Listen, I don’t want to bullshit you, but just hear me out. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it all. There are people who travel the world and see all these things and do all these things and visit all these places. But when they’re done and dead, that’s all they ever are: people. There’s nothing extraordinary about what climbing the highest mountains or swimming in the deepest depths. The extraordinary comes from telling about the thinness of the air or the darkness of the blue seas.
But I digress. My name’s Luke, but I guess that doesn’t matter too much. I’d tell you a little about me but there’s already so little to tell. I live and have always lived in a small town in Barnett, California. My father was a bastard and my mother was a bitch. No, I mean it. I really do. It’s fashionable nowadays for guys to call their parents that. The official dorm room hobby was complaining and bitching about parents. But with mine it was really true. Anyway, the point of this isn’t to jerk off any young Freudians out there. I have a little story I want to tell.
I suppose like all good stories it happened on a Tuesday. No, it didn’t really. That’s just something the guys used to say. Anyway it was the day my dog died and boy it was a bitch. NOt my dog - my dog was a boy - but the day my dog died was a bitch.
It wasn’t just a crappy day. It wasn’t just frustrating. It was just sad. And it wasn’t even my dog that got me in a real pissy mood.
I got the phone call from my mom on the communal phone in the dorm. After I hung up I just stood there and read the notes people had written on the pad next to the phone so you could write important messages and whatnot. I just stood there and read. Scribbles. Stick figures. Five digits of a phone number before the author lost interest. A couple of messages from one dorm to another, like “The guys in Room 129 are fags.” For some reason, that comment just killed me. It really did.
You ever hear a veteran describe the sound after a grenade went off near them? Just a screech. A whine. A sharp moan which only gradually fades. I felt something kind of like that after the phone call. Well, heard it anyway.
Anyway, I went back to my room. 129. I was a fag, didn’t you know? “What’s got you in a sour mood? Cat got you by the balls?” My roommate - James Thomas - a rather rude little shit. He could be alright but I could tell from his crooked-tooth grin he was in an antagonistic mood. “My mom got hit by a truck,” I said. I didn’t really feel like talking. “Well that’s a real goddamn shame,” he replied. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Yeah, thanks. What a prick. Couldn’t even be bothered with an “I’m sorry” or something? Well in some ways I’m glad he didn’t say that. What is there to be sorry for? Not like he ran the dog over or anything. No. It was my mom who took care of that.
I went across the room and sprawled out on my bed. I stared up at the ceiling and started picking out patterns. I saw a mermaid, a fish, and a deer before I muttered “Fuck this” and rolled over on my stomach. I had to be in class in fifteen minutes. It was a ten minute walk. “Who wants to hear about Theravada Buddhism anyway?” I thought. I decided the warmth of my bed was more comforting than the docile tones of my sixty-one year old professor. I stayed in bed.
“Aren’t you going to class?” asked James.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because fuck you, that’s why.”
“Alright. no need to get all hot and bothered.”
Ha. Hot and bothered. It was twenty-seven degrees in Thompson, Wisconsin. And I don’t think a single girl at the school would ever associate me with the word “hot,” so he was wrong in two ways. But he certainly did bother me.
“Just leave me alone, will ya?”
I heard nothing but footsteps, followed by a closing door. He was on his way to calculus. Finally. Alone time. My time. I rolled back over. The room was quiet. There was talking in the halls, sure, but this was nice. It was just me. And then the rich fucks in 134 started blasting their weird ass techno -- I’m sorry -- “underground” music. Fucking dandy.
I put on my coat and marched down the stairs. It was freezing outside, but no snow. I’d rather have the damn thing and be pissed about it than be taunted by the fact it might be out there somewhere.
The dorm area was a box. The building to the north was Campton Hall, the east had Ferguson Tower, the south Brant Hall. My dorm - Corinthia - was the only one not named after some fat fuck who poured a bunch of cash into the school. No - mine was named after the people Paul wrote to God knows how many times. I mean Jesus Christ, Paul, leave the poor pissers alone. Fuck ‘em.
I suppose for the sake of clarity I should backtrack. My family is in California, but I go to school in Wisconsin. It’s not a big deal - it’s just I didn’t want you to get all mixed up or anything. And what do I mean when I say I’ve seen it all? Fucked if I know. It’s a lot of little things, I guess. Like when I was walking around that day, I saw someone tearing down a “lost dog” sign. She had tears in her eyes. At least I knew right away when my dog was dead.
What has that got to feel like? I mean waiting for God knows how long, hoping there would be good news and you’d get your happily ever after - only to find out the thing is dead.
Anyway, I didn’t want to wander too far that day. It was cold as hell. My English professor had his office nearby. I figured I could go bum around his place for a while. He was the greatest. Ex-Marine type. Always told stories of crazy shit he did in his youth. I wished I could have been more like him - hitting frogs with a nine iron, whacking down bats with a tennis racket. I wanted just one story like that to tell everyone I would ever meet.
I got to his place and shut the door behind me. Empty. Great. I sat down in one of the chairs on my side of the desk. It was an office like any other, I guess. Brown wooden table in the middle, eccentric lamp with a glass shade painted green on the side, big maroon chair for the Professor. The walls were adorned with landscape paintings and various degrees and certificates he had accumulated over the years. In the corner stood a rather menacing grandfather clock. It didn’t have a face, but you could feel it staring at you. Tick. Tick. Tick. Silence.
I was startled by the creak of the door hinges, and I turned around. In walked the Professor. Most of the faculty on campus wore a big, thick coat, a scarf, and a rather silly but warm hat. But not the Professor. He wore an average raincoat and that was it. That wasn’t all he wore, of course, but it’s all the extra stuff he put on to protect himself from the cold. He really wasn’t afraid of the cold.
“Ah, Mr. Farraday - what brings you here?”
I told him the truth. “I don’t know.”
“Ah...right…” He walked around behind his desk, dropped his raincoat on the floor behind his desk, and sat in his big red chair behind his desk. He took in a deep breath, almost a half sight, like he was about to begin a footrace, but he did it with a rather odd smile. He was a chipper guy.
“Well how are you?” he inquired, looking right at me.
“Alright, I geuss. My mo---my dog was hit by a car earlier.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. How is he? It is a he, isn’t it?
I gave him a slow nod. “He’s dead.”
His smile faded. He sighed again, then shrugged. “It happens.”
“Sure,” I said. “You remember that one story we read a few weeks ago?”
“Which one?”
The one by whatshisname. Salinkter or something.”
He smiled. “Salinger. Yes, of course.”
“Well I had a question. What manner of psychopath writes about a child molester that blows his own brains out?”
He gave me his peculiar Orson Welles smirk. “Well first of all he wasn’t a child molester. He never did anything nefarious. And a man who had been through World War Two, that’s who. Salinger was great, and he knew it. He was tormented by the world and its wonderful stupidity. After the war he spent some time in a hospital for what we would call post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“They never should have let him out.”
He laughed.
“And another thing,” I said. “The little girl. You know and I know and even the crazy guy knew bananafish aren’t real. Why would she say she saw one?”
“Because if you want to believe something enough - even if you know it’s not true - if you want to believe, doesn’t it become true in your own mind?”
“But why would she want to believe that badly?”
He shrugged. “You tell me.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Oh no,” I said. “I’m not going for this shit. I’m not going to bullshit something. There’s an answer. Tell me.”
He smirked again. “I couldn’t even tell you if I wanted to. That’s the answer: there is no answer.”
The sigh I let out was a half growl.
“Welcome to life,” he said.
“My mom killed my dog, you know,” I blurted out.
He leaned back in his red chair and stared me in the eye.
“Not on purpose, of course.” I continued. “She was backing out of the driveway in a hurry and didn’t see him in the mirror. Crushed the little terrier in one go.”
By now he was staring down at the desk in front of him, thinking. “Welcome to life,” I said. Silence.
I looked at the grandfather clock. “Shit I got to go. Physics started ten minutes ago. See you later, Professor.” He said goodbye.
I walked outside, shutting the door behind me. I started on my way to class when I stopped in a moment of realization. There was snow on the ground.