Many Things Are Affecting Me

Perhaps it is because my apartment is so cold right now, or rather that the seasons are changing. It might be because my sinuses constantly throb with a slight ache this time of year. Maybe it is the encroaching holiday season of dread. But many things are affecting me.

Last night I went to see a sneak preview of the movie “Shopgirl” based on the Steve Martin novella of the same name. One of my favorites. For those who haven’t read, it’s a kind of modern-day cynical fairy tale, complete with messy ending. The movie was more than faithful in its adaptation. And, for me at least, it was profound. Never one to fall for sentiment and romance, this was my kind of love story.

I thought about it long into the night and it is still weighing on me. Although, admittedly, I have a more than morbid fascination with Claire Danes, I truly feel she was amazing in “Shopgirl” and the film itself was quite beautiful.

This would be easy to let go if it weren’t for the fact that everything seems to be setting me off into great contemplation and states of ambiguous empathy.

All of the music I am listening to currently (on the train, at work, walking down the street) is only amplifying this ache and swell inside. I find myself tearing up to emotional songs and clenching my fists to the angry songs (more so than usual).

I inject meaning into stranger’s conversations that I overhear on the bus or waiting in line at Subway.

This is not to say that I am morose or depressed.

How to articulate???

I think…

Every now and then people have to turn themselves completely inside out, shake out their hides and fluff their pillows. Fold, readjust and get comfortable. Look inward and outward at the same time, until finally we are back where we started but with fresh looks and rested eyes.

I think I failed to articulate.

The summation being, if when talking to me recently I have seemed “down” or “sad” or “strange”, or to those who have not heard from me: “distant”, do not be alarmed. I am merely resituating. Adapting, as it were, to the many things that are affecting me.

An excerpt from something, I don't know what yet...

Marty always lived the life I wanted and the life the put things into perspective for me. Twelve years my senior and full of sageness. Sage-osity? Sage-itude? He never called me young and he never underestimated me. Qualities that in other friends were sorely lacking. And he was the king of the quotes. Marty could say those things that stuck with me no matter what. Things like, “Of course he could break your heart, but would you really want to be with someone who didn’t have the potential to break your heart?” Or, “It isn’t enough to work anymore; too many people’s hearts are in the right place. At times you need luck. Other times you have to bite, kick, and scream.”
He had money for sure, but it had come at price. The loss of his father; one of the few things we shared in common.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he had told me, “I was born into money. I had a trust fund comfortably maturing by the time I was four. Even if I failed out of high school and turned to heroin, I would always have a place to live. But even the haves can find a way to be a have-not.

“After my dad died, my mother having passed years before that, my siblings and I were in a fit of panic as to what to do with his estate. Yet, my father, always the jokester, had something up his sleeve; even after death. We met with his executor a week after he had died to discuss his will and Lee, Beth and I were presented with probably the biggest choice we would ever have to make in our life.”
I stared at him like a toddler at story time. I could only imagine that this story, like all of his stories, would end in something wondrous.
“Before us lay three envelopes. They were unmarked and fairly nondescript. But we could feel them pulsing with possibility. The executor said to us, ‘Each of you gets one of these envelopes. I can tell you what is inside each of them, but I cannot tell which one you are choosing.’ We all sputtered and stared with wide-eyed disbelief. We had assumed that my father’s assets and his equity would be split in three equal chunks for us. But that would be too easy Martin Sr.

“The executor said, ‘In one of these envelopes lies the rights and ownership to you father’s company. All of the assets it has thus far accrued are yours. The building is yours. By opening that envelope you will become the President and CEO of Martindale Incorporated. Martin Charles Martindale has stated implicitly that, ‘The owner of my company my take the firm in any direction he or she chooses, but may only sell the company after tens years of ownership and management. No mergers may be made in this ten year stretch. If after ten years the owner still wishes not to be a part of the company they may do with it as they please.’ He continued without taking a breath.
“At this point our jaws were scraping the floor. ‘The second envelope contains the deeds to all of Mr. Martindale’s properties. Including all houses, vehicles, subsidiary properties, undeveloped properties, and any of the tangible items associated with them. Along with all of the property, the opener of this envelope will be willed all equity available in any of Mr. Martindale’s savings accounts, checking accounts, stocks, bonds, CDs, the remaining amount in his 401k and any remaining equity in the late Mrs. Martindale’s accounts. The owner of said equity may choose to spend this equity in any way he or she sees fit after and only after every remaining member of the Martindale immediate family is given one gift valuing no less than one million dollars and no more that five million. The remaining equity belongs to the opener of said envelope.

“Now my father’s company was a huge company worth way over fifty million dollars. My father’s residual money, which had recently tripled after his two major subsidiary companies were bought out, ranged in the area of forty million to eighty million dollars.”

“Jesus-fucking-Christ,” I said, “I can’t even imagine what was in the third envelope.”

“Ah…that was the kicker. The executor continued, ‘In the third envelop lies two items. The first item is Mr. Martindale’s most recent personal journal. The second item are two keys. One key goes to a safe deposit vault at the first national bank. The second key opens one of the items inside the deposit vault. The opener of the third envelope is entitled to anything in the vault, without stipulation, and may keep and or sell any of those items as they see fit. The only stipulation attached to this envelope is that the owner of the aforementioned journal may not allow anyone else to read it or share any of the information that the journal contains. Mr. Martindale left a person note with this saying, ‘As there is no way to ensure that these rules must be kept, I can only ask that my children respect this request as my final death wish.’ Now, it is also stated that you shall not choose an envelope today. You are given one week from now before the choosing will take place. We all left his office, stone-faced and silent. We went to dinner together, which ended in Beth and I getting into a screaming match with Lee, who felt that this was ridiculous and we could contest it, if we want. We weren’t angry with our youngest sibling. We had pity more than anything. Lee, who always had bouts of bad luck was sure that he was going to get ‘shafted’ as he called it. He didn’t see the third envelope as any great prize. But, to my thinking, it was the only envelope Beth and I wanted. Both of our trusts had kicked in long ago and both of us were running successful businesses of our own. Beth was married with one child and two dogs, I had Roger and one dog, but Lee, poor Lee’s trust hadn’t kicked in yet (Because you see, my father delayed his from opening because he felt Lee wouldn’t be ready for it like Beth and I were when we turned 24. Lee had to wait until he was twenty-eight; just two years shy.), he had failed out of college, his long-time girlfriend dumped after finding him in bed with a young man named Louis, and he no longer had a job. In truth, we wanted dad’s money to go to Louis. But neither Beth or I wanted the business. That was daddy’s game. And he got us. That night passed like no other I have ever lived in my life. My dreams full to the brim with pulsating envelopes and keys fitting into locks that wouldn’t open.”
Marty took a long pause as if he was at a loss for words. But I knew that was not the case. It was never the case. He was a masterful story teller and he wanted his final image to linger just a second longer before he continued. I remained silent.
“You are probably wondering why Beth and I wanted the third envelope most of all, aren’t you?”

I could only nod.

“You see, our father was someone who we knew by name and by what jacket he was wearing on any given day. You seem confused, yes? You see if he left the house wearing a dark suit jacket then it was time for him to go off to Martindale Incorporated. If he was a light suit jacket it was time for him to rub elbows at some restaurant and make more contacts. If he wore something with a zipper, it was casual time; a boat trip, golfing, or a rock concert. Other than that we knew our Dad’s sense of humor. We knew he loved us, we knew he could be angry and we knew he had food allergies. That was all. Our mother, who slowly went crazy over the years (another thing you and I have in common), never let on that she knew anymore either. Yet she never seemed fazed by that fact. In some way, by being the owner to that key Beth and I felt that maybe just maybe we could finally know our father.”

“So what happened?” I asked.

“Well, a week passed and we opened our envelopes in front of the executor. Beth got the business, Lee got the money and property, and I got the key. Beth did well with the business and she ended up very happy. Twelve years have passed since then and she is still in charge. Lee finally got back up on his feet. Finished college, bought everyone a new car and house, and is now living happily with boyfriend Allen and girlfriend Telly (no dogs). And as for me…I can finally say I love my father.”

I wanted to ask him what was in the vault, because truly, it was the most exciting prospect.

“I can tell you this,” he said without waiting for me to ask, “Inside the vault there were about ten shelves all fully of spiral bound notebooks and journals. Painting my father had done himself and half-ass attempts at sculptures. There were old trophies he had won as a child and photo-albums starting from when he was a baby until a week before he died. There was some jewelry, which I had no use for, and got me a pretty penny at that. There were videos of us in school plays and of him on vacation. And there was a small vault-safe tucked away into the corner.”

“The other key!” I blurted out impatiently.

“Yes, the other key. Inside that vault was a fairly small box with a simple latch keeping it closed. On top of the box was a note, ‘Martin, keep these safe’ it said.”

“But…” I interjected.

“Inside the box,” Marty’s voice rose above mine, “were several teeth, a swirling of ashes, a small lock of hair and what looked to be a piece of human heart, dried and petrified and preserved. Etched inside the lid of the keepsake box were the words: My heart and Soul.”
There was a long pause and Marty wiped a single tear from off of his cheek. We sat in silence for what seemed like hours. I shook slightly, half in awe and half in disgust.

“When we were in that executor’s office,” Marty finally broke the silence, “We had to choose which envelope we wanted, sign a release form, and then the executor would open it. Pulling out the contents, notarizing them and copying them for file purposes. Then he would hand them to us. All part of my father’s plan. Or so his final journal told me. I was always to get the vault and Beth the business and Lee the money. It was the only way, to my father’s thinking, that we could all really find out who he was. Lee had to learn to finally take care of himself and others. After blowing a large portion of the money he was given he became bored. Went back to school, started a business, on a loan at that, and worked every day. He learned where my father got his determination and how he had gotten to be where he was before he died. Beth, by running the business, finally learned how my father could be so stern and coldhearted and times and so lenient and forgiving at others. She learned why mother always stood beside him, as she was now rarely home and leaving much to her husband. She also learned, for the first time, to ask for help and admit that she did not know all of the answers. And me, I got the rest. I got his hopes, his dreams, his vulnerabilities (his journals), and I got the part of my father that he rarely let anyone see- himself. That part he wished he would have shared before. His mistake, the same mistake he had felt I was making. I had spent a large portion of my life feeling like he was an android or something inhuman. Now I knew. And I loved him. After the first time I visited the vault, of which there were several trips and still many to go, that night I went home and crawled into bed with Roger and asked him simply, ‘Will you let me be weak, just for tonight?’”

I felt two tears falling down my cheek but made no attempt to stop them. “But…but I thought you weren’t supposed to tell anyone what was in the journal. I thought it was his wish?”

“I’m not,” he responded.

“So why are you telling me?”

“Don’t you see, my father was completely himself, even till death. Never sharing anything about himself that would make people see him as vulnerable. In truth he dared me not to tell anyone, because he knew I would. Beth and Lee don’t need to know, they have made their peace. And now I have made mine.”

Vocal Fry

She hibernates, stuck in a crawl, storing fat and meat.
When I balk at differences, creative and gender-like,
shepokes a finger into my rib.

It is my voice. And it wants its center-pull.I
glide on by and own an innate fascination with looking
pained and reticent.

Always hoping, I guess, that people will identify my
dangling participles as inner fortitude. Something worth
digging for.

For someone, already tuning to her,to call out and
name me "The Best Contradiction this side of the lake!"
'Cuz I'll stand by my bid to make complexity cool.

And isn't, I realize, what I'm feigning anymore that counts.
It is the formica underneath my lamination that makes
the woodwork bend and break and maggots find me.

But for moons and moons now I've been building and this
house is starting to look a lot like that brown-haired boy
who bites his nails. A lot like exactly.

And that's where she lives. Nailing windows shut and tossing
afghans on her feet. Cuddling up to the backs of my eyelids
and swaying with my acid reflux.

Every so often she gets a yen to pound some walls but only
half-asses a toss of her tangling hair. Content to hole up
with half-formed nuggets of news.

So I can't really call her my voice anymore.
She's my victim, decaying to get out.

Marjorie Stretched to Her Limits

When Marjorie woke, on her own accord, she vaguely remembered dreaming about rubber bands.
No, she thought in a hazy state of lumbering, not about rubber bands. I was a rubber band. I was rubber. I was stretched around my house. Trying to…trying to what?
“Mom!!! Get your ass out of bed! You’ll be late for work and more importantly, I’ll have to take the bus. Which we’ve discussed, is detrimental to out mother-daughter relationship.”
Trying to keep my house together.
Emily continued, “Gus hasn’t been fed today and the hinge popped off the kitchen cabinet again this morning while I was getting some pop-tarts…and nooooooooooooooooo I wasn’t hanging off the door either.”
Emily had this habit, when scouring the kitchen for snacks and dinner spoilers, of hoisting herself up onto the countertops, opening the cabinet doors and letting half of her body suspend over the kitchen linoleum. All of her weight would rest upon a single top-hinge.
Marjorie was fixing a lame version of three-cheese lasagna the first time Emily broke the cabinet. (Before David up and died.) They rushed to the hospital and dinner was ruined. By the time they had returned from the emergency room the lasagna, having been left out, was cold, half-cooked, and half eaten by Gus, their mongrel cat. Marjorie made turkey breast sandwiches instead. Emily stared at her sandwich, with mayo, like it was unexplored territory. They sat in silence for at least ten minutes, Marjorie with her head bowed and Emily looking at her bread.
“It’s a sandwich Emmy.”
“I know that moth-er,” she scoffed, “Cut me some slack. I’m on drugs.”
“Can you wear hats at school?”
“What do you think?”
“Just don’t lie and tell everyone you got those stitches from a barfight.”
“I think they look cool.” Emily began tearing the crusts off of her sandwich and throwing them on the floor.
“You would. Since when do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Not eat your crusts.”
“Since I split my head open on the floor.”
Marjorie finally looked up at Emily, smiling. “You are so willful sometimes.”
“Mom,” Emily brought her legs up to her chair and her elbows up to the table, “Since my head is half-shaved now anyway, can I just buzz it all off?” In truth only a quarter of her hair had been shaved. A small patch above her left temple had been sheared for the stitches.
“Elbows off, and no. What would your father think?”
“He’s never here.” Emily rolled her sandwich up into a ball and tried to bounce it off of her plate. “I don’t think he would care anyway.” The bread ball thudded against her plate and lobbed itself to the yellow and green “spring sale” linoleum covering the kitchen floor.
“Well, I don’t know about that. Besides, this half-shaved look suits you.”
“But I want to be bald.”
“Wait till your father gets home and then ask him.”
“He wouldn’t notice if I did it anyway.”
Marjorie supposed that things weren’t much different now that David was gone than they were before. She still slept on the left side of her bed and the right side was still empty. She signed every slip of paper allowing Emily to do anything related with school. She was constantly waiting. Before (Before what?) Marjorie was waiting for the front door to open, or the garage door to close, locks turning- any sign of Dave returning home. Now she was waiting for a ghost. Something to make those noises again. David was slipping from her memory so much, that she couldn’t remember if it was his presence that comforted her or just the noise of his return.
No DAMMIT! He was comforting. He was a good husband. He slacked. We all do he-
“-okay Mom? Mom? Moth-er, did you hear me?”
Marjorie stared at the crack in her ceiling. She didn’t want to leave the comfort of her bed. Glancing over at her clock she noticed the time: 6:28. In two minutes her alarm would sound on its own. But Marjorie needed these two minutes. They were necessary.
Is it just my imagination or is the crack bigger this morning? Longer? I’m crazy?
Marjorie’s door swung open and Emily bounded in. She was wearing a long pair of boy’s shorts. “Skater” shorts, Emily had called them and then explained the intricate difference between board shorts, skater shorts, and surfing shorts.
“Why must my daughter look like a boy?”
Emily snorted. “Why would you say things like that to me? Wake up?” Emily was up on the bed straddling her mother.
“I didn’t say that to you. I thought it.”
“No, you totally said it to me. You’re so rude.”
“Did I?” Keep it together Marjorie. Keep it together.
“Anyway,” Emily steamrolled, “Get up! Get up! Get up! Drive me to school.” Emily rolled off of her mother to the other side of the bed.
The right side. David’s side. The empty side.
“Emily, look at the ceiling.”
“Why?”
“Just look at it,” Marjorie hissed. “Does that crack look longer to you. Bigger. Does it look dangerous?”
“What crack?” Emily’s head rested on Marjorie’s shoulder.
“That crack, Emmy, right there. Starting in the corner.” Marjorie pointed and made an invisible line with her finger.
“Mom,” Emily was snapping her wrist with her own rubber bands, which Emily had for her own reasons. “I don’t see a crack. There is no crack.”
“There isn’t?”
“No,” Emily kissed the side of her mother’s head. “Now come on, school now, crazy later.”
***
It was a precarious situation, certainly. But Marjorie couldn’t find David’s ladder. Or the step ladder for the kitchen. All in all, the structure seemed solid, stable. She started with the ottoman from the downstairs living room. On top of the ottoman she had placed a large piece of particle board from Emily’s room. Something Emily would eventually turn into “art” or a skate ramp. Or maybe both. On top of the particle board she put a chair from the hallway. It was an old plastic-deco piece that David had loved and Marjorie thought to be useless. I guess it has some use now. It was the first time that Marjorie had ever used the blue and white plastic retro chair. If she had had her choice she would have used one of the leather chairs from downstairs, but they were too heavy to carry and the cushions, she thought, would not provide proper balance. At the top of this precipice, was a bathroom trash can. Little, pale yellow, and turned upside down. The base of the waste can was just wide enough for Marjorie to plant both of her size six feet.
On her tiptoes, Marjorie could stretch her five foot nine frame just high enough to touch her bedroom ceiling.
If I can feel the crack. If I can notice a difference in texture. Then it is real.
She traced her finger along the stucco. Starting in the corner, where she felt the crack had started, she drove her fingers along the US country highway that had formed above her. Marjorie could feel the powdery plaster flaking off from inside the crack and watched it coat her hand lightly. From her current position, her hand would only stretch so far. The crack continued veining outward, beyond her grasp.
I can feel it! Goddammit, I can feel it. It is real and I am together.
Marjorie wanted to spit at the crack, to defile it. She wanted to cause her ceiling pain. A little fleck of stucco and paint floated off the ravine above and slowly blended in with the atmosphere. Through the crack she could see the attic’s baseboards. She stuck her index finger inside the wound and slowly dragged it across as if opening an envelope.
The crack widened, more plaster and debris fell and Marjorie wondered if this was how god created canyons.
Two fingers.
Three fingers.
Her entire hand slipped up inside the space between the decaying ceiling and the wooden attic floor. The plaster felt cool on her palm and the wood itchy on her knuckles. She pushed a little farther and little veins began feathering out like little creeks.
I am not crazy. My daughter is crazy. Or fucking with me. I swear to god if she is fucking with me, I will kill her. Goddammit David. I told you, all of that rain would damage this ceiling. The entire time we lived here we didn’t reshingle once. You never fixed the house. You never fixed the car. You never fixed Emily. You never-
“Uh!” With a grunt and a quick jerk of her hand a rather large chunk of her ceiling came crashing down to the floor.
“There!” Marjorie screamed. “There! There is the crack!” Furiously, she began tearing at the plaster. Chipping fingernails along the way. Sweat beaded and she stretched to her tiptoes to slash at more ceiling, throwing the center of herself, her scaling contraption and her entire house off-kilter. With a final indignant swipe, Marjorie toppled.

On the Line/Off the Wall

Today I will do it. I will face the impending whatever.

I will call my mother and have an actual conversation. My full attention will be given to her. And I will not zone out. No “uh-huhs” or “yeahs” or “rights”.

First, though, I do believe I need something to drink. Oh-kay. Let’s see. Diet coke, water, diet coke, beer, whiskey or water.

Whiskey AND diet. So smart. Way too smart

“Hello?”
“Mommy. It’s me.”
“Hey, honey.”
“Hey.”
Woo. This is a strong drink. I will have to take this one slow. I’m hungry.
“I’m mad at you.”
“Mad at me? Why?”
“When was the last time you called?”
“I’ve been busy. I have. I know I know I know. Sorry.”
“You little shit.”
“So…how have you been?”
Maybe I could make some tater tots. With mayonnaise-
“Oh…you know. I’ve been…”
-I wonder what my cholesterol is?
“Workin’. Mostly. Granny is drivin’ me up the wall.”
“Uh-huh.”
Oooh…Cold Mountain comes on at nine tonight. Set a reminder. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude.
“I told you about your uncle didn’t I?”
Jude Law. You ain’t never gonna take cold mountain!!!
“No…what about him?”
Yes. He did cheat on his fiancé with his nanny, but I could set him straight. Heh heh.
“Well he’s going back to prison.”
Heh heh…I said straight. Er-whu?
“Back to prison?”
“Yeah. The house he was staying at got raided and they found the lab.”
“Back to prison?”
“Yeah.”
“Wait…what lab.”
“The meth lab.”
“Oh.”
“So he probably won’t be out in time for Christmas and Granny is just up the wall.”
“Right-”

Spread tots in a thin layer over baking sheet. Check. Preheat oven. Place tray-
“Wait…METH LAB?”
“Yeah. I told you that. Didn’t I?”
“Nooooooooooooooooo…you did not tell me anything about a meth lab. A meth lab? As in methamphetamines? How could you think- Wait a second…back up two clicks. Tck. Tck. Back to prison?”
“Yes honey. He’s going back.”
“WHEN WAS HE THERE THE FIRST TIME?”
Ow…shit…that oven is hot. Goddamn tater tots. Goddamn meth labs.
“You remember, I told you, that drunken disorderly charge. When he hit that minor.”
“…”
“You remember.”
“…”
“I told you.”
“…”
“I did.”
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…
“Nooooooo. You didn’t!”
“I didn’t?”
Nine, ten, eleven….twelve…it’s not working…thirteen.
“No. You didn’t.”
“Huh. Well. I thought I did. I must have told Ben.”
“This is Ben.”
“I meant Levi. I meant Levi.
“Right, and how is Levi?”
Where the hell did my drink go? Oh my god. Oh my god. I drank the whole thing. This is how the problem starts. I have no choice. I have to make another one.
“Oh you know. He’s Levi. Same as always. I told you about him living in the cow field didn’t I?”
Ooops. A little too much whiskey there. I’ll just add more coke later. Dilute-
“Mother?”
“MM-hmm?”
“A cow field.”
“Yup.”
“Come again.”
“He’s livin’ in a cow field. I don’t know what he’ll do in the winter. Maybe he’ll move into the cabin with Mike and me.”
Damn that is some strong shit.
“Oh right.”
“Yup.”
“Were you going to tell me that you and Mike were living together?”
“Of course.”
“In a cabin?”
“I thought you knew?”

“I just talked to Levi yesterday on his cell phone. How does he keep it charged if he’s living in a cow field?”
“Your brother has his ways.”
“And why is he living in a cow field?”
“He feels that his apartment was too confining.”
“Mother.”
“And he was behind on his rent. But it’s not his fault. He needed all that clay.”
“I don’t even want to know.”
Okay. Inventory. My drink is too strong, tater tots are in the oven, my mother has moved in with Mike, Levi lives in a field, My Uncle is in prison and I am going crazy. I suppose now would be the wrong time to tell my mother I will not be going home for Thanksgiving this year.
“Anyway we should have electricity in the cabin this weekend. Just in time.”
“You don’t have electricity in the cabin?”
“Not yet. We’ll be getting plumbing soon.”
“Mother…what will I do when I come home for Christmas?”
“Well I figure we can use Thanksgiving as a test run.”
Danger. Danger. Danger Fag Robinson.
“Er…um…right. Test run.”
“Unless you want to come home sooner.”
“NO!”
No. No. No. No.
“I mean…no I can’t. Too many things to do.”
“Oh well. Thought I would try. Yup. But the lights will be on in the cabin this weekend. Just in time.”
“Oh god, that’s right. The wedding is this weekend isn’t it?”
“Yup.”
“You ready?”
“We’ll see. We have an extra seat, now that your cousin is back in jail.”
Best to leave this one alone.
“Mom, I’m too busy. I have three shows this weekend. Maybe if you had given me more than a weeks notice.”
“Now or never honey. Now or never.”
Ooh. The tots are done. Where did my drink go? Oh well, I will just make another one.
“Uh-huh.”
Ow. Hot tot. Hot tot. Hot tot. Heh. That rhymed.
“So what’s new with you?”
“Right. Uh-huh.”
Mustard? Ketchup? Mayonnaise!
“Ben, are you listening?”
“Of course not mother. Nothing is new with me. Same as always.”
“Well make something up.”
Something tells me no matter what it is…it won’t even compare. It will never compare.

Run

At times, it seems, you have no choice but to run.

In Gym
When I was younger, and easily embarrassed, I constantly found myself on the losing end of a fifty yard dash. After I would cross the finish line it took every ounce of strength I owned to stay upright. My knees would shake and I was sure I could feel gravity’s hands pushing down on my shoulders. My face – beet red. My glands – full to the brim. My lungs – crying.

At Play

There was a fear with running. An ache. Being slower than most when I was younger, it made it difficult to enjoy games like tag or hide & seek. If making it to base came down to a foot race, I most assuredly would lose. And if I had the misfortune of being “it”, then no one would have to worry. I could never catch them.
A weight would drop in my stomach and I could feel my hunter getting closer. A burning. That moment before something catches you.
At times on the street if I feel people behind me, I begin to shudder.

In Dreams
Many of my nightmares as a child involved me dashing as fast as I could down long corridors. There were no options to turn. Someone was chasing me, the only impetus I ever used to sprint for. As my chest tightened and the corridor walls closed in on me I knew that I was about to be caught.
My feet would pound the pavement harder and harder. My knees aching. The weight around the middle of my gut, quivering. As I couldn’t help but slow down, I would begin to feel fingers nearing my neck. The moment before contact I would wake with a jolt. Sweating with temples throbbing. Blood rushing. Toes tingling.
It would be years before I would discover whose footsteps were pounding behind me.

With Family
I had just turned ten when I ran my first lengthy distance. At a movie my brother, his father, and I were seeing I accomplished the small task of eating an entire one pound bag of skittles by myself. Consumption for me was easy. It was reusing and recycling that proved troublesome.
“Where did it go?” my brother stared with wild-eyed awe.
“I ate it.” Matter-of-fact.
“Ben, that is like drinking a whole gallon of sugar. Jesus fat-ass. Why don’t you pack on twenty more pounds!”
“I won’t gain twenty pounds. It was just some candy.”
“It was a pound of pure sugar. That’s twenty pounds…easy. You already look fatter.”
Terror washed across my face as ten years of baby-fat spilled down my face. It was the first moment I realized what kind of control I had over my own body. My body. And I only had one.
I had reasoned that I had eaten at least four hundred Skittles. The math wasn’t important; it was what my stomach felt like was inside of it. I would run one-lap around our home for every skittle I ate.
I began running; praying simultaneously.
Please God, please just let me break even. I can start losing weight for real tomorrow.
I wasn’t even around the house twice before my face was crimson, my brow blotted and my chest heaving. This was my body and it was failing me. Yet I kept going. Nine laps. Ten laps. Twenty. Everything around me ached. My stomach, full of candy, popcorn, and four sodas, was churning.
My mother says I must have passed out around my sixtieth lap. She had been watching from the window wondering what it was I could have possibly been doing. She found me in the back yard, wheezing, unconscious and covered in Skittles.
It would be years before I would try to run again.

In Rebellion
You can only be the fat kid in the back of the classroom for so long before there is a shift. You either ingest your role and become the pathetic butt of jokes, embrace your label and act overly nice to world around you, deny the truth and zero on other’s insecurities or lose weight.
For me it was really just a simple combination of all of them. I was used to being the butt of jokes and overly nice to people I didn’t like, so I started picking on others, refusing to eat, and jogging everyday.
While I wasting away, I couldn’t help but feel happy, and I actually became quite skilled at jogging. For the first time, in a while, people began to notice me. I still did not fit in, regardless, but in a sense that became part of who I was. Outside-in.

During The Flood
During the crest of it all; mothers going crazy, missing people and overwrought phone calls I picked up a new habit. Physically I could not be far enough away, but I could still run. I could create swift distance between myself and anyone. Emotional bridges collapsing.

In Rebellion With Friends
After a bottle of pills and a bedside confession, I ran until my heart broke.
My best friend from high school, the symbiotic/acidic best friend, had been going through a break-up. Something bigger than her body. Bigger than our bodies combined. She had lived through her first love and now needed solace. Solace that I could provide, but refused. I hadn’t approved of the relationship since the beginning. I hadn’t respected her boyfriend, an old best friend of mine, for a few years by then. I had become a third wheel long ago, dislodged myself and rolled away from them.
It was during my advanced US history class that I got the call from the hospital. I ran to my car, sped to Columbus Regional, my foot tapping the entire time, and whipped passed admittance.
They needed her pills. They needed to know what she had taken. I ran back to my car, speeding- watching signs and people and the past flying by. I broke into her apartment, a task at which I am ashamed to admit I am very good at, ransacked her bathroom and found the empty bottle laying next to toilet. Tears were welling in my eyes but I smacked my face and pushed them away.
Not now. Not yet. You have work to do.
I didn’t even bother to look at what they were. I was back at the hospital in less than five minutes.
That night, at home, feeling helpless and more than lonely, I ran. I put on my shoes, threw on a sweatshirt and ran through Southern Indiana backroads. I pushed myself farther than I ever thought I could.
I don’t lose people. I haven’t yet. Even when mom-
And I fell. Knees scraping along ground, locked up and useless. In the outskirts of town, where people sleep on porches, with no one around for miles, I howled. Screamed blood, salt, bile and tears.
I stopped running. She would be in my life for another year, before I could dash away and not look back.

For Vanity
College was another world. While still decidedly Midwestern, the people themselves were widely diverse; bodies and all. It was easy to lose control of every facility you once prided yourself for mastering.
Luckily I found a partner in crime; someone as insecure as me to push me further. We changed our diet, we began jogging religiously and started to even self-loathe in unison.
He made running something else besides penance. Even in high school, when I was in shape and swift, it was still a punishment.
I remember the moment it became a joy. We were jogging on an indoor track, the two of us, because of the humidity outside and the air conditioning inside. Plus we could more easily judge distance and time by using the markers the fitness center owned.
We were well past the point where we could carry on conversations while still clocking in at under a ten minute mile, but still others excelled beyond us. There were prototypical jocks who sprinted for an hour straight and soccer moms who had once had dreams of Olympic gold. They all could run father and faster than us. But instead of cowering or quitting, we began ridiculing.
You have no idea how easy a task can become when you spend your time making fun of everyone else.
A slim, six foot tall Adonis glides past us:
“Virgin. Total virgin.”
“I was gonna say Mormon, but Virgin works.”

The starry-eyed soccer mom:
“Used to be a man.”
“Still has her penis.”

The elderly couple who gave us a run for our money and only twice lapped us:
“Can’t get it up.”
“Having an affair.”
“Dropping dead tomorrow.”
“Too far?”
“Probably.”
“Yeah.”
“Besides they’ll probably both keel over tonight.”

The ultimate humiliation though was when a young girl, no older than eleven lapped us several times, so much to the point that she began to wave at us as she passed by. Her final lap she passed, turned around, continued running backwards and stuck her tongue out at us. She left and we dropped to the ground exhausted.

“What a bitch!”
“She’ll be abducted tomorrow.”

We were done running. I was done running.

Now
The computer screen stared back at me. The cursor blinking. The email frozen to the screen. I was choking on my tongue and inadvertently tapping my foot.

Ben, it’s your brother. Sorry I haven’t talked to you in a while. I don’t know how to tell you this but your father passed away on Sunday.

Come home

I love you
Levi

I had letters to mail and boxes to pack. I had a list of things to scratch off and very little time to accomplish them in. College was over, my body was beside itself.

I have to mail these letters, I thought, They must make it to the mail. I never told him the truth. Where did he run off to? I can catch him.

I left the computer lab I was checking my email at, screen still up, cursor blinking.
Outside, I could only think of finding a mailbox, packing my clothes, and running. I took a step and tried to push off. Nothing happened. I pushed again. Tried to walk quicker. Trees became messes but I wasn’t going any faster.

I have to run. I have to go. I have to run. I have to run. I have to run. I have to run. I have to go.


I stayed in that state for over an hour, looking for a mailbox to run to but only managing a plod, finally ending up in some woman’s office I had never met before and demanding her to put my letters in her outgoing mail.

I have to run. I have to run home. I must make it back to Indiana. I must make it back home.

An hour later I had made it to my boyfriend’s house. My knees ached as if I had just finished a marathon and all of the blood in my body rested in my face. I was sweating, but had put forth no effort.
It was there I cried, briefly and never again. I thanked God that I couldn’t remember my dreams anymore. I was positive that if I could remember them, I would only recollect a dark, shrinking corridor, fingers close to catching my neck, and the sound of my father’s footsteps racing behind me.

Book By Its Cover

There are signs and red flags in public school systems, especially elementary school, that definitely identify people as dorks. For me, although if we are speaking honestly they are too many to count, my red flag was the advanced reading group. It had been established by the time I was in first grade that I was reading well above my normal age bracket. In second grade when other kids were enjoying choose-your-own adventure books and possibly Winnie the Pooh books, I was reading Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine. By Junior High I had read through the majority of all the Stephen King books (including The Stand and It), “Romeo & Juliet”, Great Expectations, and so on.
More to the point, in my advanced reading group- for those who don’t know or who were unaware advanced reading group was that gaggle of kids who were probably pulled out of your elementary school literature class to go to the library and read a completely different book than what you were reading, a book with a study guide. If you are still unaware of what it is I am talking about, then you are those kids that made fun of the advanced reading group for no real reason.
More to the point, in my advanced reading group I had the opportunity to read several books that would lay the groundwork for how I viewed the world in the future. This continued on throughout my school years.
In elementary school I read many formative books. The Borrowers taught me that it is okay to steal because I am cute. The Witches by Roald Dahl provided me with a strong feminine perspective on the world. Little Woman taught me the universal truth that if you are nice and quiet you will either have too many babies or die. The Mixed up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler taught me that running away from your problems is okay only if you are having fun.
In high school I found out that if you are crazy you shouldn’t be allowed to walk the streets (I am the Cheese and I Never Promised You a Rose Garden). From The Chosen and The Promise I learned that it was cool to be half-jewish. I also learned that if you gamble and refuse to get married you will die (The House of Mirth). Very early in life, I learned that it was okay to hate everyone (The Catcher in the Rye).
The most important lesson I learned came from The Westing Game. It was a murder mystery that I had read in elementary school. Nothing to deep or life-affirming, but influential nonetheless. The story is one of those classic whodunits where everyone is suspicious of everyone. Moreover, even the slightest most mundane thing, such as a can of tomato paste or a doorknob causes great panic in people. In a sense, The Westing Game has taught me that blowing things out of proportion is a viable way of life.
I remember, while being sequestered in the library reading The Westing Game, one particular day when all of our paranoia from the book came to a head. I had just finished reading the assigned chapters for the next day, I constantly overread (see: dork), and wanted to finished my study guide packet early so I would have nothing to do that night but play video games. See the truth is, I wasn’t super smart in the intelligence quotient way, but I was smart in the time management way. I knew that if I was good in school, finished my homework early I would always have plenty of time to play video games and eat junk food.
Our study packet was a cruel invention. Instead of giving us questions each time we were assigned chapters, we were given one huge packet full of questions for each assignment and all of the chapters. Then when the book was finished we would write an essay, using our study packets to pull information from, and turn them both in. The intention being that a student could work at his own pace, ahead (see: dork, cross reference: me) if he wanted to. The cruel reality was that it taught you major responsibility. You had to keep track of a single packet of paper for at least three months. If you were like me and had already finished the book and study guide, (see: destined to be virgin until he discovered alcohol), then you had to hold on to that study guide until the due date and just pass your time in the library reading for leisure. I remember Christopher, a friend of mine, had finished over half of his packet for Julie of the Wolves when he left it on the bus. Tragic really. All of that work lost.
More on target, on that particular day I reached for my folder containing my study packet, opened it and slowly gasped as terror set in. It wasn’t there. Where could it have gone.
The Westing Game kicked in. I knew that I had only been away from my folder for five minutes, when I had gone to the restroom. So the culprit had to be someone in the library. Most likely, due to proximity, someone sitting at my study table. I had decided to play it cool.
“Oh, man. I must have FORGOT to bring my study guide today. I guess I will do it tomorrow. I was gonna change all of my answers, since I just KNOW I was all WRONG!” Then my eyes darted around the table. Christopher only looked at me long enough to bring his index finger to his lips to shush me.
“UNLESS,” I continued, “I did bring it and…no. Nevermind.”
“What?” Rachel chimed in.
“UNLESS…someone STOLE it!”
My plan had worked like gangbusters. All advanced reading eyes began darting around from table to table.
Christopher spoke up, “I thought you said you left it at home.”
I was flabbergasted. How dare he use logic on me when I was in the middle of an elaborately and deliberately constructed lie?
“Well, I could have. THOUGHT I did, but now that I think about it. I…distinctly…remember…looking at it this MORNING during attendance.”
Christopher continued, “Are you sure you brought it with you to the library? You could have just left it in the classroom.”
“I…I…I…” I turned stammering into an art form.
“Why are you acting so suspicious?” Rachel had chimed in behind me. “I remember Ben looking at his study guide this morning. And why wouldn’t he bring it to the library. Everyone knows that Ben finishes his assignments early. So, I mean really, how easy would it be to just take it and get ahead ourselves?” She was right. Eyes continued to dart and low murmurs began. Christopher got a little red in the face and sat back down. And I couldn’t help but wonder how it is Rachel saw me look at my study guide during attendance if I hadn’t actually ever pulled it out of my folder until I got to the library.
At this point I had three obvious suspects. There was Christopher, who was obviously attempting to divert our attention. But there was also Rachel. If she could make someone else look guilty then no one would suspect her. But I was onto her. Then there was Carl. He sat in the back of any room and usually smelled. Picked his nose and would cry uncontrollably if he was ever called upon in class. He was highly suspect, if for no more reason than for the fact the he smelled. Smelly people do dangerous things.
Rachel got up to go to use the card catalogue. She slinked away walking backwards the entire time. When she was out of view, Christopher and I dove for her bag. I went through the pockets while he rifled through the folders. Nothing. I knew then I could cross her off my suspects list. My fear that it was Carl. And in order to get my study packet back I would have to brave no man’s land.
Rachel came back to find us cramming things back into her bag.
“Do you honestly think if I took your stupid study guide I would leave it around for you to get?”
Damn that woman and her infernal logic. How could she be so smart? She wasn’t even in advanced math.
The next logical step for me was to finger Christopher for the crime, simply because I refused to walk towards Carl.
“Give it to me Christopher,” I said, “I know you have it.”
“No I don’t,” he squeaked. “Honest.” Rachel, short on patience and long on chutzpah grabbed his bookbag from him and dumped its contents onto the table.
“I’ll make short work of this,” she said and dove in.
No study packet was to be had. My terrified eyes locked into Rachel’s. We both glanced to Christopher who was already trembling in our direction. Slowly we all turned our heads towards Carl. We caught him just in time to see him wiping his latest treasure from his nose under his desk.
“What is he doing?” I whispered.
“He is trying to scare us.” Rachel sottoed back.
“I have to go talk to him,” I gulped.
“Ben,” Christopher interrupted, “I’m going with you. You can’t do this alone.”
“Well if he’s going then I am coming to. Come on.”
All three of us headed over to Carl who was still blissfully unaware that anyone was paying attention to him.
“Hand it over Carl,” Rachel said, charging ahead. Carl looked up at us with sticky fingers and glazed over eyes.
“Hand what over?” he blinked.
“My study packet Carl, we know you took it. You are the only other person reading The Westing Game here.”
“I don’t anyonesh shtudy packet.” I suppose now would be the time to mention Carl’s unfortunate lisp. “Sherioushly.”
“Come on Carl,” Christopher cried, “We always see you staring at us. We know you took it.”
“No, I shwear I didn’t.”
Rachel stepped forward. “Well then,” she barked grabbing his spiral bound notebook, “You won’t mind if I look through thish…this…will you?”
Carl’s hand instinctively lashed out.
“No…wait…give it back.”
But Rachel had already grabbed it, flung it open and began shaking it out. She stopped mid-shake. Her face went white. She dropped the notebook and ran.
We peered to the pages on the floor. There, in pencil lead (No. 2 of course), was an intricate sketch of Rachel. Surrounded by a heart. And little words at the bottom. Before we could pick it up to read the words, Carl had dashed to the ground, snatched it and took off running.
Christopher and I stood there for at least a minute, completely dumbfounded. It was my teacher’s voice that snapped me out of my daze.
“-didn’t you hear me? You left your study packet on top of your desk Benjamin. How are you supposed to do the assignment without the packet? Hmmmmmmmm?”
The great mystery was solved. Two weeks later Rachel and Carl were a couple. Well…the sort of couple you could be for being in elementary school. And for some reason the more we talked to him, the less he smelled.


(Note: I am not particularly fond of this piece. I started it long ago, lost sight of my goal and can't seem to fix it. Please, please, please. Any feedback would be appreciated.)