In Pursuit of Something Great

Entry one - March 2021

Sometimes when it all feels too much, I drive through the winding roads of town. It puts me in the same headspace as would floating down a lazy river, of which all of the other cars are just water flowing around me. I probably look quite pensive when I do this, and I don’t mind appearing that way to the familiar faces who are graced by the subtle touch of eye contact with me during these endeavours. I’ve come to realize I have one of those once-in-a-generation minds, and so it comes to me as no surprise that life can seem daunting and impossible. Teddy Roosevelt is my favorite president because he was gregarious yet brilliant (sound familiar?) but he’d leave to go hunting when things got to be too much for him. All these people would flock to be in his orbit, to listen to his ideas and follow his directives. That’s exactly the position I hold in society, albeit on a significantly smaller scale, for the time being.

The suburbs of southwestern Connecticut are overabundant and suffocating, and sometimes I wish I could be anywhere else. But I get enjoyment out of spectating the moms in their Teslas, looking like victims of a botched plastic surgery riding in the automotive equivalent of a Peloton bike. And despite the fact that there are too many people here, and that I will most-certainly be one of those who gets away and never comes back, I’d be remiss to not mention the serenity of existing here beneath the seemingly infinite canopy of trees. It isn’t hard to imagine yourself trekking through this rainforest, maybe discovering a poison-dart-frog or a coveted cocoa bean or something.

I decided yesterday that I should start maintaining a journal of some sort, because this time in my life is just too important. What I mean by that is when Stevie Nicks was 16 years old she wrote “Landslide”, but imagine if she had just played it once and never wrote it down. I’d hate to deprive the world of its next landslide because I forgot to record it. I know I’m on the brink of something that will redefine the way people observe their existence— I can feel it. I can’t tell if it’s a story, or maybe a philosophy— I may have to consult some minds to milk it out. Regardless, it’s coming and I want to be ready for it. Perhaps someday this journal will be the basis for a documentary about my profound journey of mining the diamond in my mind that changes the world. I could solve global warming, invent a pill that stops addicts from wanting to smoke or drink or shoot up… the possibilities are limitless. I may not know anything about science, but that isn’t important. I have the kind of mind that can come up with the concept, and then some brilliant nerd from M.I.T. can fret over the details at a later date. I doubt Alexander Graham-Bell actually conceived the idea of telecommunication; one of his peers, probably a visionary like-minded to myself, talked about it theoretically. And then good old AGB just figured it out. The world needs more partnerships like that.

No, I don’t think my confidence is in any way detrimental to my mission. I know too many people who are weighed down by their lack of it to think otherwise. Where would Derek Jeter be if he’d left his High School baseball team to pursue a more practical career in human resources? I am basically Derek Jeter, Teddy Roosevelt, Alexander Graham-Bell’s best friend and Stevie Nicks, wrapped up into one ambiguous burrito. I could probably start at shortstop for the New York Yankees or become the youngest president in history, but that would mean “Landslide” is never released. For most, this vast buffet of options would be something to celebrate. But I have a duty to choose the right entree. Emotionally-cognizant people of all genders and age groups wouldn’t have a go-to soundtrack for crying their eyes out under the covers of their bed during the small hours of a Saturday morning. So before I graduate High School, the objective that has presented itself to me is to figure out which path I should take, to make the greatest possible contribution to mankind. Ideally, I’d be something of a Jefferson: architect, botanist, scientist, writer, reader, art curator, diplomat, governor, president. This way, all facets of my remarkable brain could be stimulated and I could offer the greatest variety of my talent to the world. But it isn’t the late 1700s anymore; there are nearly eight billion people on this planet. It’s quite sad to consider how someone like Jefferson may not have been able to accomplish much in this day in age. Surely, his debt would’ve taken him down and he would’ve turned to becoming the most overqualified art curator in history.

So I take to the road, a few times a week, overwhelmed by the stellar future I’ve made possible for myself, and ponder all these routes. I’m quite fortunate to be as aware as I am about all of this, because if I wasn’t, I’d probably just pick whichever college had the prettiest campus and do something I would enjoy like creative writing or english. But because I’m sentient, I’m present enough to realize how important it is to the world that I pick the right path, because I know the consequences of fucking this up could be apocalyptic in magnitude. I see the cars that drive by as omens; the heinous future of being a plastic Tesla mom, which in a biological sense would be an impossible outcome for me, but still taken as a dastardly reminder. Maybe: the cravenly man driving his children to soccer practice in a hideous Suburban, essentially an obligatory vehicle in Connecticut if you have more than four kids. And I wonder which car hasn’t yet been imagined, and how impeccable I’m going to look being the first person to drive it.

Entry two - March 2021

Something that has had me stumped as of late is my inability to connect with impressive people. Being one myself, I’ve always had an unconfirmed understanding that like-minded people congregate, forging a remarkable circle capable of brilliant discourse. Instead, I have Jerry, who is my “best-friend”, if you can even call it that, but it’s more like I’m his best friend and he is one of my henchmen. Jerry is always trying to please me, laughing at everything I say, reacting to each and every anecdote I supply with an unshakably irritating disbelief. Hanging out with Jerry makes me feel like I’m Steve Martin on a good day, and he, my audience, lived in a Russian basement for the first 15 years of his life deprived of anything funny or interesting. Every time Jerry opens his mouth, I can actually visualize the death of an angel. But where would Count Olaf be without his handymen? (That is a rhetorical question because Count Olaf doesn’t get anywhere).

Yesterday, Jerry went on a petulant diatribe about how he wished he had a girlfriend, or at the very least, how he “longs to secure a female companion”. I wonder if God ever made Aristotle put up with stuff like this. Jerry looks like if you dropped a stork in hydrofluoric acid and stuck googly-eyes on it. But besides the obvious fact that no girl would be stupid enough to be fooled by the unfortunate genes he received from relatives who make an unconvincing case for actually being members of the human race, I reminded Jerry that it was much more important that I be priority number one regarding such things. As the trailblazer in all facets of life concerning both Jerry and myself, it is essential to our fastidious brand of success that I be the one to first intrepidly face the music. Thus, Jerry and I can rendezvous at a later date to parse over the intricacies and figure out a better way to go about things in the future. Jerry agreed to be relegated to the back of the queue.

But the truly obvious thing, the more I thought of it, was the fact that to secure an impressive girl, you had to be impressive yourself. And to be impressive, it helps to have impressive friends. That’s like step one, actually. So as Jerry and I discussed this new development earlier today on the phone, I told him it definitely wasn’t how I thought our friendship would end. I could have proceeded to list off any number of ways I had already entertained, like Jerry pooping his pants at my birthday party or attempting to seduce my mother, but I decided to withhold for Jerry’s sake. I heard muffled sniffling from the other end of the phone as I hung up the landline. Incidentally, all telephone discussions between Jerry and I occur over landline, due to many incidents from years prior where Jerry used the privilege of having my cell phone number for evil.

Now that I’m disengaged from Jerry, I suspect my mission that I talked about last time will present itself rather soon. Jerry is a parasite and he must be stopped. It’s not that I never liked Jerry, it’s just that I’ve always had little respect for him. The way being my number-two went straight to his head is an appalling example of the human condition: selfish, conceited and egotistical.

Similar to my realization about how I needed to take two lake-sized steps away from Jerry to find more interesting friends, I realized that in order to make sure my mission is seen through, I have to treat any potential projects the same way. There’s no way to write a great song by intending to, or become a genius because you’re looking to become one, so there’s no way for me to find out what my mission even is if I keep getting distracted by all these shiny little objects. Sure, it would be great to write a really good song and become famous, or eradicate climate change single-handedly and become the most beloved person of all time. But doing something won’t change my life. Doing anything is impossible, because of the fact that I am so clearly capable of doing just about anything. What I need is a life where I can do everything. My ambition is my greatest strength, but it leads to a scattered mind and scattered minds never see things through. So, my plan is to simply change the way I live my entire life. Fundamentally, my life consists of school, transporting myself between various activities, and hanging out with Jerry. However, with the dismissal of Jerry, I’ve opened up plenty of time for character building activities. If I were to incorporate writing, hiking, perhaps even dating, among various other cool things into that schedule, I’d be prime for an upgrade. They say, “you are what you eat.” In fact, my father frequently says to me, “Alex, do you want to become a donut? No? Then why are you eating one?” And I wonder how he could have possibly taken that so literally, until I realize it adds up since he has become a total pussy.

Starting tomorrow, I will be what I do. And what I do will be talking to and befriending interesting and impressive people. And, eventually, the world will see me for what I already am: interesting and impressive. But that is tomorrow. Tonight I am tired.

Entry three - Still March, 2021

High School has been compared to many things by many people, but to me the most adequate comparison is that of the African safari. Diverse shoals of all different species roaming aimlessly, given confidence only by the fact that they have their fellow pack members to roam with. Walking into school this morning was the first time I’ve ever come in without Jerry, who used to wait for me outside my house, ready with my morning coffee and breakfast sandwich. As I walked in through the double doors, which is like descending down from the heaven-like plane I normally exist upon to dawdle with the proletariat, I felt equally the absence of Jerry as I did the absence of the food and coffee Jerry normally supplied me with. Jerry, like food, is exploited for the energy of others. Changing your life requires changes to who is in your life, yet despite the fact that I knew this to be true, I was still tempted to track him down and inquire about my breakfast and whether he’d maybe procured it out of habit.

After a bit of meandering through the watering hole and its tightly-woven packs of animals, I caught a glimpse of Jerry carrying a bagel and coffee, looking unsure of himself. Upon seeing his embarrassing gait, I felt reassured in my decision. The urge to reach out to him ceased to exist immediately. Obviously, Jerry hadn’t yet spotted me, because if he had, those things in his hand would have been on their way down my throat and then maybe my stomach would’ve stopped churning and I could make some normal friends. But Jerry must be stopped— this must never be forgotten. If Jerry was up to bat in a tie game in the bottom of the ninth with 3 balls and 0 strikes, the bases loaded and no outs, he would swing the bat and hit the umpire in the exposed little crack of the neck, and the entire team would be kicked out of the league. The team loses when Jerry is put in a position like that— and Jerry loses because that’s just what Jerry does.

Jerry was still scanning the crowd for a sign of me, about to walk down the stairs to the library where we’d sometimes go before first period, when it happened. It’s still unclear if Jerry was tripped by a giraffe (tall jock) or did so completely out of his own spastic volition, but in the blink of an eye, Jerry went from standing upright atop the stairs to facedown in a pool of blood beneath them. A collective gasp left the mouths of the hundreds of spectators as the lively hum of morning conversation died out instantaneously. People rushed forward to see if Jerry was okay. I caught a glimpse of the bacon-egg-and-cheese strewn across the floor and wondered if I might reassemble it— the coffee was most definitely a lost cause. Never before had Jerry received this much attention. It was quite fitting that he wasn’t really even there to enjoy it.

Similar to how Jerry soared down the stairs so quickly that at the time I felt that I’d barely even seen it happen, the rest of the day happened before I had a chance to participate in it thoughtfully. But thinking back, I can see Jerry’s entire descent; the coffee leaving his hand as his brown hair waved in the air like he was on the back of a motorcycle. His head hit the ground with an almost cartoonish thud. That poor bagel, now just an inedible heap of calories next to the crime scene. I see the whole thing play in my head everytime I close my eyes, like a highlight reel gone haywire.

The whole day was basically just a procession of different people who usually never even look at me, offering their condolences and acting like they were my best friend. I realized, as his final offering, Jerry gave me the greatest gift of all; he made me interesting. Nobody needed to know that I had, just yesterday, eliminated him from my life… It was unimportant, rather anecdotal information. Jerry and I, after all, were friends every single day of both of our lives until yesterday. Therefore the statistics back-up my decision to choose to withhold the information of our break-up from those who talked to me about his condition.

During lunch, I received a phone call from Jerry’s mom that Jerry was comatose and in critical condition. I was with my other friends, Jake and Sam, at the time, and the information quickly spread. Soon, I was essentially the widow at her husband’s funeral. The Quarterback of the football team, Ben Keller, asked if I wanted to hang out with them after school. I took the opportunity to play it cool, and let Ben know how much I had going on.

Incidentally, all the way up through Middle School, Jerry and I were inseparable with a girl named Margaret Woods. Margaret “got hot” around eighth grade, and we started seeing less of her until we didn’t see her at all. Nowadays, I’m lucky to get a smile from her in passing. She hangs out with some of the popular kids and goes to parties and stuff like that— things I would have certainly been doing all this time had I not been tied down to Jerry all these years. Much to my surprise, Margaret came to sit with me in the library during my free period, and we talked for a little bit. She monologued existentially about the ephemeral quality of life, about how every time she sees me or Jerry, or even Sam or Jake, she wants to hang out with us instead of her other friends who “bore” her “to death”. She’d been wanting to change that for a while, but didn’t really know how she could go back. “I don’t care about how anymore… I just need to do it.”

She wanted to go visit Jerry in the hospital after school, and I told her he wouldn’t even know because he’s in a coma. I suggested Jerry would be content to simply find out that the two of us had been reunited by his heartbreaking fortune. Margaret agreed, and so we decided to hang out after school. I told her to meet me at my car in the Senior parking lot.

The last two periods passed like the rest of the day, only this time I was almost sweating thinking about what to do with Margaret Woods. I didn’t want to get immediately written-off into the friend-zone, because years had passed and I’d become interesting (thanks Jerry). Therefore, momentum was in my corner so it was important that I play this with intention right off-the-bat.

I sat in my car for a beat waiting for her, queueing the most impressive songs I could think of. When she finally entered my line of sight, I felt my stomach drop and I’m sure my face turned red. But things went really well. She liked the music, said my car was “sexy”, and she grabbed my hand and held it until we got to the restaurant, kneading my palm with her thumb. She spent the whole time talking about how everyone in school was rooting for Jerry, and how they all really felt for me. It was because of this that I felt unsure if there was any romantic intention behind the gesture. Intuition says sympathy can play a confusing role in these types of situations, and I surely didn’t want her to think she was just a shoulder.

Once we got there, I got a sandwich and she a salad, and we talked like old friends. No time had passed. But that wasn’t true, because well not much had happened for me, clearly quite a bit had happened for her. She told me about her parents divorce, how her Dad had moved to Massachussets (yuck) and gotten remarried. She told me about how she dated Ben Keller, which made her feel like a Queen of something. But he turned out to be rather uninteresting, caring only about football and his reputation and going to parties, plus she didn’t like all the attention. It didn’t work out but they were still friends. 

She told me she had thought about me often, and she thought I’d grown up handsome. I told her that I was on the brink of something great… or at least in pursuit of it. She said she knew how I felt, and that she’d felt that way all throughout High School but never knew where to start. I agreed. I paid and then drove her back to school where her car was. She held my hand again the whole way back.

Once we got there, I wanted to do something. Looking up at her was almost intimidating, with her blonde hair and green eyes and the same foundation of a face she had a few years ago when we were friends, but now with a more mature cadence and a lively glow. She looked back and I wondered what she might be thinking. I took a deep breath and kissed her, and she kissed back, and it went on like that. Back and forth, visceral and timeless and also utterly fleeting. And she said, “I want to see you again.” And I agreed. And now I’m home, and I think my first day of being impressive and interesting went better than I ever could have expected.

Entry four - April 2021

It’s been about ten days since Jerry, literally, slipped into oblivion. Apparently, when he landed at the bottom of the staircase, not only did his skull crack in two places, not only did his brain shake violently within that damaged container, but he landed flat on his body and incurred a collapsed lung. I could definitely take this opportunity to admit that something like this was bound to happen, what with Jerry’s unconstrained ability to repeatedly fail in the grandest ways imaginable, but I won’t. Over the years I have been a spectator, often aghast, to Jerry’s unteachable natural talent in the fine arts of falling over obstacles. But this time, it was his own shoelace that did the trick.

There were discussions around school for a while about whether or not one of the jocks was responsible, particularly Scott Jordan who had been standing right there when it happened. As the face of the Jerry movement, I received countless inquiries on the subject. As was prudent to the situation, I spoke like a politician: “We’ll have to wait until the corresponding CCTV tapes are released to the student body, but as of this moment, I see no reason to double down on hearsay. We all know what Jerry is capable of.”

I find it rather disappointing that schools do not poll student figures. A public High School is the perfect microcosm of the larger political landscape— not only are all demographics of class represented within not only wealth guidelines, but social tiers are too, given the prevalence of “popularity”. I think it’s safe to say my popularity numbers have soared to heights far greater than even Jerry’s.

With things going so well at school, there was bound to be a downside. My parents cannot shut up about Jerry. My Mom goes to visit him at the hospital twice a day, buying him things and leaving them on the desk next to his bed. Yesterday, she took a selfie with him and sent it to me right before I had a History test, saying “Jerry and I know you’re gonna’ kill it, cool guy!” Seeing Jerry’s yellowing, dying face did little to boost my performance, especially since I hadn’t studied anyway.

I’m not sure why she keeps going down there, because everyday a new follicle of despondence collects in her eyes and drags down her usual cheeriness. She told me she feels a responsibility to make sure Jerry feels loved. I reminded her that the ability to feel loved alludes people like Jerry, whether or not they are in a coma. That comment really didn’t go over well, and she started wailing at me. She was so angry she couldn’t even speak. This was when my Dad jumped in, and he wasn’t happy either. “Jesus Chris, I think we raised a sociopath.” In the spirit of de-escalating the situation, I corrected him promptly. “Rest assured, you raised a genius. Sometimes it’s just hard to tell the difference.” This was when his face turned beet red and he told me to find another roof to sleep under. So that’s the story of how I started sleeping in the woods. 

Neither one of my parents would last one night in the forest, but I’m a forester. In fact, a true nomad. The woods have actually become something of a sanctuary for me. My days have been full, thanks to my sudden ascendence to popularity, something that I’d long predicted as an inevitable occurrence. But with great popularity comes great responsibility. I am constantly hounded to sign petitions, come to events, give updates about Jerry— I hardly have space to think. Living in the quiet solace of the woods has proven to be the perfect antidote.

The best part about Jerry, I have since realized, was that he acted to me as something resembling an assistant. Tragically, during those times, I had yet to rise to the gleaming ceiling of society… I didn’t need assistance back then, I could very well manage on my own. But with all this newfound stress of being popular, it’ll be relaxing to come home to some sticks and dead leaves, instead of my nagging Mother who is clearly losing her mind.

But the main plus side of all of this has been Margaret. She had meant it when she said she wanted to see me again; the very next day after the incident, she asked if I wanted a ride to school. She was waiting for me in the driveway and I made my way out there with my Dad, who let me know he was impressed with a wink once he realized it was her.

Margaret and I have settled in quickly to being together. She says we have lost time to make up for, but I think she just finds me irresistible. She came over to my house for dinner, before the instance that led to my unnecessary, albeit welcomed, homelessness. Both of my parents, particularly my Dad, couldn’t have acted weirder if they tried. He seemed unable to formulate a full sentence, which paved the way for my Mother to gratuitously reveal embarrassing details about my childhood. The more I think about it, the happier I am that I have become a vagabond.

Being with Margaret has changed the way I see this town. I used to drive down these roads and feel the imminent end to all of them. That none of them were really capable of actually going anywhere. But I never thought to go off of them. For example, there’s a little path off of Sleepy Hollow Rd. people call “firefly lane”, where you walk along around dusk and the whole surrounding forest is illuminated by lightning bugs. They don’t actually come out until mid-May, she said, but she still took me in there to hype it up. Margaret was more than enough illumination, anyway.

We kiss just about everywhere… the sprawling utopia of Lee Gardens, the gazebo in Irwin Park. I’ve grown acclimated to the touch of her body, and I feel like I know what I’m doing just a little bit more. And I don’t need to see all these new places to enjoy spending time with her, I’d be happy just about anywhere so long as she was there with me.

The only problem now is that I don’t have a house to take her to. When my Mom isn’t visiting Jerry, she’s patrolling the grounds of my former residence like a member of the Queen’s Guard. I must say she is doing an impressive job; I had to go back into the trenches to round up some necessities this morning. There was no way to do it without treating it like some sort of covert operation. I snuck in through the basement door, which I always leave open and I don’t think either of my parents have ever used. The stairs from the basement lead to the open atrium where the front door is, as well as the stairs to upstairs. I could have gone through the garage door and up the side stairs, a much sneakier route, but those stairs creak. The ones in the front are carpeted, more consistently quiet. As I sauntered across the floor, there was no visual sign of my Mom, but the TV was on in the kitchen, so I assumed that’s where she was. I gathered my things into a bag: bathroom supplies, some books, and slung a comforter over my shoulders and a pillow under my arm. On my way out, this time leaving through the front door, I could hear my Mother wailing. Bringing Margaret there would be impossible. It’s only been one night gone, but sooner or later she will start asking questions.

It’s supposed to be cold tonight, so I’m glad I grabbed something to cover myself with. I don’t yet know what I will do when it’s raining. But already, I’ve concocted a foolproof survival plan, assuming clear conditions. I have a cozy little hideout in a clearing near the High School, just around the corner from some backyards and the soccer field at the Middle School. I leave my down-comforter and pillow, so I don’t actually look homeless by carrying them around. I get to school early and shower in the locker room, never needing to worry about shampoo or conditioner or soap, because someone always leaves theirs behind. I dry off with my pillaged towel, and hang it up in the shower furthest from the door; nobody ever goes back there, so it’s safe to keep it there. I go to my classes, I eat breakfast and lunch at school, all of which are paid for on an account my parents cover. I buy food for dinner, which I store in my backpack until then. I usually hang out with Margaret after school, then I go to the public library to do my homework (if I feel like it) and charge my phone and computer. From there, I do it all again. Or at least, that’s the plan. Again, only one day gone.

The library closes in four minutes, so I’ll have to wrap this up. I am thoroughly enjoying my new lifestyle, every last bit of it. Margaret, being a nomad— a Jerry-less existence is better than I could’ve ever imagined. The only thing that has yet to come together is my mission. Again, it’s only been ten days since I last wrote in here, so I’m not too worried. You can’t rush this sort of thing. I think just living my life the way I have been is, at the very least, research for whatever it is I end up making. But if the forces of the universe are listening… I’m ready for the idea! Goodnight.

Entry five - April 2021

Given that Margaret has taken me around town and shown me all the things she likes to do, I thought it was high time I showed her what I like to do. I was anxious she’d think my idea of fun was unsophisticated, but ultimately I decided that everyone, even impressive people, need a little immaturity in their lives.

So we went to the mini-golf place that Jerry and I have frequented since sophomore year. While the other kids our age were discovering weed and having sex, Jerry and I would come here to eviscerate the records of children and perfect our putting game. This place, The Golf of Mexico, is special for a number of reasons. First, it’s designed in a way that makes you feel like you’re in Mexico. For example, everytime you make a shot, you’re hit with an onslaught of Mexican culture such as a mariachi band popping out of the wall next to the hole, except on the dia de los muertos hole, where a gang of skeletons suddenly pops out from the ground… Mexico! I like to imagine one of the owners coming up with the idea, knowing how stupid it was, but nonetheless paralyzed by it’s novelty and potential. Nights he spent awake scribbling furiously into a little bedside notebook full of puns to go along with the original one, none being as good. And soon, all the money he and the other owners put into this course they were so excited to make would now be feeding this kitschy theme that people in my town today find racist and offensive. Still, he’s probably lounging with his feet up on the loveseat, in a mansion he bought from all that mini-golf money, never letting it go. “Come on guys… Golf of Mexico!” And from there, he falls into a concerning fit of laughter, yet again, despite all the years that have passed.

The other thing about the course that I always liked was that they maintain leaderboards for frequent players like Jerry and I. Whenever I was feeling down, I’d bully Jerry into joining me at this activity, something he’d never once beaten me at. Each time we’d play, the disparity between our cumulative scores grew further apart, kind of like our friendship. My position on the leaderboard has held steady at number two, topped only by some likely con-artist cheater going by the name “Mayan Calendar”.

Taking Margaret there was definitely interesting, to say the least. The real entertainment of the afternoon came from the two kids in front of us, no more than nine years old a-piece, who’d assumed a demeanor so austere it would eclipse most professional players.

Throughout our time there, Margaret and I grew increasingly more invested in the little guys in front of us than we were in our own game. One of them had an amusingly professional little get-up; a polo shirt, khaki shorts with a leather belt, actual golf shoes, and sleek little glasses with transparent frames. All so much more precious when adapted to his 4’8” frame. The other kid wasn’t as fashionably decorated, but seemed equally as resolved to win. They didn’t speak a single word to each other the entire time, besides an obligatory “nice shot”, infused with a cutting passive-aggression. Neither one of them so much as blinked when the gang of skeletons emerged from the ground on the dia de los muertos hole. Margaret yelped like a golden retriever.

Following their last hole, Margaret and I couldn’t even tell who won. I’d put down $25 on the Connecticut poster boy with his little get-up, she on the other. But at the end, they just shook hands and headed for the little shack where you relay your score to one of the bored employees. We followed them instead of playing our last hole.

Once we got there, we found the get-up kid sobbing passionately, as a new employee who I’d never seen before tore into him mercilessly. “What do you want me to say? That’s not a regulation mini-golf club!” The employee mocked wiping tears from his eyes. “You gonna cry about it on your way back to J-Crew, shrimp?” he choked through menacing laughter.

What happened next was a series of events I still can’t believe. First, Margaret chimed in, saying “Why are you being so punitive to a little kid? We watched them play their whole 18 holes, and these kids were classier than you could possibly expect.” Margaret sounded genuinely upset at the whole thing. I was just speechless. It was kind of like watching a substitute gym teacher go on a power trip.

“For your information, ma’am,” he began, in a patronizingly slow slog of words released with difficulty through a lisping overbite, “my job is to ensure all the information on the leaderboard is accurate and fair. If one of our amigos is playing with a putter not issued by us here at The Golf of Mexico, then it’s only fair that this amigos score doesn’t count here either!”

“You just made a little kid cry over a putter, do you realize that?” Margaret retorted.

Employee made a dolphin-like noise and congruent upward motion, “not the first time!” He redirected his attention at the get-up kid, who was wiping away tears and receiving friendly pats on the back from his friend. Neither of them seemed to care about the score anymore, they just wanted to go home. “I’m really sorry kid but you’re disqualified from our leaderboards. You’re more than welcome to start anew! What’s your name?”

The kid started crying again but held his composure. “Mayan calendar,” he blurted out. It took a second to connect, but when it did I felt my cheeks go red. This was the kid who was always in first place, and if he was disqualified, that meant I was the new leader! I shouted with joy, and kicked the air in serendipity. Margaret stared daggers, and I made a quick save. “You see, since Mayan Calendar is disqualified, that means number two is number one!” I pointed at the board. “So you see Yucatan Penis-ula, second on the leaderboard? That’s me!” She didn’t seem impressed.  

The overzealous employee, who I’d taken a sudden liking to, asked if he could take my picture to put on the website. I obliged. Margaret offered the two little kids a ride home, which they accepted because usually their parents picked them up, but they were instructed to walk home today and didn’t feel up to it. In the car, I cranked victorious anthems, loudly singing along to every word of “We are the Champions” by Queen, and “Best Day of My Life” by American Authors. When I looked in the rearview mirror, however, the kid was silently crying his eyes out. I graciously offered to buy them ice cream. They declined, defeated. Once Margaret pulled up to their houses, they each moped out of the car and into their respective house, somberly.

Afterward, she told me she had seen a side of me that day that she’d never known existed. A side that cares way too much about winning. I told her that wasn’t true, but that since I had won, of course I was going to be happy about it. Whatever she’d planned on responding with, she bit her tongue and let it go. 

That was yesterday and we were both too busy today to discuss it any further. Since there’s a chance it might rain tonight, I had to do a little scouting near my hideout in the woods, to look for conventional shelter should I need to flee to it. It took two hours to find somewhere with ample cover but still secretive enough to not get caught. Actually the place I found, unless I’m mistaken, is on the far outskirts of Scott Jordan’s yard. For that reason alone, I’m really hoping it doesn’t rain at all. It would be a disaster to get discovered by Scott, or one of the other jocks, sleeping in his abandoned backyard barn. But I guess only time will tell. But I think I’m ready for it if it does. Okay, goodnight.

Entry six - April 2021

It struck me recently that, pre-written into every single romantic relationship, is an epitaph. How it’s going to end, written on their shared tombstone. For example, a husband might love gambling, something his wife only discovers years into their marriage, and she may decide this is something she cannot accept. Understandable, right? Divorce. But what if he’s only doing this to try to buy Yankees tickets for their parapalygic son, who, despite being blind and mute, has taken a sudden interest in baseball. This poor guy, whose motives are definitely valiant, is doing something bad in pursuit of doing something good. Relationships are so complex, and sometimes the people in them don’t even understand the whole of it. And even if they do, the ability to articulate that in discussion with the other person is a different skill entirely.

The next step for the person who first discovers what the epitaph might be is to make a decision— table it for open discussion? Deem it a dealbreaker, not even worth the fight? Or maybe they really don’t care, and decide to keep it to themselves and move on.

I’ve been thinking about relationships recently, because I still haven’t spoken to Margaret since my little moment at the mini-golf place. She saw a fleeting flash of me being something less than what she thought I was, and it scared her off. Now I sleep in the woods and wonder if the epitaph has already been written, and where they’re digging the grave, and when she’s going to shove me into it.

The other possibility is that I’m overthinking this whole thing. First of all, it’s only been a few days. Jake and Sam may have offered conflicting advice on how to deal with it, but the one thing they could agree on was everything was going to be fine. Margaret assumes the best in people. So far, I’ve been my best self, sometimes even better than I knew I had in me. It was probably just a shock to see something so childish and gloaty from an ambassador of maturity and altruism. I texted her earlier today and asked if everything was alright, and she said it was fine and that there is something she wants to show me after school tomorrow. So unless it’s a relationship grave, I think we’re all good.

It’s been cold in the woods these past few days. It did end up raining that night, and I executed my plan with ease. In one swift move, I used the tarp to round up my entire hideout, and I dragged it all ferociously to Scott Jordan’s abandoned barn, which took about ten minutes. It wasn’t pouring or anything, so I stayed relatively dry. But it was the cold kind of rain that makes you wish it were just snowing instead. If precipitation is going to chill you to the bones upon touching it, you might as well be able to form it into a ball and throw it at people, right?

In the blink of an eye, I’d placed my set-up with the promptness of a veteran nomad, and was back in bed. The barn is just a two-story little shack in complete disrepair. The Jordan’s could have easily renovated it to rent out or Air-BNB, but instead a nomad sleeps there when it rains. I felt like Charlie Bucket, gazing through the gaping hole in the roof, watching the cold liquid trickle down and fall to the ground one level below. I may have dreamed of chocolate or golden tickets, but it’s more likely that I dreamed of Margaret.

I’d set my alarm for fifteen minutes before I normally do, so I’d have time to haul my house-in-a-bag back to my hideout. I did so beneath a sun rising over refreshed, watered ground, and I felt at one with the Earth. Because living in it, not away from it like in your bedroom, puts you in a circadian rhythm matching the sunrise and sunset. There are no blinds in the woods besides a well-placed tree. You wake when everything else does.

Tonight when I leave the library to go back to my hideout, it’ll be a week gone. And I’m actually looking forward to it. I could do this forever.

April 2021 - entry seven

As we migrated deeper and deeper into the woods, I told her most people just slaughter the animal in a house designed for such a thing. Few go through the trouble of covering it up to this extent. I told her they’d find my body, eventually, no matter how far she dragged me. But all she gave a few steady glances back, a few “just wait” pleas, and I grew worried my joking was installing bad ideas in her head. The guy going to the electric chair gets a meal, everybody knows that, but does he get a conversation? I scanned the trees for power lines.

Suddenly we were there. The thing Margaret wanted to show me— It was a waterfall. I noticed her studying my reaction, expecting fireworks in my eyes and getting them. “How the fuck have I never even heard about this?” She shrugged with a smirk, and took it in with me.

It reminded me of what it’d be like if you were a squirrel born in Central Park. You’d have no reason to believe anything beyond I live in the woods, and am squirrel, king of trees. But one day, as an antsy little teenage rodent, you’d go further from the hole in the tree than Mom allows… a little further… a little further… BAM! Skyscrapers.

In this case, we definitely were in the woods, not that the squirrel wasn’t. But then they cleared without warning, and Niagara Falls opened to our left, dumping gallons of water at least a hundred feet below. An abrupt fall to the death presented itself just a few steps forward. 

“Ah, I see! I get it now,” I told Margaret. She twisted her face up in confusion, then understood when I started to take a step forward. “Did you go through the trouble of actually bringing a plank? Or do you want me to just pretend?” I held my arms out in balance, as the buffer between death and I got thinner with each step forward. But when I looked back, Margaret was crying.

Have you ever thought you knew someone, until they do something you’ve never seen before, and you realize you never really knew them? Like seeing your teacher smoking a cigarette, or god forbid, strolling with their husband or wife in public. This revelation about Margaret was a little different— I did know her, I do know her. But I hadn’t realized until that moment how much more there was to go. Like now my knowledge was vast in area, but I needed to make the pool deeper. How much she thinks. She turns over things I said a week ago… I’ve never done that in my life. But also how much she still has to learn about me.

I approached her slowly, and I didn’t say anything, because my least favorite words in the English language are “what’s wrong?” and “it’s gonna’ be okay.” I put my arms around her and lowered us both to the ground, and she sunk into me. She didn’t speak for a few minutes, at least, but it was peaceful. In a moment like that, I should’ve been scared about a number of things. Getting dumped, for example. Or maybe Margaret was crying because she had finally made the decision to make me walk the plank. But the leaves rustled in the wind and the water ran on and on down the side of a cliff, racing toward re-emergence in a new river a hundred feet lower. It felt like a fall day, because my school year only just started to matter, and it felt more appropriate to imagine it was getting colder and to have the earth be in the part of its cycle where things die. I was okay with all of this, being a few steps from cascading down a cliff, having my girlfriend so sad she couldn’t speak. These were real things, and I felt like I was there to see them.

Finally she spoke. “Why haven’t you gone to see Jerry?” I hadn’t thought about Jerry in at least a week. “Do you even care?” she asked, looking up at me for a reaction. But if she was looking for my face to betray any sort of guilt, I probably let her down. I let the white noise of this Autumn day in April direct my mind as it thought about those things it didn’t like to.

I’d had a dream about Jerry a few nights before. It felt real. It went like this. I was sitting on my throne, and Jerry did what Jerry does. He interrupted naps, discussions, important royal business, to ensure I didn’t need anything. If he heard me so much as sniffle, the President of Kleenex would be giving me a presentation on the human sinus the following morning. The clink of my empty coffee cup being settled down meant Jerry would have another one in my hand within moments. What purpose would I have for an endless stream of coffee if all I did was sit on a chair all day?

Eventually, I told Jerry I’d had enough. His response was, “sire, I have made it my life’s work to guarantee your perpetual comfort.” He rolled his rrrrrs like a coward, entertaining the spirit of the dream.

I dismissed Jerry, telling him his behavior was insufferable. He left deflated and without a word of protest. The dream ended with my being informed that Jerry had been sent to the infirmary after trying to climb the royal gates to re-enter the palace. He wanted to return my epi-pen, which he’d accidentally taken home with him. He’d gone comatose upon his splatter into the hard stone ground, and it was unlikely he’d make it.

The head writers in the dream department of my subconscious brain were killing it with the metaphors, albeit a little anachronistic with objects and details. Kings didn’t have epi-pens.

I told this all to Margaret, and explained what had happened right before the incident. How I’d told Jerry that for me to fly, I’d need him to unstrap. That he fell into a coma because he was overzealous to give me breakfast, even though I’d already dismissed him. And so on.

I told her these feelings were complicated, but that I realized now that I loved Jerry and I was ready to visit him. Just not yet. So we planned to go in a few days, which is now tomorrow.

May 2021 - entry eight

I’d never seen Jerry as still as he was lying there in his hospital bed. On the third floor of Norwalk Hospital, he lay unconscious in a bubble of fluorescent lights and incessant machine beeping. He was a ghost— as fair as an overcast day, and styrofoam in appearance as though a poke might leave an impression or crack. Margaret stood by my side with one hand on her heart and one in mine, and she looked at me with pleading eyes. At first I didn’t know what to say. I’ve been feeling it more since I opened up to her about what happened, but it drenched me in that moment. I was soaking wet in my guilt, and tears welled up, threatening to flood.

“It’s like seeing a bad dog put in its place, and you realize it was just a dog the whole time. He just wanted to be your friend…” et cetera. “I left Jerry behind so I could fly, but I still haven’t even gone anywhere.” She looked hurt at this comment. “I’m not saying that regarding you,” I paused. “...I just mean I wanted to create something that could make an impact, and give me some semblance of an idea of what I should do with my life. I just didn’t think I could do that in Jerryland.” I braved looking at Jerry again, and felt sick to my stomach.

We’d picked up flowers before driving to the Hospital. I laid them on the table beside his bed, where they joined cards and photographs and more flowers. We left with our heads sinking.

It took me a few days to realize what this meant. That my real best friend might die, and it happened the day after I ousted him from the relationship that gave him his purpose. Fucking Jerry. Even near death does he make me feel like an asshole. But whatever bad feelings I may have had about Jerry were born out of guilt, out of knowing that he deserved a better friend than I had been. And I thought more about it for a few days, and then I realized why all of this happened. Jerry, wittingly or not, did this. And it was my job to write a song about it. Landslide.

Suddenly I was right back where I’d started. All the dancing around, Margaret, maybe even my nomad experience— all procrastination. I am Jesus on Earth who got sidelined by the unexpected distraction of life. Unbelievable.

The first thing I had to do was sneak into my house and get my guitar. I took the same route as last time, realizing upon entering that I still wasn’t ready to come back home. It’s been almost a month since I’ve seen my parents, and I’ve seen no posters so I guess they don’t miss me. I wonder if they even remember why I left.

Songwriting is simple. You play and hum until you like how it sounds. Then you write words to replace the humming. The words are a collection of anecdotes, observations, bits of story, emotions. You sit there and do it until you either can’t anymore, or until you realize the stuff you’re writing sucks. Luckily, I rarely find myself writing anything that sucks, so for me it’s more about writing a lot of lines and then picking the cream of the crop. The whole thing made me feel a lot better. If Jerry dies, this song could blow up. I’m making him a plan B— if things go south, something good can still come out of it. He’d probably thank me if he wasn’t about to die. All of this happened to give me something interesting for my eventual Wikipedia page. It’s like Bridge to Terabithia, only this time the cooler kid was the one who survived.

What I eventually came up with, after a few passes at moving stuff around and picking lines, is agonizing. The best I can do for you is show you a few of the lines, but I’m sure by the time you’re reading this you’ll already know them by heart.

Chords: (Bm, A, F#m, E, D)

Jerry, if you were a berry, you’d be golden, you’re eyes are the crust of the Sun

Frankly, I’ve been selfish, and hardly human, I hope you’ll forgive what I’ve done.

Best friend, go feel upset, I gave nothing, I am a sewer in hell

Jerry, I hope you know, how much I’m sorry, how much I hate myself.

Jerry, you look like an onion, uncooked with bunions, they couldn’t break your fall

You sailed in the air, you landed on your hair, the brain below is barely there.

The doctors are worried, but I was assuring, you did this all for me

One day, I’ll laugh about it, you went to heaven, to help me discover my dream.

I know that it looks a little direct on paper, but all the best lyrics do. My English teacher told us once that the best way to be relatable is by being specific. A lot of people have had friends die gruesome deaths, but I feel there’s a serious dearth of content surrounding that. Besides the vague depressive nature of music by bands like The Fray or Snow Patrol, nobody really even makes the effort to hit those marks. Well, not anymore.

I’ve been living in a shroud of excitement since then. I fall asleep on my air mattress in the wilderness and the wind sings me my song, which I’ve decided to title “I Love You, Jerry.” I’m comfortable in my sexuality. I don’t really know what my next steps are… ideally I’d be able to milk these emotions for a few more songs, maybe an EP or even an album. But I’m happy knowing I finally found out what the first step was and took it. More to come.

Entry Nine - May 2021

At some point, I stopped caring too much about the condition of my hideout. It was really just a place I’d visit every night once it was already dark. Where I’d lie down and close my eyes and be a bug on the ground. Getting into a routine is a good thing for productivity, like each little piece you add to it becomes second nature. But it’s bad in terms of complacency, because those things get less consideration the longer they’re a staple of your routine. Eventually, you stop taking the extra step of wrapping everything back up in the tarp in case it rains while you’re gone, which is exactly what happened. It didn’t even cross my mind that my little room outside could be ruined by my negligence, but sure enough my bed was cold and wet once I got there.

To make matters worse, I got called into the Principal’s office the next morning. I ended up braving it in Scott Jordan’s barn again, with no blanket or mattress, because at that point they really were out of commission for at least the rest of that night. Instead I found a little deposit of hay, and woke up stiff and cranky, and a little on the early side so I could find somewhere for my life essentials to get some sun while I was at school.

Principal Ellsner is the most formidable Oompa Loompa you’ve ever seen. She carries a dense biology in her skin-bag which can be attributed to muscle or fat, as is often the case, but there’s a real ambiguity surrounding it and no one knows how to put it to rest. Jerry would remark “so much tissue” as his face blushed suspiciously when she’d pass us in the hall or go up on stage for assemblies. Aside from a few small brushes with this particular authority, I have stayed relatively unassuming to her through the years. But the same can’t be said about her. There were these twin brothers who got in a fight in the cafeteria, the whole thing an unprecedented spectacle for us watching. They were (literally) at each other's throats— apparently one of the brothers hung out with the other one’s ex-girlfriend, and so on. Oh yeah, and they were doing all of this on top of one of the Cafeteria tables. Principal Ellsner, who’d been a mere Vice Principal at the time, sprang up onto the table and thundered over to them like a lion joining the watering hole. At first, she tried to break up the fight, but the pull they had to one another was magnetic. A few moments into this method, she had a new idea. She wound up decking the two boys with all her might, sending all three of them sailing into the brick wall four feet away. They were all promptly concussed, but she was no longer Vice Principal Ellsner by the end of the year. Apparently, following the episode, enough was enough for their parents. One twin went with the Mom to Guatemala, and the other went with the Father to Russia. Rumor has it, they have never spoken since.

When I got into her office I truly didn’t know what to expect. I looked around at her posters and trinkets, mostly your prototypical Principal bullshit with hopeful messages like the cat hanging by one paw on a tree saying “hang in there”, intentionally not meeting her eye contact. I was declining to speak first. Eventually her masculine screech invaded my ears; “Alex, I talked to your parents last night. They’re worried sick, and they have run out of people to turn to.” My heart sank. “You need to go home.”

That night I tried, I really did. I walked all the way to the other side of town to get a look at my parents— through the window while they were eating dinner. They looked miserable. My Mom, who from what I can gather still visits Jerry everyday, appears to be shriveling up. I watched my Dad make a half-hearted attempt at conversation before giving up, putting his face in his hands. Why haven’t they tried to find me at school? I’ve been gone for weeks… not a peep. Not a poster or a pamphlet. But then, watching them, I realized it didn’t matter. I felt dreadful, but I still just couldn’t go in. I didn’t want it to seem like some momentary change of heart, nor did I want it to seem like I’d balk at their first attempt at a stolen base. My dad actually told me to do this. And they waited almost a month before having anyone actually reach out to me. It’s been a couple days since then, not a word from Principal Ellsner. I’m still at the hideout, continuing through an earthly routine. 

Entry ten - May 2021

This was supposed to be a place where I’d write some jokes and jot down the intricacies of my inevitable ascension to worldwide fame, but here I am feeling like I’m writing a tragedy. Is it sheltered of me to admit that this past month, with its waterfalls and running-away and barns and comas and girlfriend, has been the most eventful month of my life? Yet I’ve been ignoring a chronic anxiety, growing more frequent the longer it has gone on. That all of this will end abruptly. That I’m going to be left attempting to understand and maybe even recreate this, with a crestfallen desperation. I must be one of those people who hates being happy so much, I water it down with the knowledge that I will be sad again. I’m hoping this isn’t true.

It’s late May, warm and sunny (mostly), and on most kids’ minds are things like what they’re going to put on their mortarboard for graduation, or which prom picture they should post on Instagram. I don’t really care about that stuff, even now that I have more friends. You may have noticed that the only relationship I really write about here is my relationship with Margaret, and Jerry. I don’t think I do that out of intention, I think it’s a Freudian slip— the only ones that feel real. My relationship with Jerry feels almost too-real, intense enough that I may never forgive myself if a certain outcome occurs. So the outside, extraneous interactions— the perfunctory relationships of being “friendly” with people who wouldn’t actually consider me their friend, well I just don’t see the use. That’s why I don’t care that much about how I present myself to the world. When I started keeping this journal, I wanted more of those relationships. But I’ve realized they’re unessential, and not what I want. 

Last night, this came to a head with Scott Jordan. It’s been raining pretty much non-stop for nearly a week. The weather afforded me just enough time to dry my hide-out appliances in the Sun, but little more beyond that. So the whispering pines of the suburban Hinterlands have been traded for Scott Jordan’s backyard, once again. Up until now, I’d always slept in the barn, but then I’d wake up early to return all my stuff to my hideout. This way there was very little chance I’d get caught, and I wouldn’t have to lug my stuff back at night if it didn’t rain again the next night. But the forecast was too grim to make a new trip every night, because the rain basically never let up, so I just left my stuff there this past week.

It was like a horror movie, if they started making horror movies as stupid as my life. Imagine an undiscovered genius (me) lying under the partial covering of a decrepit roof in an abandoned barn in squalor condition. My teeth shaking vigorously, my eyes squeezed shut so as not to see the hygienic atrocities and countless spiders undoubtedly crawling over my blanket. Breathing in and out with brave determination, because I know it’s all I can do. I hear things. Things like thunder, and rain pounding on the remaining portions of the roof. I wonder where the birds find sanctuary in moments like these and think of myself as one. Visuals like this bring me to the ocean, and the ocean brings me to space, where there’s nothing acting but empty space and distance. And just as I’m drifting off to sleep, I hear footsteps, and suddenly my quiet voyage through dark space is rapidly coming up on the sun. And I open my eyes to a flashlight, and he grabs me by the shirt, and he booms “What the fuck are you doing here?” I don’t even know how to respond. There’s a frog in my sleepy throat failing to get the message out from my heart, which had to be beating 150 times a minute at least. This was one of those situations where, even now, a good 10 hours after the event, I still have no advice for myself in retrospect.

He pulls me the way an angry mother pulls an insolent child. I finally found my voice. “Scott, if you’d just let me explain… I’ve had nowhere to go…” but Scott doesn’t care. He calls me names in between a series of painful blows. “Pussy…” smack, “Stalker…” bone-to-muscle pow, “Freak…” skin-to-skin kachow! He finally let up right before I wouldn’t have been able to walk away. I floated off into the stars as I shuffled feably toward my hideout. He called some more stuff out to me but I could hardly hear anything but my own labored breathing. I fell asleep on the ground somewhere, nothing left to call mine but my backpack. My makeshift bedroom still in Scott Jordan’s barn.

I woke up an hour ago, walked to the High School, showered off. But bruises don’t come off with water, and neither do all these scratches. They burn and itch and throb, like I woke up in hell. Even writing now is a less-than-lucid experience. I see words on the screen through a cloud of ambiguity. I can’t live in the woods anymore.

Entry eleven - May 2021

I didn’t go to school that day. Showering didn’t help me look any less dire, and I didn’t want anyone to see me that way. I knew Scott Jordan would spread the news of my freeloading like wildfire, and I’d been in no position to defend myself at the time. I trudged home with a hitch in every step, worried that any one of them could be my last. I was disturbed by the apparent brightness of that cloudy day, the wall of white covering the ceiling of the atmosphere being indescribably blinding.

I don’t remember anything specific after I left the high school locker room. I don’t even know what time it was. Just a vague recollection of writing it all down, walking out into a shimmering world my irises couldn’t dilate fast enough to take in.

I collapsed into a heap once I pulled myself in through the front door— I think one more step may have killed me. I have an image in my head, one small moment relaying eternally, where my Mother raced in to assess the damage and lift me off the ground. I didn’t open my eyes again until it was dark.

The curtains were drawn and I was in bed, ice packs at the ready in a bucket on the bed-side table. My Mother must’ve noticed my eyes finally open, because she was ready and fired questions at me like bullets cascading across a battlefield. Where have you been? Who did this to you? My eyes closed again. Alex! Don’t go back to bed! I opened my eyes. She wore the grave look that only a Mother could if she were watching her child die right in front of her eyes. I coughed the cobwebs out of my throat. “I’m fine, Mom. They’re just battle scars.” Her face twisted into an inconceivable degree of worry. “Tell me what happened, please. I haven’t seen you in a month and a half, and you come home covered in cuts and bruises…” She stopped there. 

The chronic hum of the window fan grew discernible. The throbbing in my temples an orchestra. I started from the beginning.

I was kicked out of the house because of an argument with her and my Father, the contents of which I could hardly remember. Jerry was in the Hospital. Jerry is still in the Hospital. I snuck into the house and grabbed a few essentials, and I located a hideout in the woods near the Middle School where I could sleep at night. I would go to school early every morning to shower and clean up. I had some new friends because the Jerry situation made people interested in me, but it didn’t last long. The only real new friend was Margaret, which they already knew about. I learned there are waterfalls in our town. I learned that I never treated Jerry right. That’s what we fought about, wasn’t it? Sometimes it rains at night, and eventually I started spending those nights in an abandoned barn, which turned out to be on Scott Jordan’s property. Scott Jordan found me there last night, and he beat the shit out of me and called me names. No, I don’t think this needed to go on as long as it did. I liked the independence and liked that I was fending for myself. It felt good. I’d never fended for myself before. So I didn’t come home when the Principal told me to because I wasn’t ready. But I wish I had been, because then maybe my head wouldn’t be throbbing. Then I asked if I could go back to sleep, and did Margaret know that I was okay? I didn’t know where my phone was so I couldn't text her.

Scott beat me up on a Thursday night. I talked to my Mother the night after, around 8:30 PM. Margaret visited me on Saturday morning. She said the whole school was talking about it, so there was no point in trying to hide what had happened— it had already become zeitgeist. Margaret seemed angry, at first, because nobody knew if I was okay, and that included her. They just knew what Scott had told everyone— that I’d been sleeping in his barn, and that I’d run away into the night, damaged. Scott had also told everyone that I’d had binoculars, and that I’d been stalking his younger sister. I assured Margaret, in profound disbelief that Scott even had the brains to concoct such a preposterous story, this wasn’t true. 

Margaret stopped seeming mad after a while. She asked if I thought I could get out of bed. I moved with caution, feeling like my bones were twigs that would snap out of place if I gave them too violent a shake.

We went to the bagel place where everyone goes; where Jerry used to get me my breakfast. A key demographic of every facet of the social scene of our town, all in one place. I felt a lot of eyes on me, but my sensitivity to the brightness and Margaret’s hand holding mine shielded me from any derisive looks. I chewed like a baby with no jaw strength because my head was still throbbing. It took me twenty minutes to eat.

The week at school was ambivalent— some people believed the binoculars thing and thought I was a pedophile. Other people wished me well and hoped I’d get better soon. I was a household name for about three days, until T.J. Salinas got busted for selling weed in the bathroom. After that, I was old news. But Scott Jordan spent the whole week looking at me in the hallway like I had tried to tie him to his bed and set his house on fire.

I visited Jerry at the Hospital yesterday. Jerry fell down the stairs and went into a coma. At first I didn’t care because I had a lot of good come from it. I still have some of it. But I think I also fell down the stairs. My coma was living in the woods, and living without my best friend. My Mom said the doctors are convinced Jerry will wake up in the coming weeks. I think I’ll wake up too. It’s the last day of May, and I’d hate to sleep through the whole summer.

Entry twelve - June 2021

At my school, they give you the option to take an internship for the last two weeks of your senior year instead of going to daily classes. I always thought it sounded like a terrible way to send off— Hey! Instead of getting a chance to say goodbye to your friends and teachers and these hallowed halls, why don’t you spend your final days training for your inevitable indentured servitude? But I changed my mind at the last minute, considering everything. By the time I signed up, which was about four days before the program started, all the good ones were already taken. It’s hard to believe this was even allowed to be an option through a public school, but I am now the loyal intern of the Catholic Church!

At no point in my life have I been anywhere near the realm of “religious”. Not even tangentially. Every night before I go to bed, I thank Satan for Jerry and my untameable nest of hair, plus now my throbbing temples and lunar bruises, and go off to temporary unconsciousness. One time when I was a kid, my Grandfather (Mom’s Dad) wanted to say Grace before Thanksgiving dinner. He rambled on, thanking God for the bountiful meal, the company of family, the house we had to eat it in. My Father grew red in the face and said the person who should’ve really been thanked was himself, because he was the one who worked over forty hours a week to ensure all of that stuff. I think that was the moment I became an atheist.

Still, it’s better than sitting through 45 minutes of lecturing. I work for a Priest named Father Abraham, who takes his job very seriously. When I first met him, he became gravely concerned over my visual condition and asked if I was in the right place. I told him, “Paternal Leader, I am here to seek atonement by carrying forth the righteous work of our good lord and savior, Jesus Christ.” I don’t know where it came from, but I said it and that was that.

Over the next few days, I was tasked with busy work and weekend labor. Some of the stuff I thought Decan’s did, like walking around at Mass begging for spare change like a homeless man. I even had to sing a very lame Christian Rock song for which I learned neither the melody nor the words, but definitely nailed regardless. When you don’t know the melody of a song, nor the timing of the words to the music, it is hard to pull off singing it in front of two hundred people. But gaping mouths and teary eyes suggested I had committed something uniquely offensive. Conversely, Father Abraham told me I had become an indispensable fixture to the institution. “Alexander,” he said gravely, “the way you let the lord sing the song through you, instead of following the example of the actual song itself… you have the gift of transcription. I will do anything I can to keep you on board until you go off to Divinity School.” I told him there must’ve been some sort of mistake, because I most certainly was not going to Divinity School, nor was I going to spend the last Summer of my childhood at a church. He seemed awestruck by my honesty. “You are a true child of the Lord,” he said, and then kissed me on the cheek. “I am thrilled to know that, at the very least, I will see you tomorrow, Son.”

Father Abraham must not be as clairvoyant as he thought, because Margaret and I skipped our internships on Monday to go back to the waterfall. It’s warm enough now to swim, and with the whole word off doing their internships and schoolwork and jobs, we were able to skinny dip. I jumped off a waterfall, at least forty feet above, and landed into an appreciative perspective. That I made it through these last few months; that for better or worse, I’ve changed. That Scott Jordan wasn’t able to beat out of me the good things that have come into my life. I think Margaret felt the same way, because as we paddled over to the grassy shore, we didn’t say a word. We were just with each other, her breathing heavenly and heavy. And then it happened, and I don’t need to go into detail on it. But either God was working through Margaret to give me some severance, or Margaret is God, and I shouldn’t have been surprised by that development.

The next day when I showed up at the Church, Father Abraham, again, had worry chiseled on his wrinkly face. “My Son, what kept you from carrying out the Lord’s work yesterday? We had tacos for lunch!” I told him I had been too sick with gratitude to attend to my duties. That was the way the Lord had worked through me the day before. He loved that.

The rest of the week was more of the same. Moving chairs and reading scripture, very little of it inspiring any neurological connections within the soft tissue of my brain. My relationship with the Father may have been somewhat sarcastic, but he grew on me throughout. Kind of like the teacher who takes things way too seriously, but he loves his little world so much you just don’t want to let him down. My last day was yesterday, and it was a tearful goodbye for him. His usual wisdom eluded him, as he could hardly speak through his choking state of hysteria. He gave me a holy tap on the shoulder, and sent me on my way.

I’m graduating High School in three days. Everyone is excited, but I’m scared. I don’t want this whirlwind to come to an end. My Mom wrote me a letter which she started, solemnly: “Where to begin… I think it makes sense to acknowledge that you’re on the homestretch of being a kid.” A simple declaration of fact that I can’t read, or even think about, without wanting to curl up into a ball and cry like a kid. I guess reality is a little too much to handle sometimes. I started this journal off by explaining what I used to do when I felt like everything was too much. I’d drive around, and people watch, and I would feel anonymous. Like life was happening around me, but I was spared. But I can’t deny how much life has happened to me since then. And I pity the me of three months ago who made such a half-assed effort. Who gave so little to the cause. Who thought he could see behind walls and make interesting friends simply because that was the desire. 

Entry thirteen - June 2021

In retrospect it’s like a dream. How little you learn in class over four years is astonishing when compared with how much you’ll remember the way you felt. A bad week keeps howling on in your head and in your heart, to remind you the wrong way to go about things. But prom doesn’t happen, it just occurs and then it’s over. I hope I remember this if I ever want to get married, because I’m realizing that spending a hundred thousand dollars (maybe more) on one glorified dinner party is a terrible idea. The truth is, things that are “too real” while they’re happening— they call for an extra dose of concentration to be decoded, interpreted, stored.

From Prom I hold blotches of lucid living, like walking into Margaret’s house to give her the corsage and get my boutonniere. I don’t remember the transcript of nervous dialogue I miraculously survived with her father at the bottom of the stairs. I remember Margaret talking the whole way there, which I was thankful for because I was too confused to speak. She’d beckon me into the conversation by pulling my hand into hers or kissing me at a red light. And then we were there. A slow dance to Lord Huron with the other people who were actually dating, as well as a few brave couples who went as friends. A faster upbeat one to a song I don’t remember, which included jumping and doing motions I’d never seen before and hope to never see again.

Three moments and a sea of vagueness my mind will, no doubt, fill in overtime with falsehoods and things I wished I’d done. We went back to Jake’s house afterward. I don’t really remember that either. It doesn’t take long to get drunk when everyone is determined to do so, especially when you’re already tired and you’re wearing a Tux that’s a little too tight. A humid night where every girl looks completely different than at school, completely beautiful. Eventually you forget which one’s yours and you walk home with one, not really remembering who in the morning.

I woke up the next morning in disbelief that that was over. Grateful that the girl I walked home with wasn’t in my bed. Overrun with half-rendered images of two people dressed better than they ever had in their lives stumbling drunkenly through the suburbs, under the orange glow of streetlights… ducking into bushes if a car rounded the corner. Swigging champagne and passing it back and forth. I woke up to a phone that said 10:49 AM and had a few texts from Margaret.

Sometimes something is so exciting you forget you had something even more important the next day. Apparently, Derek Jeter’s sister had a baby the day he reached 3,000 hits. He went to meet the fan who caught the baseball (it was a homerun) and then left to meet his sister’s new baby. I had an immediate startling realization that I had somewhere to be, only slightly aware of where that place was, and before I knew it, I was speeding hazardously toward school in my cap and gown.

I floated in (still) drunkenly, literally the last person to arrive. The entire class of 2021 baking under the already hot morning sun looked eerily cultish. Isn’t it amazing that they’ve tricked us into spending our lives this way? In a building, muting our minds and bodies eight hours daily, while the biological earth anticipates tragically the eventual transfer of our energy from schools to corporations? Worry not, Amazon rainforest, four more years! They looked like the disciples of a Sunday school, ready to receive confirmation into society— a society I will happily deride in this journal but will join without hesitation.

I got a few looks as I moseyed into my spot, but felt nothing since I was too wrapped up in existentialism to notice any intrusions. Later that same day, I walked across the stage and shook the hand of the Principal who’d told me only a month ago that it was time to go home. I forgot to look out, or look around, or even realize what I was doing. I chalk it up to stage fright: that kind of stuff happens fast, it can’t be helped. The Superintendent made a few questionable comments about himself; “I am proud of the work we have done! The entire world looks up on this School with wonder, how do they do it? One President, three NFL starters, seventeen currently active CEOs. No doubt, the students work harder than any students in the state, but the leadership of this school district works harder than any administration in perhaps the country.” (???) That’s an actual quote I transcribed from watching the TV classes broadcast later on.

Afterward, I took photos with my parents, with Margaret, with Jake and Sam. I puffed on a cigar, which felt like being choked by the semen of an Oak tree. I feel bad writing my journal like this, but I can’t remember anything anyone said to me. Just the stupid comments of a few, like the Superintendent. But I do see the tears in my Mother’s eyes, and I think of the letter she wrote me. And I can hear the regret in my Father’s voice when he talks to me, because even though I told him it was okay, I know he sees the time I was gone as “lost time.”

I know it might be selfish, but I think I see everything before that as lost time. It’s so unfair, but ever since everything happened, I feel like I’ve finally gotten a chance to explore myself. It shouldn’t take such a terrifying event to encourage change, but it did for me. I look back on every day before— before I met Margaret, before I lived in the woods and slowly opened up my eyes to what was around me— and I feel the same regret I know my Dad feels. But when I feel that wave, an even bigger one eviscerates it. A tidal wave consumes the first one. The first one ceases to exist in seconds. I did the hardest thing of all. I took something terrible and turned it into something great. I took a vague idea of wanting to do better with my time, and I completely redefined my existence. Loose ends or not, I’m finally proud to be who I am. 

Entry fourteen - September 2021

Back to the drawing board. That’s what you do when you’re in a new place. I walk unfamiliar streets with an unfamiliar mindset. It might be utter panic, or maybe an anticipatory drive so chronic I can hardly tell it’s there. Whatever it is, it leads me to all sorts of places. Wherever I am, this whole city looks the same to me.

I’m in Ithaca, New York, four hours away from everything I’ve ever known and anyone who has ever known me. But really, moments like this aren’t much different from the nights when I’d drive around back home and watch people and assume the happenings of their lives and diagnose their existence as hopeless. The only difference is there are fewer Connecticut license plates. Everywhere I go I’m still enveloped underneath a canopy of oak trees.

I don’t think my roommate likes me. We live on the seventh floor of one of two towers on campus that house the Freshman. And I sleep well only because of how high up I am, knowing I’m completely at mercy of any freak natural disaster. I doze off as my brain plays picture shows of hurricanes ripping off the wall next to my bed and taking me with it, or the first tidal wave to ever hit the Finger Lakes swallowing me up whole. His name is also Alex, which is not something we bond over. He suggested I go by Al, which I threw right back at him.

Jerry died a few weeks after graduation. I wanted to write in here but I didn’t know what to say. Every time I went and opened up the document, I transformed into a pinecone, entirely incapable of emotional understanding or articulation. Margaret told me to wait until I knew what it made me feel. I waited all summer. I waited through more waterfall skinny dipping excursions, mini-golf, crying about how soon we were leaving, and fornication to put it bluntly. I waited so long that Margaret did finally leave for school, and I was left to spend my last six days in Connecticut alone. And now I’ve been here for almost a month, hoping to see Jerry on my walks, or maybe see his lips move on one of the photos of him on my dorm room wall. But it’s not Jerry’s job to tell me how to feel. Still, eventually, he came around.

It was during one of those picture shows. I laid in my bed with my eyes squeezed shut, and I pressed them together so hard it took me back home. I got up and drove to the bagel store. I asked for a bacon egg and cheese and a coffee. I drove to school. I didn’t waste any time trying to hide, instead making a bee-line to the stairs. Jerry was there, peering out through the crowd, looking for me. He started to lurch forward. I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back. He looked up at me with his bug eyes, and gave me my breakfast. And I gave him his.