by Jason Jauron
What he saw with his own eyes - there are no words for that.
Now, many people had tried to use words to offer comfort or condolences.
But in reality, there.are.no.words.
Like:
No words of consolation.
No words of justification.
No words of juxtaposition.
No words of combination.
No words of affiliation.
No words of reconciliation.
No words of emancipation.
No words of demarcation.
No words of restoration.
No words of segregation.
No words of isolation.
No words of alienation.
No words of annihilation.
No words of ramification.
No words of representation.
No words of causation.
No words of retaliation.
No words of devastation.
No words of condensation.
No words of fragmentation.
No words of regurgitation.
No words of perpetuation.
No words of resuscitation.
No words of reciprocation.
No words of manipulation.
No words of sublimation.
No words of rejuvenation.
No words of replication.
No words of duplication.
No words of placation.
No words of resignation.
No words of cooperation.
No words of disintegration.
No words of magnification.
No words of meditation.
No words of elevation.
No words of fabrication.
No words of repudiation.
No words of amelioration.
No words of subjugation.
No words of defibrillation.
No words of reticulation.
There are no words.
Not after Jed saw what he saw with his own eyes.
He did learn, however, that there is sorrow in every life. And that sorrow is not distributed equitably.
He also learned that where words had failed, specific “life lessons” aka “urban folklore” could be offered up as a way to explain the outcome of Jed and Patty’s relationship.
He also came to realize that people - whether a family member, a close friend, a coworker, a neighbor, a non-close friend, an acquaintance, a white collar, a blue collar, a redneck, a no neck, or just some dumb fuck at a bar - love to dole out the sage advice. Male or female – it did not matter. These people all had the answer. They knew almost immediately and without a doubt why Jed and Patty were not meant to be.
Of course Jed would learn all this the hard way – one stupid fucking conversation at a time.
The most common, consistent “life lesson” he heard, and to Jed clearly the most memorable, meandering, and moronic was:
“It happened for a reason.”
This one always made Jed chuckle because no one ever really explained what the fuck it meant. The person he was talking to would just nod their head, run their fingers through their hair, lean close and mutter, “It happened for a reason.”
After that nugget of rhetoric was spoken, the conversation immediately turned its attention elsewhere. No explanation was needed apparently. This particular phrase was considered rhetorical.
So it was always up to Jed to conjure the “reason.”
Like…
She was a whore?
My dick wasn’t big enough?
She wanted more excitement in bed?
She suddenly felt trapped after saying “I do?”
She wanted a threesome?
She was just in it for the ring?
This was her way of demonstrating her second thoughts?
She never really loved me?
She wanted one last fling?
She wanted to hurt me?
She didn’t want to get married?
It was the easiest way to get rid of me?
Don’t trust girls who say they love you?
Real love doesn’t exist?
Patty was not my real love?
Love isn’t real?
Discovering the real reason consumed Jed for months.
Many, many a business day went by without Jed meeting his production quotas.
Many, many pitchers of beer were emptied in small, smoky bars until late at night in the desperate pursuit of Jedi-like clairvoyance that only alcohol can induce.
Eventually, after many months of being at war with himself, he concluded that the “reason” must be hidden somewhere inside Pandora’s box.
And Jed felt he had already experienced enough of the evil that this world could offer, so any future archeological expeditions were nixed.
Another popular, poignant, and pessimistic phrase he heard was:
“You are better off without her.”
Really?
Jed always wanted to tell the Neanderthals who uttered that verbal diarrhea that nothing could be further from the truth. He created, but never shared, a list of examples of just how he was NOT the fuck better off without her.
1. Waxing your carrot into tissue paper is not sensual or romantic.
2. You need two to spoon.
3. Going solo in the shower is no fun.
4. I don’t have a best friend anymore.
5. No more first kiss in the morning.
6. The impromptu road trips to Minneapolis that turned into fuck marathons at the hotel.
7. When she would kiss my neck.
8. Holding hands as we walked to class.
9. Watching her dress in the morning.
10. Movie matinees.
44.
6am
As he plodded towards the bathroom, his gait, posture conjured images of Egyptian mummies from the black and white movie era. He walked with stiff legs; he held his arms out – he had to slowly, methodically feel his way along.
When he finally found the bathroom and turned on the light, he squinted.
Drank too fucking much.
He walked over to the toilet.
As he went, he turned, noticed the sink.
He sighed.
Thank you anal-retentive gene of my DNA.
The arrangement around the sink best resembled a fine restaurant. Each item had its place, its order of use, and its function. The only thing missing was the fancy tablecloth. And the kicker - it was all done yesterday afternoon.
Emily Post, eat your heart out.
He chuckled.
The subtle body movement caused his urine stream to become erratic. His dick was pretending it was an oscillating lawn sprinkler.
Jed glanced down, started laughing harder. Now his urine was spraying everywhere, but he did not care. And he could not stop. So he just kept laughing.
After spending a few moments cleaning up his mess – Catholic guilt - he left the bathroom. Not before he drank two glasses of water. He was beginning the tedious process of rehydration.
He checked his clothes, turned on the television. Cable news was in a tizzy over what would become known as the Iran-Contra Affair.
Jed just smirked.
Most of the adult population of America could not even locate Nicaragua on a world map to save their life – let alone recite any particulars of its history, its people, and its form of government. The same could be said for Iran.
He sprawled on the bed, watched for another 15 minutes.
Reagan should be nominated for an Oscar. To look America in the eye and admit you had no idea what anyone was talking about – hostages, weapons, payments, civilian casualties. And you are the fucking president of the United States – a nation that had asked its allies not to trade with or assist Iran in any way, shape, or form. Fuck, that’s Joe McCarthyian of you President Reagan. Keep the multiple untruths coming.
Jed got up, cracked his back, and turned off the boob tube. He was now upset. And it was too fucking early for that. But he knew th
ere were a lot of issues, events in the 1980s that cable news could be covering, but wasn’t.
Like:
Why hasn’t anyone discussed the slow decay in America’s manufacturing base?
Why wasn’t cable news analyzing the systematic attempts, at the highest levels of government, to destroy union power and membership in this country?
Why was there no roundtable debate about escalating CEO salaries, and the appalling CEO to employee pay ratio of around 100:1? What that means is for every $1.00 your father made in, say 1985, his CEO was earning $100.00. So if your daddy’s blue-collar salary was $30,000; your daddy’s white-collar CEO took home $3,000,000.00.
Why wasn’t cable news documenting the use of illegal, performance enhancing drugs in professional athletics – namely baseball and football?
As he began his typical morning routine of stretches, basic calisthenics, Jed’s body softened and so did his mood. He had to admit that being a young person during the 1980s wasn’t such a bad thing.
So when he finished his light workout, which included pushups and crunches, he grabbed some hotel stationery, a pen, and sat at the foot of the bed. He quickly inked his favorites of the 1980s:
Mats Wilander – pound for pound best tennis player ever. What he did in 1988 – fucking unreal.
Gabrielle Sabatini – sexiest one-handed backhand.
The Police – Stewart Copeland is the most underrated percussionist of all time.
Guess Jeans – the only label to wear.
Debbie Gibson – hot, hot hot. Name of her album should have been Electric Hard-on!
Die Hard – “Welcome to the party, pal”
Indy Jones – the manliest of manly archeologists. “Ah, Venice.”
Stephen King – A boy and his car.
Donkey Kong – Elevator level, my fave.
Leather flight jackets
Mopeds
Asteroids
Atari
Ferris Bueller
Raybans
A-Team
MacGyver
Indiana Men’s Soccer
Bruce Arena
Polo shirts
Thundercats
Robin Wright – I would fetch her a pitcher any time!
He looked at his list, smiled.
Jed checked the time, grabbed another glass of water.
It was time to get serious.
I have to say goodbye today. And it has to be done right.
He felt the lump in his throat.
I just wish we could have sat down, talked one last time. I would feel more closure, and more comfort, if Patty and I, our breakup, had ended in a way where we could have at least been cordial to each other. There was so much venom between us after that night.
The weeks that followed that fateful night of infidelity were simply hell on earth. Sometimes Jed felt like Virgil was leading him through the Inferno. He felt a pain in his chest with every step. Trying to have any type of meaningful or positive talks with Patty was just wishful thinking. How quickly, easily, their future as a married couple – home, dog, kids - was deleted.
And at least for Jed, some things can’t be taken back.
He could not forgive.
Patty sought to reconcile.
But Jed did not feel like the most love insecure person on the planet anymore.
He was however the most patient insecure, empathy insecure, unconditional positive regard insecure, and active listening insecure person in the former Louisiana Purchase Territory.
Oh, he and Patty met a few times.
First with friends present.
Later, just the two of them.
They also tried to talk some on the phone. Had friends intervene at the other’s behalf. Even Jed’s parents tried to negotiate a happy ending.
But the entire experience can be summed up in this lengthy nutshell:
Lots of loudness.
Plenty of pacing.
Smacking of walls.
Some success at foot-in-the-door.
Little or no rational thought.
Continuous interruptions.
Accusations flying.
Plenty of name-calling.
More than enough finger pointing.
Hearts bleeding.
A lame use of that’s-not-all.
Zero attempts to take the high road.
Additional mud slinging.
No use of plain-folks.
A few episodes of the blame-game.
Enough vulgar language to get an “R” rating.
Litanies of aggravation.
Bucketfuls of tears.
Boxcar loads of hurt feelings.
Basements full of what-ifs.
Crawl spaces stuffed with regret.
Rambling letters that went neither here nor there.
Phone messages of drunken, pure rage.
A random threat or two.
Cardboard boxes of broken personal belongings left in the driveway.
Tattered remains of a life never to be spent together scattered about the Earth like nuclear fallout.
The result of this madness?
Jed just walked away.
And for the months that followed, he kept on walking – away from Patty, his family, his friends, and his faith.
45.
6:30am
Dave Taylor lay on his back wide-awake.
Every few minutes or so he would glance over at his alarm clock.
He was debating whether his decision to surprise Jed and attend Patty’s funeral was a good one. It sure seemed like a good idea yesterday. He was worried. Jed sounded stressed out on the phone. And heck, he had not seen his old friend for some time.
He leaned over, checked the time again. He could not believe he was even awake at this hour. Kim had insisted on a two-fer. And throughout the process of satisfying her twice, Dave had come to a conclusion – he needed to join some type of fitness center.
As he got up to use the restroom, he stopped and glanced in his closet. It took a minute or so for him to find a suit he liked, match a shirt and tie.
He finally felt at peace with his decision.
It was road-trip time to see an old friend.
46.
7am
After Jed downed another glass of funny tasting hotel water, he managed to set up the complimentary ironing board without looking like too big a dumbass.
He glided the iron over his suit pants like a stay-at-home mother.
When that was done, he hung them up, considered his next move.
He picked up his dress shirt, farted.
He wafted the odor towards his face.
Somebody light a match.
He laughed loudly.
Gonna have one nasty shit in a few hours.
But the moment of levity was fleeting.
Patty’s father was going to be the elephant in the room for the entire day.
Her father is going to strut into that church today like he is some fucking Apex predator.
Jed slid the iron over the collar of his dress shirt.
He paused, placed the iron upright.
I just don’t understand how a grown man can force his 3rd grade daughter to take his dick in her mouth. I don’t understand how a father can use his adult dick to violate his child. How the fuck is that even physically possible? He had to know his actions were wrong? And how could he keep doing it? I mean, shit, off all the fucking wrongs a parent can do to a child - rape and sodomy – there’s no forgiveness for that shit. I mean, how did he not know he was broken. He is a defective human being.
He picked up the iron, went back to work.
A minute later, he set the iron down again.
Patty never had a chance. A young life wasted.
Moments later, Jed found inner peace.
We were two peas in a pod.
Or another example of misery seeks company.
<
br /> He started crying.
I understand now Patty. I really think I do. Bad things happen to good people. And bad things do permanent damage – physical, psychological. Bad things cause suffering, and the pain doesn’t go away. It may lay dormant for some time, but the pain is always there. It saps your energy. It steals your strength. It drains you emotionally. And all the time it’s there, picking and choosing moments to appear, interfere. Always reminding you of who you really are, what you really are, and what you did. And no matter how much time has passed or how your life can change for the better, you can’t escape. You are never truly free. There is no true peace of mind. There is always something fighting you.
I know Patty. I know how water wears the stone.
No matter what my parents say. No matter what my friends say. No matter how many women ask me out on dates, I still don’t see what they see. I still identify with the ugly old hermit who talked to himself and a sewing needle for two years in a tiny dorm room. I still identify with the pizza-face who refused to make eye contact. I still identify with hamburger face, his self-deprecating humor, and his drink-till-you-puke remedy for social anxiety. I still identify with the depressed young man too ashamed to leave his room. I still identify with the angry young man and the nearly hour-long zit popping, panic-attack sessions. I still identify with the scared boy who often cried as he shaved. I still sometimes think about the lonely tortured soul who wanted to take his own life. That same boy who would remove the window screen late at night and imagine the feeling he would experience falling 12 floors to his death. His heart would flutter. That feeling teased him. He so desperately wanted to feel any emotion again. I can still identify with the boy who lived through the myriad of fucking concoctions claiming to be the cure for acne. Like the fucking irritating over-the-counter zit creams that always stained the fucking pillowcase and came in the way-too-fucking small tube. Or the over-the-counter fucking zit pads that would burn like a motherfucker. I can still identify with the boy who bought those medications at the store and had to put up with the gawking and snickering from the person who rang him up. I still identify with the boy who thought exercise would cure him of his acne, so the boy woke early and ran the dorm stairs. Twelve floors of them. That’s a hell of a lot of stairs. He did this till he puked. He would then shower, pick at his face, and fall asleep for the rest of the morning. Oh that’s right. He had stopped going to classes. He was thinking about transferring. I also identify with the boy, who at too young of an age, felt like he had nothing left to lose. So the boy ignored the risks, and chose a new, not yet controversial, remedy. Oh the oral chemotherapy and its endless possible side effects. And I still identify with the boy who thought if he sanded away all the traces – the pits, the scars, the lines – he could finally bury the past, start his young adult life over. Oh the wonderfully over-rated dermabrasion and its sensitivity to the sun.