he came to our house. If society collapsed and we had to make a break for western Canada, well let’s just say that was something we were prepared to do.

We had only recently brought a television back into the house – we hadn’t had one for years – and we moved it downstairs into the den so we could watch the news without filling the whole house with it. Ellen didn’t care if we wanted her to see it or not; she already knew something was horribly wrong, and a round of Polly Pockets was pretty much off the table.

She crept in quietly while we watched the cavalcade of non-Hollywood explosions, filthy and gray and quick, devouring New Yorkers like a freakish sandstorm. Human beings were jumping out of windows a half a mile in the sky, to escape the heat.

Ellen was simply standing there all of the sudden, next to us. She said, “Why are they jumping, Daddy?”

Shawn was accustomed to Ellen’s little girl ways, but by no means was he prepared to answer that one. I shrugged and told her the truth. “Some people crashed some airplanes into these really tall buildings in New York, and knocked them down. It’s a big deal. A lot of people died, Ellen.”

“On purpose?”

“Yes, on purpose.”

She chewed on it with her brain and then asked, “Did they die, too?”

That took me a second to figure out. She wanted to know if the guys who flew the planes into buildings on purpose had died. I hadn’t really thought of it that way – at least there was that.

“Yes, they died, too.”

Still too young to really get a grasp on death, it troubled her. With no religion to simplify it for her, we’d been forced to be as honest with her about death as I was being about the attacks – we don’t know what happens when you die, that’s all there is to it.

She said, “Why would they do that?”

More people on the television fleeing down the street as another rumbling cloud of debris overtook them, and then the camera itself. Shawn turned it off.

I said, “There are people in the world, Ellen, who are just monsters. I don’t know how else to put it. They were monsters and they did something terrible.”

She had climbed onto my lap as I answered, and now she looked up at me, her eyebrows furrowed in a level of concentration usually reserved for chess players. She said, “You told me there was no such thing as monsters, Daddy.”

That’s exactly what she said.

And I’ll never forget the look Shawn and I exchanged as that little piece of her innocence fell away, the chilling realization that these people, these monsters, these terrorists, whatever you wanted to call them – they’d done exactly what they’d meant to do.

I told her, “I’m sorry, Ellen.” And I was.

Because there wasn’t anything else to say.

 
7 Comments

Posted by on September 11, 2010 in Serious Emotional Beatdowns

 

Not A Very Good Deal, Corporate Overlords

Let me just see if I’ve got this right, Corporate Overlords.

What we’re supposed to do, first off, is we’re supposed to sell most of our waking hours to you. We’re supposed to get up at dawn, and we’re supposed to get ready to come into any of your various hives.

We’re supposed to shave the hair off of certain parts of ourselves, or possibly trim it like landscaping, depending on gender. Make sure we’re clean and combed. Get some fresh, non-threatening clothing on, and our smiles.

Sure, that takes an hour or so, altering our natural appearances to your preferences. That extra hour, that’s on us – you’re welcome. Don’t even worry about it.

Similarly, we get into our cars, which we bought from Corporate Overlords with loans from Corporate Overlords, and that time we spend in the cars, driving in a massive, undulating lemming stampede across the morning – that’s on us, too.

I mean, anyone who’s got a job is lucky to have it, right?

The jobs that are so precious involve facilitating sales people as they shovel money and food into your gargantuan corporate maw. Sometimes they need a different kind of shovel, sometimes they need a drink, sometimes they just need someone to yell at, remind themselves of their superiority – that’s where we come in.

Other jobs involve helping computer systems exchange information – a process to be accomplished through integrated networks in the near future, but not yet. Not all of them. Some of them require us to gather information from telephones and monitors and print-outs. Enter it in there manually.

Data entry is good for the soul, yes?

Nothing to do with us, our roles in your behemoth operation. Like Cool Hand Luke, just dig the hole, and then turn around and shovel the dirt back into it. What do we care? It’s a paycheck, right? We’re lucky we’re getting one.

Damn it, Luke, what’s all this dirt doing in my hole? Better get it out of there.

What happens if our company does great, turns a huge profit this quarter? Nothing – we get paid the same.

What happens if things are crappy, and profits take a dive? Tough break – some of us get laid off.

And that’s supposed to be fine with us, sell our lives to you for a dwindling return. You slide little blocks of the price tag right out from under us – health care, retirement, 401k, dental plans. Like a psychopathic game of Jenga, you must be wondering, how long will this teetering structure stand?

Doesn’t matter to you, though. You’ve shipped so many jobs out of the country, leaving so many desperate people living out the Grapes of Wrath with Happy Meals and iPods instead of wagons and fried dough.

Any time one of us crumbles, any time a Jenga tower topples over, you can just slap your Corporate Overlord forehead and say, “Oh, man!”

Then move on to the next structure. Start sliding the pieces out – it’s great fun, isn’t it?

We’d better follow the rules, too. Put the wrong message up on our Facebook pages, slap the wrong bumper sticker on our cars, fail to kiss the right ass with enough sincerity and dedication, and you don’t even wait to slide the Jenga pieces out.

No, your minions have the power to simply push the whole thing over and stand over our smoking ruins, their blazers and ties and sculpted eyebrows furrowed in power-mad avarice, like Gollum with cool, five-word titles. Senior Vice President of Inside Marketing. Director of Human Resources and Jenga Management. Dark Lord of The One Ring.

Yes, and it’s not just the rules of the hives where we work, it’s all the rules, of all your Corporate Pals. Even the crazy ones, like the one where I put money in my bank account, and write a check to Charlie for twenty bucks. But if Charlie goes to the bank to get it, you charge him five of the twenty dollars.

My money. My check. You get to keep five bucks – what are we supposed to do about it, sue you?

You make the rules, and for some reason we let you, even though there are more of us than there are of you. Even though you need us to survive. Because we’re weak, short-sighted cowards. Because we’ve forgotten how to live, and how to fight.

We stop by the gas station on the way home from the hive, after another forty minutes of free drive time, and right there it says without irony on the gas pump – REMAIN AT THE PUMP THROUGHOUT THE REFUELING! YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY SPILLS!

You just turned the Gulf of Mexico into your own personal toilet, and suddenly you can’t see your own five million signs.

You sunk a well so deep in the ocean you have no idea how to repair it – like a sea monster movie waiting to happen. Does a bad idea really have to have a sign on it? Or did you really and sincerely not care?

Your spokesperson – what is he called, your familiar? Like a warlock’s apprentice, can this guy shapeshift into a cat?

Because after he said, “You know, I’m pretty sure there are shrimp in other places in the world.”

Well, that’s what we expected him to do, shapeshift into a cat.

You probably think that the coming hurricane season is just nature’s way of flushing the toilet for you, just one of those auto-flushers, so you don’t have to touch the handle.

This is disgusting.

You are disgusting.

And so are we, for letting you grow into such vast and soulless abominations. We’re disgusting for showing up, every day, to clip your toenails. For giving you and your winged monkey salesmen a bunch of sponge baths and enemas. For aspiring to be like them, for worshipping the commercialized, consumer crap that you hypnotize us into believing we need.

When I look at the world, and what you’ve done to it, that’s all I keep coming back to – that we let you do it. That we watched television while you rented our souls from us. That we hung around holding pool cues like slack-jawed extras from The Accused, watching while you raped our planet on a pinball machine. That we smiled and offered you a refill on your iced tea, while you ate our children’s futures, and crapped them into the ocean.

I truly despise what you are, and what you’ve done, and I wish it was just as simple as you being Darth Vader and us being a bunch of plucky rebels.

But the truth is, I often feel like you are giving us exactly what we deserve, Corporate Overlords.

I really wish with all my heart that I could return the favor.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The Curse of Future Tom

 

Tags: , , , , , ,

Night Side (Part 2 of 2)

 

(Note:  This is the second part of two.  The first half is at this link:

https://futuretom.wordpress.com/2010/05/12/night-side-part-1-of-2/

No, I never got your note, despite your well-laid plans.  I’ve had it summarized to me, in very general terms, but I’ve declined every offer to actually read it, in these twenty-four years.  One thing – about the whole thing – that I could control, so I kept it.

My understanding is, it’s really a series of notes, messages to everyone you knew.  In mine, you told everyone that you’d done it because of me, that it was my fault, and that you’d told me you were going to do it, that I’d ignored you.

To be fair, the word is you said some pretty nasty things about a lot of different people, in that note, but I’m not going to go into it.  It certainly wasn’t all about me.  But I was right there on the top of the stack, wasn’t I?

It’s hard not to be astonished, by the lengths you went to, trying to get us to read that note.  You were smart enough to know that the cops, the paramedics, the counselors – they’d never give it to me, or anyone else, not just because you asked them to.   But you knew they’d look for a note, and so you printed one out and you put it right there, on the desk.

Made a copy of it on a disk, though – a big floppy disk from the eighties, and you went out into the woods behind your house, where we used to fight monsters together, and you hid it under an overhang, in a ravine we used as a cave.  You put it in a bag, and put that bag in another bag, and you closed that up in a small, metal box, and you put it out there, for one of us to find.

I think you might have made another copy – there have been dozens of versions of that story, how your note made it back to the school, but that’s the one I believe.

But the note showed up and everyone got to read what you had to say about them, your final word, everyone but me.

You stayed home from school for a day and a half, working on the note, getting the copy in place, getting the decoy printed out and displayed.  You made the title page a cartoonish joke.  Another friend of yours – a neighbor – found you there, in your chair, the rifle in your lap, your hands clamped to the arms of the chair.  He’s the one who found the note, too, days later.

The counselors arrived, and God bless ‘em, I’m sure they meant well.  I learned what to say pretty quickly, how to run them off.  And that was right about when the mean stepdad started to lay off, and the big kids at the beach, I guess they figured I’d had enough.  A lot of my problems, well – they went away when you did.

You’re kind of mysterious and dark, when your friend dies – I wonder if you knew that?  If you knew you’d be bestowing upon me the very thing we tried to invent about ourselves?  That tragedy was depth, and that depth was the cure for being a dork, that it made you alternative. 

It would be great if it were really all that shallow, if my life just turned rosy once you were gone, and we could all appreciate the irony. 

But there was a lot wrong with me after that, because what I thought was that things were exactly as they appeared, exactly as they felt, exactly as you said in your parting manifesto – that your death really was my fault.  That I really had done something on par with killing you myself.  And that I had gotten away with it, too.

They say that we live on in the memories of those we leave behind, and you certainly lived on in mine.  I dreamed about you for years, dreamed that Hell was real, and that you’d be waiting for me on the day I walked in, your unread note in one hand, your rifle in the other.  You chased me through forests, and down Orange Road in the pitch black night, and through the hallways of our school, in unbelievably slow and lurid detail, through so many nightmares I grew to abhor sleep itself.

Other dreams you’d just show up, sometimes the same plump-faced fifth grader I met long ago, sometimes the haunted preteen, his face slick with blood, and you’d simply ruin a perfectly good dream, lurking in the background, watching me.  Sitting suddenly at the end of the table.  Snatching aside a curtain, in a dream about a castle or a mansion or an elaborate play.

Sometimes you’d tell me earnestly, there’s been an incredible mistake – you had to fake your own death because you work for the government, and the dream will seem so achingly real for so long.  In the dream, the neutron star of guilt is lifted with absolute clarity.  It’s a real memory, I think, of a time when your death wasn’t the dense alien metal that my skull is made of now.

Late night television and frozen pizzas, then south campus bars and pouring shots in restaurants, I stayed on the Night Side where you left me, my friend.  I skulked around campus wrapped in hair and trenchcoats and outlandish hats.  Sat on my porch until the sun came up, and only went to my dreams when it was absolutely necessary.

Even now, that’s what I’m doing, my garage door up, leaning back in a chair in the dead of night, this little computer on my lap, even though there’s sleep in my future now, and your visits have grown infrequent, and my feelings toward you have changed.  Still I’m always on this side of things, watching quietly while cities sleep around me.

I used to think if Hell were real, I’d have to face you one day.  In the same way people dream about meeting their grandmas in the House of the Lord, I thought I’d have to deal with you, one way or the other, on the day I walked in there, shovel over my shoulder, guilty as Hell for what I had done to you. 

I didn’t know who would be in charge that day, which of the two of us would deserve to get punished more.  Or if we’d be there together, like old times – getting towed around by bigger kids at the beach, dunked under the water, completely helpless right there in front of each other.  Forced to see it reflected with stark clarity, in each other’s eyes.

These days, I don’t think of Hell as something real I’m likely to walk into, with a shovel.  But if I did, here’s the difference:  I think of kids your age as kids, not pals. 

If I saw you tomorrow and you were looking for a fight, you wouldn’t get one.  You’d get an arm around your shoulder, and an ear to talk into. 

I wish I could have given you that when you needed it, old friend.  I truly do.

 
 

Tags: , ,

Night Side (Part 1 of 2)

You  were a lot like me, except smarter, and more confident.  The confidence was easy to see, easy to explain – your family had a lot of money, and that’s where confidence frequently comes from, for kids.  From never being told, when you desired something, no we can’t afford that.  Other people can have it, but not you. 

No,  for you, it was the other way around.

As for intelligence, just about everyone who knows your story knows that, too.  You were smarter than anyone you knew, basically –  too smart for your own good. 

I met you in the fifth grade.  Some kids I knew dragged me over to you and said, you’ve got to meet this guy, and there you were, your thumbs hooked in the pockets of your weird, designer jeans, wire-rimmed glasses snapped onto your plump and healthy face as if it were designed for them, your brown hair curly and windblown, your stance like a superhero.  Who has summoned me before them today?

We had so much in common, that the boundaries between us were blurred in just a few months.  Puberty was just barely on the way, and for the two of us, it intended to take its time.  For you, it would never finish its job, and for me it would take many, many years. 

The kids around us started popping out of their clothes and speaking with deeper voices, while you and I kept right on running through the woods carrying plastic He-Man swords, fighting hobgoblins and beholders and malevolent, living trees.

We used to say that we lived on the Night Side.  Our marathon games of Dungeons and Dragons, with its crazy-shaped dice and sprawling maps and little pewter statues, would last well into the morning.   

As we got older, we took to slipping out of the house around midnight, while your mom was asleep, wandering the dark country roads for hours, prowling, laughing, dodging headlight as they came into view.  We saw a shooting star one night, about four am, as we walked down the middle of Orange Road, miles from your house, and we made a wish on it.

I don’t remember my wish, and neither, I’ll bet, do you.

The Night Side was for us, we said, because we were dark and magical.  Because we were true creatures of the night, like cats or Batman.  We abhorred the world of normality because we held ourselves above it, because it was in our freakish nature, we said, but it wasn’t true.

No, we lived our lives in the darkness because we were perversely afraid of the light.  Because when we tried to do what normal kids did – sports, Frisbee, parties at Wyandott Lake – everything weird about us was starkly visible, to everyone else.  We couldn’t make our mouths shut up about the dorktacular thoughts in our brains, about the dragons and the invisible laser beams, about the many-sided dice.

It’s funny to watch Napoleon Dynamite, remember parts of ourselves in characters like that, but it wasn’t funny to live through.  Out in the light, we could see exactly what everyone else could see, that nothing about us fit in to the world everyone else was celebrating. 

At the beach once, we ran afoul of a bunch of bigger kids, and they dragged our rafts out to the pylons, and we couldn’t get away.  They’d dunk us under the water so that we thought we were drowning, and all we could do was cling to the inflatable raft, when they brought us back up. 

I remember your eyes, locking grimly onto mine, as they towed us further out, and we weren’t slaying dragons then, were we my friend?  We didn’t unsheath our swords and vanquish any evil, because we weren’t really heroes, and we couldn’t really fight, not if our lives depended on it. 

Out there in the sunlight, we were a couple of scrawny little sissy kids, and there was no hiding it, no weeds to duck into as the normal folks drove by in cars.  And you can’t see shooting stars, when they happen at noon.

The lifeguard blew his whistle that day, and that’s all that saved us.  The bigger kids had to stop, let us get to shore, and they laughed at us like a bunch of screeching howler monkeys, treading water, pointing, like we were the creatures in the clan with the wrong color spots, creatures who were different, creatures who had to go.

We lived on the Night Side because no one could find us there, and because wrapped in the darkness, we could be whoever we wanted to be, and we used our holographic imaginations to create vibrant worlds where we were strong and brave and godlike.   And we tried our damnedest to never leave.

The months and years dragged by like massive ships passing beneath a bridge, ponderously slow, and the changes that took place were easy to map.  Both of us were clever, and we learned to crack people up, to get them making their howler monkey sounds with us, instead of at us.  To distract them with patterns of words and funny faces, so that they wouldn’t notice our pale skin and shallow chests, our wrongness.  Our spots.

And the school wasn’t very big.  It seems now, maybe there wasn’t room for two jesters in that particular courtyard.  That competition between us was inevitable, especially when it came to girls, because not a lot of them were into us, were they?  If we came across one who found our awkward bodies and clever wit to be something they were drawn to, well then they’d have to pick between us, wouldn’t they?  Who was it going to be?

Never is it that simple, though.  It wasn’t just about girls.  To tell the truth, I can’t remember what shims and wedges were getting pounded between us, when the teen years approached.  Suddenly we were sitting around creating elaborate worlds without swords or dragons, just worlds where the girls that we liked somehow landed beside us, became girlfriends.  We could crack them up, sure, but that’s a long way from Hey, let’s go to the spring dance, baby.

And slowly we made our inroads into social circles above us, slowly we’d gain an ally here and there, popular kids who could afford to give us a second look, talk to us during study hall, and then announce with confidence and authority, this guy’s all right.  He’s funny and he’s smart.

You were a writer, too – light years ahead of me or anyone I knew.  Your stories were intricately plotted, unbelievably well paced.  The rest of us would basically take a Saturday morning cartoon or a Star Wars subplot, and we’d change the names, call it Gongwar The Conqueror.  You were writing about telepathic detectives on board the Titanic.

Our competitiveness was all the more sad, in retrospect, because I doubt anyone else noticed it at all, that we were vying for the position of Head Dork.  The girls we were competing for certainly had no idea.  We’d carry our secret crushes around for months, managing to blurt out a few words here and there at lunch, and then secretly, constantly imagine ourselves running into them later, at the mall, and suddenly having the suave social skills of James Bond.

It’s funny what I don’t remember.  I don’t remember what set you off, for instance, not with any clarity, and what I do remember, I’ll keep to myself, out of respect for those you left behind. 

But I can tell you this, old buddy, I’ve got two daughters the same age you were, when you ate the barrel of a rifle, and they’ve been through a hell of a lot worse.

They’re tougher than you, is my first instinct.  They can take it, and you couldn’t.  Does that mean I won?  Because it doesn’t feel like it.

Nothing’s that simple, is it? 

What I remember is my friend Kelly, knocking on my door, her mom still out there in the car, idling in the driveway, and she was crying as she told me what you had done.    And my stepdad awkwardly walked up on us, and I told him, too, in the bluntest of terms – my best friend just blew his head off, right there in his bedroom.   He didn’t know what to say.

So Kelly and her mom drove away, and I wandered up to my room, dazed, and I picked up the telephone and did what dozens of kids did that day, out of sheer denial.  I called your telephone number, and the person who answered told me, no, you weren’t there.  And his tone confirmed what Kelly had said – you wouldn’t be back, either.

But the competition wasn’t over yet, because you’d made elaborate plans.  You outsmarted the cops and the counsellors from beyond the grave, and you made sure I’d carry that bullet wound around with me, that I’d bring it to you one day, when it comes time to settle up.

(Note:  The second half of this was published the next day, here:

https://futuretom.wordpress.com/2010/05/13/night-side-part-2-of-2/

 
4 Comments

Posted by on May 12, 2010 in Serious Emotional Beatdowns

 

Tags: , ,