Un-Travel Logging

I had one of those crazy, I’m-going-to-change-the-world, high school English teachers. Except that she’d been teaching awhile, she clearly no longer had any belief that she was going to change anyone, and had accepted that fact bitterly. The pathetic disillusioned type, who still wanted to pretend they cared.

On the last day of class, after the final, she gave everybody a bookmark. They were the cheap, crappy plastic but laminated kind. Some had tassels through the rough hole punch cut off center at the top. You could tell she had just raided a Hallmark and swiped all the bookmarks without really reading them. She’s had this tradition for years now, and maybe when she started she agonized over every student, matching them with their bookmark soulmate. But not anymore, she was reading some grocery aisle romance novel, one with Fabio on the cover, and pointed to a shoebox full of these bookmarks, and everyone just took one.

Mine was different though, I passed my final in last, I had zoned out about half way through, and it took me awhile to focus. So, I gave her my final, and instead of just pointing to the box, she actually looked through it. Now, I don’t really read, I couldn’t care less about this stupid bookmark. Besides, every single time I try to use one, it falls out. I’m shuffling on my feet, wondering what time it was, and if I was late for lunch at The Commons with everybody. But she’s going to town in the shoe box, like Mary Poppins, head buried arms searching, when she finally comes up she hands me this orange and brown ugly bookmark, and it’s got some pyramids on it, it’s also missing a tassel. I’m just wondering what’s so good about this one, but she was already packed up and leaving, shoebox in hand before I get a chance to ask. It didn’t even have one of those corny over-inspirational quotes, like from Thoreau or Dylan.

A couple years later in college I end up taking a trip to Egypt. And I guess I’ve always been a pessimistic person, but I never realized it. When we take the token trip out to see the pyramids, I’m just dead depressed. They were huge and amazing and all, but on a whole, not that great.

When I got home, I rummaged through all my high school crap and I found the bookmark, it was in my yearbook. I don’t think I’d opened my yearbook since a few weeks after graduation, the spine still creaked, unused to being open. But the pyramids looked a lot nicer on the bookmark than they did in person.

Now, I have a wall covered in bookmarks of places. Some of them are the crappy plastic laminated kind with off center tassels, some of them have cheesy quotes by Whitman or Billy Joel. And I take pictures of me in search of these bookmarks, my anti-photo album on my wall. I don’t know if I should title it or not, Bookmarking Places I’ll Never Be, Reminders of Disappointment, I don’t know, we’ll see. My next quest is a bookmark of Victoria Falls.

Shades of Gray

In eleventh grade, for the school week of my seventeenth birthday in 2004, I wore nothing but black. Black pants, or skirts, long-sleeve shirts and sweaters. Oddly enough a plain black t-shirt has never been part of my wardrobe.

On my birthday, a Tuesday, three of my friends joined me in wearing black, but only one for the rest of the week.

I don’t know why I did it. I said I was mourning my childhood, it would be my last year before entering adulthood. A week or so later I would get a job, at a movie theater, where four years later, I still can get a couple shifts a week if I called.

But mourning my childhood wasn’t really the answer. A week or so before my birthday week I had decided I would only wear black, and planned each days outfit. Why never crossed my mind, I just decided to do it.

When my friends asked me why and my answer was mourning, there was no hesitation, no thinking, just a casual reassured voice. That answer came easily. I thought it was a cool answer, it fit in with who I was at the time, it made sense. Maybe I did believe it then. But now, I don’t know why I wore black, I hope I never do.

In retrospect I can say that I was mourning my friendships. I had five close friends, two were going to college next fall when I still had senior year to go through. One of those two was my best friend since second grade.

The third, a guy, he was alright, a good guy who didn’t know how to move on. He dragged me down. I had to abandon the sinking ship.

Another was a nut job, she was germophobe, who couldn’t touch anyone. Senior year during journalism she would attempt to strangle me with my scarf, just to see how I would react. I didn’t react because I knew she wouldn’t actually kill me.

And the fifth, she was my second best friend. We were destructive for eachother, but like she said, when things were good, they were really good. Before Christmas of that year we would have stopped talking to eachother unless we were fighting.

Maybe all of us did sense things were going to change really quickly. Maybe we were all mourning something.

On my birthday, the Tuesday of that week, the three friends wearing black, and I, were sitting in the den, just hanging out. There was no stereo in the room or tv. The computer on our right side was neglected. We were sitting on a couch, next to eachother, backs to the window, facing a half-wall with the stairs just on the other side of it.

My mom was passing us on her way upstairs. It wasn’t very late, maybe only 8 or so, but in February, it looks as dark as midnight. The inside lights were bright, but not in any good way. It was a harsh yellow color. I remember she paused, giving us a strange look. She asked some question, being a polite, but moved on to her room relatively quickly.

I just think what the four of us must have looked like to her. A college bound tall skinny beanpole, looking even scrawnier in his black jeans and t-shirt, legs stretched out. Next to him the one I would stop talking to by years end, a female epitome of emo in a black skirt and t-shirt in a band’s zip-up hoodie, making her larger figure look slimmer, and dyed black hair. Me, on the verge of tears, with long tendtrils of hair covering my face, in black dress pants and sleeveless turtleneck sweater, leaning against the one guy who could still pass as normal in black jeans and a black microfiber t-shirt and boots, he didn’t look as destructive as he ended up being. All of us, just lounging on a rickety rattan couch.

I still wonder what she was thinking, seeing this line of black, in various shades, from faded to midnight, taking over her den.

Ashes to Ashes

            Death was supposed to be sad. This one was not, the funeral had been a quiet affair, just the family, but the reception after was a celebration of Daniel’s life. Despite the relief of Daniel’s passing last week after 3 years of fighting cancer, Anita hadn’t had to do a single thing. She didn’t cook, clean or need to make the arrangements. But now, she was left alone in the house, the kids having to go back to their own lives. Just Anita, and the vestiges of Daniel’s pain.

His mahogany desk was shining, habits die hard, not that she ever tried to stop. Every night for 58 years she had tidied his office, dusting desk and shelves, sweeping the floor, lastly pushing in his desk chair. Her routine would change for no one. Next to his books, Nietsche, Freud, Jung, Sophocles, among others, were his pill bottles, mostly empty. With the back of her hand she swiped them into the trash-bag, while her eyes rested fondly on the books.

The long hours he spent reading in his worn maroon leather chair; an inheritance from his uncle when Daniel was 25, just starting his practice. The chair was as far away as possibly from the desk, beside the one window in the room. He had always complained he felt like he was in a box, a prison where the window looked out to freedom. But he wouldn’t change for anything, it may have been the only window, but it had the best view in the house, unobstructed look at the ocean beyond. Years ago, his boat would have been in the bay, but it was in storage now.

Even though he hadn’t worked or read in his study much for the past few months, he still liked to sit there. Opposite the window was a print of Munch’s “The Scream,” Daniel would chuckle at it every time his eye caught on it, even if he didn’t do anything else when sitting a small grin played on his thin tired lips. She shut off the light, not allowing her eyes to linger on the typewriter. It too was from his Uncles study. None were allowed to touch it. Daniel alone painstakingly dusted, polished and oiled it. And now the dust was beginning to settle.

Blackout

“Where were you last night!” She demands from the doorway, wanting to yell more than know the answer. Ignore her, turn around, and cover head with the blankets, nestle deeper into the warmth. Good question, where was I last night? But there’s no way those words will be spoken aloud.

“Well?” The grating high pitch sound continues, this time with an actual questioning tone. Without looking, her image is visible. Stout, but not fat, heavy from too much worry. Slippers missing tufts of blue fuzz. A rough faded cotton bathrobe. Red hair with more than its share of grey at her age. Forget all that, curl into a ball and close eyes tighter. Having only got in an hour ago, sleep is highly desirable.

Her heavy step treads into this room. But theres no energy left to scream at her for once. She halts after a few steps.

Where was I last night? The thought still plagues the mind. After somehow getting to the bathroom, the only sight is an ugly mess of smeared makeup in the mirror. Legs and shoulders are burning, and there are bruises decorating the torso. Where the hell were you? The conscience can’t help but ask. After the second bar, the events of last night are gone. Not a damn thing can be remembered. Well, at least this time no shit-faced god awful ugly is in the bed. Sneers the loud conscience.

F.C.

Three years of chain-smoking, sleepless, nightmare filled, vision of death nights, and now that his son was back home, all Jeff wanted to do was punch him in his recklessly grinning face.

“Where the fuck have you been?” or “Why are you here?” even “Get the hell out!” were words stuffing his head. But no, instead, he opened the door and stepped aside. Still wanting to punch him in the face, Jeff shook his head clear and asked, “How was your trip?”

Mike’s defined and stubbly face broke into an actual smile, “Man! Dad, I knew you’d get it!” He dropped his worn rucksack on the floor as his younger sister gaped in the hallway, disbelieving he was there.

Closing the door he watched Jessica and Kevin surround their older brother: ecstatic, and even venerating. No, Jeff did not see his son in the man stuffing the hallway. Unable to change a tire, his son was a 17-year-old dumbass. A kid who couldn’t grow a mustache to save his life…but here was a man who had toughed it out, not once asking for help from home for three years, and looked the better for it. Broad shouldered and solid, clear eyed and clever.

Her shadow announced her presence before she did. Eilene forced a smile on her silicone face, “Oh, Michael. It’s wonderful to have you home.”

Mike turned around to face her, coldly civil he answered, “It’s nice to be home, Eilene.”

Jeff didn’t want to fight again, especially not now. Picking up the bag from the floor he headed up the stairs past his wife, “Come on Mike.”

Loafers and work boots walked down the hardwood hallway.

Opening the last door on the left Jeff told him with a grin, “I kept your room away from Eilene, its basically still the same.”

Mike chuckled as he stepped into his old room. Awkward, Jeff cleared his throat, “Dinner is probably going to be ready in a few hours.”

“Wait, Dad! I, uh, got something for you.” Rummaging through his bag, and flushed red Mike handed his father a small box. “You don’t have to open it now.” he blurted out.

Jeff walked downstairs, past Kevin, standing just outside Mike’s door, too nervous to go in. Past the living room where his second wife Eilene, was watching TV. Past the kitchen where Jess was chopping vegetable for dinner. And stopped at his office.

He didn’t use it as an office, not much anyway, resigned to the fact that he was going to be stuck in the records department of the law firm he had been at for years. My god, he thought, a lawfirm, how did I end up here? But still, it was his office: escape from the divorce arguments with his abrasive wife.

He sat back in his computer chair and opened the box. Cuff links. His eyes widened. Polished white gold. His hand shook as he picked one up, then the other. Simple engraving, FC. Francis Conrad.

1969, when he was 20 and hopeful. March 1969 in California singing Hey Jude with his friends that were still alive, not in jail, not in Vietnam. April 7, no one left to get a ride with. April 7, no money, no food for the past couple days. April 7 when he sold his great grandfather’s cufflinks for bread.