Dial Z for Z-words.

I have a fear of zombies.  I don’t think it’s such an unnatural fear to have, myself.  Fear of something you thought was put to rest rising up again to claim your well-being and transmogrifying it into something grotesque should be something a lot of people experience, if just for the symbolism alone.  No one wants their past catching up with them and ruining their future.  However, I am talking about this very literally…I am afraid of the walking dead.  Decayed skin tattered upon a rotting skeleton as it lurches forth to infect you with its fetid curse. Just thinking about a body crawling six feet through rock just to taste your flesh is enough to give me the shakes.

I have been chastised for this belief.  It doesn’t even have a name.  While the science is trying adamantly to disprove the reports of a zombie-serum in Haiti (which is, if you need a literary point of reference, akin to the draught Juliet was given), it cannot disprove the fact that I, American male close to thirty years of age, do not like the idea of the world’s dead coming back from where they are resting.

When asked about where this phobia comes from, I think back and realize that I think I was lied to by Michael Jackson.  More importantly, I was lied to by Thriller.

For the sake of thoroughness, Thriller was the pinnacle of Michael Jackson’s career, at one time being the best selling album of all time (it fluctuates with the Eagles Greatest Hits), and hosting a string of number 1 hits, also garnering the most ground-breaking music videos. But the song and, more importantly, the video for the title track is what started my trek.

In the video, Michael is singing and walking his lady friend home through the short cut that just so happens to run through the grave yard, despite the fact that she couldn’t stand to watch a movie about Sock Hop era werewolves in which she and Michael starred.  This being beside the point, as Vincent Price is reciting a poem about 40,000 year old funk, zombies start returning from the ground.  School teachers, mummies, I think at one point Amelia Earhart showed up, et cetera.  As the poem ends, they start to converge on our protagonists, surrounding them.  At the apex of the ‘terror’, the girl turns to Michael, but oh no!  His face tells the story that he has been turned into one of them!  Legitimately, she is freaked the fuck out.  What’s going to happen now?!

The zombies, now bolstered by their new recruit, start to do what I in my 6 year old mind assumed zombies did.  They danced.

Dancing.

For an entire minute, newly dead Michael and others start to dance.  And not just any run-of-the-mill dancing; heavily choreographed, superstar-making dancing.  And when they’re done, the girl runs away and they give chase.  However, it is clear to me they just needed another dancer in their ranks and now that she had seen how it was done, she would be perfect!  Then the video ends with Michael with cat-eyes and movie over.

So my first encounter with zombies was amazing.  I felt that was a creature I could get behind, support through times thick and thin.   Going to do a zombie walk?   Awesome!  Just let me get a bit more coordination in shoulder/neck stomp.   Brains?  Yes, we’ll need ours to remember all those dance steps.

Imagine my surprise when a few years later, I catch a glimpse of what passes for a true zombie movie.  Without being prepared to see a man become eviscerated by 3 decaying cannibals is one thing; not being prepared because you knew in your heart of hearts the ‘cannibals’ were supposed to be doing some form of the running man was entirely different.  My heart sank into the pit of my stomach, mostly because of the blood and unflinching gore I had seen.  But there was the tiniest piece of me that was stricken because the King of Pop led me astray.

Regardless of however good his intentions were, the scar of the Z is still in me and tonight, I thought I could finally shake it off.  Without going into too many details, I failed in that quest.  It is now 5:30am and there is no sign of sleep getting any closer.  I also have cloud-to-cloud lightning going on outside and it is not helping.  I am currently armed with my trusty stabbing stick, awaiting any jerky, staggering lope towards me.

Perhaps one Halloween, I will sit outside somewhere close to Michael’s grave, awash with the tokens from his admirers.  Maybe I’ll be staring intently and trying to tell anyone who will listen how Michael will rise up and perform duties of dance, just like he prophesized in the video.  I will try and turn him into my own personal Giant Pumpkin.  But it’s really all just a cover.

I just need him to show me we were right about zombies and their desire to dance.  It’s the only way.

Chapter 5 draft

My first encounter with theatre was as an audience member.  I had a ticket.  I was given a program.  I mingled in the lobby with others who were there for a unique experience.  I was ushered to my seat.  I had the option of making small talk in the crowd until the lights flickered a warning to shut up.  I witnessed live theatre and, more importantly, I was mesmerized by an actress.  I went home thinking about the production (and said actress).  That is all I knew of theatre up until this point.

Walking into the theatre, I scanned the mass of people for a certain spunky blonde.  I saw a couple of different circles of people having different conversations.  Great…more cliques.

“And you are…?”

I had gotten so busy looking around that I failed to notice there was a sign-in area.  While I was not sure of many things in my life, I knew that I probably wasn’t on the list to get in.  “Uh….I’m, heh, um….”

The girl, a senior, smiled helpfully.  “I didn’t mean to stump you.  You must be an actor…needing your lines written out for you.  I just need your name to put on a name tag.”  I am stumped about my own name?  What is wrong with me?

“Thing is…I, uh…”

“He’s with me, Nikki.”  Sarah seemed to materialize out of thin air to save me from further ingestion of my foot.  “This is my good friend Wesley.”  Good friend!

“Right on.  Welcome, Wes.  I am Nikki, outgoing treasurer of the Jensen Parlor High Thespian Society.  I hope you enjoy your time in this theater.  I know I have.”  She gave me a genuine smile before I was whisked away by Sarah to mingle with more people I didn’t know.

People I met on my whirlwind tour of the who’s who of the JPHS theatre kids:

-Brian Macorkindale: Junior, ‘techie’.  Biggest achievement: He has rigged all the lights in the theater and he defies that jack hole Thomas Mann to do any better.

- Amanda Jacobs: Sophomore, angling for the Thespian presidency, has a major dislike of freshmen, despite having been one three months ago.

- Walter ’Butt Paste’ Dixon – Freshman, was in a commercial as a child, is now known as the ‘butt paste’ kid.

- Rick Piers – Senior, only did theatre for the ‘easy A’ despite never getting an A in the class.  Vows to get that elusive A this year.  Or not.  He’s a senior, for God’s sake.

- Thomas Mann – Junior, thinks the lighting scheme looks ridiculous and wonders if Brian Macorkindale is blind or just an idiot.

- Theresa Olivers – Sophomore. Cannot believe Amanda Jacobs wore that.

- Pete Billings – Senior, sound tech, can’t wait to get out of this cesspool of a talent pool.  Charmer, this one.

…and rounding out the cavalcade of characters, I met the guest director for the school’s big competition piece, Jake Jurgens.  Apparently he was an alum of Jensen Parlor High who was awarded a Macarthur Grant, which he wanted to use to put on the entire canon of Shakespeare, but as far as anyone knew, he just used the money to buy beer and video games.

I was about to get a word in edgewise (theatre people are a talkative lot) but was interrupted by flashing lights.  Ms. Woods had a few things to impart to us, like cleaning up after ourselves and such like that.  I was about to nestle into a seat in the audience when a hand was placed on my shoulder.

It was Rick.  “Hey man…shouldn’t you be backstage with the other frosh?”

“There’s what now?”

“Yeah,” chimed in Amanda, “you got to be backstage for the show!”

I nodded and sort of ambled to where the other Freshmen were, wondering why I couldn’t watch whatever show in the comfort of the audience.  Getting closer, I notice some stretching, some in silent meditation and my heart sank just a bit.

“Welcome to the Freshmen Talent show!”

What Sarah had neglected to mention to me was that every year, the incoming class of Freshmen would all perform something to showcase whatever talents they had.    I looked around.  There were thirteen of us, including Sarah and myself.  Already not a good sign.  I looked at the sheet and saw my name there.  Apparently that was what the whole Nikki fiasco from earlier was about.  And then another realization dawned upon me.

I was fourth.  I WAS FOURTH!

Anxiety started to set in.  First it appeared in the smallest pit of my stomach, but rapidly exploded as far as the tips of my fingers and the back of my head.  Impending humiliation has a way of doing that to a person, especially a woefully under prepared one.

“And let’s bring to the stage, Zach Melford!”

Zach Melford was first.  He went out and sang a song about how nothing compares to you.  It was soulful and heartfelt and it made the butterflies in my bodies to get even more agitated as the wheels were in motion.  What would I do?!

He ended with a polite smattering of applause but a bit of heckling.  We were all on a chopping block of a talent show.  Talent!  I have no talent!

“Jenny Bridges!”

Ohgodohgodohgod…

Jenny tap danced to a jaunty little ditty about how someone wasn’t woman enough for her man.  A bold juxtaposition of twang and style.  Meanwhile, while I am critiquing her entry, I STILL HAVE SQUAT TO PERFORM!  A delightful use of my time!

“Walter Dixon!”

A chant of ‘BUTT-Paste!’ rang out through the audience amidst the fifty or so upperclassmen.  This was a hopeful sign.  Perhaps they would become so hoarse with jeering at him, they would be too tired to care that I would go out there and suck it up.  At this point, I will cling to whatever hope I can.

Dixon soldiered through his monologue, despite everyone throwing his past into his face.  And when he was done, he actually received thunderous applause, with a happier chant of ‘Butt-PASTE!’  As he passed me, he clapped me on the shoulder and wished me a broken leg.  At this point, I’ll take whatever will get me out of this waking nightmare.

“And now, Wesley Rodgers!”

As if in my mind were in a fog and my being was, um, being controlled by an unknown hand, I sidled my way out on the stage.  My body was on auto-pilot as my mind ran through everything to string together anything to tell these people.  But as I reached the edge of the spotlight’s warmth, something magical seemed to happen.

Suddenly, my vision was clear even though I couldn’t see the first person in the audience.  My mind also seemed to clear all the cobwebs and I could feel the stress of the past ten minutes just melt off of me.  For once, I was the center of attention.  Everyone was gathered around to hear what I had to say.  Me.  They were going to listen to ME!  And by God, I was going to give them something!  I opened my mouth to announce the first cogent thought that came to me…

…and then I proceeded to vomit upon the stage, followed shortly by passing out.

Ms. Woods acted quickly.  “Let’s take a short intermission!”

—

When I came around, I was in the classroom with a wet paper towel on my forehead and Ms. Woods and Jake Jurgens sitting in the corner.

“Well, that was certainly something.  Can you do that on command or was this a special occasion?”  I could already tell I didn’t much care for Mr. Jurgens.

“It’s okay, Wesley.  We contacted your mother.  She should be here soon.  Are you feeling any better?”

I nodded a bit sheepishly and took a swig of water that was close by.  “Yes, ma’am, I’m fine.  I don’t know what that was out there.  I was just all…oh, this sounds so stupid, but I was just a bundle of nerves, but as soon as I hit the spotlight, all of it went away.  I felt important.  I felt…like I mattered, if only for a minute.  Silly, huh?”

Ms. Woods grinned warmly and shook her head.  “You just got a taste of the theatre life.  It can be a bit overwhelming the first time you do it.  So you liked that?”

“I did.  It was as if I could do anything.  Is there anyway to fix me to where I won‘t…do that which I did…all over the stage? ”

A gentle knock came at the door and I saw the shadow of Sarah in the frosted window.  She entered and her face went from worried to relieved in milliseconds.  She flashed her radiant smile just for me.

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright.  I’m so sorry that you had to go onstage.  I didn’t think they’d make you do it, too.  Although everyone is still talking about it out here, kid.  You’re a star!  Forgive me?”  Her eyes were able to reduce me to a puddle as it was.  Place them in an ‘apology’ scenario and you have someone who is able to get away with murder.

“Of course, Ms. Lindsey.”  I hoped I wasn’t blushing too much.

“Sarah,” Jake ‘Jerk-ens’ decided he was done with this conversation. “Could you give us just a few more minutes?  Thank you, madam.”

She gave me a small wave and backed out of the doorway.  When she was gone, Jake focused his attention on me.  “Answer me true: you’re here for her, aren’t you?”

The bluntness of the question took me off guard.  I sputtered for a second before he smirked and held his hand up to silence me.  He leaned over and whispered something to Ms. Woods before leaving the room.  For a moment, I thought he was going to rat me out to Sarah and I would be forever known as the lovesick (and pukesick) loser.  But when he returned with Rick Piers, I became more unsure of anything.

“Wesley, three years ago, I was a senior here.  When I was a freshman, I had almost the same experience you did.  I stepped onstage and felt immeasurably mighty.  I had Ms. Woods here to guide me in the ways of the stage.  When I was a senior, Ricky here was in your boat.  I took him under my wing and taught him everything he knows.  While he hasn’t applied himself, he has the capabilities.  We all know what you’re going through, is what I’m saying.”

“But I’m not even in the program.  I’m just a freshman with an identity crisis as of late.”

“Tell me, Wes.  What were you planning to do on that stage?  Before you left your mark upon it?”

I shrugged.

“But you still went out there and was going to do something.  Despite not having the first idea.  You were going to give the audience something.  That took guts.  You want to get rid of the major anxiety to feel like you did before you puked?  Let us help you.”

Rick smirked.  “It is a lot of fun once you get down to it, man.”

Another knock on the door.  This time, I recognized the silhouette as my father.  I sighed deeply as I got up.  “Just…let me think about it.  It sounds like a lot of effort to be wasted on me just trying to impress a girl.”

As I left, Jake called after.  “Isn’t that the basis for everything?”

—

The ride home was a long, cold silence.  My father was none too pleased with not only having to come pick me up from a nonsense party but also having to pick me up because I was just an embarrassment to the family.  Being disappointed as he was, I knew better than run the theatre thing by him.  I was facing some sort of punishment as it was.  No sense adding anything more tribulation to my immediate future.

Ugh, why was I such a failure?

Chapter 4 Rough Draft

Seven numbers. I had been around numbers my entire life. It’s one of the first things you learn to do. Counting to ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Heck, mere hours before, I learned the same thing in a different language. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten (But in German). So why was a mere rearrangement of numbers giving me such a problem?

Just looking at the numbers, separated almost in half by a hyphen, made my heart pound and my neck sweat slightly. I was staring at the veritable Ark of the Covenant. The pit of my stomach seemed to echo and grow as I approached the phone. Reaching out, I realized my hand was involuntarily dancing spastically to an unknowable track. Struggling to maintain composure, I gripped the phone to my chest in took a deep breath.

These numbers wouldn’t beat me. I dialed deliberately.

Eight. My thumb gently pressed the corresponding button and I realized I was calling Sarah Lindsay.

Six. Calling the girl who had invaded my dreams simply by existing.

Seven. The girl with the stunning eyes and the winning smile.

Five. Calling someone who not only wants to hang out…

Three. …but asked ME on a date.

Zero. A date.

Nine. Is it a date?

Ring. Did she say it was a date? Oh, crap…

Ring. I’m panicking. Don’t panic, Rogers!

‘Hello?’

I released the deep breath that I had inhaled pre-dialing and realized that I forgot rudimentary phone courtesies. In fact, I’m pretty sure I forgot how to speak completely.

‘Hello…?’ I also realized the voice on the other end was getting impatient.

‘Uh, h-hi. Is, um…Sarah?…Sarah home?’

‘May I ask who is calling?’ This question should be simple. I’ve answered it many times. And yet, I was blanking. I’m not even talking to the girl I’ve called yet and I have no thought in my mind. Is this even possible?

‘Wesley…Wesley J. R-Rogers.’

I really need to stop using my full name as an introduction.

‘Oh, you’re that boy she’s going to that theatre thing with. She’s not here but she told me to tell you that it is at the school’s theatre tomorrow around 6:30. She said she’ll see you there.’

So all that nervousness and anxiety and she wasn’t even home. I thanked the person on the other end, which I assumed was her mom, and hung up the phone. I figured that when I reminisced upon this moment in the future, I would be less of a spaz. And when my little brother jumped from the closet where he was eavesdropping, I would remember myself not yelping.

‘Wes’ got a girl-friend!’ The chant had started and he was running about the house. But the fact still remained: I had a date.

Wait, was it a date?

—-

Mere hours before our meeting up at the school theatre, I realized that I had to pick out the perfect ensemble. Something that summed me up so completely that everyone would realize that I meant business. Theatre business at that. The thing was, I had no idea what that would be. All I knew about actors is that they wore costumes. So to the closet I went.

Attempt number one didn’t go so well. I didn’t realize that I had outgrown my khakis until I had looked at myself in the mirror. I also realized that I had pale white ankles. Also, I had insisted on wearing a shirt that required to be tucked in. The word I was searching for was dork. A dork was staring at me. Adding a belt didn’t help, just so you know.

I felt as if I tried every combination of clothes I owned. Dress pants with T-shirts, shorts with long sleeves, swim trunks with a tie. If I owned it, I put it on and looked horrendous. I even eyed the JROTC uniform for a moment before dismissing the thought forever. It was as if I forgot how to dress myself. C’mon, Wes…this was only a girl…who was introducing me to her ‘people.’ Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the thought that I was in over my head, preparing to embarrass not only myself, but the girl I had very strong feelings for.

A gentle knock at my door signified that my mom was about to arrive on the scene and try to pep talk me about how I should just be myself. Looking in the mirror, I realized that ‘being myself’ wasn’t going to do.

‘Wes, it’s almost time to go. Ready yet?’

‘Hey, mom?’

‘Yeah, hon?’

‘Is this one of those ‘Be yourself’ situations?’ The weight of the question hung in the air as if I didn’t already know the answer. I braced for the inevitable.

‘What situation isn’t?’ My mom, eternal optimist.

‘Thanks, mom. Be right out.’ I slapped on some dressy pants and a nice collared shirt which I then tucked in. If I was going to be a dork, I might as well go dork all the way. Opening the door, I was met with motherly approval of how nice I looked. I felt as if I was going to be suffocated by my collar.

—-

Being a freshman in high school who had no discernible personality was a hard burden to carry. On the one hand, I wasn’t immediately classifiable in any sort of social hierarchy yet. With a chance to invent myself for an entire sect of people with whom I wanted to be accepted, I realized I may have squandered my opportunity. Dress pants? Polo shirt? Tucked in? Am I doomed to be a goober my ENTIRE life?!

These thoughts were going through my mind as my mother’s vehicle transported me closer to my first date (or was it?) when my mother turned down the radio. While I was at first thankful to not to be dropped off in front of potential friends with a soft rock ditty being crooned, what came next hit as awkward as anything I had ever experienced in my brief thirteen years of life. It started off innocently enough.

‘Wesley, I want you to know that your father and I love you very much and we want you to have fun at this shindig.’

Shindig? ‘Thanks, mom…’

Turning over what I could classify as an archaic term for party in my mind, my mom started to gather steam.

‘But you’re no longer a child. As sad as I am to lose my little boy, I’m proud to see such a handsome man going on his first date. Now, I know young men have…urges. Sometimes, when a guy is sweet on a girl…’

It was done expertly. My mother turned an innocent milestone in my life into segueing into ‘The Talk.’ I never even saw it coming. Simultaneously impressed and repulsed, I was shocked into listening to the entire spiel. While I had a rudimentary knowledge of how ‘it’ worked, I felt I knew enough to not have my MOTHER avoiding eye contact and giving me vague details. However, the topper happened when I assumed she was reaching for a tissue and instead I came face to face with a foil-wrapped package.

‘Is…that what I think it is?’

She stifled a sniffle and placed it in my hand. ‘You never know when you’ll need it.’

The car ride, almost over, was finished in abject silence; my mother assuming the lesson was sinking in and me trying to will myself to die of embarrassment. I shoved the ‘gift’ in my pocket as I saw a small grouping of people congregating outside of the theatre. My mother pulled up close to them, waved good-naturedly to my peers and gave me a quick kiss upon the cheek.

‘Now you behave and call when you guys get done.’

Beyond mortified, I stammered and hopped out as humanly possible. Getting out, I realized no one really noticed the breach in ‘child-drop-off’ etiquette. However, my face had not registered relief yet as I heard a voice to my direct left, ‘Hey, man, you alright?’

‘Yeah, but I think I just thanked my mom for giving me a condom.’ Hearing the laughter and looking back, I probably could have phrased that a little bit better.

Chapter 3 Rough draft

The week leading up to the first day of school was sort of a blur.  My father was stoically proud that I was thinking of my future by signing up for JROTC, my mother kept trying to stifle her tears at how much I’ve grown, and my little brother was still a sandy butt hole.  I had many a stare down with the military blues that hung self-righteously in my closet, taunting me, making me realize what my next few years were going to be like.  A fast track to the military: Lord, what have I done?

The morning of day one arrived with little fanfare.  It went like this:

5:30- Waking up to the radio blaring out an 80’s power ballad signified my first step in my four year journey.  I tried slapping the snooze button but only succeeded in making my hand hurt.  Rolling out of my warm cocoon with about as much grumbling as you can imagine from a surly teenager, I made my way to the kitchen.  Years of hearing that breakfast is the most important meal of the day instilled in me the need for manufactured sugary oats floating in milk.  For these ten minutes of the day, I am my own man upon my island.  Stray thoughts of a certain fair haired female danced in my head and I ventured a smirk.  Today was going to be a good day.

5:45- Breakfast done, I decided that I needed to make a great first impression.  After all, I was going to be with these people for four years.  Looking in the closet, the uniform stared at me and I realized that I didn’t know exactly when I was supposed to wear it.  It wasn’t an every day thing, was it?  Not knowing, I decided to ask my father.  He was tying up his boots and cut an impressive figure in his camouflage fatigues.

Standing next to him, I felt like such a disappointment.  At 6’2”, he excelled at everything he had ever done.  He had a bunch of sports trophies that adorned his study, he was an officer in the National Honor Society in high school, he graduated Magna Cum Laude from college, he had been the youngest officer in the military branch and was well-respected everywhere he went.  Conversely, I was 4’10 and had no idea of what clothes I was supposed to wear.  While I did get to skip Kindergarten, making me the youngest in my class, I always felt my accomplishments paled in comparison.

“Need something, son?”  There was no warmth in the word.

“I…um, I just wanted to know if you know when I’m sup-…uh, need to wear my ROTC uniform…”

By stumbling over the simplistic of words, I felt something familiar.  It had every hallmark of what I came to expect from this man: a deep wistful sigh, a sad shake of the head, and while I cannot confirm it, there seemed to be the slightest of eye-rolls.  Yep…utter disappointment.  The kind of disappointment where he couldn’t believe that I came from his genetics, you know?  Yeah, I was in familiar territory here.

“Just don’t embarrass the family.”

And with that, he strode out and went to work.  So I was branded a potential embarrassment by my father on my first day of high school.  Today was going to suck.

6:25- Dressed and waiting at the bus stop, I realized that I made the wrong decision.  Today was going to suck.

6:30- Riding the bus, I had to stand the entire ride to school.  Today was going to suck.

6:45- Arriving at school, I found out that I made an absolutely wrong decision.  While I was not sure how many people were actually taking JROTC, I could say with any amount of certainty that there was as much as one: me.  I tried to ignore the sniggering and sideway looks from my new school chums.  At least I was making a great first impression.

Walking around, I found out 3 things:

My homeroom teacher was the JROTC teacher;

I was the only one in the JROTC uniform;

Dennis Michaels was in my homeroom.

Today was going to suck.

7:00- The opening bell rang and we all trudged off to our prospective homerooms.  I trudged into the JROTC room and was greeted with…

“PEE-WEE!”

Today sucks.

7:02- Major Richards didn’t find the humor in my situation.  Apparently there was an entire uniform etiquette I ignored.  Did you know that ignorance is not a valid excuse and actually raises the ire of the good Major?  Two minutes into the day and I got a brilliant dressing down.  As a professional of disappointing military officers, I actually felt a bit better about my day.  While it still was a day of suck, it was a suck I could handle.  Still, I wasn’t happy with the way my first day was panning out.

After learning of my misgivings and hearing the kind of project I was going be, I got my schedule.

Biology 101                7:25 – 8:25
World History 101      8:30 – 9:30
Study Hall                   9:35 – 10:35
JROTC                       10:40 – 11:40
Calculus 101               11:45 – 12:45
Lunch Period               12:45 – 1:20
German 1                     1:25 – 2:25
English Lit. 101            2:30 – 3:30

So, in about 3.5 hours, I would probably be made an example of again, this time in front of JROTC peers.  Brilliant.

7:25-9:35 – Pretty much first day material.  A few syllabi outlining expectations of what I should be learning biologically and World Historically.  The only thing I could be sure of is that everyone in these two classes would remember Wesley Rogers, or based on what looks I got, ‘The Kid in the Uniform.’

Study Hall – By Study Hall, my feet were beginning to feel the pinch of their militant oppressors.  I found a seat in the back and tried to hide myself in the books I have received from my first two classes.  That was the plan.

“Well, if it isn’t Wesley Rogers…”

I knew the voice and I had to suppress the flush of red rising in my face.  I had the same study period with Sarah.

“Hi!”

“So last time we spoke, you were a bit high strung…”

“Yeah…listen, I’m absolutely sorry about that…I was just nervous and needed to sign up and…” I rambled on for what seemed like an hour, but Sarah gently placed her hand on my shoulder which shut my mouth.

“It’s okay, kid.  It’s under the bridge.  So let’s get this friendship back on track.  Cool?”

And just like that, my day turned right around.  The study hour went by way too quickly but I found that I had a renewed vigor this day.  Today was going to be a good day.

JROTC- The less said about this, the better.  Just know that this go around, the dress down was more specific.  No nametag, un-shined shoes, wrong hairstyle, etc.  Dennis Michaels made sure to ask a lot of questions basically to prolong the punishment.  Thank you, Dennis.

Fast forward to Lunch – Lunch was an ordeal.  Eight hundred students (I was in third lunch) packing in 7 different lines, depending what you desired to eat.  I thought I was in the pizza line, but when I ended up with nachos, I didn’t complain.  I searched for a place to sit but found I wasn’t in any of the cliques that were amassing around.  And just when I almost lost hope, I saw it.

One seat open…about 70 feet away.  Seventy feet on the opposite side of the chair was someone I recognized.

Brian Yeager was our school’s sport celebrity at football.  He was a junior and his mom worked with my mom.  Outside of that, I knew nothing of him.  I noticed that he noticed the empty chair.  Then, we made eye contact.

Brian Yeager was, in a moment, my nemesis.

I quickened my pace in a way that wouldn’t call attention to the chair but at a speed that would make the chair mine.  Brian swiftly avoided other student and I noticed he had very fancy footwork.  No wonder the colleges were falling over themselves to sign him to a scholarship.  As for myself, my feet didn’t work quite as coherently.  In fact, I didn’t realize how out of sync my legs were until they decided to trip over themselves and send me sprawling into a spiral of simulated melted cheddar, tortilla chips and refried beans.  Brian Yeager slid safely into the chair with a self-satisfied smile.  The crescendo of laughter was pretty much what I expected.

English – After lunch, I got the majority of cheese substitute from my uniform, which I was not looking forward to explaining to Major Richards (or Major Rogers, which was a far worse fate); I learned how to count to ten in German and went to English Lit.

The first thing I noticed was my English teacher was Ms. Woods, the same teacher who told me Theatre 101 was closed.  It seemed that her eyes lit up a bit when I entered, but I assumed it was because of my attire.  I answered the roll call and accepted my syllabus while learning what our expectations were going to be.  I put my books in my bag and we went through the motions until the final bell.

Freedom!  Or so I thought…

“Wesley Rogers?  Could I speak to you about something?”

I tried to rack my brain to figure out if I was in trouble.  She was smiling, so that was something.

“Mr. Rogers, I remember you.  You were the student who made a very humorous showing at registration.  I hope you weren’t too injured by the spill you took.  I regret there was no position for you in the theatre class.  I have to say I have not seen such passion for theatre in a student for some time.”

Passion?  Me?

“But Wesley, there are other venues to go through.  I do have an opening in the class before this one.  It isn’t an acting class, but I would be remiss to have you miss out on an entire semester.  You would learn the technical aspect of theatre, like lights, stage management, set building.  Would that be suitable for you?”

“I, uh…thank you?”

She smiled and went to write it down.  “I’ll handle the paperwork for this.  And I’ll see you next week.”

I left the classroom in a bit of a daze.  On the one hand, I was going to still get to be Wesley Rogers, theatre guy.  But not in the way I thought I would be.  What in the world did I agree to?

I would have thought more on this until I realized that I was about to miss my bus.  I had about 2 minutes to run across the campus and I had to weigh the pros and cons.  Last time I hurriedly went somewhere in this school, I wound up with fake cheese on my JROTC uniform.  My feet were absolutely killing me but it was an easier solution than walking home.  So I was about to run when a hand tapped my shoulder.

“Hi, Wes!  I got a favor to ask,” Sarah was arresting my attention.  “I don’t know a lot of people here and there’s this theatre party this weekend for all the theatre students.  Would you like to go with me?”

She was trying to look pouty as if there was any way I would say no.  I nodded, which garnered me a beaming smile and a tight hug.  While I was lost in her light, she whipped out a pen and wrote her number on my hand.

“Call me tonight.  Thanks, kid!”  And with that, she toddled off, leaving me looking dumbfounded.  With that, I missed the bus but I didn’t care.

Walking the 10 miles home, I didn’t care.  I replayed the entire day, distilling the pros and cons of the day.  My feet screamed as they were uncomfortable in their confines.

Making it home, with my mother wondering why I had to walk home, I was still grinning.  My father came home and was visibly upset at the care I showed to the uniform, I was golden.  I had a date.

Today was a good day.

Chapter 2 Rough draft

After about a week of mind-stalking Sarah, it was time to head to JPHS and fill out our registration cards and sign up for various classes.  I have to admit, I lost a bit of steam in my devotion to actually joining the drama geeks.  As an avid watcher of things that make up our pop culture, all I knew of theatre was that every drama nerd seemed to know everything about every play ever written.  I was absolutely scared as I knew not the first thing about Shakespeare.  As I got ready to seal a 4 year fate of my chosen high school path, would I be able to fake it?  And more importantly, if needed, could Sarah tutor me?

While I bordered on pathetic, my little brother interrupted my psyche up ritual in the bathroom by barging in.  “Mom says you better hurry, or she’s just going to sign you up for ROTC and be done with you.”

Four years my junior, my little brother not only got under my skin like no other, but he also got the paternal surname.  In a world where the firstborn is named after the father, I apparently didn’t cut the mustard son-wise to be given that blessing.  While it didn’t bother me, per se, I always wondered what prompted the offspring birthright skip.  I rolled my eyes at the little cretin and tried putting on my best game face.  I shoulder-blocked Tommy Rogers III as I left the bathroom, which rewarded me with an ear-splitting shrill of a ‘MOOOOOO-OOOOOM!!!’ as he whined his way to my mother.  I had no time for twerps, however; today I realized my new life path: Wesley Rogers, theatre guy!

As I made my way to the kitchen, my mom had a weary look about her, a look I was all too familiar with: I got told on by the golden boy.

“Did you shove your brother into the wall?”  What an absolute weenie.  How he was going to cut it in the real world was a mystery beyond me.  However, faced with, at minimum, a stern talking to bout how I was too old to engage in such malicious acts against a child, I decided to take a road less traveled.

“It was an accident.  I tried to apologize, but he was too intent on tattling.  And isn’t that the real crime?”  I hoped it didn’t sound too mouthy.

“Get in the car,” Mom sighed.  I made a mental note to celebrate my win later as I strode triumphantly to the car.  It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Once buckled in, I started my mental run through of how things would go.  My plan of attack would be to be absolutely nonchalant about the whole ordeal. I could handle nonchalance.  It would also be my high school claim to fame.  ‘Who’s that casual about everything guy over there?’ they would say.

As the miles from home to school became shorter, I started to doubt my plan.  High school was the big leagues, as far as teens were concerned.  How many people would go the effortless attitude route?  And would they be worth associating with?  And what if I’m asked what my favorite play was?  Apparently, I would need to get over this.  Perhaps a deep breath would suffice…

In.

Out.

Oh, yeah.  I’ve got this.

—-

Once in the gymnasium, I did a quick scan of prospective people.  The incoming freshman class was out in droves and the stereotypes were all congregating together.  The brains were concerned with signing up for as many college preparatory/credit they could get their mitts on.  The jocks were signed up for gym and as basic a course load you get.  Band geeks were busy discussing how this was their year to get first chair while the Goth kids were too good for us sheeple.  There were the clean cut kids signing up for JROTC while the mechanically inclined had the shop class line filled.

I couldn’t figure out where the theatre class would be signing up, but I figured it had to be around.  As I found the N-Z line to get registered, I saw bad news in the form of Dennis Michaels.  And it wasn’t enough to just see him; no, no, he just HAD to come over to start talking to me.

Dennis Michaels has been a constant thorn in my side since I first moved to the town of Jensen Parlor eight years prior.  He was the first kid I met and as the new kid, I was willing to have all the friends I could get.  He saw me as not a friend…

“Oh, my God!”

…but a new challenge to his neighborhood supremacy.  At first, it started with outright hostility.  However, as years went on and I learned the skill set of ambivalence, he figured that tearing me down before…

“I can’t believe it!”

…a crowd was better for reputation purposes.  However, I didn’t excel in the friend department because everyone associated me with Dennis.  I eventually moved across town, but apparently our reunion was to take place at our new common alma mater.

“Pee Wee?  Is that you?”

Oh, and his nickname for me was Pee Wee.

“Holy cow!  They let you in here?!”

I managed a smile that was as noncommittal as it was false.  But he still insisted in coming over.  Nuance wasn’t something Dennis recognized.  He was a lot taller than I remembered, but his perfectly coiffed buzz cut and cowboy boot strut gave him away.  He also had a fuzz ‘stache growing on his upper lip, which gave him an air of authority in his mind.

“Hi, Dennis.”

“I hope you’re ready for four years of me schooling you, just kidding!”

Yep.  This was Dennis as I remembered him.  Just a foot taller than me, which can do nothing to help me contain his mannerisms towards me.

“Wesley?”

In the midst of my hate clouds directed at the bane of my existence, a soft voice parted the red I saw and made way for heavenly light as I turned and saw…

“Sarah?  No way!  How have you been?”

She trotted up and gave me a side hug, which took me out of the gym and placed me right on cloud nine, where I remained until an all too familiar flick of my ear returned me to Earth.

“Ain’t you gonna introduce me, PEE WEE?”

Ugh.  If I had a list of the all time things I never wanted to do, introducing Dennis Michaels to Sarah Lindsay had to be right up there.  Sarah, perhaps sensing my reticence in the matter, extended her hand to Dennis with a big, goofy grin.

“Sarah J. Lindsay.  Wes’ cousin.  The J stands for Justcallmesarah.”

Dennis took her hand; grotesquely put her fingers under his ‘mustache’, rubbing the whiskers along her knuckles before planting a kiss.  It made me want to puke.

“That’s a horrible middle name.”  Dennis Michaels, local Casanova.   He finally broke contact with her hand, shoved me ‘playfully’, and left with his parting shot.  “See you ‘round, Pee wee.  Hot cousin.”

As he left, Sarah’s eyes got very round as she wiped the back of her hand on my shirt.

“Thanks.”

“Did you see the way he didn’t break eye contact when he did that?  It was total Serial Rapist.  I wonder if he has a van.  I am very interested in the candy he may have in the back.”

I had to chuckle, which made the smile return to Sarah’s face.

“He can be a handful.  So what’s going on?  What are you doing here?”

As I said that, I felt absolutely ridiculous.  I knew what she was doing there.  Same thing I was SUPPOSED to be doing.  Moron!

“Getting eye-humped by that guy.  Have you signed up for classes yet?”

“Not yet.  I just got to get my registration paper.  Wait for me?”

“Sure, kid.”

I maneuvered the registration line with the ease of a hippopotamus in the ballet, but got signed up for the prerequisite Freshman English, Science, Math and History we all have to take.  I found Sarah waiting by the bleachers.  I wondered if she had signed up for the theatre class yet.  Perhaps she was on her way; maybe I would casually sign up too.  I may even let her ‘talk’ me into it, do the old arm twist maneuver that would make her giggle.  The teacher would see us together and cast us as love interests in everything we do.  I mused upon this as I returned to her side.

“So, you signed up for electives yet?”

“Oh, yeah.  In fact, I think I just barely got everything I wanted.  Who knew theatre was such a hot item here?”

Suddenly, all the air in the gym seemed to be forcibly removed in one fell swoop as a very eerie realization dawned on me.  It couldn’t be true.  It couldn’t be.  In a moment of true weakness and bewilderment, I grabbed her by her upper arms and practically made a stream of incoherent ramblings.

“Stage…act-y…where?!”

She shrunk under my grip and sort of pointed to the furthest point of the gym.  I left her and ran…  I take that back.  I managed to operate my body in a series of herky jerky movements that created something that resembled running.  Not only did my brain decide to make me look like a raving lunatic, it also berated me along the way.

‘Arm twist maneuver?  Are you a complete idiot or have you yet to reach your full potential of being a bone head?!’

I dodged the clique of cheerleaders discussing lip gloss.  I narrowly dodged a kid in a wheelchair.  I leapt over a refreshment table, knocking off only one muffin.  And as I came close, I did something equally stupid.

My baseball mind came into play as I slid for the theatre sign.  Nothing that happened in this moment was classified as smart, for I was ill prepared for sliding on the waxed floor with bare skin showing.  As the rash was forming from forcibly, and might I add willingly, skimming my body on this floor, I placed my paper on the table and tried to speak, but only pointed at my paper and hers.

“I…I’m sorry, Mr., uh, Rogers, but Theatre 101 is filled.  Would you like to go on the waiting list for next semester?”

As I caught my breath and silently cursed life, I nodded solemnly and asked if anything was open.

“I ,um, think ROTC has a few openings left.”

As if on cue, I heard Dennis Michaels over the clamor that my reckless abandon had caused.

“Yeah, Pee Wee!  We have room for you here!  Major Richards, can I help him get his uniform?”

—-

My mom was a flurry with questions once I made it back to the car.  Most of them dealt with what I had signed up for, as if the military uniform didn’t give it away.  I know she noticed the marks on my arms and legs from diving on the gym floor, but as far as she figured, I always had those, so she didn‘t mention them.

Staring out the window, I tried to salvage what was to be my next four years.  Not only did I make a total fool of myself in front of everyone I was going to spend my formative school years with, but I probably ruined any chance with the girl I have had my heart set on for a week or so now.  While I didn’t care too much about the entirety of my classmates, losing Sarah’s respect in that split-second where I decided to go wild wounded me deeply.  I looked at the Air Force blue uniform, sighed deeply and wondered exactly what I had gotten myself into.

Chapter one Rough Draft

The batter steps to the plate with a self-important stance and prepares his self for the task at hand.  With his back hand up to the umpire, he windmills the bat with his other.  He digs his feet into the dirt, kicking up a small dust storm.  He takes the point of the bat, his instrument of destruction, and points it towards his foe, the pitcher.  On this spring afternoon, he is not so much a player on a team as he is a warrior facing a nine-headed monster, intent on making him take a seat just as fast as he got to this position.

The pitcher sets his resolve and delivers a scorcher.  In the .4 seconds it takes the ball to get to him, the batter has decided this pitch is not worth his time and allows it to pass.

STEEE-RIKE ONE!

The umpire dictates the pitch was worthy enough to have been chosen for an instance of action.  And just like that, the batter has a 10th enemy on the diamond.  Styles clashing notwithstanding, the batter resumes his mission to put that round leather sphere into play, preferably to someplace that is unguarded, in order to put a score upon the board, therefore putting his team into the lead.  It has been a long, hard-fought battle and the batter has a chance to deliver the killing blow to an opponent that has taken this ’game’ to the limit.

STEEE-RIKE TWO!

Hmmm, I should pay more attention, the batter seemed to muse.  Suddenly, he is one well-placed pitch away from having to sit with his team with the mark of failure as he will have his turn to bring victory home, and the spoils it brings.  He sets and glints his eyes to focus.  The ball is thrown forth and time slows down.  In this moment, it is only him and the ball.  The ball is trudging a path the hitter knows well.  He maneuvers the bat in a striking movement and centers the ball upon the meat of his club.

CRACK!

The ball’s trajectory is reversed and headed to the outfield, where it is the sole guardianship of one who holds the game’s outcome in the palm of his gloved hand.

Too bad that lone combatant is me.  Once I realize the ball is heading to me, I try to get a sight on the ball.  As its path is pretty much straight into the air, I glance up and figure out really quickly that a small, leathery ball is in the domain of a fierce opponent: the sun.

I try to shield my eyes but the damage is done.  I have sun spots trailing my vision as I hear something that makes my stomach dip slightly; the thud of the ball landing slightly behind me and hurrying towards the wall.

As the batter, who recognizes he has found the all impressive chink in the armor of my team, chugs around the first of four bases to win.  I turn and chase the ball and now it becomes a foot race between us.  The ball bounds about 30 feet in front of me and bounces at a weird angle off the wall.  My foot race companion is half way through his marathon as I have to reset my momentum to grab at the ball.

The ball in my glove, I look up and see him almost to the third base and I start my throw.  Or I would if the ball didn’t decide to get stuck within the webbing of my glove.  I know the entire world that surrounds my immediate person is screaming, hooting and, in some instances, hollering for resolution to this battle with either a run or an out.  I can’t let the team down…not again…

I grip the ball and throw with all my might.

The runner makes his final turn and is bounding for the final touch.  The ball’s arch is glorious as it screams towards the base known as ‘home.’  And as he goes towards resolution one way or the other, I realize a simple truth.

The ball drops 70 feet in front of me, nowhere near anyone or anything that would constitute ’a close play.’  Even the runner slowed his gait down to a walk that is not as insulting to me as is his pointing and hysterical laughter.  My teammates throw down their gloves in disgust as I once again throw away the game, especially as we were thiiiiis close to a tie.  I exhale and hustle to the dugout as the game is over.

The coach is too busy mumbling about his distaste for ’required inning play’ for the kids on teams nowadays to give any sort of constructive criticism.  My teammates weren’t as easily distracted.  Frustrations were eased by a surprising string of curses and nicknames I had yet to hear, despite seemingly having a hand in each blown game this season.  We go out to shake the hands of our betters and we gather our equipment and say goodbye to another season of spring rec league baseball.

To say I felt a sense of loss by not ever realizing the potential I had when I was 10 was an understatement.  At 10, I felt I was built for baseball.  I was low to the ground and quick on my feet.  Anything that came into my vicinity was snagged in my glove.  I was a force to be reckoned with at shortstop, saving games left and right.  I knew my position and all the responsibility it entailed.  At 10, I was voted best player in the county 14-and-under by our local newspaper.  I had a plaque and everything.

That all changed at 12.  At 12, biology started to happen.  I started to grow awkwardly, limbs first.  My torso seemed to stay at young-un size as my arms and legs went ape-like.  And that’s when coordination went out the window.  I couldn’t get my body to cooperate with the rigors and nuances of America’s pastime and by time the past season came around, I was sent to right field if I wasn’t warming the bench.

At 13, I was a baseball has been.  I tried to look optimistic as I jogged to the parking lot where I scanned it for a familiar vehicle to take me away from it all.  My mom had yet to arrive so I found myself forced to watch others leave and cast their looks of disdain and abject ridicule upon me.

“Rogers?”  It was my coach.  He had been around since I was 8 and saw the promise and, more importantly, the implosion of my talent.  He had an awkward look about him and I was hoping this wasn’t going to be the part of my life told with cheesy synth chords and a moral.

“Rogers, I just want to say how proud I have been these past few years of you and all you’ve achieved.”  I kept waiting for the lights to dim and a lilting power ballad to carry us through.

He continued about how he had never seen anyone do what I had done at such a young age, how I should never get down on myself, life being funny a lot, but the only thing I zeroed in on was when he insisted that not returning for the summer league would probably be best for me.

“I don’t understand, Coach,” I always intonated his title capitalized.  “I’m sure when I finish growing, it’ll all return.”

He sad-smiled and assured me that when that happened, he would be there to coach.  I did what passed at nodding and shook his hand.  What a fine way to start out my last day of spring; being retired by my own mentor.  I came close to asking for my number to be retired, but that’s when a hurried horn was honked.

Coach waved in the direction of the car and sent me on my way.  “Tell your parents I said hello.  Now you run on, now.”

Jogging to the vehicle which would take me home, I wondered what would be next.  At 13, I had already dedicated most of my life to being the best at baseball.  I made a mental note to shake my fist in ire at the heavens when I had a moment away from family.  My mom was in the car, smiling and waiting for a progress report of the game.  I’d like the tears rimming the sockets of my eyes were story enough.

—-

Once summer came about, I felt my options were limited.  I couldn’t exactly go back to play in the summer rec league teams as I was still feeling the sting of the forced retirement.  I had already been picked last in the spring league as it was so I was in no hurry for that embarrassment anytime soon.  So I played in the backyard by myself.  I tossed a baseball into the air and tried to hit it over the neighboring fences.  When I would exhaust my supply of baseballs, I would trot out, collect and start over again.

I felt that life was on the verge of passing me by as I tried to regain my coordination.  I was about to enter high school, but with the knowledge of my baseball days in repose, I had no skills to go into high school with.  This didn’t bode well for me socially.  I had seen enough television to know that if you didn’t fit into a group that was easily distinguishable, you were ostracized or ignored.

One night, my mom made the announcement that we needed to get some culture.  At 13, culture meant one thing: boring.  I looked around the room and saw my little brother and sister both were already saying they didn’t like being cultured.  I had a feeling they would weasel themselves out of it by protesting to our father, who always bent to their will, as my cries usually fell upon deaf ears.

So predictably, about a week later, as my father stayed home with the two younger siblings, my mom took me on a small date.  I tried to look pleased but at the point of puberty as I was, I just knew this night was going to suck.  I just hoped no one would see me.

We went to get something to eat at our favorite restaurant that served the best chicken fried steak with white gravy ever.  Hyperbole aside, I always had a smile reserved for this place.  My mom tried to pump me for information about how life was, but being 13, I was ignoring all embarrassing questions from my mother on the basis that I was already on my way to being an adult.  I still had a fear as to what ’culture’ she had in mind, but I let the glee of chicken fried steak take a moment in the night.

This was great chicken fried steak.

As we left the restaurant, my mom was being very persistent upon knowing what I was interested in pursuing once high school started in about two weeks or so.  The only thing I could think of was that I still wanted to play ball.  It was only a pipe dream now, as I had been asked to sideline myself because of nature but what else could I do?  At this inquiry, I invoked the tried and true teenage response mechanism; I shrugged and mumbled a noncommittal answer.

She smiled as we pulled into the parking lot of a place that I had seen before but had never given much attention to.  It was an old armory from decades past but had been revamped into a community theater for kids 18 and under.  It looked a bit rundown but still functional.  I became torn in my attitude about the place.  I was about to be subject to a play by kids I had seen before but didn’t really know.  At least I hoped I wouldn’t know anyone there.  Although, I’m sure it could be worse.  It could be ballet.  Still, I kept my head low to avoid any sort of detection of anyone I might possibly know peripherally.

The play was some ancient (snore) Greek (ugh) tragedy (BOR-ing) about some girl who stands up to her uncle and buries her dead brother.  While I didn’t understand why that is such a harsh reality and why I was dedicating upwards of the next two hours of my life to it, all dissent left me when the play started.

She was ethereal yet grounded, mysterious yet approachable, regal yet humble.  Immediately I was captivated by her beauty, her grace and her talent.  Here she was, in some little theatre in a play that will have a remembrance of twenty minutes after the curtain closes and yet, I was transfixed.  When she left the stage for a moment to allow for some other characters to have a chance for exposition, I hungrily flipped through the program for her small bio.

Sarah Lindsay (Antigone) is making her debut here at Jensen Parlor Community Theatre.  She will be entering ninth grade at JPHS this coming school year, where she plans to dedicate her time to theatre so she can go to UCF to major in theatre.  She wishes to thank her parents and sister for all their encouragement.  “If you will it, there is no dream.”

So now I had a name.  Sarah Lindsay.  It seemed only right.

The play finished with the pathos a community play made by 18 and unders can muster.  As the lights came on, I wondered if I would see her in school.  I hoped it wouldn’t seem too forward or creepy if I called her by her name if our paths crossed.  As we filed into the lobby, I seemed content to play it cool if this hypothetical situation played out.  Unbeknownst to me, the company of actors was waiting in the lobby to meet the public.

Quickly, I went from ‘hypothetically cool’ to ‘freaking out’ in record time.  I tried to sidle through the crowd to get to the exit as unobtrusively as possible.  My mom, who decided then to show an interest in every actor, became dead weight in this evac mission.  I nearly got there before I heard four words that changed my night.

“Going somewhere, mon frere?”

I fought the urge to bolt, swallowed the lump in my throat and as calmly as possible turned into the direction of the voice.  As I was now face to face with Sarah, it made me seriously rethink my earlier hypothetical situation.  Looking back upon it, there was not going to be any way I was going come off as cool in any dimension in which it might’ve happened.  I was on the receiving end of a pair of baby blues that should’ve been illegal in nature.  She had a smile that seemed like it couldn’t ever be anything but genuine.  She gave me a once over and then turned her eyes upon the crowd.

“I hate these things, you know.  Coming out into a crowd of people who just saw you for two hours, forcing them to say nice things about the play to you.  Usually all that comes to their minds is, ‘I enjoyed the play; you were so great.’  It tends to get old after a while.”

As my mind struggled to make any sort of contribution to the dialogue, I deftly tried not to look like a jackass.  But I decisively failed in that endeavor with such aplomb that you would think I was born to be a loser.

“I enjoyed the play, and I thought you were so great.”

She laughed exactly one Ha and smiled back to me.  Once again, I was under her gaze.  She extended her hand.  “Well, friend, you know who I am.  And you are?”

As I extended my arm, I squeaked out an introduction. “Wesley J. Rogers.”

“Ooh, middle initial!  Don’t tell me; the J stands for ’Justcallmewesley?’”  Her eyes twinkled as she beamed.  I went dumb again.  Then depending on your definition of the word ‘luck‘, I was saved from/suffered further embarrassment when my mom joined us.

“I really enjoyed the play.  You were very good.”  I figured the night could be salvaged if she didn’t… “Oh! I see you’ve met my son!”

While I tried to will the ground to open, Sarah smiled and thanked my mom for coming.  Then she shot me a very quick, nigh undetectable wink and then seemed to disappear into a crowd of people who enjoyed the play and thought she was very good.

“Ready to go, kiddo?”

The fog my mind was in seemed to clear and I smiled.  “Let’s go.”

Once in the car, my mom was wondering my thoughts on the play, what I liked and disliked, that cute girl, etc.  The only thing I could think of was my audience with an angel and how I hoped Jensen Parlor High School had room for one more in its Theatre Program.

Jake Man 2

“Story: The year is 20XX.

Jake Man returns in an all “new” adventure!  Dr. Douchebag has reprogrammed 8 robots and turned them against Jake Man!!  Armed with sharp theatre skills and killer dance grooves, he will face them for the salvation of his own dignity!  Go Jake Man!”

Back in the pre-Mardi Gras season of 2009, when the Brew Pub was my home away from home and 90% of the people there was essentially (and still is, I feel) my family, I was given the greatest gift anyone from my generation could receive: my very own video game!  Or I should say my very own video game instruction booklet.

Based on the mechanics that made Mega Man 2 so popular, Dave O’Neal Roberts took a napkin and crafted my title screen, where I have to choose from the 8 bosses to fight in whatever order I feel.  The basic premise of Mega Man is you fight your bosses in no particular order but certain weapons you get along the way will help the difficulty of the game.  It absolutely worked on a rock-paper-scissors mechanic, and that’s what Dave tried to bring to this game.  I take that back; that’s what Dave absolutely brought to this game!

Now to the bosses, in left to right order:

Crop Dust Man – Crop Dusting had become rampant at the Brew Pub, based on a predominant percentage of male workers.  It got so bad; it almost became enacted into Brew Pub legislation as the first (hilarious) bodily function to be banned in the handbook.  While I’m not sure how it would be enforced, just knowing that it was coming down on my shoulders to defeat Crop Dust Man when I, too, enjoyed the action would have made for an interesting dynamic.  The picture is of an outline of a person (most likely a male) with a visible poot hanging in the air.  It makes for a chilling level, seeing as the villain is faceless.  A five-star battle of wills, I would come out victorious and receive the weapon of choice, the Crop Duster!

Shitty Customer Man – Kid Rock and Bud Lite Lime became one of the greatest running jokes at the brewery, based on the encounter of a drunkard one BayFest ago.  Some redneck guy stumbles in and asks the bartender if we ‘got any o’ that Bud Lime.’  As we were a Brew Pub and had real beer, we had to let him down gently.  Undaunted, he proceeded to wax poetic about Kid Rock, the headliner of that year’s festival.  Whereas being excited about any musical act, be it Prince or Nickleback, is one thing, this gentleman took it into an entirely awesome direction.  He wanted us to know that ‘Lynyrd Skynyrd is Kid Rock’s daddy’ and ‘when Kid Rock was a baby, he done helped his daddy (the aforementioned Skynyrd) write ‘Sweet Home Alabama.’  Eventually the classy gentleman realized he didn’t have his drink of choice ready to swill, so he toddled off.  But in that moment, he etched in our memories an epic encounter.  My hypothetical battle with ST Man, with his Kid Rock trucker hat and empty bottle of Bud Lite Lime that is slowly being refilled with chewing tobacco spit, will be just as epic.  A five-star battle of wills, I would come out victorious and receive the weapon of choice, the Moron Beam!

Real Ninja Man – What explanation do you need?  It’s a real ninja, man!  As I identify with ninjas, this inclusion in the game is a no-brainer.  How WOULD I fare against a true ninja?  A five-star battle of wills, I would come out victorious and receive the weapon of choice, the Ninja Force!

Reality Man – Working with a bunch of cynics in their mid-20’s in an industry that will grind you down, Reality Man is that voice that wonders when you’ll get a real job.  He feels your life sucks and has no problem in telling you.  The upside to him is he knows that he isn’t special or destined for anything better.  His calling is to bring you down.  A five-star battle of wills, I would come out victorious and receive the weapon of choice, the Depressant Bomb!

Girl Who Won’t Put Out Man – With her pouty lips, flirty hair toss and come-hither eyes, she is a formidable opponent.  She lures you into a false sense of ‘getting laid’ and hits you with an ear-splitting ‘NO!’  As a hero that floundered the best parts of 22-26 dating girls who were chaste (and dead set on staying that way), this was a challenge that hit very close to home.  While I didn’t mind their decisions, it certainly didn’t make for a too exciting early 20’s.  A five-star battle of wills, I would come out victorious and receive the weapon of choice, the Chastity Shield!

Karaoke Man – He has a repertoire seven deep.  He makes sure his songs are his and he makes sure you know he’s king.  This is a guy who cannot stand to be outdone on the stage by anyone, male or female.  He invites suicide invitations just to show everyone how well-versed he is in his craft.  While I have usually enjoyed karaoke, I have to say I lost my spark and smile for it because of people just like that.  Some may argue that I was that person exactly, but that is just conjecture.  Besides, just because I like to put on a show doesn’t mean I got carried away with it.  However, in the game, I see this being one of the more formidable opponents.  A five-star battle of wills, I would come out victorious and receive the weapon of choice, the Karaoke Killer!

New Tattoo Ernie Man and Drunk Dave Man – These two are the only Brewery employee bosses.  And while the other bosses are based on real people I could name, it’s better to leave all anonymous and focus on these two.  With Ernie, I would have to Ali rope-a-dope and avoid looking him right in the tattoos.  As he is NEW Tattoo Ernie Man, I would feel it would be his weakness to not look.   A five-star battle of wills, I would come out victorious and receive the weapon of choice, the Tattoo Shot!

As for Dave, I would hear him from his battle cry of ‘Blah!’ and side step any attack.  However, as he is Drunk Dave Man, I’m sure that strategy would last only after the first try.  A five-star battle of wills, I would come out victorious and receive the weapon of choice, the Dave Fist!

And there we have it.  My own game, just waiting for some sort of story line to be put to it and some concrete ability to go with these new powers.  Final word: remember, Jake Man, the spikes are instant death.  Go Jake Man!

Credits: Dave, Capcom, a couple of beers, your mom

Notes:
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What was for V-day can be for here too.

Dear friends of the Interwebs,

As we all are aware, Sunday is Valentine’s Day. It is a ‘holiday’ that rubs a lot of people the wrong way, based on a preconceived notion that we should all be paired off. I am all for telling a ’holiday’ to go to hell because I don’t need a day telling me how I should live. (Full disclosure, I wear white after Labor Day, too.) But if you just so happen to find yourself single this Valentine’s, don’t fret! Let cousin Jake give you tips on how to get through this particular day with a smile on your face and, more importantly, in your heart.

1. I, too, was once also caught up in the trap of Valentine’s Day, as well; especially in school, when we would make our little mailboxes for our desks. In fifth grade, a year where my biggest heart break had happened 2 weeks prior, I became optimistic about my chances for a comeback. Yes, I could be put down to the ground, but I never once felt it was where I would stay. I always felt that if I got just one valentine card, at least I was better than Charlie Brown. Amid the cards that year, only one stood out. It was a card of Babs Bunny, from Tiny Toons, dressed as a cheerleader. Inside the card, the sentiment was printed to say, “I will always cheer for you.” While that wasn’t out of the ordinary, the signature was signed, “Not Mary Ann.” For a minute, I tried to figure out why Mary Ann was not trying to take credit for sending this card. Once I realized that this was only a case of a un-included comma, I realized that maybe being Charlie Brown in life wouldn’t be so bad.

2. Valentine’s Day shares unhealthy initials. And no one I know wants to receive VD candy.

3. Speaking of candy, if you can just wait the 24 hours of the ridiculous day, you can get your own candy for, like, half-off. Gorge on the unwanted conversation hearts that will include, and I’m not making this up, one that says ‘Tweet Me.’

4. This is a ‘holiday’ based upon the assumption that a baby will shoot an arrow into your chest. A child. Bow and arrow. Your chest. While I’ve never seen CSI before, I have watched a lot of Robin Hood and that is a kill shot if I have ever seen one.

5. Does anyone know/care about the story of Saint Valentine‘s Day? Me either.

6. The only possibly cool thing that happened on this day ever? Valentine’s Day Massacre. Capone, still one of the best.

7. I seem to have ventured off track. If all else fails, we can all blame Geoffrey Chaucer. Yes, THAT asshole.  He, who has caused many a high schooler an aneurysm with his tales of Canterbury, is primarily responsible for the ‘holiday’ as we know it today. If I find out that he is can be held accountable for the Presidential Fitness test, he will have successfully had a hand in ruining my entire schooling career.

8. If you’re still mopey, I’ll take time out of my day to be your Valentine. However, like Santa Claus, I have to visit the whole world in a night, so if you’ll just leave some milk and cookies out for me, that’d insure me actually getting there. Also, no grundling.

9. Just think, you’re saving a garden by all the flowers not being cut down to be sent to you.

10. Love songs also getting you down? Remember, while the Little River Band did sing ‘Lady,’ they also had a song called ‘Lonesome Loser.’ Food for thought.

That’s all I have for you today. Hopefully this was insightful for everyone, mated or not. If you’re still sad or upset at this ‘holiday’ however, perhaps there’s a reason you’re still single on this, a day created to get laid, albeit expensively. Happy VD, losers!

Yours in life,

Huckleberry J. Rogers (the J stands for J…ustcallmehuckleberry)

Foreword to the newest project

Author’s note on February 22nd, 2010.

Currently, I am in what I like to refer as a creative streak. Since it happens irregularly, I try to take advantage of it when inspiration strikes. The last time I was struck with such a streak, I composed what was collectively known as the ’Sarah Saga.’ The story started with writing about my first love (based on a writing prompt from my greatest friend Lydia Sappington) only to encompass my entire last three years of high school and the terms of my dismissal from the state of Georgia.

The 20 some odd journal entries on a certain online blog was a tapestry of fan acclaim, if not a success story. However, I felt zero closure. In fact, it painted a bull’s-eye on my whereabouts to characters that were named by name (I never really got into the whole pseudonym thing). As much work that went into it, it was still a painful reminder of the mountain of adolescence I had to overcome. Upon every viewing of it, my soul would get pierced a little bit more. So about a year ago, I made the decision to delete the entire thing, profanity and all, from the Internet.

I still get asked about it occasionally, so a few weeks ago, I started asking around to see if any of those fans I garnered had kept a copy of the manuscript. Of the hundreds of Internet followers I had, not one had it. (Side note: based on reactions I received, you would have thought no one had ever deleted anything from the Internet before .) A few half-hearted searches on the Web turned up nothing. I figured I might have to rewrite it because, well, I sort of missed it in that ‘I forgot how bad labor pains are’ kind of way/ In short, I wanted another (literary) child.

On a whim, I gave the Internet Archive one last shot. I put in an address I thought I had already checked. Lo and behold, this time, something turned up. Within seconds, I was staring my opus from October 2001. But there was something different about it; or rather, I didn’t recognize it’s original sting of emotion.

All I saw was the immature ramblings of an egomaniac who bought into his own myth.

And it all clicked as to why I initially felt so suffocated by it. In an effort to be somebody on the Internet, I created my own myth. And as I created it, I had to believe it so others would as well. Personally, I think it was my 19 year old self reaching out to my 14-18 year old self to assure him that it all gets ‘better.’ At 28, I’d like to take an opportunity to tell my 14-20 year old self something.

You’ll definitely make it out of that shell you were pushed into. There will be many ups and downs, but that’s life. Believe me, the myth you’ve created will not last and you’ll grow weary of explaining why ‘the myth’ isn’t you any longer.

But it will pass and you’ll find new ways to shine. Take heart. We win in the end.

And stay away from the virgins. That’s more of a hassle than it’s worth.

Now, for the reason for such a flowery design of words. I have decided to take the ’Saga’ and repurpose it to a more far reaching audience. As there is a lot of meat in the original story (I have never lived a boring existence for too long), I feel it criminal to lose the elements which, in their own way, created me as I am. So I am pillaging my original story for creative gems and story lines.

Everything in the forthcoming serial story happened, for better or worse. Names, of course, will be changed since it’s polite to do and also I learned my lesson last time. The events themselves will be tweaked to fit the narrative but, for the majority, happened in some fashion in my own life, personally.

Lastly, I hope the three people who actually read this will enjoy themselves. I don’t know how to be aggressive and get the word out for these things, so I just won’t.

Thank you, and may the deity of your choice look upon you with love.

J.

Hilary Swank is bad for your health.

The other night, I was watching Million Dollar Baby for the first time in a few years. As I forgot how great the movie was from top to bottom, it was also an absolute reminder of the time that Hilary Swank caused me personal harm.

The year was 2005, late August. The sun was shining on a glorious day, where the birds were squawking their love notes to the bees and I was gainfully employed in a traveling children’s theatre troupe. Whilst in a Goodwill searching for costumes, a bit of Tropical shenanigans were swirling the minds and fancies of more learned individuals. Myself, however, was quite content to thrift shop clothes. Purchases being made, I left the store of previously loved clothes and merrily made my way to my car.

Crossing the parking lot, I saw a car ambling about towards me, also not having a care in the world. As I was crossing at the carefully painted cross walk, I noticed the car still kept coming at its current rate of speed. Undaunted, and assuming the vehicle would start to slow down any second–DEAR GOD, I AM ABOUT TO GET RAN OVER!

Taking the time to do a play-by-play, I had plenty of time to get my purchases (and more importantly, me) out of harm’s way before any damage could take place. But for whatever reason, my brain, in its infinite wisdom, decided the cooler thing was to recreate the scene from The Next Karate Kid, where Hilary Swank jumps in the air and lands upon the hood of a delivery car to avoid getting squished. It is what makes everyone sit up and take notice in her level of bad ass-itude and stands out in my mind as the only good part of said movie.

As the car gets closer, I noticed the driver just wasn’t paying the first bit of attention, so I lovingly, but hurriedly lobbed my new clothes to the side and sprang in the air, poised to make a killer pose of awesome once I landed flat-footed and assuredly.

A little side note to all that want to try this stunt: Make sure the car that is coming at you is NOT a Ford Focus because those cars have no hood to speak of.

I figured I was in trouble when I noticed the angle of impact was more acute than level. I knew I was in trouble when I landed, spun, and landed coccyx-first upon the concrete. I protected the back of my head by not hitting it on the ground, but do not know in the slightest how that happened. The driver sort of yelled at me out the window while he finished his text message and sort of just kept going. Once the initial pain left, I got up and sort of hobbled after him, but stopped when I realized:

1) he wasn’t going to come back,

2) I wasn’t sure who was at fault, and

3) I almost left my purchase lying haphazardly on the ground.

Going back to pick them up, I noticed that no one in the store really was paying attention so I didn’t have any eye witnesses. Seeing this, I did what any red-blooded American would do…

I performed Shakespeare.

Yes, that night, I had a performance of The Tempest and the show must go on. We had a weekend left, so you play through the pain. (Side note, the last performance of The Tempest was the last day before Katrina struck. So, food for thought.)

So all in all, the lesson here is to never do things just because Hilary Swank does them. You would think I would know this, but even now, I’m kind of wanting to be a girl boxer, if only to see Clint Eastwood grunt and old-man at me.