Wonder

Is today a good day to commit-you-know-what?

That was a question that I often
wondered about, in the morning, when I’d wake up. In English class when I’d drift
away from learning the next Shakespearean tragedy. At the dinner table, when
I’d be passing around the unsweetened tea, surrounded by the people that say
they love me. At night, when I’m all alone in the blanket of the dark because
something in my head, something in my heart, something in my stomach, for
whatever reason, refuses to shut off and allow me to sleep.  

Today is not the day, is what I
learned to convince myself.

        Not today.

        Not tomorrow.

        Not ever.

Just like the beginning of one of my
favorite novels, I am sitting in Dr. T’s office. Her real name is Tachimowicz
or something, but she said it’s easier to just use the first letter with last
names longer than seven letters. Anyway, she’s my therapist. Even though she
always tells me what kind she is, I don’t really care to remember. I like her
for the most part because she resembles one of my favorite actresses, with her
enormous eyes and her long and curly, black hair. Anyway, I’m sitting in the
ugliest red chair and staring at perhaps the ugliest broken clock that was ever
manufactured. Here’s the crazy thing about broken clocks: you will always tell
exactly when they stopped tick-tock-ticking. With people, it isn’t that simple
and often times you will never be able to tell they are broken. Unless you are
the broken one, is what I explained to my therapist. Dr. T is trying to get me
to see past the truth. Past the shame. Past everything I thought would define
me. And I hope it’s working. In the beginning of everything, there was a series
of miracles that lead to the creation of hundreds and hundreds of galaxies. All
about in the world blossomed more miracles. They were just beautiful. And then
the people came along—I came along, and learned about tragedies.

        Hello.

        Lovely.

        World.

        I came face to face with Death. Maybe
you know him.

        I chose to stay and you should too.

        I know you are a living, breathing,
thinking, and feeling question.

        But suicide is not an answer.

        And it never will be.

        Trust me. I know first hand.

        I am sad and you might be too.

        I am lost and you might be too.

        I chose to be a warrior and you already
are one.

Someone in this world wants you and
needs you and can’t go on without you.

        The sky and the stars love you.

        I love you.

     —————————————————————————-

Now, I still wonder what it would be
like if I just disappeared (I’d still be alive). I remember my parents talking
about a family friend’s girlfriend that went missing and everyone gave up
everything and spent forever looking for her. They looked tirelessly and it all
appeared to be a senseless, speechless, issueless misery. I wonder what would
happen if I did the same. Just took off, never to r­eturn, without leaving any
trace of my whereabouts, while running as fast as possible and as far away as
possible. I’d run so far that no one would know who I was anymore.

        Some days, when I’m listening to my 80s
rock music, I read my copy of Complete
Works of Samuel Beckett and I think about life being beautifully pointless.
I think about all the human beings in the world and how we are all, uniquely, comprised
of tiny little miracles and pretty big tragedies. The worst part of our
existence is that our miracles are measured in seconds and our tragedies are
measured in days, months, and years—or if you’re one of the unluckiest of the
unlucky—a lifetime.

Sometimes I think that the people
standing in the meat aisle of the grocery store and picking their wedgies, the
people picking their noses on public transportation, and the people that wear
their underwear inside-out, especially that person at the party that drinks
relentlessly, could be only moments from a disaster. However, every time the song
Don’t Stop Believing by Journey plays
on my radio, I think about all of the tiny little miracles that can change
everything and define us—all the things that links us together. Everyone’s
life, no matter how undistinguished, has an invigorating moment when it will
change by extraordinary means, either good or bad—a single encounter after
which everything that really matters will happen and everything will become
clear and it’ll make you want to stay. Oh. God. You. Will. Stay.

        The week before we started eighth grade
at Cedar Park Middle School, my best friend and partner-in-crime, Nat, came
down with the world’s worst case of disaster, when his ex-girlfriend—Angie
Holdeman released a private photo of his penis wearing a sailors hat to half
the school. His tragedies overpowered his miracles by a landslide in
arm-wrestling, is they way we looked at it.

        Nat’s
greatest fear, back then, was for someone to approach him and ask if he was the
sailing penis guy. Later, Nat learned that it wasn’t so bad—at least people
would know he wasn’t lacking down below.

We were both peculiarly radical
about Beer-Pong that summer, playing it intensely and barefoot in his basement
and in his backyard with a desire to achieve some sort of worldly recognized
championship. I should probably point out that we rarely used beer when we
played Beer-Pong. Most of the time, especially all of the times when our
parents were near, we used soda. All kinds of soda and all flavors, we’d mix
them and that’d contribute somehow to the amount of fun we were having. Nat,
however, was always the better player. The thing with him: he’s good with his
arms. The thing with me: I am good with my legs. So, you see my disadvantage.
Nat’s parents forced him into tennis, where he won several trophies and medals
for outstandingly hitting flying balls across a line. He’d been taking private
lessons ever since he could chew solid big-person
food and no longer needed mashed up baby
food. I, on the other hand, was given a choice between soccer and tennis and I chose
to do soccer. I remember when I’d always get caught stealing cookies from
Grandma’s kitchen when I was younger and how I’d run so fast, when I heard
someone coming. I felt these moments contributed to my ego. I thought I was the
world’s fastest runner and thus was destined to run and there you have it.
That’s why I chose soccer.

        I forgot to mention that, out of
friendship, Nat let me win Beer-Pong on many occasions. He denies that he does
so every time, but it’s obvious. No one, in the history of Beer-Pong, hits the
ball in the direction his or her face is in. Well, of course, except for my
best friend Nathaniel Ray Smith or just “Nat,” is what he prefers to be called.
Anyway, secretly, while we were practicing and preparing for our imaginary
Beer-Pong World Championship and hopefully getting the first place trophy, I
was thinking about fifty reasons losing is better than winning. I practiced a
hardcore trial of resentment towards everyone’s belief that winning is better
than losing and it is somehow worth more in the world and in our lives.

        Yes, it’s true, and everyone would
agree that Nat and I are two magnets never to be repelled. He is like an open
book. I am closed. He’s a clean, see-through window. I am foggy and tinted.
He’s the sun. I’m the moon. But, we were both
clichés. We were the kind of best friends that were more like brothers that we
never actually had, since we both were the only children. We never really liked
to hang out with other boys our age. We always preferred older, since they
could get us beer for Beer-Pong. The coolest thing about Nat and I: we share
the same birthday of July 17th. That same year, Nat’s mother mailed out Great Gatsby-themed birthday party
invitations. She drove up to the school and passed out three dozens worth of
invitations to random people in the school, in hopes that we would be able to
socialize more. Little did she know, we absolutely hate socializing with the
outsiders. To us, outsiders are all of those phony, popular, paper people that
make up roughly 99.9 percent of Cedar Park’s student population. The only good
thing about that summer was that, on the last Thursday of vacation, she took
all of us to Six Flags Great America in the world’s smallest station wagon
that, on the inside, looked like a junk yard.

Since, we lived in Jacksonville, Florida going
to Illinois felt like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Unfortunately, this
also meant that we didn’t know which rides were good and which were bad. We
didn’t know which food booths would make you sick and which would make you not
sick. Nat’s mom, Mrs. Smith, who prefers to be just called Jeanine, insisted
that we ride the Goliath and then eat at the Tina Taco Tiki Hut. In my opinion:
worst decision to ever be made. Mainly because I don’t particularly have an
affinity for rides that go upside-down and mainly because I didn’t like knowing
that the Goliath is the planet’s tallest, steepest, and fastest wooden roller
coaster. When we made our way near the kiddy rides, Jeanine then insisted that
we all get our money’s worth and ride them as well and If you were there, you’d
know that, collectively, it seemed like she’d just told us to get a snow cone
from the snow cone man walking around and smash it on our skin. It was that hot. I think I recall Jeanine saying
it was in the late 80s.

Our last ride wasn’t actually a
kiddy ride—well I hoped it wasn’t—it was the Raging Bull. Nat and I chose to
sit in the back. Nat and I still regret making that choice. Everyone who’s ever
sat in the back of a roller coaster knows that the back is the worst possible
choice for people with 1) urges to vomit, 2) anxiety, 3) fear of roller
coasters, 4) heart problems, and 5) cute girls sitting in front of them. It
certainly didn’t help that Nat and I both have urges to vomit, anxiety, a fear
of roller coasters, and self-diagnosed heart problems. Poor cute girls. Jeanine
decided to sit in the first row, which to her meant the full thrill. It appears
I remember that day vividly because of all the disasters that happened that
day. I’m just glad Nat and I didn’t wind up separated by the stampede of Six
Flags Great America visitors.

Following that adventure, the next
summer, we went to see the world’s largest balls. Since my parents were always
busy, they didn’t get to come with Nat, Jeanine, and me to see them. Nat and I let
three others from school come with us: Jaz Rutter, Luke Fairfield, who had been
too old for our grade, and Alex James (the kid who had won Cedar Park Middle
School’s best bow-tie collection for all three years). It was a tight squeeze,
but we all fit compactly in the same small, magenta station wagon.

When I arrived and saw all the
different balls, for the first time, I was mesmerized. Our first stop was
Cawker City, Kansas where we saw the world’s largest ball of twine. I was
really shocked that the tour guide person, who said he went by Jim, hadn’t
actually checked the weight. He lifted up a piece of cardboard and read: over
5,000 pounds. That’s a really big ball, is what I told myself. That’s a really,
REALLY, big ball, is what Jim echoed.

After six hours of driving, our next
stop was Sac City, Iowa to see the world’s largest ball of popcorn. Who doesn’t
like popcorn? Well, maybe that lady from the show My Strange Addiction that went to the movie theater with her three
kids and began eating foam peanuts, instead of popcorn. She made it clear
popcorn was really, really disgusting. I’m sure she needed a visit to the Dr. Oz Show. Anyway, apparently the
world’s largest ball of popcorn is perhaps one of the only balls that is made
to be edible but isn’t edible. Nat and I were curious as to why the ball was
still perfectly intact and why there weren’t any teeth imprints in it, so we
tried to reach out and take a big mouthful, before Jeanine, with help from the
security, told us that it was illegal to do so. I don’t know about you, but
living in a world where eating popcorn is illegal is extremely appalling. As it
turns out, all of the world’s largest balls were protected under the law
somehow.

Our last stop was Louisville, Kentucky,
home of the world’s largest ball of tape, which to Nat wasn’t as exciting as
twine or popcorn. It wasn’t until we saw the ball of tape that I’d realized
that all of the world’s largest balls were right here in America. Also, it
wasn’t until we saw the ball of tape that I’d realized that there was a sign
for all of the balls that said DO NOT TOUCH and DO NOT STAND WITHIN A FOOT NEAR
THE WORLD’S LARGEST BALL OF [INSERT MATERIAL HERE]. Those signs had been
extremely unnoticeable and useless after all. One particular sign, at the
world’s largest ball of tape, said something peculiar like: NO FOOD OR DRINK
ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT. There was this family standing in front of us. They
were Iranian tourists: a mother and father, and two little boys with soda hats
that had their names embellished on the backs: Azar and Muhammad. They looked
funny and they talked funny and they smelled kind of funny, but they were the
kindest people I’d ever met. The tour guide was telling us about the ball of
tape and how it was made and how it ended up where it did and all that good
stuff when one of the little boys jumped up, shaking the soda up in his hat and
tripped. There was soda flying everywhere and it apparently got all over the
world’s largest ball of tape. Note to little Azar: Congratulations! You have
made history. The world’s largest ball of tape had endured the tragedy of
becoming the world’s largest ball of tape drenched in soda. Anyway, everyone
there got really pissed and wanted to beat the poor little kid’s ass. The news
report said that an eleven-year-old boy named Azar Kamran from Iran was
arrested and was ordered to pay one million dollars to replace the ball of
tape. They take their balls seriously in Kentucky—no joke.

Believe it or not, Nat and I and some
others from school witnessed our first assassination on our way back home. We’d
stopped at a gas station about halfway to Knoxville. We’d got out the station
wagon for some fresh air, since the inside smelled of old gym socks and stained
farts. There was a guy that was kneeling down in front of about five people
wearing all white. They had white robes and white hoods and you could only see
their eyes and their mouths. The guy kneeling down was crying; I guess he’d
just had his fair share of disasters.

One of the guys wearing a white robe
pulled a long machete out from behind and sliced the guys head off. True story.
That’s not even the part that scarred us all. The worst part was that the poor
guy’s severed head flew backward and landed right in the hands of Luke
Fairfield. Out of pure shock, Luke held on to the head as the blood ran through
his fingers chilling him. When he noticed that the eyes looked back at him, he
threw the head on the ground, afraid and we all shimmied back into the wagon,
never to speak of this again, not even to Jeanine who, being the adult and most
sensible one, would have been obligated to dial 9-1-1. For the rest of the ride
home, we didn’t hear a peep from Luke Fairfield.

Unlucky for Luke Fairfield, who is
now the school’s best and most popular basketball player, this story has never
died. I find it important to mention that Luke Fairfield is popular for two
reasons: 1) He has a killer jumper. 2) He held a severed head—a trophy head
(ha!). I think anybody that meets those two requirements deserves one of those
presidential medals or something. To make things better for him, Luke has
changed the severed head story into a joke. Now, when someone asks him about
it, he pretends that he’s in this secret gang that can get rid of you overnight.
It’s a scary thought. There’s not enough grace or Memory-Be-Gone Serum in the
world to escape his past, to escape the moment that shaped the rest of his
life. Maybe for Luke, that moment was his tragedy, and it all started with a
tiny miracle of being able to go and see some of the world’s largest balls and
another tiny miracle of being at the right place at the wrong time. It sucks
that Luke, ever since, has lived in a dismal recurrence of what had happened
that night at that gas station halfway to Knoxville, that one summer. Since
then, Luke has never asked to hang with Nat and I. And he hadn’t spoke to us,
looked at us, or in any other way acknowledged our existence. I guess the
rumors were true. Once you go popular, you never go back.

I must point out that I am grateful
that I haven’t had a tragedy as big as the people around me, especially one
like Luke Fairfield. That could have easily been me, the one holding the
severed head that night. I mean, I was standing right next to him. It could’ve
been me, if the little voice inside my head randomly decided to make me swap
places with Luke. That severed head could’ve sent me into a great depression or
into oblivion, instead of Luke. It was now his great undoing.

I just thought of something. Our
friendship was also decapitated and unfortunately, it died rather abruptly. So,
when my ex-girlfriends would ask me, “Hey, aren’t you friends with that guy
that saw the KKK decapitate someone?” I’d answer, “Yes! He’s my friend.” My
response was always the same. It was a lie, but a lie worth being told to
myself. I made up in my mind that we were no longer friends. Actually, I couldn’t
remember actually being friends with him anymore—maybe we were never friends,
just in our heads we were.

I feel sorry for Luke Fairfield.
He’s had to live in his tragedy since the eighth grade and that sounds
depressing as hell. He’s still swimming, reluctantly, in his past. He has lived
statically. I have lived happily. He remained impassively in his tragedy’s
aftermath. I managed to escape his
impassivity relatively untouched.

I wondered what my tragedy would be
like.

I wondered how long it would take me
to get through it.

I wondered whom it involved.

I wondered when it would finally hit me.

I wondered…

Wonder…