It's Always Me; the Malefactor

I often wonder if other people are anything like me.

Occasionally I find myself missing an old friend, and I think, "Maybe we should hang out soon."
Then, when we finally do get around to hanging out, I realize, "Wow, we don't think anything alike anymore.  Maybe it would be better if I just left."

One year I'll avidly follow my favorite sport, keeping track of wins, losses, trades, and of course, scores.
Another year I'm shocked to learn that the season is already half over.

Every now and then I see a couple walking together holding hands, and I tell myself, "That looks nice.  Maybe I should start looking around for a girlfriend again."
One or two days after a date, she'll call or text me about something.  Then I find myself asking, "Why is she bothering me with this?  We just saw each other."

Before I travel somewhere new, I think about how different it will be there.  How new, how exotic, how thrilling.
And then, after only one or two days, I completely forget that I'm somewhere new, exotic, and thrilling, and go about life just as if I were at home.

Now and then I find myself sitting too close to two single people.  I hear him talking about himself nonchalantly, telling her about why he is unique.  I cringe, hoping that I never sound that ridiculous.
Then, a day later, I meet a new girl, and I tell her about the best of my unique self in a nonchalant way.  After she has left, I cringe thinking about everything I've just said.

Sometimes I catch people lingering when they walk by windows or mirrors.  I shake my head, wondering why people care so much about how they look.
Then, as they walk away, I glance in the same mirror before forcing myself to walk away.

I sit at home on Sunday mornings, telling myself, "This is the perfect time for a run."  But I don't go.
The next week I guiltily force myself out the door.  Not long after I've left, I find myself enjoying the run, sincerely thinking about how there's nothing I'd rather be doing.

It's hard to be dependable when I keep changing.  Sometimes I don't know whether it's against or according to my will.  But I keep getting by.

The Fall of Men

I watch as the man takes one step over the cliff and plummets toward the water like a small rag doll. Falling, his face tips peacefully toward the impending surface until he is parallel to the horizon, and yet I barely flinch as his entire body hits the water with a sickening thud. High above his girlfriend lets forth a piercing scream as the white skin of his shoulders and neck reappears at the surface of the water, his face hidden beneath the small waves.
Should I do something? Probably. I really should. I should do something right now. Probably. Should I stop thinking about this and get in the water? Probably. Probably probably probable.
But with growing apathy, I continue watching from my spot in the canoe. Why his friends dragged him to the top of an 80 foot cliff when he couldn't even manage to move himself on all fours is beyond me. Standing on shore just a few minutes ago as they made their way toward the cliff's base in their red dinghy, I told them. I told them no. I told them what a poor decision it was. I told them that they should leave him in the boat. I told them that they were making a mistake. I told them once, twice, again and again. And yet there they were, telling me to mind my own damn business as they dragged his inebriated body up the rocks and toward the looming danger.
And now here I am, sitting quietly in a canoe large enough to accommodate his body, sitting here quietly questioning what it is to be him, what it is to be me. Questioning his right to be. Maybe I should do something. Maybe I should wait until they've all committed murder. Maybe I should wait, wait here to act as a righteous witness to the death of a perhaps already dead man floating lifelessly in the water. Or maybe I should stop thinking about it, because someone is swimming toward him. It looks like this is everyone's lucky day thanks to someone's sympathy. Standing now in silence, I watch as that someone grabs the man, turns his face out of the water, and struggles back toward the bottom of the cliff with his pallid cargo in tow.
Casting my gaze back up toward the wailing woman beside the only tree on the cliff's lip, its branches hang perilously over the water, like fingers just having released their grip. Images of the man falling just beneath its gangling branches replay over and over again in my mind as they all call for help. And now, with some remaining humanity and the call of duty at my back, I leap again into the water and swim back toward the cliff's base.

Table and Spoon Circles

If I kept a journal, there are a few things that I'd write in it. Perhaps I'd describe the contrast of my couch's pink flower decor in comparison to the dark skin of my roommate's legs as he told me about his country last night. Perhaps I'd write about the brilliant color of an old friend's hair in yesterday's sunlight as we were reunited months after I had to tell her that I couldn't give her what she wanted. Maybe I'd write about the insults that this same friend managed to subtly sling at me with frightening skill and finesse as I stood dumbfounded. Perhaps I'd write about how I smiled in relief as she walked away, knowing that she finally felt better after exacting her premeditated revenge. Maybe I'd write about none of these things, because blogging briefly about them is more than enough.
I drag my thumb along the smooth edge of the table at which I'm sitting. Whenever I'm tasked with choosing where to sit, I always choose the round tables. Maybe I appreciate how nonthreatening they are, but mostly they remind me of the regality of a fictional King Arthur's court. Sean Connery would be proud.
I look up from the table's edge. She's still complaining about work. I shouldn't mind, seeing as how I was the one to ask her how work is these days. And do I expect any true-blooded American to not complain about his or her job? I guess I dug my own grave this time.
At the next break in her story, I interrupt her with the first question that comes to my mind, which for some reason turns out to be: "Do you know what it means to believe in something?"
Taken aback slightly, she quickly says, "Of course I do." I watch as she looks up from the table, her black hair falling nicely beside either side of her face. Our conversation has taken a sudden turn for the more serious, and I'm not sure if I like where it's going with her; she doesn't really seem to know how to answer for herself as she continues, "But I don't see how that's important."
I wonder if she's ever really thought much about the question for herself, but instead I just say, "You're right. It's not that important. I'm not sure why I brought it up."
She eyes me as I innocently savor another bite of my burger. I can see a mark of frustration on her brow. "Okay, but what does it mean to you to believe in something?"
Chuckling, I set the burger back on the table. "To me? That's an ever-changing answer."
"Then give me your current answer."
"Well, if you really believe in something you should feel good about it, and you should trust it. And not because of what anyone else tells you. Be that what it may."
"I guess that makes sense. I've never really thought about it much," she says as if talking to someone else entirely, apparently herself, as we both lean back in our chairs.
Glancing down at the illuminated screen peeking out my pocket, I know that I have to go soon.
She must have noticed, because she makes one more request, "Before you go, have you ever managed to bend a plastic spoon into a complete circle without it breaking?"
"No! Can it actually be done?"
Smiling, she assures me that it can.
"All right, I'll give it a try," I tell her while grabbing the only spoon lying on the table.

Of Misery and Men

The wooden floor is matted with a thin layer of hair. His voice is strangely high pitched, and I can't help but picture a small child whining to his mother as I glance up at his round face. His eyes dart back and forth between me and Nate. If I purse my lips tightly enough and direct my breath downward I can create a hair-free space on the floor between my feet. His girlfriend stirs the pot of chili. The twisting sinews in her arm strain visibly against the underside of her paper-thin skin. Her hands are quivering. They usually do when she thinks no one is looking. I wish there were an equivalent of the nicotine patch for heroine addicts. Looking back at Mr. Tenhoeve, even his hands are shaking under the table today. He's asking us for money again. I wouldn't give him any if I had any to give; I know where it would really be spent. His two sons squeal with delight in the corner as they play in ignorant bliss with their miniature trucks. They're filthy.
"Are you listening?"
Looking up from the floor, I confidently say, "Yes."
"Well, what do you think?"
"I think you know that we can't help you in that regard. I've told you that before."
With hardly any pause, he continues reprimanding us for our callousness and insolence. His dialect of Dutch is so harsh on the ears; every time he rolls an R, I cringe.
"You guys are my last resort. If you won't help me, then I don't know what the point is anymore..."
Nate cuts in with advice. I know what he's implying. The first time he pulled the suicide card, I was genuinely worried for this man and his fledgling family, but this must be at least the fifteenth time he's made the threat. No longer does his trump card hold any water for me. Placing my attention elsewhere, I observe that all but two pieces of furniture in this room were placed here only an hour ago by Nate and myself. While contemplating our quickest exit strategy, I think back to how we ended up here in this all-too-familiar situation.
Before leaving, we had agreed that we wouldn't allow Mr. Tenhoeve to begin his normal spiel. Arriving, I notice that toys are littered across the front yard today. Grasping the gate, I hold it at a distance from myself as I pass through. Nate follows me into the yard. Leaning beside the door is the bike that I had put to use for a few weeks months before, plastic sack draped across the seat just as I had left it. Turning toward the door, I don't have to wait long before it creaks open and two young boys rush toward us howling with joy. As the first one to make it outside clutches my right knee, I reach down and pat his blonde curls. Nate picks up his brown-haired brother and greets him profusely. Mr. Tenhoeve, standing in the doorway, bids us welcome without looking me in the eye. I muster my courage for the emotional barrage that we will certainly have to try to avoid. His girlfriend emerges from a back room and offers me her hand. She at least attempts to look me in the eye, but her gaze is too glazed over to make any real eye contact.
Having laid our coats over the radiator, Nate and I head into the backyard to fetch some chairs.

Paradise is for Dreamers

We've barricaded the doors and the windows, but still our defenses continue to crumble. I run frantically to and fro about the bottom floor looking for anything that can be used as a weapon, but find nothing. Finally, in the darkness under the staircase, my hands palpate and grasp a wooden plank. It's pliable and ready for battle. People are huddling in corners. Some of them I remember from high school, but haven't seen in years until tonight. Others, classmates and neighbors, obviously arrived here with me.
The ruddy brown walls remind me of cellars into which I've only wandered briefly, but never lingered. Sections of wallpaper peel off in self defeat. Board in hand, I arrive in the main room. I can hear the others trampling around on the floor above, and I know that it's only a matter of time before they'll be here. I need to rest, but every upholstered chair and threaded couch has been piled against each possible entrance. Instead I plop down on the dusty floor, cross my legs, and place my head in my palms in quiet frustration. Bitter weeping, sobs of fear, and polarized bickering reach my ears. After what seems like only moments, someone is calling my name frantically from down the hall. I recognize the voice as Jake's, but am still reluctant to raise my head.
The screeching scrape of a couch's wooden pegs against the hard floor sends a shock wave coursing through my body. Instantly, I know, they are here. Grabbing my sole weapon mid-leap, I'm furiously running down the hall toward the screaming breach. Jake and his brother are valiantly attempting to push the barricade back into place, but they are only stalling the coming onslaught. The buzzing hum is clearly audible behind the strained door. As I begin pushing back, the gray hands reach for me just around the door's edge. Cautiously I hammer back at them to the full extent of the plank's power. The hands withdraw, the door is shut, and the humming begins to die down.
Jake, smiling at me, rests his back against the jumbled furniture and slinks toward the ground.
"Thanks, man. Nice club." His teeth are spattered in blood. Every crease between his teeth is darkening with crimson blood. Sitting there with his teeth dripping red, Jake seems to have lost a degree of humanity, like the cannibals of exotic lore.
Lowering my club, I slowly say, "Yeah, no problem." Jake begins to chuckle, turning toward his speechless brother. His brother's gaze catches my own, but I don't hold it long enough to discern any meaning before I force myself to turn away.
Walking away from our scene of narrow victory, I stroll back toward the main room. Once inside, I immediately notice the glass scattered across the floor and the red stains streaking toward the hallways. So, it is a lost cause after all. Upon crossing the threshold into an adjoining room, the silence is violently broken. Friends and family fight in futility against their flying attackers. Bounding forward, I swing the board through the air, striking several of them down. They are surprisingly strong and don't succumb quickly to my blows. More enter the room as I run back to the hallways. At every exit, several of them stand guard rebuilding the barricades we had built to keep them out. They are keeping the last few of us in. Back again under the stairs, I put my back to the wall and strike out at the encroaching hands.
Sitting up in my bed, my eyes ache as they adjust to the bright moonlight filling the room. My hand on the wall beside me firmly solidifies reality. Lying back down, I stare at the ceiling. For once, I don't have to grasp onto the fleeting remnants of this dream, for every detail is ingrained in my mind. A hum emanating from the hall causes me to hold my breath and listen. The washer is running.

Welcome, fellow man, to my blog.

Hello, fellow man. Today I will be addressing our relationship in depth. I've never been much for keeping a journal and my memory isn't the best. Therefore, the best remedy I have been able to come up with is blogging. I won't have to bother buying any pens or expensively blank books with pointless gold leaf along the edges anymore, not that it was ever my greatest temptation. Perhaps better yet, I have something more to do when online than looking at the weekend's sport scores a second time. Yes, my beloved Arizona Cardinals and Utah State Aggies are both still struggling. Both games' scores have remained the same due to a severe lack of uncovered conspiracies within the sports world. I'll continue having faith in both teams and it will eventually pay off. This I know with more certainty than 99% of everything else I pretendingly claim to know, even though I really know that there are fewer than five things in this world of which I'm truly sure. The eventual payoff of Aggie/Cardinal football fanhood is without doubt one of those five.
Is it time to muse upon my current state of mind? All one of my current readers (including myself) vote "yes"! It's unanimous, then. Several years ago I lost a certain trust in my fellow man. Am I willing to trust this devious "fellow man" with my real thoughts and opinions? The answer, since at least age 15, has been no. Do I trust fellow man to a certain point? Of course I do. I am, contrary to the belief of many, not a hermit. Thus, trusting my fellow man is required to a low degree. I trust that when I go to the store, fellow man will have stocked the shelves with food for me to purchase. I trust fellow man to walk past me on the street and acknowledge my existence if I accost her (I envision "fellow man" to be a female, despite her mannish name). I expect fellow man to be everywhere when I walk into my living room, into class, or drive down the freeway. I trust fellow man not to physically harm me, even though she has failed even at this simple task several times. I trust fellow man to do whatever she must to get by in the world. For I am nothing but another fellow man in her eyes. Occasionally, I let a fellow man into my life. Perhaps she and I are neighbors, classmates, roommates, grade school friends, or mutual Cardinal hopefuls. Any of these or nearly anyone else. In either case, sometimes a fellow man is welcomed into my life. I tell these few, unlucky fellow men who have stumbled into my life many of what they consider to be my strangest thoughts. I don't know what I want. Nor does my fellow man. Fellow man claims to want to know why I won't let her further into my life. Recently I have allowed fellow man to catch a glimpse of my true thoughts. She was frightened, petrified, and immediatey recoiled. Fellow man has failed me again. What do I do? I treat fellow man like who she is. A stranger. Fellow man is not to be trusted, along with the French. Here's to you, fellow man. Welcome to my blog.