Saturday, August 28, 2010

A Bit of Unpublished

Well, I never got around to entering the August firstlinefiction contest. With school starting, I've been so busy that I've hardly had time to think about writing anything. But here's the beginning of my story, including the Hunter S. Thompson first line.
I won't tell you where exactly I was going with this, in case I decide to use it for something else, but here's a snippet:



We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.
Warn felt it first, of course; he hit the ground hard and fast, clutching his head with both hands and yelling for higher powers who surely couldn’t hear him. Only the dust heard him, and only the heavy black sky saw me fall down next to him, my palms pressed against my ears in a similar fashion.
It wasn’t that we were trying to keep something out. We were trying to keep ourselves in.

Warn was dropped on his head at birth. I mean, literally dropped. How do I know this?
Because I was the one who dropped him, of course.
Now come on; what would you have done if you were three years old and a sticky, butterball of a baby was thrust into your lap? I ask you.
Warn must have told that story a thousand times, using just enough voice inflection and facial expression to make it funny and touching and sarcastic and accusing all at the same time. When I was in the room, he also made sure to shoot me his goofy grin afterwards so I would know he didn’t really blame me.
Storytelling was the only thing Warn was ever really good at, and once the drugs kicked in, he wasn’t good at anything.



I was brushing my teeth when Warn stumbled in, out of breath and clutching a lady’s purse. All of the sudden his toothy grin was reflected next to my face in the mirror, and I think I knew, just from that smirk of his, that we were in some deep shit.
Tossing the purse, which looked to be made from the skin of a foreign reptile, on one of the beds, Warn flopped down on the other. Still showing his stupid buckteeth, he folded his hands behind his head and looked up at me expectantly.
I didn’t bother to spit out the toothpaste before I let him have it: “You stole that didn’t you? Warn! You just got out! You know what…you know what they do to repeat offenders now, don’t you? This is some deep shit you’ve gotten us into!
Warn sat up slowly. The grin was gone now. “You don’t understand, Cassie. You don’t know who I took it from. She could afford to lose it, I swear. She doesn’t need it as much as we do. “
He took a quiet breath. “Anyways, I won’t get caught this time. I was really careful. Gloves, mask, everything.“
I leaned my back against the wall and folded my arms across my chest. I wasn’t melting yet, but I sure as hell wanted to know what had happened. “Well?” I asked him, “who’d you snag it from?”
Just as Warn was about to open his mouth and tell me, just as I was about to hear one of his stories, the police burst in.

As it turned out, I didn’t hear Warn tell it until a month later, in court. Even then he couldn’t help embellishing it a little, describing the way the rich woman’s nose was turned up just so, the way his feet had sounded pounding on the pavement towards her, the way the purse swung against his fingertips with the weight of a stuffed wallet. I heard a few snickers in the back, but the judge was completely solemn.
He delivered the sentence like a pro, waiting until the room was quiet again before saying the words in an echoing voice: “Forced animorphism. Trial period of ninety days. Beginning tomorrow.”

Thursday, August 26, 2010

That'll Do, Pig. That'll Do.

Maddie, King and I were walking across the Mall today. We were talking about our favorite childhood movies, and from there we got on the topic of the movie Babe.
We then realized that there was a catch phrase of sorts in that movie that the old farmer says to Babe after Babe successfully herds the sheep.
We walked to dinner trying to figure it out.
We talked about it at dinner.
When we got back to the dorm, Maddie and I decided to go downstairs to talk to Tim.
On our way to Tim's room, we walked past Brochman's room. Brochman came out to chat, his fingers holding his place in Arabian Nights.
I asked him about the book, saying that I had never read it and had always wanted to.

Brochman: Arabian nights is basically a story within a story within a story. It starts with a princess who's going to have her head cut off. She starts to tell her captor a story to prolong her life. In her story, there's a genie who pops out of a lamp and begins to tell a story, and in the genie's story someone else is telling a story, and it just keeps going on.*

Maddie: Have you ever seen the movie Babe?

Brochman: Well that was random. Yeah I think I have. Why?

Holly: Because we've been trying to figure out what the old farmer says to Babe after he herds the sheep. It's like 'atta pig' or 'good pig' or something like that. It's a catch phrase of sorts.

Brochman: I have no idea.

-random boy walks in-

Brochman: Do you know what the old farmer guy says to Babe after he herds the sheep?

Boy 1: No idea.

-another random boy walks in-

Boy 1: You know in the movie Babe, when Babe herds the sheep? What does the old farmer say to him?

Boy 2: Gosh, I don't know. I haven't seen that movie in a really long time.

Boy 1: I'll look it up.

-Boy 1 goes in room and shuts door-

-Boy 2 goes in room and shuts door-

-Maddie, Holly, and Brochman continue chatting-

-Boy 1 opens door of room, and steps into hallway-

Boy 1: That'll do, pig. That'll do.

-Boy 1 goes back into room and shuts door-

-Boy 2 comes out of room-

Boy 2: That'll do, pig. That'll do.

-Boy 2 goes back into room and closes door-


Pretty sure we accidently semi experienced the chain reaction of Arabian Nights in real life.

College is epic.

*Note: I paraphrased Brochman's summary of Arabian Nights (as did he, probably, when he summarized it). May not be completely accurate.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Like a City Upon a Hill

I know, I know-I've done it again. A couple of long, dramatic posts in a row, and then I didn't get back to you with the resolution!
By now, though, it seems kind of silly to explain to you how amazing Orientation was, what a good time I had with my group, and how I look forward to bumping into them around campus and seeing what they get involved in and how their freshman year goes.
Nah.
That's old news by now.
The new news is that I had my first day of classes today.
All of them were amazing.
I'm especially excited about my Icelandic Sagas Honors class. There are only about 13 people in it, so it's going to be a great discussion class. It's also interdisciplinary, so it's taught from an English-y perspective by an English professor, and a science-y perspective by a science professor.

I'll admit that there was a point when I almost had a meltdown thinking about all the studying I'm going to have to do this semester. I'm taking 17 credits for goodness' sake! Plus three jobs! What was I thinking, you guys? Why didn't you stop me?

Oh, well. All of my classes are going to be interesting and thought-provoking, and all of my jobs are educational (as well as financially reassuring).
I think it's worth it to be super busy if I can do all the things I want to do.

I'm also cutting down on my activities this year; I'm mainly focusing on MCSA (student government) and intramurals.

Okay...I should get back to my American Lit. reading now. It's an essay/sermon by John Winthrop, and let me tell you that while I love the guy to pieces, his writings are an absolute pain to read. I wonder if his fellow Puritans struggled as well?

Saturday, August 21, 2010

It Concerns Me

Now that I've finished all the tasks I outlined in my last post, I have time to sit and actually think about tomorrow. And this thinking has led to some unsettling thoughts.
I'm not nervous about being an OGL, exactly; my stomach isn't fluttery or anything. I'm just suddenly a little anxious. I did Link Crew for two years in high school, but I think that being an OGL is completely different. For one thing, my Orientation group is a group of adults. Literally. They're 18. They're older, they're (hopefully) more mature, and they're out on their own for probably the first time in their lives.
The biggest difference between college freshman and high school freshman is the level of independence. I cannot make my Orientation group stay. They can leave whenever they want, and Mrs. Johnson will not be waiting in the hallway to escort them back in.
In other words, unless I somehow make a huge impact on them tomorrow, unless I find a way to show them that it's worth it to stay with the group, they're gone.
Hopefully I find a way to do the above things, because I really believe that Orientation is an essential part of the freshman experience. Not only does it give you a ton of important information, but it gives you a chance to bond with people who are not on your floor. It gives you a whole additional group of people to say hi to on the sidewalks, and to sit by in Food Service (excuse me: The Dining Hall). It provides a support group that is entirely unique in that it is probably the first support group you encounter upon moving in. Orientation is the first impression most freshman will get at Morris, and so it's crucial that it's a good one.
Admittedly, I didn't love waking up early for three days to meet up with my Orientation group, and it was a little awkward because I felt like all the kids were friends and I was kind of on the outside. Luckily, though, I had a great OGL who really tried hard to make everyone feel comfortable, and who I continued to see around campus all of freshman year.
I'm going to do my best starting tomorrow to make everyone feel at home, and I even feel like I have a bit of an edge because I was a freshman last year, and I remember exactly what it felt like to be thrust headfirst into something like Orientation.

If all else fails?
I bought a bunch of candy at Willie's. A little bribe never hurts.

Compass Optional

It is hot out. Hot as blazes, hot as Hades, hot as anything. Just plain broasting.
I'm currently sitting on my bed in my room in my dorm, moving my head every so often to catch every single bit of air my friend the fan is blowing my way.
Freshman Orientation starts tomorrow, and although Saturday is OGL free day, I still have a lot of work to do. I need to finish painting my signs, map out a tour route for myself (complete with talking prompts in case I forget things), plan/learn the games I'm going to play, hang up the posters in my room (in order to make room for my roommate to move in), and practice for the three Extravaganza skits I'm in.
On top of all that, people are slowly trickling into Spooner, lugging boxes and (sometimes) clinging to parents. I don't work very quickly when I'm constantly jumping up to say high to someone.
It's okay, though. Come Wednesday, I'll have done all I can to 'orient' my group of freshman, and I'll be heading off to class.

Speaking of class, I don't think I've told you which ones I'm taking this semester. Here they are:
Beginning German I
Understanding Writing
Survey of American Literature
Honors (small group discussion/large group lecture)
Icelandic Sagas (Honors)

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Free Write

Free Write

The fan is swishing
against my hair,
blowing the shadows on the wall
as well.
I hear a click as it turns
and recall that Mom got it at Pamida
two days ago
because I needed a fan
and because I needed more time
before she drove away
back home
and left me.
Sophomore year hasn't changed
that feeling when the van pulls away.
Sinking, stumbling,
turning away into an empty dorm.
No students yet but me.

Now the white fan makes
my tie-dye shirt wave
from the drying rack.
Downstairs, there is
three inches of water sitting in the
washing machine that I broke.
Three inches of blue tie-dyed water
that will sit there and sit there
until someone comes with a hose
and a toolbox and flushes it away.

Now the shiny white fan wrinkles
the empty mattress
on the empty side of the room.
I sit on my striped blanket
and watch that mattress
blue and vinyl
and wonder how the room will feel
when there is a blanket covering it
and a different pillow plump
at its foot.

Now the humming, shiny white fan
turns its face once more towards my hair
to toss it out of place
once more
and I sit alone in my dorm room
on my bed
and I wait for something to happen.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Holy Buckets!

I started writing my bucket list today. My second bucket list, actually.
I wrote the first one junior year as an assignment for my College Psychology class, but I think I was trying to make it entertaining because there are things on it like:
43. Spend a night in jail
82. Find out how many licks it really takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop
You know, I really don't want to go to jail. It's an experience I can die happily without. And I don't even like Tootsie Pops. Why would I want to sit around and lick one all day?

So anyway, here's the new and improved bucket list (or what I have so far). I'm trying to make this one more serious, and also more achievable. Not that I'm limiting myself, just that I'm not including anything that I cannot ever see myself doing. I'm dreaming big, but I'm choosing meaningful, important dreams instead of random, unHollylike ones.

My Bucket List (Started August 15, 2010)
1. Visit all of the Laura Ingalls Wilder houses/sites (Pepin, Walnut grove, De Smet, Mansfield). Burr Oak is lame, and they didn't do much in Kansas-I’ll skip them.
2. Meet an author I truly admire and have a book signed by him/her.
3. Read a Russian novel.
4. Write a book.
5. Have a library in my home (with leather chairs and a globe).
6. Attend the Academy Awards.
7. Volunteer regularly.
8. Give blood at least twice a year for the rest of my life (or for as long as I am able).
9. Ride in a hot air balloon.
10. Visit Grandma and Grandpa Gruntner’s graves in St. Paul.
11. Camp in the Boundary Waters.
12. Go on Jeopardy (or at least make the auditions).
13. Climb a mountain (doesn't have to be extremely high or require oxygen, but it has to be a legitimate mountain).
14. See a play on Broadway.

It just occurred to me that the danger in keeping a list like this is the same as the danger in keeping my ever-growing books-I-need-to-read list; since it's an ongoing thing, it's impossible to ever check off every single item. I'll never feel like I've completed all of my goals because goals will continue to be added.
But I guess that's not such a bad thing. Even though I won't necessarily get the same satisfaction I would have gotten from crossing off the final item, I'll keep doing wonderful things and reading wonderful things because I'll keep dreaming up wonderful things. In the end, I don't think you should ever truly be able to put a cap on something like this. What a boring life you might lead if you did!

I'm going to end with a fun fact I discovered yesterday while Googling (wow I love that "Googling" doesn't come up as misspelled in the spell check; it's a real word now).
Laura Ingalls Wilder (aforementioned resident of aforementioned towns, author, pioneer, my hero, etc.) was only 4 feet 11 inches tall! And her husband, Almanzo Wilder, was only 5 feet 4 inches tall!
I know that people were shorter back in the 19th century, but jeez! I've always dreamed of going back in time and meeting Laura, but I would probably just tower over her awkwardly with my 5 feet 10 inches and embarrass myself.
I strongly suspect, however, that compared to her immense character and talent, her height wasn't so very striking after all.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

In Which Summer Is At An End

I think that the hardest part of packing for college is that it's very difficult to know where to begin. Even if you have a massive packing list you've been adding to for about a week, and even if you have a pile of necessities (results of a Target shopping spree) littering the floor of the office, and even if you are armed with a good attitude and an itunes account full of good hype-up music, in the end it is still easy to be overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task before you.

You are packing your whole life, after all. Everything you need to survive until at least fall break, that is. Plus, everything you need to make a good impression on future dorm mates, and to generally keep you from going insane; awesome retro posters, non-dorky pictures of your family, a solid array of DVDs, novels you'll never have time to read, etc.

Besides packing, I've been focusing on getting through my last two days of work at Target. Stupidly, I chose to go out with a bang of exhaustion, i.e. two 4 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. shifts. These beautiful shifts will be going down today (Sunday) and tomorrow (Monday), and then I leave on Tuesday for Morris.

The reason I'm going back to school so early (I don't remember if I've mentioned this or not), is because I'm an Orientation Group Leader (OGL), and all OGL's are required to go through freshman-helping training before the actual freshman move in. I appreciate this training immensely; I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm still not sure where some of the offices are on campus, and what some of the offices are even for. A refresher will be quite welcome.

I'm sorry that I have to end here, without mentioning anything particularly interesting, but I'm just coming out of my slump, you see. I did write about a page of my firstlinefiction story earlier this evening, but it has yet to really take off. We'll see.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Mid August Slump

I think I'm in a slump. A horrible, stressful, don't-feel-like-writing-for-no-apparent-reason slump. And I need to get out fast.
Not only because my August firstlinefiction story is due in a little over two weeks, but because I don't especially like myself when I'm not writing. No, it's worse than that. I don't even feel like myself.

Finishing Going Bovine last night only contributed to my overall slumpiness. Not because it was a bad book, but because it was so completely wonderful that I felt my own talents shrivel in comparison.
I know I'm being stupid. I shouldn't be comparing myself to Libba Bray, or even to F. Scott Fitzgerald for that matter. I should be happy that I have something to bring to the table that is completely unique, and I should devote my energy to becoming a better writer, not to becoming a different writer.
Plus, in all fairness (even though this is kind of a skunky card to play), I am only 19. I'm young and I still have three more years of school left. I have time yet to morph and figure out how I'm going to approach this whole book-writing thing.

In the meantime...
While I wait for the tides to turn and the slump to slowly straighten out, I'll be sitting here on my bed. This Side of Paradise will be open in my hands, and I'll be thinking of things and not writing them down.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Good Times With Old Friends

A Random Current Event:
I am just coming up from downstairs, where I had thrown my sheets in the washing machine, when I see that Dad is in the kitchen salting the potatoes. They're in a pot on the stove, ready to boil and be chopped and mashed for our dinner.
As I pass through the kitchen, Dad suddenly lifts the container of salt to his mouth and pours about a tablespoon in. Holding the salt between puffed out cheeks, his lips pursed comically, he turns and spots me gaping at him.
"Canker sore," he says.
I laugh. "You know Dad, we have stuff for that somewhere."
"I know," Dad replies as he spits out the salt and reaches for a glass of water. "I'm using it."

A Random Memory:
I was emptying my trash a few minutes ago, and a stray packing peanut left over from my earlier online book-buying adventures made me remember something.
It was last winter, and I was sitting in the TV lounge of Pine Hall with a bunch of my dorm mates. Someone (Bridgett, I think it was) had a package from their aunt. I don't remember what was actually in the package, but I do remember the packing peanuts.
"They dissolve in water," Bridgett's aunt had written. "Try putting them in your mouth!"
It was strange, but we passed the peanuts around and held them on our tongues, giggling as we felt them shrink into molten lumps of Styrofoam.
We didn't get any of them to completely dissolve, however, as a chemical-ly, plastic-y taste was released after awhile, forcing us to spit the soggy peanuts onto the carpet.

Interesting, but I only just realized that both of my above stories contain putting unusual things into one's mouth and promptly spitting them out...

Anyway, here's the title story for you:
Last night was the St. John's class of 2005 reunion party. To clarify, it wasn't a party, exactly; it was more of a scheduled gathering. Pioneer park. 8 p.m. Bring chips or something to share. Bonfire afterwards.
It was such a great time!
I think I had expected things to be a little awkward at first; most of us hadn't seen each other since we all graduated 8th grade. In actuality, there were only about 2 seconds in the beginning where people didn't know what to say, and then we were off like we had never been apart. Five years gone just like that.
We talked about what we were up to, we talked about who wasn't in attendance and why, but mostly we reminisced about the good old days at St. John's. And let me tell you: when you go to a Catholic school with the same kids for 9 years, you have some epic times.
After it got dark we relocated to Drew's house where they had a nice bonfire going. We sat around the fire (occasionally getting up and moving back a few yards; the boys were having fun building the flames up as high as possible) and chatted until about 2 a.m., when everyone went home.
The consensus?
1. We need to get together more often.
2. These are some of the best friends I'll probably ever have.
3. Mr. Sachariason (our English teacher 6th and 7th grade-best teacher ever) should have showed up. I wonder why he didn't?
4. Are we really going to be 20 years old? Holy cow.
5. I'm still eager to get back to school, but I'm going to miss the lazy good times of summer. I'm going to miss hanging out with the people I don't get to see at any other time.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

The Evolution of Man on a Bedroom Floor

It is exactly 6:29 a.m. here in Minnesota, and I've just returned from our fair capital city, where I dropped my mother off at the airport. She's going to New York to visit my aunt and grandma, and since Dad had to work at 4:30, it was up to me to navigate the van (okay, okay, with the help of our Garmin GPS) through city traffic and ridiculous airport ramps.

The actual driving was okay (see previous parentheses), but I had some issues getting out of bed at 4 a.m.
It may have had something to do with me only getting two hours of sleep, or maybe I was still in a semi-dreamlike state, but for whatever reason, when I put my feet on the floor my legs collapsed under me and I fell. I tried again to stand, and once again found myself in a heap on my bedroom floor.
Maybe it doesn't sound too strange now, but this little clumsy incident felt incredibly strange at the time. I've never experienced anything like it before.
I think that when my alarm went off, I jumped out of bed before I was even awake. My body reacted to the alarm before my brain was actually functioning.
Even now, the whole incident is really fuzzy, like it happened in a dream. And who knows? Maybe it did.

I think if anyone had been watching my 4 a.m. struggle, It would have looked a little bit like the evolution of man (you know, slowly creeping up from the primordial ooze of messy bedroom floor). My muttered curses could have been mistaken for caveman grunts, my sleepy dullness matched that of an early, small-brained human, and my morning hair probably looked just about right for that period, as well.

Conclusion? Sleep is weird. Dreams are weird. Waking up from sleep and dreams is weird. I wish I knew more about how it all works; we briefly covered the topic in high school psychology, but unfortunately I don't remember a whole lot. Nevertheless, I have a prodding suspicion that we are more ourselves when we dream than we are at any other time. Because we dream about the things that really matter, right? We cut right to the chase, whether we want to or not. Our unconscious takes orders from no one. Not even ourselves.

Well, I'll be going back to sleep now (ironic?). Blessedly, I can squeeze in about six hours before I have to wake up again to get ready for work.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Third Is The One In The Polka Dotted Dress

Things are looking up already, folks. I got third place in the firstlinefiction short story contest.
I won't lie; I was hoping for first. But you know what? The first place story is excellent. Really, really excellent. The second place story is very good as well. Both are better than mine, and both deserved first and second place.
You know what else? The August contest starts today. I'm shooting for first place again.

Here's the bronze story in case you want to read through it:

The Waiters

He brought in his shirt pocket the last photograph he’d taken of his son.

Poor guy. You should have seen the way he walked into the office that afternoon. He wore a yellow jacket that seemed inappropriate. Its brightness contrasted with the hollow expression on his face so drastically that it was almost shocking. I was relieved when he took the jacket off, carefully hanging it up on the rack in the corner of the waiting room.

And then the man began to slowly cross, crumpling a little with each step. I imagined that he’d be on his knees before he even reached the chair. I imagined myself putting my hand on the shrugged shoulder, shouting into a wrinkled ear. He made it though, sitting next to me as I knew he would. There was no other place, after all. The waiting room was full of people waiting, most of whom were buried in magazines or clicking on small phones.

He began talking as soon as he sat down. Talking to me, or so I figured after a few seconds.

I had a son once, he said.

A son? This was before I decided he was speaking to me and not to someone else.

Yes. He died, though. Car accident.

I’m sorry. Because that’s what you say, isn’t it? I’m sorry? I’m sorry I can’t know what you’re going through, and I’m sorry that I’m going to try my hardest to comfort you anyway. I’m sorry I don’t understand.

Thank you, he said simply. I thought that would be it, and I could go back to staring at the wall.

He continued, though. So many people die that way; it isn’t terribly original. But my son doesn’t die that way. My son doesn’t die.

He did, though. I spoke softly, hoping he would know that I wasn’t trying to hurt him with my bluntness. I wanted him to keep talking all of the sudden. I wanted to know how this man had come to be folded into himself. How his eyes got to be the way they were now. Drowning. He could see, but he wasn’t really looking out of them. I saw all of these things in that waiting room, and I wanted him to keep talking.

The man paused for a moment, fiddling with the pocket at the front of his shirt. Out of the pocket he plucked a folded bit of paper. A photograph; it said Kodak across the back. He unfolded the photograph and stared at it for a few seconds before folding it once more.

He took a deep breath before he spoke again. Afterwards, we all mourned. No one talked during meals anymore. My wife and I cried ourselves to sleep every night. We tried to comfort one another. I tried so hard. But it is so very difficult to dig yourself out of the well of your own grief and reach for someone else.

Suddenly the man looked up at me, as if just realizing that he was talking to an actual person who was listening.

He looked down again at the photo in his hands and continued. My wife stopped grieving after awhile. She got on with her life. She went back to work. She started running with the dog in the morning. She drove our daughters to lacrosse and modern jazz. She didn’t understand why I couldn’t get up too. She used to become angry with me. Why can’t you get over him? She would yell. Why can’t you see that he’s gone and that we’re left? You have two other children. You have a job. This needs to stop. The man looked at me again, warily this time. Do you have a job?

I nodded. I deliver packages. I drive a truck and I stop and I make people sign for brown boxes or tan envelopes.

The man took this in. Do you enjoy your work? He asked me.

I thought for a moment. Then I answered. I enjoy the people. I watch them. I guess what they’re like, what their names are.

Do you ever get them right?

I don’t know if I do or not.

The man frowned. I would like to know. He unfolded the photograph again and stared at it again. I would like to know.
I saw that he was on the verge of crying. His eyes squinted up and his knees shook a bit. People across the room were beginning to look at us. Not obviously looking, but peering at us every so often over their Newsweeks, as if to warn us that they didn’t want to overhear, but that they would if we spoke any louder. They didn’t want to overhear. They didn’t want a share in the anguish on the man’s face, the bewilderment on mine. They read their magazines.

The man shuddered three more times and was still.

He began to speak again after a few minutes. I realized soon that I could lose my wife as well. That she wouldn’t die, but that she would be just as permanently and irrevocably gone if I didn’t stop missing my son. So I stopped. I had to, you see. I knew if I lost anything else I would disappear completely myself. Everything tying me down would be gone. I would be gone too.

I stretched my legs out across the carpet and arched my back a little bit. I wasn’t bored; I was only sore from sitting so long. He knew I wasn’t bored. Even if I had been, I don’t think he would have stopped. We both knew now that he needed to say these things. We both knew I needed to hear.

He kept talking through my stretch; his gaze wandered down to my brown boots and anchored on to them.

I donated all of my son’s clothes, and cleaned his room. I even took down his posters and painted over his walls with the spring green color my wife picked. The paint erased my son’s smell until I couldn’t breathe in that room anymore. I was about to shut his door behind me for the last time when I spotted the edge of something white sticking out from under the bed.

It was the photograph, wasn’t it?

The man nodded gravely. I had taken it a few weeks before he died. We were driving in my old convertible going west. West like the pioneers, my son had shouted joyfully. While we were stopped at a red light, my son dug the camera out of his backpack and thrust it at me. We were laughing hard, like two teenagers instead of one. My son rested one arm on top of the rolled-down window and leaned back away from me. He grinned the same smile I had seen all his life. My son leaned back into the wind against the highway and grinned while I took the picture.

It was all too much for the man then. He dropped his head into the picture in his hands and sobbed soundlessly. His back rose and fell with each rolling breath, and as I deliberated patting him gingerly on the shoulderblade, I intercepted a few raised eyebrows from across the room. I shot those eyebrows straight back, sending most of the waiters diving back into their Popular Sciences. I wasn’t a big man. I wasn’t even a brave man. Not then. But I knew when things were private. This was between the man, the photograph of his son, and me.

When the man finally calmed down he looked relieved. Now he could finish.

Very slowly he opened the photograph in his hands. I couldn’t quite see it, but I didn’t fail to be amazed at its proximity. I only had to raise my eyes. I didn’t, though. I waited.

He spoke. The last photograph of my son, the one I clung to when my wife wasn’t around, the one that allowed me to keep him and to keep myself together…He trailed off. He wasn’t sure how to end, now that he had begun to end.

He tried again. The last photograph of my son is something I both love and hate. I can’t make myself throw it away, and yet it feels heavy in my pocket. He stopped.

A woman had walked into the waiting room, and was now looking around with a definite air of impatient authority. She called out a name. I didn’t hear, but I guess the man did because he slowly stood and walked towards her with that same worn down gait he had entered on.

I sat back in my chair and looked around the room. The other waiters stared boldly at me now. I dropped my head, all defiance gone. I sat and I thought. I knew this was a story I would remember, not just another observation to drop in my brain like a marble. I wondered if I would ever retell it. I wondered how I would do it. But mostly I wondered how it ended.


How did I know about the photograph in the man’s pocket? Because he told me about it while we waited.

On his way out, the he passed me with only a nod. Thank you, he said quietly, slipping either arm into that inappropriate yellow jacket. I stared, decided.

Yes I must. Sir! I bounded after him past the alarmed waiters. Sir can I please see the photograph of your son?

He looked at me in his watery way, and then seemed to surface. I imagined the last waves breaking around his eyes before receding like the tide. Yes, he replied. Yes of course you can see my son.

Slowly he reached towards his pocket and drew out the creased picture. He handed it to me without unfolding it. Perhaps he thought that by unfolding it himself it would only make it harder. Perhaps he needed me to take it from him, to hold his regret and his pain for a little while.

I unfolded the picture and stared at it for what felt like a long time. I wanted him to feel me take it in. But really it only took me a moment to understand.

As I handed the picture back to him and watched him refold it and set it gently into the same pocket, I listened to him speak the last words he ever said to me. I had a son once, he explained patiently, as if we were starting over, as if we were just meeting each other. I had a son once and he died. I had a son once, and the last photograph I ever took of him captured only his elbow.


I stood and saw the glass door swing shut behind him, watched it forget instantly that such a man had ever passed through.

You know, with people you meet when you’re delivering packages, you can guess. You can assume that a woman is snobbish, or that a man is out of sorts and late for work. You can guess about them, and it never has to bother you if you’re right or if you’re wrong. You can just let your imaginings hang in the air above your head.

Sons and photographs, I have come to realize, are a different matter altogether. With them, you have to wonder your whole life why you didn’t look through the lens before snapping the shutter. You have to wish that you had taken the time to aim, wish that you hadn’t been too captivated by the living, breathing boy to focus on capturing all of him forever.

Eventually, though, you have to know that when you tell the story of your son in a waiting room, when people listen, and when people look at the photograph of your son afterwards, that those waiters see all of him. You have to know that those waiters see all of you too.

Things I Think

I think that sometimes you have bad days, and that those days feel like they drag on forever.
I think that sometimes people are hard to deal with, and that it's important to recognize that they're people too, and that they have their reasons just like everyone else.
I think that children can be as cruel as adults can.
I think that reading is the best way to forget everything, and the best way to remember what's really important.
I think that I'll probably never get the hang of parking.
I think that staring into space is underrated.
I think that being nice is worth a couple of scars.
I think that I'll settle into bed with The Aviator, some letters I have to write, and a comfy blanket, and work on erasing today to make room for tomorrow.
I think that Scarlett was right. Tomorrow is another day.