JAKE- Oh good, the story continues. It turns out that this will actually not be the final draft of my memoir. The teacher has pulled the old Kansas City Shuffle on us students and I will be required to do a rewrite of my final draft to make an even better final final draft. Didn't see that coming. If you, gentle reader, have any advice for me, hey, let me know. Anyway, here is section three of five.
Climax
“This is the one!” Baggage Man said with a giggle in his voice. He had a slight build, unkempt hair that would later give way to dreadlocks, and pale white skin. His real name was Chris but our group of friends called him Baggage Man for reasons that have become obscured over time.
“No way, dude, it’s orange,” I replied.
“Orange is fresh. I’m taking it,” and with that he began to unspool the chain from the industrial size storage winder.
“Oh look at this!” I said. I grabbed hold of the oversized silver chain. It was heavy in my hand. “This is definitely my style.”
The hardware store wasn’t so busy at this point in the early evening, but nonetheless I wondered what the cashier would think of two kids buying a length of industrial chain each. We strapped on our rollerblades outside of the Home Depot and made a beeline for BM’s house. In his room we used a few tools and whatever crude methods we could think of to attach these newly acquired accessories to our wallets and then to our belt loops.
“I got it,” I said and stood up to check out how it looked. My pants almost dropped right to my ankles.
“Whoa,” we both said and then just laughed.
The chain was four or five pounds pulling hard on the right side of my jeans. With only a minor belt adjustment I was suddenly glowing with pride. Baggage Man got his attached too. His hung down to around his ankles, mine to just above my knee. “Let’s sport ‘em,” we decided, and it was back out to the town on our rollerblades.
We must have looked like quite the spectacle, trying to rollerblade with our giant new wallet-chains bearing us down. It felt good though. We were different, we were weird, and were we wearing our new chains to school? Absolutely.
The first couple of days were pretty fun. Everyone looked. Some loved them, some hated them, but after a week or so we were old news again. We became a novelty really, good for the occasional laugh when we would be walking down a quiet hallway with students all in their classrooms. The clinking and clanking when either of us was walking sounded something like Jacob Marley coming to haunt old Scrooge. Needless to say we couldn’t sneak up on anyone. Freshmen year continued to float by. I heard from Tia that Lindsay liked that I said goodbye to her that one day, but other than that I hadn’t heard much about her or put too much thought into it.
As class schedules changed with the new semester, I began to see more of this Lindsay girl in the hallways and such. I would glance now and then. Then glances became looks. We would smile in passing. I started to wonder about her, what she liked, was she still into me. I wondered what she thought about my chain. The more times I saw her the more she would change. Her lips got redder. Her hair was long, dark, and beautiful. Her face was simple and lovely. What was going on with me? None of my other female possibilities appealed to me this way. I began hoping I would see her at a certain time of the day. “Ok third period is over, now I head toward math and she should be coming… yes there she is, oh, she looks nice today…huh,” and things like that. It was a casual sort of feeling. There was no longing, but I was happy to see her. To say hi like we were friends or something. Well maybe casual is too light. There was something there, very real, yet indefinable. Either way, this spark would soon burn, the first time we touched.
I was wearing my oversized black jacket. It was late winter in Minnesota. I was adorned in the usual baggy black t-shirt and black cargo pant. My black hair was a mat on my head and the only thing pulling me through this day was the caffeine-infused root beer I gripped in my right hand. The bell rang. I pulled myself out of my chair. “One more class,” I thought to myself.
The school day ended with English class. Not a favorite of mine, but I do like the fact that it is so close to the front doors of the school. I began shuffling to the classroom through the overcrowded hallway. Rubbing shoulders and bumping into people was nothing new here. We were packed in the skinny hallway puttering along slowly in either direction like at some droll rock concert. I thought about my plans after English: stop by the freak chairs (to which I had been cordially invited by my fellow misfits, could it have had anything to do with my wallet-chain?), hook up with BM, and head to the bus to roll to his house for video games and oatmeal pies, nice. Would we be playing Hitman or… suddenly there was a break in the student traffic, I stepped into a hole of free space to my right and coming right at me was Lindsay.
It was so natural, so easy, like we had rehearsed it or something. We each opened arms and she came right into me. I held her. I held her. There is a piece of music which I consider almost perfect. It is Luciano Povarotti and Joan Sutherland singing Bella Figlia Dell’amore from Verdi’s Rigaletto performed in London. It is so crisp, so beautiful, absolute perfection. This blows that away. That is not even in the same atmosphere as what is happening right now. What is happening right now absolutely has stunned me. We were gently swaying back and forth and turning 180 degrees. No words were spoken. No words, oh no. Say something! If for once in your life you can come out of your shell. If for once you can overcome this debilitating shyness, this thing that is so cleverly masked by this giant chain, this aloof attitude. If for once in your life you could muster the courage to say something, to do something, do it now! “I don’t want to let you go,” I whispered, yet loud enough to be heard over the buzz of the hallway full of rushing students next to us.
Yes! Yes! You said something, and it was good, too. Wait; was that coming on too strong? Oh who cares, you said something! And it was true, too. Truest words you ever spoke. For at that moment surely, if nothing else in the world was true, I without a doubt did not want to let her go. “I’ll be late for class,” she said quietly, sweetly.
She turned away and continued down the hallway. We parted with arms outstretched, the very last thing to touch being the tips of our fingers on our outstretched arms. I stood there for a moment and then proceeded to join back into the flow of students, headed toward my English class. You could not have removed smile from my face for anything.
2.22.2009
2.19.2009
Over Under Around and Through
JAKE- Are you riveted yet? Well, her comes chapter 2 for you. This is a short little section, but it sets up the rest of the story.
Foreplay
It was early in freshmen year that I met a girl. I was just settling in, maybe the third week or so of classes. I had carried over a few friends from middle school and I was finding myself. I walked out of math class to greet a familiar face. Tia was there and she was more excited that usual.
“Hi, Lennon!” Oh, yes Lennon. The nickname originated in middle school for a reason I don’t remember now (nothing to do with John though). “There is this girl that likes you; I want you to meet her.”
I just smiled and let out a laugh that was mostly air. Frankly this was nothing new. Freshmen year I guess I was cute or mysterious, something that attracted a few ladies to me and back in those days they did not hold things back, they let you know. Tia snatched me by the arm and dragged me along.
“Her name is Lindsay,” is the only preface she gave me to the meeting. We muddled past kids in an overcrowded hallway before we reached a group of Tia’s friends standing in a circle and talking outside the door of their next class.
“Hi guys this is Jake,” she said. The introduction was generally for all but was really directed at Lindsay. I said nothing. This also was nothing new. I was quiet and shy. A black baseball hat flipped backwards on my head was standard attire, so was a black t-shirt. The group of friends continued to gab at each other until the bell rang for the next class to start. I looked at Lindsay. Exceptionally beautiful she was not. She had small features on an otherwise plain face. Her hair was dark and somewhat scraggly and hung down to her shoulders. She was skinny, plain, and tall for a girl. She smiled nervously at her friends and only for a moment at me while they all finished talking. I don’t think this little meeting was her idea. I followed Tia into the door of the classroom. She took her seat at the front of the class.
“What do you think?” she whispered. Lindsay sat in the back of the class. They were friends I guess but not good enough to sit next to each other.
“About what?” was my brilliant response.
“Whatever, Lennon,” she said. Truth is I had met a lot of girls in ways similar to this so far in my young high school career, and many of them were more worthy of report than this one. The bell rang for class to start and as I walked toward the door I made no movement to even acknowledge Lindsay. This was my usual MO. Ignore them because goodness knows I am to shy to talk to them anyway. But before I walked out the door, something happened. I walked up behind Lindsay sitting in her chair on the back row ready for class to start, I leaned in near to her and said “Bye, Lindsay.”
“Bye,” she said sweetly as she could with being half startled and caught by surprise. Then I stood back up straight, and walked out of the room. I hadn’t even done this to the girls that I found attractive that expressed interest in me. What just happened? How had I summoned the courage to utter this simple goodbye? “Whoa,” I thought, “I’ve never done that before.”
Foreplay
It was early in freshmen year that I met a girl. I was just settling in, maybe the third week or so of classes. I had carried over a few friends from middle school and I was finding myself. I walked out of math class to greet a familiar face. Tia was there and she was more excited that usual.
“Hi, Lennon!” Oh, yes Lennon. The nickname originated in middle school for a reason I don’t remember now (nothing to do with John though). “There is this girl that likes you; I want you to meet her.”
I just smiled and let out a laugh that was mostly air. Frankly this was nothing new. Freshmen year I guess I was cute or mysterious, something that attracted a few ladies to me and back in those days they did not hold things back, they let you know. Tia snatched me by the arm and dragged me along.
“Her name is Lindsay,” is the only preface she gave me to the meeting. We muddled past kids in an overcrowded hallway before we reached a group of Tia’s friends standing in a circle and talking outside the door of their next class.
“Hi guys this is Jake,” she said. The introduction was generally for all but was really directed at Lindsay. I said nothing. This also was nothing new. I was quiet and shy. A black baseball hat flipped backwards on my head was standard attire, so was a black t-shirt. The group of friends continued to gab at each other until the bell rang for the next class to start. I looked at Lindsay. Exceptionally beautiful she was not. She had small features on an otherwise plain face. Her hair was dark and somewhat scraggly and hung down to her shoulders. She was skinny, plain, and tall for a girl. She smiled nervously at her friends and only for a moment at me while they all finished talking. I don’t think this little meeting was her idea. I followed Tia into the door of the classroom. She took her seat at the front of the class.
“What do you think?” she whispered. Lindsay sat in the back of the class. They were friends I guess but not good enough to sit next to each other.
“About what?” was my brilliant response.
“Whatever, Lennon,” she said. Truth is I had met a lot of girls in ways similar to this so far in my young high school career, and many of them were more worthy of report than this one. The bell rang for class to start and as I walked toward the door I made no movement to even acknowledge Lindsay. This was my usual MO. Ignore them because goodness knows I am to shy to talk to them anyway. But before I walked out the door, something happened. I walked up behind Lindsay sitting in her chair on the back row ready for class to start, I leaned in near to her and said “Bye, Lindsay.”
“Bye,” she said sweetly as she could with being half startled and caught by surprise. Then I stood back up straight, and walked out of the room. I hadn’t even done this to the girls that I found attractive that expressed interest in me. What just happened? How had I summoned the courage to utter this simple goodbye? “Whoa,” I thought, “I’ve never done that before.”
2.16.2009
You better call somebody
or
The way to a man's heart is through his thoracic cavity
JAKE- I have just finished the final draft to one of the larger writing assignments in my Writing A Personal History class. Over the next couple of weeks I will be posting portions of it in the order they were written. You, my friendly readers, will be taken on a strange and perhaps unpleasant journey through much of my young adulthood. Remember, this was all written from memory and while needing to be true, it also needs to be a good piece of literature. It is like in the movie Jurassic Park, where portions of the Dino DNA are missing, they just filled it in with modern amphibious DNA to make the end product whole. If it were Shakespeare, i guess this story would be a tragedy, more or less, but do not get too sad for me, things worked out really well eventually.
Being Young and Rather Unaware
By Jacob Reynolds (Online Eng 320)
"Everything We Do" by Peter Meinke
Everything we do is for our first loves
whom we have lost irrevocably
who have married insurance salesmen
and moved to Topeka
and never think of us at all.
We fly planes & design buildings
and write poems
that all say Sally I love you
I'll never love anyone else
Why didn't you know I was going to be a poet?
The walks to school, the kisses in the snow
gather as we dream backwards, sweetness with age:
our legs are young again, our voices
strong and happy, we're not afraid.
We don't know enough to be afraid.
And now
we hold (hidden, hopeless) the hope
that some day
she may fly in our plane
enter our building read our poem
And that night, deep in her dream,
Sally, far in darkness, in Topeka,
with the salesman lying beside her,
will cry out
our unfamiliar name.
My Place or Yours?
It was hard to sleep. It was always hard to sleep on the night before something big happened. I lay in my bed, the top bunk of course, although there wasn’t anyone in the bottom bunk to feel lessened by my being higher up than them. On my floor lay neatly the outfit for tomorrow. It was something new, every part of it. Mom always made sure we had new clothes for the school year. The tags have been freshly removed and the blue long-sleeve t-shirt lay above the jeans, just as they would be worn the next day. I stared up at the ceiling; the glow-in-the-dark stars shined their dull green.
I remembered something a girl had said just a few months ago. She and her high school buddy sat with four or five of my fellow middle-schoolers in a circle on the floor of some hallway at school. Soon we would be in high school and she was dishing the dirt on how to get by as we made the big leap. She seemed knowledgeable enough as her long blonde hair flipped side to side while she gabbed a mile a minute. A smiled spilled across her face; she must have thought she was doing us the biggest favor. “Without me these poor kids would be utterly lost,” she must have been thinking. Then she said something that actually stuck in my head. She said that it didn’t matter what you wore in high school, nobody cared. As I lay in bed listening to various family members shuffling in the hallway outside my bedroom door, I wondered if that was actually true. I would soon learn it was not.
The high school was this brown monstrosity planted seemingly right in the middle of town. All brick with a small incove before you reached the front doors. Upon entering, your options are to turn right for the cafeteria or left for the classrooms. It was a big school and there was much more to it than that, but for an incoming freshman, that was all I needed to know at this point. Also right next to the front doors, on either side, was an oxymoron of what the whole purpose of high school was supposed to be as far as I knew it. Behold, The Chairs. The Chairs consisted of a row of benches where all the cool kids from a given grade would gather. To the left of the front doors was the bench the Freaks would sit at; the Freaks having taken over the freshmen chairs some time ago. To the right of the doors was a much longer bench where would sit the sophomores, juniors, and seniors in ascending order, seniors closest to the cafeteria. Only cool kids allowed of course. At times I would wonder why the high school, a self proclaimed champion of diversity, would allow for these clique-making machines to exist at all.
The way to a man's heart is through his thoracic cavity
JAKE- I have just finished the final draft to one of the larger writing assignments in my Writing A Personal History class. Over the next couple of weeks I will be posting portions of it in the order they were written. You, my friendly readers, will be taken on a strange and perhaps unpleasant journey through much of my young adulthood. Remember, this was all written from memory and while needing to be true, it also needs to be a good piece of literature. It is like in the movie Jurassic Park, where portions of the Dino DNA are missing, they just filled it in with modern amphibious DNA to make the end product whole. If it were Shakespeare, i guess this story would be a tragedy, more or less, but do not get too sad for me, things worked out really well eventually.
Being Young and Rather Unaware
By Jacob Reynolds (Online Eng 320)
"Everything We Do" by Peter Meinke
Everything we do is for our first loves
whom we have lost irrevocably
who have married insurance salesmen
and moved to Topeka
and never think of us at all.
We fly planes & design buildings
and write poems
that all say Sally I love you
I'll never love anyone else
Why didn't you know I was going to be a poet?
The walks to school, the kisses in the snow
gather as we dream backwards, sweetness with age:
our legs are young again, our voices
strong and happy, we're not afraid.
We don't know enough to be afraid.
And now
we hold (hidden, hopeless) the hope
that some day
she may fly in our plane
enter our building read our poem
And that night, deep in her dream,
Sally, far in darkness, in Topeka,
with the salesman lying beside her,
will cry out
our unfamiliar name.
My Place or Yours?
It was hard to sleep. It was always hard to sleep on the night before something big happened. I lay in my bed, the top bunk of course, although there wasn’t anyone in the bottom bunk to feel lessened by my being higher up than them. On my floor lay neatly the outfit for tomorrow. It was something new, every part of it. Mom always made sure we had new clothes for the school year. The tags have been freshly removed and the blue long-sleeve t-shirt lay above the jeans, just as they would be worn the next day. I stared up at the ceiling; the glow-in-the-dark stars shined their dull green.
I remembered something a girl had said just a few months ago. She and her high school buddy sat with four or five of my fellow middle-schoolers in a circle on the floor of some hallway at school. Soon we would be in high school and she was dishing the dirt on how to get by as we made the big leap. She seemed knowledgeable enough as her long blonde hair flipped side to side while she gabbed a mile a minute. A smiled spilled across her face; she must have thought she was doing us the biggest favor. “Without me these poor kids would be utterly lost,” she must have been thinking. Then she said something that actually stuck in my head. She said that it didn’t matter what you wore in high school, nobody cared. As I lay in bed listening to various family members shuffling in the hallway outside my bedroom door, I wondered if that was actually true. I would soon learn it was not.
The high school was this brown monstrosity planted seemingly right in the middle of town. All brick with a small incove before you reached the front doors. Upon entering, your options are to turn right for the cafeteria or left for the classrooms. It was a big school and there was much more to it than that, but for an incoming freshman, that was all I needed to know at this point. Also right next to the front doors, on either side, was an oxymoron of what the whole purpose of high school was supposed to be as far as I knew it. Behold, The Chairs. The Chairs consisted of a row of benches where all the cool kids from a given grade would gather. To the left of the front doors was the bench the Freaks would sit at; the Freaks having taken over the freshmen chairs some time ago. To the right of the doors was a much longer bench where would sit the sophomores, juniors, and seniors in ascending order, seniors closest to the cafeteria. Only cool kids allowed of course. At times I would wonder why the high school, a self proclaimed champion of diversity, would allow for these clique-making machines to exist at all.
2.01.2009
If you want to keep writin', writin' along...
or
The proudest tradition of exposition.
JAKE- My new online class has me writing again,and i think that is a good thing. Oh my and what a treat for all of you out in blog world. You see, the class is entitled Writing A Personal History, and it is all about creative nonfiction and writing your own memoir. So, Chelsea has demanded in her sweet way that I post some writings for your pleasure. Friends be prepared. Family be prepared. You are all now characters in a more-or-less true story about my life. If you think my portrayal of you is inaccurate, if you think i describe you as some sort of caricature the likes of which causes you to cringe, if you think that there is no way you said those things, well you may be right. Memory is tricky. Hey, don't take it personally. Here is an excerpt I wrote for one of my first assignments in class. I think it is mostly true.
The Oasis
Having a day without a purpose may have been my greatest inspiration when I was young. Scurrying down the stairs with their brown shag carpeting I caught myself wondering if it was possible that the banister could actually be older than the house itself. But thoughts like these leave the mind of a half naked eight year old almost as soon as they enter. My purpose was indeed a grand one this sunny summer morning. Mom tried to stop my as I stormed the kitchen, but to no avail. I think she mentioned something about breakfast or lunch… never mind. The sliding glass door that led to the back yard always seemed so heavy. My little arms would have to give a full heave-ho to budge that monstrosity, but with motivation like mine, no obstacle was too great. I stepped onto the concrete patio with my bare feet. Oh feel that heat. It shot up through my legs and all over my small frame.
The back yard was well groomed. It had a border of grass with a tree placed every few yards. A swing set and a sandbox to the east, not today. An open patch to the left for any number of ball-related activities, nope not that either. And there in the middle of it all, the pool. Yes, don’t mind if I do. Surrounded by a concrete walkway and a thin strip of brown tile, it stood there like a sentinel. Summer was no match for this childhood best friend. The crystal blue water shimmered. Into the shallow end with a cannonball splash. Directly across the street was a field of green grass that formed the center of our cul-de-sac. Neighborhood baseball and football games were the norm, while my brother sat on the roof picking the participants off with his air rifle. But alas, no b.b. riddled baseball game could pull me away today. Right now I was all wet and hoping to stay that way for some time. I think lonely is a state of mind. Right now I was by myself and loving it. However, no contented part of existence remains so for very long. Eventually we are all invaded.
Sure enough here came my brother and his friend. They were intimidating high school kids with only enough patience for a young person to annoy me for a while and then be finished with my presence. They jumped in the pool and made a few snide remarks. Maybe it was something about the way I looked in my swimsuit. Needless to say it was not uplifting. They offered a game of marco polo. I don’t remember accepting, but I do remember being “it” and being thrust into the middle of a game I couldn’t win. My fear of the deep end of the pool was something of family lore, and I could well assume this was the reason for their entertainment. I hip hopped along the rough pool floor arms outstretched, eyes tightly shut. Following the call of “polo”, “polo” I tried to find one of these teen aged miscreants and get this thing over with. Higher and higher on my tippy toes and I knew I was approaching certain death, the deep end. Were they trying to drown me? Perhaps they wanted me dead so they could take my carcass into the high school and hide it somewhere as their senior prank. Finally, I could go no further and opened my eyes. They were out of the pool, a clear violation of the rules of the game, and when they saw me look they ran away, laughing. Each of them swung open the wood gate that led to the front yard and ran through. Suddenly I was alone again. The big brown fence that encircled the back yard separated me from the rest of the world and I was alone. I wondered if that was the way you had to act when you grow up. Maybe you sign a contact guaranteeing that you will be a complete moron at least 70% of the time. As the sun beat down on my face and my body bobbed up and down in the pool, I thought I might choose never to grow up.
The proudest tradition of exposition.
JAKE- My new online class has me writing again,and i think that is a good thing. Oh my and what a treat for all of you out in blog world. You see, the class is entitled Writing A Personal History, and it is all about creative nonfiction and writing your own memoir. So, Chelsea has demanded in her sweet way that I post some writings for your pleasure. Friends be prepared. Family be prepared. You are all now characters in a more-or-less true story about my life. If you think my portrayal of you is inaccurate, if you think i describe you as some sort of caricature the likes of which causes you to cringe, if you think that there is no way you said those things, well you may be right. Memory is tricky. Hey, don't take it personally. Here is an excerpt I wrote for one of my first assignments in class. I think it is mostly true.
The Oasis
Having a day without a purpose may have been my greatest inspiration when I was young. Scurrying down the stairs with their brown shag carpeting I caught myself wondering if it was possible that the banister could actually be older than the house itself. But thoughts like these leave the mind of a half naked eight year old almost as soon as they enter. My purpose was indeed a grand one this sunny summer morning. Mom tried to stop my as I stormed the kitchen, but to no avail. I think she mentioned something about breakfast or lunch… never mind. The sliding glass door that led to the back yard always seemed so heavy. My little arms would have to give a full heave-ho to budge that monstrosity, but with motivation like mine, no obstacle was too great. I stepped onto the concrete patio with my bare feet. Oh feel that heat. It shot up through my legs and all over my small frame.
The back yard was well groomed. It had a border of grass with a tree placed every few yards. A swing set and a sandbox to the east, not today. An open patch to the left for any number of ball-related activities, nope not that either. And there in the middle of it all, the pool. Yes, don’t mind if I do. Surrounded by a concrete walkway and a thin strip of brown tile, it stood there like a sentinel. Summer was no match for this childhood best friend. The crystal blue water shimmered. Into the shallow end with a cannonball splash. Directly across the street was a field of green grass that formed the center of our cul-de-sac. Neighborhood baseball and football games were the norm, while my brother sat on the roof picking the participants off with his air rifle. But alas, no b.b. riddled baseball game could pull me away today. Right now I was all wet and hoping to stay that way for some time. I think lonely is a state of mind. Right now I was by myself and loving it. However, no contented part of existence remains so for very long. Eventually we are all invaded.
Sure enough here came my brother and his friend. They were intimidating high school kids with only enough patience for a young person to annoy me for a while and then be finished with my presence. They jumped in the pool and made a few snide remarks. Maybe it was something about the way I looked in my swimsuit. Needless to say it was not uplifting. They offered a game of marco polo. I don’t remember accepting, but I do remember being “it” and being thrust into the middle of a game I couldn’t win. My fear of the deep end of the pool was something of family lore, and I could well assume this was the reason for their entertainment. I hip hopped along the rough pool floor arms outstretched, eyes tightly shut. Following the call of “polo”, “polo” I tried to find one of these teen aged miscreants and get this thing over with. Higher and higher on my tippy toes and I knew I was approaching certain death, the deep end. Were they trying to drown me? Perhaps they wanted me dead so they could take my carcass into the high school and hide it somewhere as their senior prank. Finally, I could go no further and opened my eyes. They were out of the pool, a clear violation of the rules of the game, and when they saw me look they ran away, laughing. Each of them swung open the wood gate that led to the front yard and ran through. Suddenly I was alone again. The big brown fence that encircled the back yard separated me from the rest of the world and I was alone. I wondered if that was the way you had to act when you grow up. Maybe you sign a contact guaranteeing that you will be a complete moron at least 70% of the time. As the sun beat down on my face and my body bobbed up and down in the pool, I thought I might choose never to grow up.
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