by Blake Nelson
February 20
Sadie never called. Not that I thought she would.
I did email her “Destroy All Cars,” though. She wrote back, “Thanks, James! I’ll show it to the Activist Club.”
Yeah, like they’ll be able to deal with it.
I shouldn’t be bitter. Sadie is just trying to be nice. She just wants to be friends again. Or at least make it so we can pass each other in the hall without electrical storm clouds forming.
I talked to Jessica about it. She seems to think it’s a natural part of the healing process.
Gabe wants me to ask out one of Renee’s friends so we can double-date.
The thing about asking out other girls is that they are other girls. They are not Sadie.
Other girls are CONSUMER AMERICANS. They are tedious and superficial and at some point they will want to know what my problem is.
And what will I say then?
February 21
There was an article in The Oregonian today about the subdivision behind Carl Haney’s house. It’s true: They’re going to bulldoze the whole area. It’s too bad because the pond is a very popular spot among kids who live in a certain area. People hang out there. And park there. And party. It’s like a tradition. Sadie and I even made out there a couple times. I mean, it isn’t a very nice pond, it isn’t like a public park. But that’s part of what’s cool about it. It’s an actual pond in an actual wilderness, with weeds and mud and “critters” and whatnot. You have to drive down this old dirt road to get to it. That’s a pretty rare thing in this area. Pretty much all the woods and creeks and stuff have been developed. It was the last place kids could hang out and actually be away from civilization.
February 23
Went to the mall with Gabe and his mom this morning. She had to buy some bath towels. Also, she can’t resist the makeup counters. Gabe wanted to look for some new skateboard wheels. I went along for the ride.
We took the Ford Expedition, all of us spaced far apart and strapped in so we could withstand impacts from other Sports Utility Vehicles. If anything smaller than an SUV crashed into us, well, that’s too bad for them. Those people should buy bigger cars if they want to survive collisions. God knows we needed a big car—we’re buying bath towels.
We parked and went in and strolled through Nordstrom. Gabe’s mom got snagged by the first labcoated makeup person she saw. Gabe and I escaped the evil makeup counters and found our way to Concourse B.
Concourse B is our favorite: the high ceilings, the plastic plants, the steady flow of CONSUMER AMERICANS moving like fish along an endless stream of merchandise and consumables. Plus there’s girls. That was Gabe’s main concern: where can we stand, sit, eat, drink, and still have the widest range of girls to check out. I was also somewhat interested in this.
We went to McDonald’s first. Gabe’s mom doesn’t like him to eat there because she thinks it’s unhealthy. But he does, anyway, on the sly. That’s his little rebellion. Unfortunately, the girl possibilities at McDonald’s were limited.
So we went to Deck, the skateboard store. That place is pretty cool, I have to admit. I wish I was better at skateboarding—they have the raddest stuff. Some seventh graders were skating around in the back, doing tricks on the carpet. Skateboarding is cool. Simple. Clean. Energy efficient.
Gabe finally bought his wheels and some stickers to go with them. After that we cruised down the concourse and came across something called Caribou Coffee, which we hadn’t seen before. We were like, what’s this? A new Starbucks rip-off? That uses the catchy name of an animal species we are no doubt wiping off the face of the earth? We were so there. Plus there was free coffee for the grand opening.
We went inside. We got some free coffees. We tried them. We stood around with the other Consumer Americans evaluating the new product. Some people liked the Caribou Coffee. Others, not so much. Is it too bitter? Too strong? What is a caribou anyway? Mall goers discussed it: “It’s this thing like a horse.” “Isn’t it an island?” “It’s like a dog, but it has fur that hangs down.”
After we got bored at Caribou Coffee, we ventured onto Concourse B again to look for girls. Gabe wanted to stand outside Abercrombie & Fitch but I thought that was too obvious. So we sat on some benches instead. Gabe and I looking for girls has, historically, not been a big success. Even when we see ones we like, we’re too afraid to talk to them. Even when we see ones who seem to like us, we’re too afraid to move in their direction. And when we see girls who like us and actually come over and talk to us, we still screw it up (this has never actually happened, but if it did…). So the looking-for-girls thing is more like we’re observing girls. And studying them. For future reference.
So we sat on the bench for a while and then a girl I actually recognized walked by, a girl who goes to our school. I elbowed Gabe to look, and he saw her, too. She seemed to be with her mom or some other adult. She glanced over and saw us, too.
For some reason, I waved to her. It was kind of a half-assed wave but I did it and she waved back, smiling a little, like: Oh my God, I’m stuck with my mother, how much does this suck?
A second later, she was gone. “Dude,” I said to Gabe. “Who was that?”
“I don’t know. But she waved to you.”
“Lucy,” I said, trying to think of her name. “It’s Lucy something. She’s a sophomore.”
“Oh yeah, Lucy Branch,” said Gabe. “Rich Herrington went to the Christmas dance with her last year.”
“What’s her deal?”
“Don’t know. But she totally waved to you.”
I tried to see if Lucy Branch was still in sight, but she had disappeared down Concourse B.
Lucy Branch, I thought. I liked the sound of it.
February 25
Lucy Branch does not have a definite look. Or rather she falls into that vague “Jeans and Urban Outfitters T-shirt” universe. She was wearing Nikes at the mall with a Ramones T-shirt. I doubt she even knows who the Ramones are. She looks more Classic Rock to me, but who knows? She does seem somewhat aggressive in her personality. Like she actually waved back to me at the mall. And today she did the same thing in the cafeteria, smiling and waving again. This caught me off guard and I spilled tartar sauce on myself.
She is signaling to me some form of romantic interest. I would not be brave enough to do that if I were her. Or maybe I would. I went to Sadie’s stupid dance. Still, I don’t know what to make of Lucy Branch. I can’t tell if I would like her. I guess I would like any girl if I got physically close enough. Lucy is cute and she has a cute body. And she likes me. Or seems to. That is the important thing.
February 26
The fact that Lucy Branch might like me indicates to me that my look is not representing my true personality. She’s not really my type at all. Can’t she see that?
Or maybe girls don’t care. It’s like music, girls don’t care what band it is, they just like the song.
Lucy is so different from Sadie. I can’t tell what Lucy’s into. Nothing, most likely. She’s just a girl, just a person. She wakes up, goes to school, goes home, watches TV. I don’t know who she’s friends with. I feel sorry for her in some vague way but I don’t know why.
But if she would have sex with me, what difference does it make what she’s into?
Gabe had a thought: “Why do guys worry about what to say to girls? If they like you, whatever you say is going to work. And if they don’t like you, nothing you say is going to make any difference.”
That still leaves out the crucial part: How do they decide they like you?
February 27
Saw Lucy in the hall talking to a guy today. I was instantly jealous. Why do I like her so much? I don’t even know her. I want her physically. That’s really it. I’ve never wanted someone like that before. I ache when I see her.
With Sadie it was never about the physical. It was totally above that. But maybe that’s what happens. You hit that late adolescent period and all thinking ends. You come right down
to earth, right down to beast level. You become that thing girls talk about: a typical male being led around by his lower extremities.
It’s hard to imagine talking to Lucy. But I can imagine sleeping with her. I have been imagining it quite regularly. I can’t stop imagining it. Maybe it’s time for my first Lucy Branch, my first truly physical relationship. And why do I assume it would be a bad thing? Maybe it’s better with someone different from you. I could teach her how fluorocarbons affect the ozone. She could teach me about oral sex.
We would both become better people.
February 28
Saw Sadie after school today. She was talking with two of her Activist Club comrades.
Sadie sort of looked in my direction as I passed. She didn’t say anything, though. Weird how I thought after our library conversation that something would happen. Nothing did.
Anyway, I am too busy contemplating the possibilities with Lucy Branch to think about anything else.
“Yes, Lucy, it is hot in this broken-down car in the middle of the desert, maybe we should take off our clothes…”
“Of course you can stay in my tent here in the rain forest, Lucy. We’ll just have to share my sleeping bag…”
“I know it sucks that we’re snowed in at this mountain cabin, Lucy, but at least there’s two of us and lots of blankets…”
And yet, no matter how much I obsess over Lucy Branch, Sadie remains, lurking in the back of my mind. My first girlfriend, my first love, my first everything. And the worst part: the impossibly high standard I’ll measure everyone else against the rest of my life.
Thanks a lot, Sadie, for making every other girl seem like a brainless slug.
THE ROBOT SHOW
Jessica Carlucci and I went to the New Technologies Convention last night with her dad. There weren’t as many robots as there have been in past years, though there were some dancing robots and some robots that fly and some nanobots that they put in your bloodstream that can tell if you have cancer or not.
There was other stuff, too. New cars, new games, new battery-operated clothing. There was a personal submarine with drink holders, which might come in handy in the future. Everything says “green” on it now, regardless of whether it actually is. That was kind of annoying.
The worst was a Chevy Avalanche they had right in the middle of the convention center. For those who don’t know what a Chevy Avalanche is, it is a Deluxe Luxury Pickup Truck built in the shape of a penis. I think one could safely say it is one of the stupidest vehicles ever invented.
This particular Chevy Avalanche was painted green, and on the hood was a big sign that said THE NEW GENERATION OF ENVIRONMENTALLY FRIENDLY CARS. There were smaller signs on the different parts of it. On the wheels it said FRICTION RESISTANT FREE-ROLLING TIRES. On the gas cap: ABLE TO BURN GASOLINE AND ETHANOL. On the hood: NEW TECHNOLOGIES IMPROVE GAS MILEAGE 25%.
That was the one that killed me. New technologies improve gas mileage 25%. I couldn’t get over that. Of course, being an MPG freak, I happen to know that the Chevy Avalanche gets an estimated 14 mpg, which means if you bought one and drove it around, it would actually get 10. Which means that a 25 percent increase would get it up to 12.5 miles per gallon. Which is…ridiculous!
I had a bit of a moment there, standing in front of the Chevy Avalanche. I’ve heard people say the government is corrupt or the oil companies are evil or whatever. I never listened. I never believed stuff like that. I figured somewhere, in some lab, there were scientists from the car companies seriously trying to improve gas mileage, or create cleaner emissions, or develop an electric car or a hybrid or whatever. But as I stood there, looking at this monstrosity and its signs about “free-rolling tires,” I thought, What if they aren’t doing anything? What if they really don’t care?
I looked at the people standing around me. A dad was showing his kid the gleaming hubcaps on the “green” Chevy Avalanche. Other people were oohing and ahhhing over the “green” chrome exhaust pipes. And I thought: Why would they bother doing anything, if people believe this crap?
On the ride home, I told Jessica about the Chevy Avalanche. She thought it was funny that they were trying to pass off a luxury truck as “green.” But she doesn’t take any of this stuff as seriously as I do. She and her dad were laughing about the dancing robots. I ended up sitting in silence, lost in my own thoughts.
March 5
Gabe wants me to ask out Lucy Branch. He thinks I need a girlfriend. He’s been reminding me how popular I was when I was with Sadie. People knew me and talked to me. I did stuff and went places. Now, he says, all I do is sulk and stay up too late and scribble in my notebooks until midnight at Shari’s. This is true, but I reminded him that Karl Marx wrote his manifesto in the library, surrounded by bums and weirdos. He thinks that’s great but that unless I want to become one of those bums or weirdos, I need to hang out with some actual people.
I’m thinking about it. The truth is, I have never asked someone out on a Classic American Date. Sadie and I never did that. We didn’t have to. Also, I am not sure Lucy is right for me. Unfortunately, I may not have any other options. Because I have cut holes in my sweater and have been seen reading books in the cafeteria, I have declared myself to be some sort of fringe, radical, intellectual type. Now I must face the consequences.
In the meantime, I walk around my neighborhood at night and think about population. That is the key to all our problems. People ask, “What can I do to help the environment?” Answer: not exist. Nothing would be better for the planet than us not being on it. We have spread over the earth like a great rash, like an infestation of killer insects. We annihilate every living thing in our path, devour resources, rip up the earth to get the oil and the gold and whatever other crap we think we need. We have shown no mercy to animals, plant life, forests, oceans. We have even destroyed segments of our own species, the ones too gentle to resist our most brutal impulses. We have ravaged the planet with our insane lust and greed, everywhere leaving behind horrendous pollution, toxic waste, and lethal contamination. We have shat in our own soup bowl. And now we are trying to eat around it.
Gabe is right. I don’t look so good. I am pale and I have acne. That is common for people my age. I am an adolescent. I am becoming a “man.” In some cultures, a seventeen-year-old is considered a man already. In our culture, I am considered a child. I do not feel like a child. I look at myself in the mirror and I want to lead a revolution. I want to tear my society down to the ground and start over. But maybe every seventeen-year-old thinks that.
One thing is for sure: People are not going to change. Our single worst problem is population growth, but adults are not capable of not having children. Adult CONSUMER AMERICANS are not capable of controlling any impulse they experience. Kids are cute. They must have them. The neighbors have kids. They must have them. Mrs. Jones is bored at the tennis club and she saw another woman with a baby. She must have one. This is how we operate. WE SEE SHINY OBJECTS—CARS, PUPPIES, KITTENS, LITTLE BABIES—AND WE MUST HAVE THEM. I think most adults figure someone else will deal with the big problems. Someone else will figure it out. And if they can’t, well, we might as well live it up for now. Nothing we can do. Might as well get ours, while there’s still something to get.
Sometimes I think about my relationship with Sadie. We were like brother and sister, always bickering, but deeply joined. I remember our fight about plastic fork recycling in the lunchroom. We barely spoke to each other for a week. But when we finally made up, it was like the weight of the world was lifted off my shoulders.
What would Lucy and I fight about? Or talk about? Or do anything about? I am not the first boy to like a girl based on her physical attributes. Lots of cute people go out with other cute people based on mutual cuteness. But how does that work? What holds them together? Why do they care?
Maybe they don’t care.
It’s true what Gabe said about Shari’s Restaurant. I do come here too much. I’m here right now. It’s dark here, warm, and th
ere’s lots of carpet. It’s like being inside a sponge. The waitresses bring me coffee the minute I sit down. They know me here. They know my type: the pimply kid writing poetry, or drawing wizards, or writing Star Trek fan fiction. I hate being a kid. Are any of these thoughts I have even logical? I have no idea. At the same time, I look around at Shari’s and I see the people who hang out here. Truckers. Salesmen. Divorcées. The common people. The people who punch the clock. What do they think about? Anything? Can they imagine real change? Can our government? Can anybody?
Population. There are too many of us. But any time people and animals come in contact, what is our first response? SAVE THE PEOPLE. A bear wanders into a neighborhood, lost and confused because there is no more wilderness left for him to go to. What do the authorities do? They shoot him. A coyote gets stuck in someone’s backyard? They shoot her. A wolf in the town dump? The local deputies draw straws for the privilege of shooting him. In any situation where a human and a wild animal come together, and where there is even the remotest possibility that the human might be inconvenienced, the animal is “destroyed.” There are 300,000,000 people in the United States. There are probably fewer than 300,000 bears. But the bear dies. The thinking is: We are humans, we are precious, we are above the other creatures. But there are too many of us already. We are choking the world to death. Shouldn’t we, logically, be willing to sacrifice a few humans to save a bear? A bear that we put in this situation in the first place?
Basically, the solution is that we have to stop having so many children and driving gas-guzzling tanks around. But we won’t.