by Blake Nelson
There were no strip malls in Oslo. There was no litter. There was a McDonald’s, though, and I went there and the French fries tasted funny. I mean, it wasn’t a perfect place. But it was different. That was the lesson. Things can be different. You don’t have to keep doing things the exact same way. You can change. A lot of people do things differently and so can we.
The End
March 19
A– from Cogweiller. Barely made a mark on it. Wrote: Interesting, good description of physical location on the bottom.
March 20
At school today, Sadie came to my locker and gave me my clipboard and the petition sheets for Save the Wetlands. She told me that my days will be Tuesday and Thursday. Then she explained how you approach people and what you’re supposed to say.
She had it all on a printout. While she showed me, she breathed on me and stood really close. Our forearms touched. She pointed out my location on the map: right in front of Powell’s Bookstore downtown. She said it would be fun. She said I’d meet interesting people.
I was like, “Wait. Aren’t you going to be there?”
She said no, her days are Monday and Wednesday. And she was at a different location, out by the airport.
I was like, “I thought we were doing this together?”
She said we were, but only in different places. And on different days.
So then I couldn’t say anything more because that would be too embarrassing and would show that I don’t really care so much about saving the ducks or the frogs or whatever. I mean, I do, but not enough to go stand on a street corner by myself, harassing people to sign a piece of paper—which won’t really help anything anyway, not in the long run.
So I just grumbled and acted annoyed like I used to when we were going out and Sadie wanted me to do some weird thing I didn’t want to do, but that, usually, I was glad I did, after I did it.
March 23
Had a talk with Mom last night. She asked me about college stuff. Had I been looking into it? Did I have any thoughts?
I knew that was coming. Of course my dad will want me to apply to Harvard or some god-awful place so he can brag to his friends.
I can’t imagine where I would go. When I look around at the seniors who are going to top colleges, they seem like the biggest suck-ups imaginable. And the state colleges seem like continuous frat parties. I guess I could go to some freaky alternative college and grow my own hemp or whatever.
March 24
Another college conversation with Mom this morning.
“There’s another thing about the college situation,” she said, as she poured coffee.
“What’s that?”
“Your dad wants to buy you a car.”
That was a bit of a shock.
“I think his idea is,” said my mother calmly, “if you went to college here on the West Coast, you know, you’d be able to come home…”
A car, I thought. My own car. To feed and pet and clean up after…
“I sorta hate cars, though,” I said.
“I know. I tried to tell him that. He can’t believe that anyone your age wouldn’t want one. I think he’s hoping a car would be that little nudge to get you interested in going to college.”
“So if I take the car, I gotta go to college.”
“Something like that.”
“Has Dad ever met me?”
“He’s just remembering his own college days. That’s all it is. He’s just trying to help.”
James Hoff
Junior AP English
Mr. Cogweiller
ASSIGNMENT: four-page paper on an activity you have participated in outside of school
A PARTIAL LIST AND DESCRIPTION OF THE CITIZENS ONE ENCOUNTERS WHILE PARTICIPATING IN OUR POLITICAL PROCESS (I.E. GATHERING SIGNATURES TO SAVE THE WETLANDS)
BUMS
Bums need stuff. This goes against what you’d think. You’d think they don’t need anything. That’s the whole fun of being a bum. Wrong. They need: spare change, beer, someone to talk to, a hug, fourteen cents, a bed, an operation for their dog, a bus transfer, any extra pizza you might have, a paper clip, food stamps, to kick your ass, $400, a sock, a bottle opener, help getting their friend out of jail, a cooking mitt, a screwdriver, bolt cutters, a massage, etc. etc. One man wanted me to pull a tooth for him. Another woman tried to bite me.
BUSINESS PEOPLE
Business people can’t talk to you right now. What? No. They can’t talk. What? They’re on their cell. What? No. Just a minute. What’s that? Petition? Sign something? No. Sorry. Can’t talk. Can’t. Sorry. Can’t.
OLD PEOPLE
Old people are old and in pain and they don’t have time to listen to something they aren’t going to understand anyway. They’re grimacing with the pain in their back/neck/legs. They don’t know where they are or what they’re doing. They shuffle toward the bookstore entrance and turn their whole bodies to stare at you through the enormous lenses of their eyeglasses. They don’t know why you’re standing outside a bookstore with a clipboard, rattling on about swamps. But then they understand very little about the kids these days, what with their newfangled ringtones and their pants hanging halfway down their asses and their sex parties on the internet.
SOCCER MOMS
Soccer moms are very concerned. They are the most concerned people of all the people the petitioner encounters. They stop. They nod. They let their eyes rest on you. They are very concerned. And they are glad for you, that you are concerned and are doing something about it. But they don’t like to sign things. Not until they read up on it more. And as soon as they do, they will sign. But they are concerned. They are very concerned. Being concerned is their job. You could never be as concerned as they are. Don’t even try. Also, they’re late to pick up their gifted child.
AGING HIPPIES
Aging hippies don’t think you’re doing it right. You’re standing wrong, approaching people wrong, explaining things wrong. You obviously lack passion and true commitment. It’s not the same now, not like in their day, when politics mattered and music meant something.
TOURISTS
Tourists will sign. They come to the Pacific Northwest to think about nature and reconnect with the woods and the rivers and the streams. So if you explain to them it is a petition to save nature, they get excited. They sign. They can’t wait to sign. Here’s the weird thing: They make up fake names and addresses. It is not clear why they do this. Maybe they think the government is keeping a secret file: people who are against destroying the world. You wouldn’t want to be identified as one of those.
PEOPLE IN THEIR TWENTIES WITH TATTOOS
People in their twenties with tattoos know about your cause. They have read about it or heard something on NPR. They are very informed. Sometimes they know more about it than you do. Also, they know about other terrible things that are happening that you don’t know about. “Did you hear about the nuclear waste they’re dumping in the playgrounds?” And then you end up listening to them.
TEENAGERS
Teenagers don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. They don’t. They stare at you like you’re insane. Why are you downtown? What are you? Homeless? Don’t you have parents?
THE OCCASIONAL TEENAGER WHO DOES KNOW WHAT THE HELL YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT
Every once in a while a teenager, usually a girl, comes by who does know what you’re talking about. These are the more artsy types with messenger bags and old Vans and graphic novels under their arms. They listen to you. They sign. Sometimes they’ll forge their parents’ signatures for you. You kinda wish you knew them or could hang with them, but ultimately they’re probably too cool or too weird. So you just smile at them and let them be on their way.
THE END
March 26
Cogs liked my petition paper. Gave me a B. I asked why not an A or at least a B+ since it was obviously hilarious (he read it to the class). He said it had no formal introduction or conclusion.
That’s Cogweiller for
you, always thinking outside the box.
He did write, Glad to see you are involving yourself in your community in a positive way.
Yeah, I gave up my drug trafficking. What did he think I did with my time?
That gave me an idea, though. Since I had my petition stuff in my bag, I asked him for a signature after class. He got a little flustered and said he couldn’t do that on school grounds, it was against district policy. I said, “So we’ll do it off school grounds.”
This led to more awkwardness as I then had to meet Cogs after school and walk with him through the rain to his old Nissan hatchback. It was in the back parking lot, which is technically not on district property.
This was very weird. First of all, I’d never even seen Cogs outside of a classroom, not to mention with a ski hat on and little mittens. Also, his being elderly and all, I had to slow my pace somewhat as we walked. The other thing was: I was hoping to talk to him. I’d always been curious about the Cogman. Like what’s he like on his own time? What’s he into? What’s his wife like? And his home life?
But walking out there, I found I couldn’t start a conversation. Not at all. My role with him is: I’m the smart-ass and he’s the teacher. There didn’t seem to be any way to break out of that.
So I just followed along.
We got to his car. I got my petition stuff out and he signed it. I thanked him. He said nothing and got into his beater Nissan hatchback.
I watched him drive off. I felt bad we couldn’t manage a conversation. But I also realized that’s what’s cool about him.
Cogs is a pro. No BS. No pretending we’re buddies. I’m the smart-ass and he’s the teacher.
You gotta respect that.
THE NEW GUY
So I’m sitting in the lounge with Jessica and some other people, and Rich Herrington comes over and starts talking about this new guy and something he did in the cafeteria. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but he’s very excited. So is everyone else. They’ve all heard about this new guy. Other people join in the conversation. Did you hear what he did? Did you hear what he said? What’s his name, anyway? Where’s he from? I’ve never seen people at my high school get like this.
People in my high school usually don’t care about anything.
As it turns out, what this new guy does—drumroll, please—is stand by the garbage cans in the cafeteria and take food people are going to throw away. He takes it off their trays, apples, rolls, whatever they don’t want, whatever’s edible. He’s very polite about it, but people still freak out. The first time he did it, one of the cafeteria ladies with the plastic bags on her head came out and yelled at him. Then a real teacher tried to make him stop and there was a big argument. He got sent to the principal’s office. But then he did it again, in direct defiance of the principal.
Which is kind of impressive, I have to admit.
People are calling him the Garbage Eater. His real name is Jedediah Strock. “Jedediah” strikes me as a pretentious name. Especially if you’re not calling yourself Jed but going for the long version, which sounds like you’re a pioneer homesteader or some dude out of the Bible. The garbage gathering is apparently a political statement. He’s against waste. Big deal. Who isn’t? Also, he has this straggly beard and long straggly hair that he pulls back with one of those girl scrunchy things. People say how intense he is. People talk about his piercing blue eyes. I’m not buying it. He sounds too obvious. Anybody can stand there eating garbage in front of the whole school.
What’s your point?
I see Sadie after school, and since we’re petition partners and saving the wetlands together, she comes right over and asks me if I’ve heard about Jedediah. I say I have. She wants to know if I’ve actually seen him collecting the stuff off people’s trays. I haven’t. “That’s pretty daring, don’t you think?” she asks. She’s all flushed and excited about this guy. I don’t answer. I ask her how the petitions went, out at the airport. She says good, they got a lot of signatures. She says she heard I did well, too, that I got sixty-five signatures. She says she couldn’t believe I got so many. I say, “I’m actually quite charming when I want to be.”
She says, “Yeah, when you want to be.”
Where the hell did this Jedediah guy come from? During fourth period he sits in the middle of the main lawn, playing his guitar and singing. And doing Buddhist chants. What is up with that? He wears trashed Converse low-tops that are held together with duct tape, his T-shirts are so old you can see through them, and his Hindu sheepherding jacket is shedding. He doesn’t have enough facial hair to have a beard, but he has one anyway. The mystical hippie dude thing: Don’t you have to be outta high school to pull that off? I heard some jocks are planning to beat him up. I feel jealous.
The jocks used to beat me up.
I see Sadie talking to Jedediah. God, I hate that guy. Supposedly his parents are missionaries and he lived in India for five years. Go back to frickin’ India, bro. Sadie is so kissing his ass. Asking him questions. Maybe they can go into the helping-people business together. He can sing songs of love and understanding, and she can get a new bike path approved.
I hate bike paths.
I finally see him doing it. He’s been forbidden to do it by every authority known to man, but there he is, during Wednesday lunch, collecting the garbage off people’s trays. He does it for like thirty seconds and then Mr. Greco, the gym teacher, swoops down on him. Mr. Greco grabs Jedediah’s very skinny arm and yanks him away from the garbage cans. All the apples and unopened milk cartons and stuff go spilling across the floor. Mr. Greco is an ex-Marine. He grabs the Garbage Eater by the back of his shirt and marches him toward the principal’s office. But here’s the killer. As he’s being led away, people begin to clap. Everyone in the cafeteria starts clapping and standing up. Soon the whole cafeteria is on their feet giving him a standing ovation, as Mr. Greco practically rips his shirt off. I have to stand up or look like a total jerk.
I don’t clap, though.
In the meantime, while the Garbage Eater is getting all the attention at school, I’m stuck downtown trying to get crazy people to sign my stupid petition. That’s my own demented sense of honor. I said I’d do the petitions, so I do them. One good thing: I finally meet Alice Weitzman. She’s the head of Save the Wetlands. She actually comes down to my corner to see the kid who got sixty-five signatures on his first day. I thought she was another street person when she first walked up to me. But she introduced herself and she had this funny way about her. You sort of instantly want to help her. But a lot of good that does me. I’m still standing in the street getting signatures, while Sadie is somewhere else, getting all sparkle-eyed over Jedediah. Everyone thinks he’s so rad. They love that he keeps doing the garbage thing no matter how many times they bust him. Of course his parents have been called. That’s the latest news everyone is buzzing about.
What will the missionary parents do?
I don’t think Sadie is really in love with Jedediah. But who knows? He keeps getting in trouble and now his parents are involved. Apparently, his mother screamed at Mr. Brown about how racist our school is. Sadie is all worked up about it. People are saying Jedediah has a First Amendment right to express himself. Collecting garbage is freedom of speech. Other people (me) think he’s a show-off. Someone interviewed him for the school paper and it turned out he has been thrown out of a couple different schools for similar escapades. The teachers all know he isn’t hurting anything, but at the same time they can’t let him do stuff he’s been told not to do.
I can just imagine Mr. Brown sitting in his office rolling his eyes.
I see the Garbage Eater and Sadie sitting out on the main lawn during lunch. His guitar is lying gently on the grass, he’s sitting cross-legged, his ancient Converse duct-taped to his feet. Sadie’s doing her “attentive” pose, her “help me be a better person” posture. So I decide to go see for myself. Maybe I’ve been too harsh on this guy. We are on the same side, after all. Probably Sadie will
tell him about our petition. I’m the guy who got sixty-five signatures on my first day. So I walk over and say hi and sit down, and Jedediah pretends I’m not there. He’s too busy going on and on about India, the conditions there, the poor, the way his parents taught him to never give in to structure or authority or meaningless directives. He is a very earnest dude. I try to roll with it. I nod and agree that starvation is bad. But he barely acknowledges me. He is totally focused on Sadie. They are bonding in a deep do-gooder trance of self-righteousness and high self-esteem energies. The bell’s about to ring and I have to go, so I say good-bye and stand up. They barely notice. Sadie could have helped. She could have said: “Jedediah, this is James. He’s helping me save the wetlands.” But she doesn’t.
Sixty-five signatures in one day. Keep that in mind, Mr. Strock.
A PARTIAL LIST AND DESCRIPTION OF GIRLS WHO WOULD PROBABLY LIKE TO SIT WITH ME ON A LAWN SOMEWHERE AND SHARE HIGH SELF-ESTEEM ENERGIES
JESSICA CARLUCCI
Jessica is awesome. And quite beautiful. Sometimes when the light hits her hair, it is the nicest, softest shade of brown. I bet she wouldn’t mind doing something of a semi-romantic nature. We might have to skip the sitting in the grass part, though. She doesn’t like to get her clothes dirty.