Tense

I've been trying to reflect and write a little bit about my brother and his passing, but the experience has been difficult. The issue that has come up the most has been what tense do I use to describe him? I think that's what has bothered me the most about the entire event is that my brother is stuck at 21. He will always be 21. He'll never get to be more than 21. And as I write about him, the tendency is to use past tense to describe him, and I don't want to write in the past tense. I want to write in the present and the future. I'm not saying he deserves to be preserved in the present tense for now and until the end of time, but it absolutely kills me to write, "My brother was..." and "My brother had been..."

There's no future in either of those statements.

On Nights Like This

One of the things that Winter rarely affords is the ability to sit outside with a beer and forget about the state of one's life. I'm here in the moment. The temperature is perfect and with the exception of a steady hum of distant traffic or the rustling of tree branches in the breeze, it's quiet. 

I could use this time to ponder the state of my life, to reflect on these last few months, but instead I simply choose to be. Why ruin any of this with worry?

I don't remember most conversations I've had with my father, but I remember the general tone of them, thoughtful and appreciative. One of the things he would always remark about while sitting outside was how beautiful the trees would look silhouetted in the darkness-- inky outlines behind an intensely blue-black sky. A form without any texture. 

Ten Years Isn't Long Enough

Like most general life events, high school becomes a memory with vague boundaries. You remember the activities you participated in, some of your favorite teachers, and a funny story or two. But for the most part, the day to day affairs have drifted out of your memory and settled onto the pages of the yearbook where people you only now know through Facebook recount unfamiliar stories involving themselves and someone who shares your name. 

Time has passed. You went to college, got an education, and entered the workforce. Or maybe you didn't. Maybe you've spent the last five to ten years just working. Marriage, kids, possibly divorce? It doesn't much matter how you came to the future, all that matters is that you're here. 

At one point or other, you'll find yourself invited to a high school reunion. Nobody's forcing you to go, but 10 years isn't enough time to really wax nostalgic about your adolescence. Facebook has robbed your sense of morbid curiosity about the others because most everyone you went to school with is also living a fairly normal life. 

Out of boredom, you decide to have your own high school reunion from the comfort of your living room. You scroll though the profiles of people you haven't spoken to in nearly a decade. What you find is that you don't really need these people in your life, nor do you want to reconnect. 

Still, you leave them in your friend's list on the off chance that one day through the many years of time and change that you do have something to say to them. Thankfully, this can be said through an online message, and not at a high school reunion. 

Tactile Response

"Would you rather be blind or deaf?" is the typical dichotomy that people are asked to ponder. Most people have a ready response, but upon reflection, I don't worry about being blind or deaf. I'd be more upset about losing my sense of touch. Sure, you wouldn't be able to feel pain, but pain is a good thing. It helps you monitor injuries and brings attention to the fact that your hand is resting on the stove. Secondly, say goodbye to your sex life. At this point, wouldn't you rather be blind or deaf opposed to not being able to feel anything?


For me though, I place a high importance on my sense of touch for a number of other reasons. Yes to the aforementioned ones, but also because I have always had a strong tactile response. I like to feel the heft and texture of the world. Nothing beats running your hand along a picket fence or old brick buildings. If I can hold it, I can understand it. During the geology unit of Outdoor School, I was always able to tell the difference between minerals simply by the weight in my hands. That's not a difficult trick, but I trusted the feel of it over what I could see. 


As a child, I climbed trees. I fell out of trees too, but that didn't stop me from shimmying up trunks and branches. The wind is different 20 and 30 feet in the air and there's nothing quite like the feel of rough bark against your cheek as you cling to your wooden lifeline that sways lazily in the breeze. 


Maybe my personal response to the tactile explains my sensitivity to other people touching me. If I'm close to someone, then physical contact isn't an issue. In those cases, I enjoy the proximity and overlapping boundaries. By all means, violate my personal space. However, for most casual acquaintances, I'm much more comfortable maintaining some physical distance. 

I'm reminded of J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye where he writes: 

...she was terrific to hold hands with. Most girls, if you hold hands with them, their goddam hand dies on you, or else they think they have to keep moving their hands all the time, as if they were afraid they'd bore you or something. Jane was different. We'd get into a goddam movie or something, and right away we'd start holding hands, and we won't quite till the movie was over. And without changing the position or making a deal out of it. You never even worried, with Jane, whether your hand was sweaty or not. All you knew was, you were happy. You really were.

Dear 18 Year Old Me

Dear 18 Year Old Me,

You've got your whole life ahead of you and let me reassure you that your life is going to turn out just fine. Spoiler Alert, at the very least, you'll live to see 27. In the mean time, you end up passing college, making some lifelong friends and creating many memories. You'll get a job with decent pay and you don't have to move back in with Mom and Dad. 

But, 18 Year Old Me, there are some things I really need to tell you, things that are going to make your experience in college and in life much more bearable. Are you still with me? Try not to think about the paradox of the situation too much and just soak up some good advice. 

First and foremost, buy some clothes that fit. Better yet, since Mom and Dad are still footing most of your bills, get them to buy you some clothes that fit. You wear a 32/33 and 15 and 1/2 dress shirt. You'll be tempted to buy the regular cut shirt. Don't! It's a trick. You aren't shaped like a box, so buy the fitted or slim fit shirts. While you're at, get a few polos and throw out any shirts that are large or above. Also, slim or straight cut jeans and khakis all the way. I'm not even going to go into the shoes you are wearing. That's a hopeless case for the moment. You'll learn that lesson the hard way. 

You might be wondering why I chose to nitpick your fashion sense first. Well, it's damned important. I know you just won the senior superlative award for biggest bum dresser, but you're going to be going to college soon and it's time to dress in a manner that might get you a girlfriend at some point. 

While we're on the subject of girlfriends, can I tell you that you are surrounded by women in college? Don't take it for granted. After college, meeting other people is not as easy. Yes, some of these women aren't your type, others won't want anything to do with you, but you have a decent enough personality and looks that somebody will find you attractive. Also, hit the gym. Seriously. Don't roid rage out on me, but go to the rec center at least three times a week. You'll look better, feel better, and you might also meet women. 

Most everything else, you should probably learn on your own. There's value in experiencing some lessons firsthand, and I don't want to shelter you from that. However, I did want to mention that you are lactose intolerant. Stop drinking milk. Ice cream too. Cheese is fine though. The future is not a complete horror. 

If you have questions or you feel like you're second guessing yourself during the next 10 years, that's fine. Try not to worry too much. You'll transition into adulthood, but not without a few damaging experiences. If life feels like it's going off the rails, it probably is. Some parts of your life are really going to suck, but you'll learn from it and come out a better person in the end. (Most of your life will be really good by the way.) Hopefully, if you follow any of my advice, you'll at least face these trials and tribulations dressed as a presentable adult, and not as a potato sack of fashion woe.  

PS Don't ever start playing World of Warcraft. 

"The chocolate moonpie was a let down."

Again, the challenge is to write a short story in an hour using someone else's sentence somewhere in the narrative. This one took 47 minutes to write and the sentence was, "The chocolate moonpie was a let down."

There was a decency to the system even if Allen had rarely done the decent thing his entire damn life. Sure, there were moments during childhood when without being asked, he’d hug his mom or feed the dog, but those were decent actions outside the age of true discretion. As he grew older and understood the consequences of his actions, doing the decent thing and doing the thing that would benefit him were not so much Venn diagram comparisons, but two separate circles.

But the system was decent, not good, or just, or right, but decent at least. It was decent enough to provide Allen with a last meal. As a lifelong diabetic, Allen had been scrupulous with his diet, in the same way he had been scrupulous with his murders. Everything was timed, regimented, and precise.

He probably would have gone on like this, eating his carefully calibrated diet and executing his carefully calibrated murders were it not for one of his victims getting away. He had been driving away from the victim’s house at exactly 2:21 A.M. His exit had been timed to hit every green light. What he hadn’t counted on was a drunk driver smashing into his van. The rear door popped open and out spilled a body mummified in duct-tape.

The investigation was sloppy; Allen disliked that for professional reasons, but it didn’t take a whole lot of work to piece together that Allen had been behind a dozen or so disappearances in the past five years. The trial was swift, and the execution a forgone conclusion.

Allen spent most of his days thinking not about reprieves or remorse or the afterlife, but what he was going to eat for his last meal. He was finally completely free of consequences, something only a death sentence could give him. For him, a perfect murder.

The idea for his last meal was absurd, but satisfied him in more than benign way. In outside world, chocolate moonpies were sugary treats used to placate children, but in prison, moonpies were currency. Sexual favors, weapons, and assaults could all be traded in the moonpie market. Allen had a number of them stashed away in his bunk for all three purposes. He had never eaten one of course, had rarely eaten anything with concentrated sugar levels at all, but as a last meal request, it seemed fitting.

The day of his execution came like any other day. The sun didn’t exactly rise, but the automated lights came up. The night before he had eaten his last meal and had slept exactly 7.5 hours as he had done for the last 32 years. Not even death breathing down his collar could deviate habit and biology. As Allen walked into the execution chamber, he could see a packed theater for his final performance. Most of the faces were stony gargoyles, but a few of them were weeping rain.

The warden walked over to Allen, and asked if he had any last words. These people had come for closure and who was Allen not to oblige them this one last request?

Standing up straight, hands held together in mock prayer from the handcuffs that bolted his arms and feet together, Allen turned to address the crowd. They leaned forward, clenched their jaws and waited for the murderer of their love, of their hope, of their reason to breathe to say his final words.

Allen cleared his throat, smiled and said, "The chocolate moonpie was a let down."

"Does that count as a sentence"

This is another example of a one hour story challenge where I try to write a story in an hour using a sentence suggested by another person. The sentence was, "Does that count as a sentence" as suggested by a friend. The story is a bit rough, but such are the constraints of time.

“Does that count as a sentence?” she asked me. I was hunched over a notebook, and up until a moment ago had been furiously diagramming sentence trees in French. The girl with the chocolate braids wasn’t exactly sitting in the chair across from me. Perching would be a more accurate description.

“Come again?” I said.

She didn’t repeat herself, choosing instead to reach across the table to take away my paper. She leaned on an elbow, picked up my pen and added a few marks of her own. After a moment she stuck the pen behind her ear and said, “Yeah, I was right. I couldn’t be sure reading your paper upside down, but number three is definitely not a sentence.”

“I suppose you speak French then.”

“No, but my mom’s the professor, and I run all the copies for her. You stare at an answer key long enough and you’re bound to memorize something, even if you don’t understand it.”

Well that explained a few things. Not only was she a townie, but a professor’s kid. Her presumption to correct my work, the disregard for personal space, and the faint smell of Amish soap all corroborated what she said. Not like I had any reason to doubt her. She was a deadringer for Dr. Shep, younger obviously, and without the greying hair or glasses. Still, I liked her brazen approach, and if it helped me do better in French, then who was I to complain?

From time to time during the semester, I’d see Dr. Shep’s daughter in the dorm. I wasn’t even sure if she lived on my floor, let alone the dorm itself, but I never saw her anywhere else on campus. Our conversations deviated more and more from homework to  music, life, and philosophy. Long after quiet hours had gone into effect, we’d be chatting at the study table.

As the semester drew to a close, I began seeing less and less of her, until finally three weeks went by without a sighting. I was concerned. Nobody else seemed to know who she was and when I tried looking her up on Facebook, I couldn’t find a profile. Finally, I decided to ask Dr. Shep.
I had just finished my final and handed my paper in when I asked a question I hoped wasn’t too loaded with intention. “So, where’s your daughter been? I haven’t seen her around recently.”
Dr. Shep’s eyes, narrowed. She took my paper and placed it in a separate pile away from the other tests, as if my responses were diseased and could infect the whole class.
“If you’re talking about Jenny, she’s been at home.”
“Oh,” I said lamely. “Is she sick?”
“No, but she is in high school and we caught her breaking curfew. Now, is there something I can help you with? Better yet, is there something you can help me with?”
I opened my mouth to explain, but nothing sensible came out. I sputtered a few words about her helping me with homework and I’m pretty sure I could hear an audible gnashing of the teeth when I mentioned she was in my dorm.
“That’ll be all, Mr. Jackson.”
The room suddenly felt small and cramped. I left holding my stomach and mumbling apologies, in English, not French.
When grades finally came out, I saw that Dr. Shep had given me a D. It’s not the grade I earned, but somehow, it still felt like the grade I deserved.