Spring, 1983. Three years, 2 months before rehab.
I have become a walking dichotomy.
Nerdy kid. President of the band, spanish club, the Leonia High School chapter of the National Honor Society. Currently taking AP English, AP Calculus, AP History. Not Physics. Not anymore.
Starting drinking at 13. Not socially. Privately. To sleep. Dad always said to think of nothing and my mind would stop racing. Tanqueray worked faster.
Stopped getting beat up sometime between Freshman and Sophomore year. We lived one frigging mile from New York City, but everyone was scared to cross the river. Not me. I crossed the river. That was dangerous. I wasn't cool, but they stopped beating me up anyway.
Was always pretty good at doing work at the last minute. High school was easy that way. Except for Physics. You had to actually do labwork. 1st quarter, I got a B+. 2nd quarter, an F. Physics teacher, a man who didn't like me and looked a lot like a turtle, made me an offer. Stay in his class and take a midterm D, or drop and take a midterm C. Colleges only cared about midterms.
Anyway, a month before high school ends forever, I am a wreck. A 16-year-old senior. Less than one month from my first taste of cocaine. Three years, two months before rehab. Mr Cullen, my AP History teacher pulls me aside. He knows something is up. I feel he senses my anguish.

"Jesse, you need to get a datebook."
"What?"
"You need to get a datebook with boxes in it, so you can write things down."
"...and?"
"You need to get a datebook with boxes in, so you can write things down and keep track of your responsibilities. That way, you'll know when you have to do something. And you can make sure you'll do it."
"Thanks for the advice"

One month later, a high school graduate. Three years and one month after that, rehab.

I used to wonder whatever became of Mr Cullen. Every once in a while, in the middle of the night, I would get the urge to look him up - see if he's still teaching. But I never write it down. I never did buy that fvcking datebook.

My apologies. This started out as a more exact Slice of Life essay but turned into something a bit different. I decided to post it anyway. -js

Every day, as I go to and from my parked car to the small bungalow library I work at in the mornings, I walk through the playground.

The playground was one of the odd things when I first came to work at an elementary school. It's a place that a 20-something without children wouldn't have a reason to visit - that is, since she graduated from her own elementary school. It was quite a shock to me at first. See, it's all the same.

There are tetherball poles and handball walls and basketball hoops. They play their versions of "Three Flies Up" and tag. There are swings and monkey bars and that weird black hard rubber stuff that probably wouldn't help if you fell off the metal jungle gym. They even have a burning hot slide. Yeah, this school doesn't have the cash for new stuff, so all that takes me back, easily.

There's painted hopscotch and painted four square and a painted map of the US. The kids make up their own games to jump from colored state to state.

The only big thing this place doesn't have that my school did is benches. No benches. If they're not allowed to play as a punishment for bad behavior, they sit on the line that is painted all the way around the playground and marked where each classroom lines up. Instead of being "benched", as we were, they call it "on the line". "Jose, that’s it, you're on the line at recess." For some reason this bugs me. I keep thinking, “isn't it basic human dignity in America to sit off of the ground?” And this is from someone that doesn't mind sitting on the ground in public at all, but hell, I'm not forced.

But that's the difference. The rest is the same.

The clothes are different, sure. There's a lot more pink than I remember. But the rest is the same. There are still girls with impeccable braids done by overly caring mothers alongside girls with wild hair obviously untouched by a comb that morning. There are the boys with sneakers trailing laces and t-shirts with cartoon characters on them. There are kids who always have dirty hands, making dirt castles where the grass can't grow. There are colorful backpacks and the less well-off kids with the cheap ones.

But wait, all that is surface stuff. I'm telling you, it's all the same. Look!

There's the girl who's smart in science that follows the boys around. There's the girl who wears dresses nearly every day, and you're not sure whether it's because she likes them or because her mom forces her. There's the girl who has a new outfit every month and a swagger to match. There's the horde of girls that follow her. There's the girl who ties back her hair and has scraped knees and is a little too boisterous to be popular.

There’s the boy that makes things up to try impress everyone. There’s the group of boys that wear basketball jerseys and talk about sports and almost nothing else. There’s the effeminate boy with the bracelet and a penchant for talking instead of playing. There’s the boy that doesn’t read well and hasn’t learned social skills, so he daydreams alone. There’s the boy that gets to watch adult movies and TV and tells everyone about the violence and sex. There’s the boy that sits on the line every day and doesn’t care – or does he?

The boys still chase the girls and the girls still run to the bathroom to get away, giggling. They still argue over whether the ball was over the line or not. They still chant when jumping rope. The younger kids still can’t make baskets at all (even on these lower hoops) but play basketball anyway. They never pass the ball. The older kids still hide out behind the bungalows so they can swear and talk about more taboo things. They also still forget that the librarian sits right by the back wall and will open the door to scare them away.

They still don’t know that the librarian isn’t mad and would never punish them, she just thinks it’s funny.

Just looking at their young, fresh faces makes me think I’m going to see the children I knew. Those kids never grew up for me – the ones that moved away, the ones that went to a different junior high. I half expect to see the bully and the princess and the slob of my own childhood. And when I encounter the current bully or princess or slob I almost want to say, I know you!

But it’s at that moment that the kid looks up at me and says “Good morning, Mrs. S!” They still use the same singsong voice for hellos, goodbyes, and thank yous. I get a lot of that. I know that when kids are not commanded to say hi but they do so anyway, you’re in pretty good stead with them. I get a lot of smiles and waves and other acknowledgements as I cross the black top. From the girls on the flip bars to the boys in line for handball, I know I’m not that hated nor feared. Even so, it reminds me that I’m no participant in the dynamics of the playground, but just an observer. Not a time traveler, just a historian.

Somehow, seeing my past verified by the present is comforting. Even when I witness the worst of the playground – ostracization, injuries, injustice – it still doesn’t hurt my view of it much. It proves to me that the trials I went through as a kid are not due to a flaw in myself. We are all subjected to childhood, playing one of the roles laid out for us. We all do our dance on the blacktop.

Nothing has changed.

An exercise in stream of consciousness.
 

And a single edit to see if I could make it cohere. It only kinda coheres.

Slice of Life

Time, the weather, bus schedules, hormones, who will become the next Pope, and the publication date for the final Harry Potter book.

These are all things that I have no control over. These are the givens I accept and they’re all just a little slice of my life. I cannot slow down the tick-tock of my own personal death clock any more than I can set my watch with any certain accuracy because time is relative. I cannot chase clouds out of my blue sky when all I want to see for miles and miles is a great expansive blue. I’m not Catholic, and even if I were I still would have no control over the papal election.

Went on the pill a couple of times and if anarchy is control, then I maybe I can control my hormones.

I’m a rabid Harry Potter fan and I don’t even have control over that.

Whether I brush my teeth in the morning and at night, whether or not I floss first, whether I’ve cheated on a test, whether or not I tell lies to my boss about why I’m late to work yet again, whether or not I have a cigarette now and again, or whether I practice safe sex.

These are all things I have control over. These are My Chose Your Own Adventure books and they’re a little slice of my life, too. I brush my teeth every morning and every night, but only in the evenings do I floss first. I have cheated on tests, usually in government class, and always scamming answers from my good friend Mary. When I think about it now I can still feel the shame. It makes my body blush and my nipples become erect, like I’m aroused, but I’m not. I’m ashamed. Funny how my body reacts the same in either state!

Yeah. Funny.

I sometimes lie to my boss about why I’m late for work. Usually I miss my first bus because I left my house too late, but I’ve told him that I had to go out and buy cat food because I forgot the night before. I’ve had fake plumbing problems, fake sick friend problems, and once I even claimed that someone had vomited on the bus and I had to get off because the stench was too bad. So, fake vomit problems.

I don’t cheat and I don’t lie when I think it matters. Some people would probably say it always matters and maybe they’re right. All I can say is that I’m always honest about being dishonest sometimes.

I have a cigarette now and again, because I like the little hug around my heart the first puff gives me, even though doctors would probably call that asphyxiation or a subtle prelude to cancer. I like sociable smokes more than lonely ones. I like a smoke with a beer. Usually I smoke with my friend Sophie or I sneak one with my dad. We’re like prison inmates conspiring together, or school girls talking about our first tongue kiss, or maybe we’re just what we are: a girl and her dad.

I practice safe sex, but once I chose not to. There were no repercussions other than my first realization that condoms fvcking suck and I prefer sex without them. I’ve practiced safe sex every time since, however, but now I known what I’m missing.

God, Do-Overs, parallel universes, magic, reincarnation, haunted houses, Bobby Fischer.

These are all things I can’t put my finger on. These are things that may or may not exist, or if they did exist, may not exist any longer, and the confusion is a major slice of my life. Religion and worship are real enough to people, so does it really matter if God is myth or reality? Life’s a stage and I believe in the show.

I’ve felt up the angles of regret. I’ve wanted to have the opportunity to do things over again, eat my words, try another approach, fix things in my life, whatever the hell that means. The wanting feels real enough but the doing seems impossible. But is it? An amnesiac’s first sip of coffee could really be her 4,321st. Maybe a beautifully crafted apology can do the trick. Maybe a simple one is enough.

To those who are owed one, I apologize. I even mean it.

Scientific American published an article on parallel universes and while reading it I was horrified to discover what a cosmic carbon copy I am. Still, I was also comforted to know that I might be living infinite versions of my life. In one I might be a lot better off than I am now and in another I might be worse. Now that I only have myself to compare myself to, I’m feeling a lot more self confident. No way am I cooler than me.

Add to that the possibility that each of my infinite lives might have past lives, and I ican easily imagine we’ve all taken turns being each other at one point or another. And if that’s the case, then I might achieve a balanced breakfast understanding of every single person who has ever lived, and therefore humanity as a whole. If this nirvana of understanding is achieved, I could easily transform into Pure Love.

Right now I understand very little, so I dish my love out miniature portion size. Pure drivel.

A well crafted chick can be magic enough for me. I’m happy leaving any real mojo browsing bookstores that smell of sandalwood incense.

I know jack about haunted houses, but I love Halloween.

Bobby Fischer was real, but where is he?

There are more uncertainties than certainties, and what’s uncertain always feels more significant than what I have dominion over. What I can’t put my finger on is there to tease and delight my curiosity.

Human beings disappoint me on a near daily basis. Strangers. Loved ones. (Sometimes the strangers are the loved ones). Family. Friends. Myself. Disappointments, all.

It’s like the human race was born to fail beyond even our greatest successes, and yet I love the human race, maybe for its failures. Who doesn’t love an underdog? I want to go to bat for you all.

Of course, in a parallel life, I may very well want to take that bat and smash in all of your skulls. And that, of course, would be a slice of my life, as well.

I don't know if this was purely a philosophical question..but in case it wasn't:

He had been spending the last several years in jail in Japan due to questionable imigration status. However, now he's happily living his beligerantly anti-semetic life in Iceland where he was granted citizenship.

Cool. Thanks.

A Slice of Mine
 

Coffee
It starts with coffee
Or the quest thereof
Sure there’s a shower
There’s getting dressed
But without Coffee
Nothing else
will happen

Commute
Consciousness returns
10 miles into my journey
I could have been driving for days
But I’m here again
Queued up on the 710
How late will I be today?


Work
In the land of cubicles
Is my boss in today?
How many meetings?
Do we have time for some coffee
To trade tales of our weekends
Disneyland and hot lesbian sex
Or is it meetings again?
Updates to the boss?
Or just work
Often, it’s
Work

Commute
The time is now mine
Education by NPR
Music by KCRW
Or some Japanese Chick
Jesse turned you on to
Sometimes there’s shopping
Or a phone call home
It’s all about going
Home

Home
Kisses hello
As the internet seduces
Dinner is always late
Sometimes an afterthought
As we trade tales of
Life, music, art,
And the French Revolution
We make plans for the weekend
And trips abroad.
And stay up
Too late

Night
Really just morning
Well after midnight
But time enough to
Squeeze in a chapter
Or two
Because tomorrow
There will be
Coffee

You must spread some Mojo around before giving it to €uroMeinke again.

Ah, but you've revealed my laziness! I did think of posting a topic on Thursday but wasn't in the mood. And I'm still not in the mood, for some reason.

Someone else can come up with one, if they want. Or perhaps I'll get to it later. :)

Alright, alright, my guilt got to me.

Which leads me to the new inspirational topic: Obligations.

I can't mojo CP. I've given her too much mojo already.
 

Jen, that playground piece is amazing. You've posted three stories in a row now that are, to my mind, nearly flawless and complete. You have such a good memory, and such a way of speaking about American childhood that most American children could relate to, I think. Your observation about these kids, how your nostalgia ties to the present, are all so wonderful. There were so many lines I wanted to quote back at you for their brilliance. The descriptions of the kids created entire characters in just a few lines. I knew those kids. I could see their home lives and siblings, the things you didn't mention were still all there, created by you.

"We are all subjected to childhood." Indeed.

I don't think writing should be just a hobby for you, lady.

Obligations
 

Early bird gets the worm
But the night owl hunts the mouse,
Which is bigger, meatier,
And gives a satisfying squeal as its plucked.

Wake up early, but not as early as I’d like,
So it’s doughnuts and coffee
A few times a week;
They go down like worms, slippery sweet.

I stay up late making up for hours
Lost at a 9-5 desk job, where I sit
Suckling stillborn thoughts and
Nursing daydreams with a tall-tale heart.

Is this how I'll occupy
The rest of my life, with a drawl that
Unfolds and expands away from me,
Like a Universe?
How I dread and cower before such an Infinity.

It's in the early hours of the morning,
When I think a worm is more than enough,
That I confuse starvation with lightening up.

But in the dampening, darkening night
I hunger madly for better prey,
A curious morsel, a brave harangue;
Something that’s meaty to put gristle in my teeth,
Something that wrestles when I fall upon it,
And bites me back, and sighs
With something like contentment
When emitting its dying breath.