She was a mess. You know the type: always late to class and when she finally showed up she was disorganized, she forgot to bring a pen or left the book in her locker. Her apartment was a minefield with barely space to step and always in desperate need of a good cleaning. Most days it was a miracle if the floor was even visible. But none of it ever bothered her. She would smile apologetically in class and ask me to borrow a pen, which I always proffered and she rarely returned. Or she would tell you, when you shook your head at her disaster of an apartment, that this was clean and you should see it when it gets dirty. She carried the mess around with her too. Her outfits were thrown together at the last minute, though she took an hour to get dressed, and although they seemed to match in a mismatched sort of way, she was never what you would call neat. She couldn’t do her nails or the paint would wear off in odd places, or she would pick it off starting with the little finger, and that’s if she had the patience to wait for the paint to dry. And don’t get me started on her hair. Even on special occasions, like college homecoming when we all got dressed up and met in the big room in Rogers Hall after dinner to dance and drink and talk, though she had put on a slim-fitting, open-backed black dress, and she was wearing heels that made walking precarious, to say the least, the bobby pins fell out of her hair an hour in and it fell in loose blonde ringlets to her shoulders. So like her, that hair. That’s what I remember most. The big blonde curls that covered got in her eyes in class or spread out under her head like a cloud when she lay down. That hair was beyond taming, beyond any form of order. It sprawled where it would, it did what was natural with no effort to tame it. Useless, she would call it, and threaten to shave her head, buddha-bald. But she never did. She loved her hair, as useless and unmanageable as it was, and I loved her.

We played travel soccer games on Sundays, which turned out to be a lucky break for the refs.

On this particular Sunday we drove an hour and a half down to Hockessin to play against the Hurricanes. They were a good team, undefeated at that time if I remember correctly. But we weren’t so bad ourselves. We had a new coach over from England and a strong squad of boys that had been playing together for years. The team thinned out toward the bench but the starting squad was solid and we could hold our own. Thanks to the new coach’s relentless work ethic we practiced longer and harder than we ever had before; many on the team were in the best shape they had been in years, myself included.

On this Sunday my parents couldn’t make it. Dad got called into work for overtime and Mom took my little sister in the opposite direction for a game of her own; she had just started playing travel ball this year. They’d been going to my games for years and now that little sis had games of her own Mom was more likely to want to go to Diana’s games. I didn’t mind. It was kind of nice to get away from them for a change. So I rode to Hockessin with a friend of mine from the team whose name was George.

George was a quiet kid and an excellent soccer player. We played midfield together but I played in the middle and he played on the wing. He was better on the wing because he was so much faster than me. But we played well together and became friends over the years. His Dad drove us in their big conversion van down to Hockessin. We sat in the back on the floor and played Gameboy the whole way down while he lectured us on the importance of vision and keeping your head up while you’re playing the game and how to win you have to want it more than the other team.

The lecture was unusual to me because my parents didn’t lecture too much. They would give advice but mostly they let the coach do the coaching. George’s Dad was different. He used to coach us as kids and ever since then he thought he knew better than everyone else how to play, especially when it came to his own kid.

Well we got to Hockessin and hopped out of the van and warmed up with the team. Then the game started. It was a tight match. George and I were starters as usual and we played the whole game without a sub. Lucky for us we were in shape for it.

George played one of the best games I’ve ever seen him play. He snuck out on a breakaway at the end of the first half and beat two defenders before crossing the ball into the top of the eighteen. Johnny missed the shot by about two inches, top left of the crossbar. Both sidelines sighed when they saw that shot go wide, one in relief and the other in disappointment. All except for George’s Dad. We could hear him cursing from across the field.

In the first half George played on the wing near the team benches, but in the second when we switched sides he stayed on the right and so he was near the parents for the second half. He played well, but by the end of the second half it was still tied up zero-zero and we were all starting to look a little ragged. The Hurricanes had a few chances on our net and it was only by the grace of our keeper’s long arms that the game remained scoreless.

George had run himself to death the whole game. The wingers run the most out of anyone and George always pushed himself hard. At the end he was practically stumbling over the ball.

By this time George’s Dad had separated himself from the crowd of parents. He was following George up and down the sidelines, whispering instructions into his ear. He couldn’t stand to see his son stumble.

About a minute from the final whistle we got another lucky break. George beat a defender and instead of pushing towards the corner flag to cross it, he cut the ball in towards the middle and went for the goal. He beat the last defender. Then the keeper came off his line and slid at the ball and caught it, and with it George’s foot. He got the ball but he twisted George’s ankle and as George was rolling on the ground clutching his foot, the parents on the sideline were doing their best to restrain George’s furious, howling father. Even from midfield I could see the veins popping out of his neck.

When the hubub receded and George hobbled back to his feet, the ref gave the ball back to the Hurricane’s keeper. When George’s Dad saw that he lost it again. He was screaming for a penalty kick, for a card, for bad refereeing. It was a pretty fair play, we all knew that, but George’s Dad would have none of it. He broke free of the restraining hands of the parents and marched onto the field. He got in the refs face. The ref couldn’t take anymore and it was only about 30 seconds left so he called the game. It ended in a tie. And before George’s Dad marched off the field I heard him hiss in the ref’s face, “You’re lucky it’s sunday.”

On the ride home, George and I said nothing. I felt bad for him. He played his heart out and took a beating and instead of getting a “You did your best, son,” he got another lecture. What did he do to deserve that? George didn’t look at me once the whole ride home.

Bernie

We’ve all managed to let someone down, whether by accident or on purpose. There is one old friend I remember in particular. We met on my first day in college, after my Mother and I had lugged all my crap from the parking lot, across the west quad, and into my new room on the third floor of Edwards Hall. We said our goodbyes back at the car. She cried. Then she stopped crying and I watched her drive away.

I was sad because she was sad, but I was also elated to be on my own, finally. And nothing could embitter the new flavor of freedom I tasted in the crisp air of that day, the air that always blew in strong gusts over the lake and through the campus. On my way back to my new room, I noticed Bernie sitting in the smoking hut in front of Whidden. He was alone, a smoldering cigarette cradled between two fingers, his body slouched against the glass. “First day?” he asked me as I walked in front of him. I stopped walking. “Yea. You too?” “Yep,” he said. “Smoke?”

I had never smoked before. But freedom made me feel brave and kind of reckless so I said, “Sure, why not.” I sat beside him and smoked my first cigarette. It made me lightheaded, but I didn’t mind.

“Was that your Mum?” he asked.

“Yea.”

“She was sad to see you go.”

“Well, yea. She cried… But I think she’s OK with it. I mean, I offered to live at home the first couple years but she wouldn’t even let me entertain the idea. Heh. She says I need to be out on my own.” Freedom also made me talkative, where I was usually shy.

“Sounds like a smart lady.”

“She is. Did your folks drop you off this morning, too?”

“Nah. Brought myself. My Pops ain’t too smart, you know, never made it to college.”

“Oh, all right.” I said, stupidly.

He changed the subject. “You hungry?”

“Uh, yea, sure.”

“Commons is right here.”

We ended up spending a lot of time together the next few weeks. I would see him outside in the smoking huts or waiting in line to eat in the Commons. We talked a lot about girls. At night  if we had dinner together we would often check out a pub off-campus. He was always funny, outgoing, good with people. I was a little jealous, but he did his best to bring me out of my shell, and always included me. In fact, it was to his cajoling to which I owe my introduction to my first serious girlfriend.

Bernie and I were at The West End, one of the off-campus pubs we frequented. We were standing outside smoking when a beautiful blonde girl walked into the gate and straight over to where we were standing. I was painfully shy, even with two beers in me, so I stood still, dumbfounded. I probably stared. Bernie greeted the girl, hugged her, then introduced her to me.

“Well, Matty, this here is Julia. You two will get along fine.”

He winked at me, stabbed out his cigarette, and marched back into the bar. Somehow, Julia and I wound up having an intriguing conversation and making out against the wall and eventually exchanging numbers.

The next couple weeks I spent with Julia in the bigger, brighter east quad. Then the cold hit, and I holed up in her dorm where I could have company and avoid my irritating roommate at the same time. I didn’t have to walk past Whidden’s smoking huts to get there, either, and Bernie never bought a cell phone so it was hard to get in touch with him.

It’s amazing how small a place can be and yet, still, two people who live not two hundred paces from each other can never cross paths. The last time I saw Bernie it was at the end of the semester. We were standing in line for finals, and I noticed him slouching carelessly against the wall. I got out of line, where I stood with some friends, to talk to him. He was alone, like the first time we met.

“Hey, Bernie, how’s it goin?”

“Oh, hey buddy. Not too shabby. Say, are you still with Julia?”

“Yea, definitely. Look I’m sorry we haven’t hung out lately…”

“Forget about it. I know how it is, when you find a new girl. The rest of the world disappears for a while.”

“Right…” I searched for something to say. “Is this your last exam?”

“Sure is.”

“Me too. You made up your schedule for next semester yet?”

“Funny you should mention that. My Pops ain’t too smart, remember? Especially when it comes to money, and the cash he was supposed to save for me for next semester, well, he went and forgot where he put it and now I can’t make the down payment.”

“Oh, no…”

“Oh, yea, man.” He nodded gravely. Then he brightened up. “But I’ll be back here in the fall, though, don’t you worry. I just gotta save some cash, meet the difference, maybe not live in the dorms next time, you know. They ain’t so cheap.”

The lines to the exam rooms began to creep forward.

“That’s the truth. Well, all right Bernie. Good luck on your test. Hey, want to go out for a beer after you get done your exam?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, good. I’ll meet you here when we’re done.”

After I finished my test, I waited in the lobby until everyone in the exam rooms had left and people began to line up for the next round. Bernie never came out.

Maybe he decided he wasn’t coming back right then and didn’t bother taking the exam. Or maybe he finished first and didn’t wait for me.

During my remaining three and a half years at that school I’d forget about him for month-long stretches only to see his face in the crowd at one of the bars we used to frequent. Just last week I greeted someone in a smoking hut who had their back turned to me. I thought it was Bernie. At least, he looked like Bernie did four years ago. He held his cigarette the same way, lightly, and he slouched against the glass.

I don’t remember exactly which book it was. It was probably one of the countless fantasy novels I devoured in my adolescence. But it could have been earlier, say, with one of the Dr. Seuss books I begged my parents to read to me, or which I read to them, repeatedly. Either way, each new book with which I fall in love reanimates that exquisite feeling and I recognize it because it starts in the gut. Not in the stomach, that is higher up and associated with hunger; the gut is lower, and the climbing vines that grow from there twine around the heart and on up into the throat until they are bursting to emerge in the fresh air. The seed is planted the moment I connect with the book. Maybe it is the image on the cover, or the title, which happens more often than not these days. It can also be the name of a familiar and beloved author with whom I have had good experiences, like Hemingway, or sometimes the description on the back cover or the hook on the first page into which I managed to sink my teeth. The dusty smell of a book amuses me but it is not connected to the feeling of being thrilled by a book. It is amusing because the smell of age is the opposite of the magic of discovery imparted by a good book, and it is astonishing to find such relevant wisdom in a volume many years older than yourself. Optimally a good book will fit into your hand and is small enough so that you can read in the most comfortable position possible, which if you’re not tired is lying on your back. Hardbacks are ungainly. I expect to find a new world between the pages of a book, or a unique invention by the author, or an insightful discovery – all of this is magic. I have been known to set aside a book halfway through because it failed to entertain me, delight me, educate me, or otherwise live up to my expectations.

“The first draft of anything is shit.”

Ernest Hemingway

air, heir, err

He was high on the air in the mountains. He savored each breath. And every night for a week, sitting by a roaring campfire, he imagined he was the heir to a new dawn. Then he would fall asleep in a warm sleeping bag that smelled of woodsmoke and smokies, and would awake with eyes sandy from sleep to gaze at an unmarred, baby blue blanket spread a thousand miles over his head. But each bird that flies must eventually return to a less perfect world, where man may err and all creatures must die, and so too he descended from his rocky playground, where among the folly of kings and the pain of mankind, the memory of his mountains sustains him.

rein, rain, reign

The drought’s reign of terror lasted three long years. Not a single drop of rain fell on the cracked earth from April to April to April again, although dark clouds hovered permanently on the horizon. People left in droves, bound for a more fertile country, wherever that was. The government enforced ration laws, they pulled up hard on the reins, but the wild mustang of the people was dying of thirst and when they bucked the politicians lost control. Folks fled in panic towards the oceans flanking our wide land, emptying the mountains and plains in the middle, abandoning the industrial network connecting the coasts… The comfort of water was such a relief, even full of salt, that not a few days passed before we heard news on the radio that another dehydrated man had drowned himself in overzealous immersion. But we stayed put, us hardy few. We dug deep wells in the middle of our country, we guarded the dried up lakes with our lives, not a few of which were lost. And most recently we were rewarded: after three starving summers and three desperate winters, the tight-fisted clouds finally loosened their grip and dumped rain in the middle. On our land and the surrounding area we received five blessed minutes of a thorough downpour. The water dropped in sheets and the cracked earth greedily swallowed. Although we were skeptical at first, wary of the change, it was enough. It has rained in our area five times since the first cleansing. The grass at last begins to sprout and the sight of green gives us hope. But the rest of the country remains dry. As before, people begin to journey in pursuit of greener pastures… and I fear a new reign of terror has begun.

Jeremiah has a recurring dream in which he steps out of a steaming hot shower and reaches for his towel, and while he is standing there drying off he notices his reflection in the mirror and there is – nothing except the towel.

Jeremiah is both amused and disconcerted by this dream. It is kind of silly, after all, seeing the towel pinned to the air, or wrapped around his invisible waist.

It is disconcerting, however, because when Jeremy steps onto the cold tile of his bathroom this morning, he looks in the mirror and sees – nothing, just like in the dream. Except he hasn’t made it to the shower yet, so there is no towel. In the mirror he notices instead the offset pattern of smiling yellow rubber ducks on the shower curtain.

He stares into the mirror for a frozen moment, his mouth hanging open. Then he whips around and stares at the shower curtain. The ducks swim in a stylized azure sea.

To still the dizziness, Jeremiah looks down at his feet. O blessed relief! They are still there, bare, with tan lines from his sandals. His legs are there also and with a heavy sigh Jeremiah touches shaking hands to his face, to the top of his head; he hugs his arms around his torso. Once again the world spins at a manageable gallop.

But still icy waves lap against the shores of his heart. Jeremiah turns around, much slower this time, directing his eyes away from the tall silver surface. His eyes move over the inset floodlights above, the plastic pieces securing the borders of the mirror. He looks at the porcelain sink that stands confidently on it’s only leg. The hot and cold water pipes run out of the wall, turn up at right angles, and attach beneath the gleaming white sink.

With a great effort, Jeremiah marshals the last squadron of his courage and looks in the mirror, looks for all intents and purposes straight into his own eyes. He looks at the mirror and sees – more yellow ducks.

The ducks begin to swim again in earnest. The world hurls itself of its axis. Jeremiah faints.

(My failed reasonable expectation was: a man that does not see his own reflection in the mirror. This wasn’t one the book offered, but I wanted to make up my own. If you’d like to have a go, the book gives the following suggestions: an anchorman who refuses to speak; a car door that lacks a handle; a radio that receives a single station; a museum guard who touches the paintings; a faucet that delivers something other than water.)

M. Hello, my name is M. and I’m a private investigator. *holds up badge*

S. Hi. Can I help you?

M. You went to high school with a man named Darius Kineco.

S. Uhm… yeah… so what?

M. I’ve been hired to track him down. Do you remember him?

S. I see.. is he in trouble?

M. Actually, he’s missing. Do you remember him?

S. Oh, man…. Remember him? How could anyone forget that kid?

M. He was worthy of distinction?

S. Well, in a way. He wasn’t the valedictorian or the captain of the football team. He wasn’t even really that good looking. But everyone knew who he was. He just stood out somehow.

M. What made him different?

S. Well one time he came into school with Henna tattoos all over his arms chanting mystic voodoo charms. He was always comfortable in front of a crowd, and everyone came to watch him do his thing, if not because they thought he was being serious, then to see the freakshow. Do you know how long those fake Henna tattoos last? Weeks, man.

M. The other kids didn’t ostracize him for it?

S. No way. He was so charismatic even when he was doing strange things… The whole school was talking about it before homeroom was out. Then the principal heard about it. Can you imagine he reacted? Heh.

M. The administrators didn’t like the tattoos?

S. Of course not! This was a small high school in the midwestern United States. They didn’t like anyone to be different. I suppose most schools are like that, they try to flatten out the kids and push them towards the middle instead of encouraging them to be who they are, or who they want to be.

M. So what did they do to him?

S. They pulled him out of our Calculus class and sent him home. Told him he had to wear long sleeves to cover the tattoos until they washed off.

M. He didn’t listen, did he?

S. Ha ha… nope. He came back in the next day without a shirt on. They sent him home again. On the third day he came in wearing a t-shirt, short-sleeved – but now he had the tattoos all over his face too.

M. Interesting.

S. Yea, they let him stay at school after that, and then he stopped painting himself. The tattoos were there for weeks, though, and he acted like he never noticed them.

M. Did he ever tell you why he did it?

S. He told me he was interested in their culture and in order to understand it he had to live it. But he probably told someone else a different reason. He would tell people whatever reason he thought they would react to best. A reason for each person. I don’t know how he kept track of it all. Probably, though, he just did it to see what would happen. He was delighted whenever anyone looked at him sideways.

M. You seem to know him well. Were you friends with him?

S. Not really…. I mean, during our senior year we had Calculus together. We sat next to each other because our last names both start with K. That’s when we talked the most, and it was that year that he did the Henna tattoo thing… He did a lot of other strange things that year, too. Like just before he disappeared, he stuck a thousand plastic forks into the grass at the fifty yard line of the football field in the shape of a duck.

M. A duck? … As a prank?

S. Yea. But they never caught him. He was good at not getting caught, he knew just how to act…. but I know he did it, cause I asked him about it in Math class the next day. I remember this very clearly. I didn’t ask him directly because I knew he’d deny it, so instead I asked him, “What do you think it means, the duck prank on the football field?” He laughed, at first, and didn’t answer. He just pretended I hadn’t asked and went back to staring out the window. But then just after the final bell rang, while everyone was making noise leaving, he leaned in close to me and said “It’s because they’re all quacks.”

M. Heh. That’s pretty funny. What else did he do?

S. Oh just little things, things that are harder to explain… the way he walked, the way he talked, that he never had any close friends even though he seemed comfortable enough around people. He kept his distance so well… And he never did anything because it was the cool thing to do, or because other people were doing it.

M. You said he disappeared?

S. Yeah, a couple weeks before we graduated he just skipped town. Never told anyone where he was going. Never heard from him again.

M. Yes, well, actually that’s why I’m here. He sent you a postcard.

S. What? He never sent me a postcard.

M. Yes he did, but you never got it. See? *Pulls a postcard out of his pocket* It’s right here. “Dear S.”, and it has the address of your parent’s house in Ohio. You just didn’t receive it.

S. Right… my parents sold their house and moved to South Carolina after I graduated high school. Wow. You sure did your research. What’s it say?

M. Nothing. The only thing on there besides Dear S. is the return address, which is the adddress of a public post office in Casablanca, Morocco.

S. And now he’s missing…. why are you looking for him?

M. I’m not at liberty to discuss that. You may keep the postcard. I have copies of it and the only prints on it belong to Mr. Kineco. Have a nice day.