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My Life In Black And White Chapter 1 |
I have to remember to tell Sandburg that. He'll love it. 'I have to tell Sandburg.' If I had a nickel for every time I've thought that over the past year, I'd be rich. No chance to tell him lately. Army life doesn't allow a lot of personal time. For these past three years between my college graduation and his, I've managed to send only a few letters and some scribbled post cards. In return, I got long stream-of-conscious narratives, written just as he talks. Sometimes they'd arrive three or four at once, depending where we're stationed and for how long. He writes about his courses, what he got on his exams, his take on art, history, pizza, how the culture of jocks were the same as certain aboriginal tribes, what movies were worth seeing, which books to read. I've saved them all, sometimes pulling them out to re-read, because since his graduation, he's the one scribbling post cards and I am not replying at all. We are just about as far from each other as possible now: Blair's in Borneo on some expedition and I'm in South America. But next week, Blair is returning to Rainer for graduate work and right now I'm flying one last rescue mission over Peru before my leave. We'll both be back in Cascade by Thursday. I wish this helicopter would fly faster, for this rescue mission to be a quick land-and-grab, so we can be on our way home in a few hours. My mind and body are here in Peru, but my heart's back in Cascade, back with Sandburg. The few post cards he's sent always end with 'eat a peach.' I never write that back, but I think it all the time. Sandburg's braver than me. Always has been, right from the start. ~*~ I met Sandburg at the start of my senior year at Rainer. Things were pretty bad for me then and getting worse. I was miserable. Imagine, if you will, a guy's last year of college. He has some medical condition that no one can figure out, can't drink beer because he's taking Xanax, can't tolerate perfume on his girlfriend. And now he's failing Senior English, with the other courses lining up for their turn. That's me. I exist behind a glass wall, lonely and longing for what everyone else takes for granted. I crave what they have, alternately raging and whining, but always wanting. Always lonely. I can't get out and they can't get in. I've perfected the outer Ellison: expressionless, stoic, tough, acceptable for public consumption. Inside, I'm a mess. Crazy thoughts bounce around until I can't breathe. It's my worst nightmare that someday, the outer Ellison will no longer be able to keep the inner Ellison in check. Then the world will know what my old man was been warning me about: I'm a freak. Useless and unacceptable. A man can get pretty desperate when the future's laid out in black and white like that. Tuesday night is my therapist appointment, worthless as usual. We talk about my classes, what I'm going to do after graduation, what I am repressing. We don't talk (anymore) about bi-polar disorder, depression, or that I am seriously fucked in the head. I am tempted to point out that we're nearing the end of the alphabet (Paxil, Prozac, Wellburtin), that after the Xanax stops working, there's only Zoloft left, but I don't. I have supper at home every other Wednesday. Good way for my old man to keep tabs on me. Sally makes my favorite meals, so it's not too bad. I can usually eat with my ears closed. But it's hard; he's so goddamned predictable. 'Don't call them seizures, Jimmy, you don't want people to know there's something wrong with you. Tranquilizers are for horses, nobody needs to know you take them. Do you want people to think you're a freak?' Leans forward like he's telling me something new: 'Don't screw up your football scholarship, Jimmy, recruiters and employers like to see that. If you can't pass a course, take something easier, Rainier's got courses for athletes. You have to get all A's, Jimmy, anything less is not worthy of an Ellison.' Absolutely predictable. Always finishes with: 'Why can't you be more like Stephen? Cease and desist with that stupid stare, son, pretending you can't hear me. I'll knock you into next week. Don't be a wiseass, Jim.' Great week, so far. I wanted to think the worst was behind me, but my life never works out like that.
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