by Wizner, Jake
My wife is still not speaking tome, and masturbation has proven a poor substitute.
CAPTAIN’S LOG, DAY 36: We spotted the white whale today and gave chase. The creature reared its mighty head and spurted a towering stream of water into the air. I found this strangely arousing.
Chapter 5
And it came to pass after forty days and forty nights that God remembered his covenant with Noah.
“So we agreed we’d split the profits 70–30, right?” God said.
“You said 50–50.”
“That was before I got a hold of this juicy little diary of yours. Let’s see…Captain’s Log, Day 29. I’m so horny I could—”
“All right, all right, 70–30. Just don’t show it to my wife. Besides, it’s not like there’s anybody alive to buy this damn flood story anyway.”
“Patience, Noah, patience. Thousands of years from now, it’s going to be a bestseller.”
“That’s easy for you to say. I’ve only got a few hundred years left.”
Epilogue
“‘And ye shall circumcise the flesh of your foreskins…And the uncircumcised man-child whose flesh of his foreskin is not circumcised, that soul shall be cut off from his people.’” God put down the manuscript and gave the angel in front of him a contemptuous look. “Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I thought you wanted me to tell the writers to add more gratuitous violence.”
“Yes, but I didn’t mean messing with people’s genitals.”
The angel blanched. “I think he was just trying to emphasize the importance of the covenant.”
“The only thing he was emphasizing is how much of a pervert he is.” God pressed a button on his intercom.
“Judy, send in Abraham.” He turned back to the quivering angel. “Tell the humans to be careful what they wish for.”
Abraham entered and took a seat in front of the Lord. “What’s up, Boss?”
God sighed. “I need your advice about these Sodomites.”
That day, a few people I knew told me they liked my piece, but nobody showed half the enthusiasm of Neil, who carried his magazine around all day and told everybody he saw to read my story and that he was best friends with the author.
At the end of the day, my brother, who was a freshman, came up to me with a group of his friends.
“This is my brother,” he said to them.
“I liked your piece in the literary magazine,” one of the kids said.
“Thanks.”
This was nice. Gandhi, who usually ignored me in school, was now bragging about me to his friends. At least I had some kind of fan club, even if they were ninth graders.
“Hey, Shakespeare, can you tell Mom I had to stay late at school to work on a project, and I’ll be home by dinner?”
“Okay. What are you working on?”
He smiled. “Science. You know, the effects of certain substances on the human brain?”
My brother’s friends started to laugh.
“I don’t remember studying that.”
“Too bad,” he said, starting to walk away. “It’s really fascinating. Tell Mom I’ll be home by dinner.”
I watched them strut down the hall laughing. Great. My brother, who was a freshman, already had a richer social life than I did. What was going on? I was a published author. Where were all my friends? Where was everybody who wanted to hang out after school with me? Where were the girls? Where was the recognition?
One day passed and then another. People had read their copies of Red Herring and left them lying around the school. The year was winding down, students were talking about plans for the summer, seniors were gearing up for prom and graduation, and everyone, it seemed, was hooking up with everyone else. My brother appeared in the hallway one day holding hands with a girl from his class. Celeste Keller began showing up mornings in Jordan Miller’s car and driving off with him each day when school let out. All around me, people were moving on, growing up, probably having sex, and here I was, still watching from the sidelines, seventeen years down and nothing to show for it.
School ends. I spend the summer at home working as a camp counselor, watching potential girlfriends get picked off one by one by boys less timid, and waiting for something to happen, which of course never does. It’s okay, I convince myself. Soon school will start again, and I will have the whole of senior year stretched out in front of me and everything will be different. I have already begun to make a name for myself by being published in the literary magazine, but it was too little too late. This year I will step firmly into the limelight, establish myself as a daring and original writer, and become somebody people actually talk about. My senior memoir will be my canvas. By exploiting the tragedy of my life, by brazenly documenting the most cringe-inducing episodes of a cringe-filled existence, I will achieve a kind of cult-hero status. I sit on my steps on a warm August night, close my eyes, and imagine the possibilities.
JUNE
Dear Shakespeare,
Congratulations on being picked as a memoir finalist. Didn’t I always tell you how good a writer you are? This year has been so unpredictable and tumultuous, but I really value the time we spent together. Sometimes I wish I could be more like you, the way you have a sense of humor about everything and don’t always take yourself so seriously. I think we were good for each other—I just hope I didn’t drive you too crazy. You’re probably writing something incredibly witty in my yearbook right now, and here I am, babbling on. Jordan and I are going to Europe in July, but I’ll be around in August if you want to get together for a cup of coffee or a movie.
Fondly,
Celeste
Dear Celeste,
Good luck at Brown next year. Maybe I’d be there with you, except they told me I wasn’t good enough. They actually wait-listed me at first and made me believe I had a real chance of getting in, but that was just a tease until they got a firm commitment from people they were always more interested in. (Sorry about that, I couldn’t resist.) I really am happy we became so close this year, and even though you tormented me, I know it was not done intentionally or out of malice. In the end, I am grateful to you for appreciating who I am and seeing things in me that I was too insecure to recognize in myself.
Adiós,
Shakespeare
Dear Shakespeare,
You would not believe the crap I took this morning. It was one of those craps that just keeps coming and coming in waves, and you keep thinking you’re done, and then you feel another wave coming on. It was probably one of the ten best shits I’ve taken this year. Hey, can you believe we’re graduating? We’ve done so much together these past four years—getting drunk for the first time, going to the sex doctor, staying up all night watching bad movies on TV, talking on our cell phones while we were taking craps. I actually wrote about that in my memoir, you know? Anyway, you’re the writer, not me, so I’m signing off.
Your partner in crime,
Neil
Dear Neil,
It’s hard to believe that I’m such good friends with someone who spends all his time either shitting or talking about shitting. It’s even harder to believe that Katie went out with you this year. I guess it was inevitable that it wouldn’t last, what with Katie moving out west and you being the tremendous freak that you are. Oh well. You’re going to college now anyway. Time to flush the toilet and start with a fresh bowl. What more can I say? You’re a great friend, and without you these past four years would have been even shittier than they were.
With all due respect, admiration, and concern for your well-being,
Shakespeare
Shakespeare,
I hate all this yearbook-signing bullshit. What the hell do you want me to say? I’m not going to miss this place, I don’t want to hold on to any memories, and I’m probably never going to see you again after I graduate. All right, maybe I’ll see you, but only if you’re still together with Charlotte. At least you did something right before you graduated.<
br />
Later,
Katie
Dear Katie,
We should go out after graduation and get drunk. Just kidding. I really do respect the fact that you’ve given up drinking since prom, even if it has made you more foulmouthed and ornery than ever. I’m glad you and Charlotte became friends. It’s nice that the two women in my life get along with each other so well. By the way, I think Charlotte’s brother has a crush on you. Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Have fun with Rocco at college.
Cheers,
Shakespeare
SHAKESPEARE,
I HOPE YOU’RE WRITING SOME FUNNY SHIT IN MY YEARBOOK. I WISH I COULD WRITE LIKE YOU. YOU’VE GOT A SICK MIND, BRO.
HEY, CHECK THIS OUT.
IT’S A DRAWING OF MR. PARKE’S LEFT TESTICLE.
YOU’RE THE MAN.
ROCCO
Dear Rocco,
Explain something to me. How is it that someone who refers to girls in class as chicks, laughs every time he hears the name Dick, includes violent drawings with the work he turns in, talks incessantly about how much he can bench-press, and thinks Dude, Where’s My Car? is the greatest movie ever made is able to get laid on such a consistent basis? Good luck in college. I’d stay away from Katie if I were you.
Shakespeare
Dear Shakespeare,
It was cool getting to know you this year. I wish we could have had even more high times. Remember that time you came over? Dude, you were so wasted. After graduation, we should celebrate big-time. Be cool. Stay sane. Have a nice life.
You’re a good man, Charlie Brown.
Danny
Dear Danny,
Read this only after you have taken many, many bong hits.
the floor is on the ceiling where the lightning slides abound in the river of the spinning tulips marching all around where the wheels turn in the doorknobs and banana marching bands float through the cloudy rainbow streams of heavy breathing sands endless chanting endless chanting endless chanting endless chanting endless chanting endless chanting endless chanting bend less panting the sky is your mother
I am the walrus.
Milkshakespeare
Shakespearmint
Dear Shakespeare,
The scariest thing for me is thinking about how I almost closed you out of my life. This has not been an easy year. I learned a long time ago to deal with my brother’s issues and my father’s, but it was much harder for me to begin to address my own. Thank you for not giving up on me. Thank you for being able to see that I needed help even though I put up so many walls to prevent anyone from helping me. If it weren’t for you and Mr. Basset, I probably wouldn’t be graduating on time. There’s so much more I want to say, but I’m afraid if Katie reads this, it might drive her back to drinking. Besides, we have the whole summer to talk.
Love,
Charlotte
DEAR ABBY,
I JUST STARTED GOING OUT WITH THIS GIRL AND I REALLY LIKE HER A LOT. I WANT TO WRITE SOMETHING TO HER THAT WILL EXPRESS HOW I FEEL, BUT EVERYTHING I THINK OF SOUNDS LIKE A HALLMARK CARD. WHAT SHOULD I DO?
SIGNED,
NEUROTIC
Dear Neurotic,
I have no fucking idea.
If Mr. Parke saw this, he would say I’m trying to use humor to avoid expressing my true feelings. Trust me. These are my true feelings. And besides, this isn’t even very humorous. Okay, all kidding aside, I’m going to be serious now. Take a deep breath, Shakespeare. Ready? Here goes. On the count of three. One. Two. Three. Charlotte…(dramatic pause) No, forget the dramatic pause; that’s just using humor again as a cover. See, I love that I can joke around with you like this. I love how comfortable you make me feel with who I am. To have a girlfriend who also feels like a best friend is the most wonderful thing I can imagine, and these past two weeks have been the happiest time I can remember. (Cue the sappy music.) I hope you win the memoir award. What a turn-on it would be to be dating an award-winning author.
Love,
Shakespeare
On the day of graduation, we march in alphabetical order and take our seats in the converted gymnasium where the ceremony is being held. I’m between Mudit Shah, who is off to MIT to study physics, and Rich Sharp, who is off to Penn State to join a fraternity and sexually harass drunken sorority girls.
Our principal welcomes everybody and tells us that he hopes Hemingway High has encouraged us to approach the world with an open mind, to avoid getting boxed in by traditional notions of success, and to experiment freely with our interests and ambitions. Our class valedictorian tells us that Hemingway High has prepared her for her pre-med studies at Harvard and has taught her the importance of setting a course in life and never wavering. Our guest speaker tells us that we are entering a world filled with contradictions.
All three speeches are incredibly boring.
When the time comes to hand out the award for best senior memoir, three people I don’t recognize introduce themselves as Hemingway High graduates and previous recipients of the award. They blabber on a bit about writing and writers, and the weird-looking one makes a joke about how when he wrote his memoir, it was the only time in his life when he was actually grateful to have such a dysfunctional family.
Then they get serious, and the woman says, “Before we announce the winner of this year’s memoir award, we would like to recognize all of this year’s finalists. Please hold your applause until all the names have been read. Madongo Abraham, for his memoir, Exodus.” Applause. “Cordelia Blythe, for her memoir, This Girl’s Life.” Applause. “If you could please hold your applause until the end,” the woman says. “Melissa Brookstream, for her memoir, Inked Fragments.” A smattering of claps. “Enzo Casablanca, for his memoir, The Good, the Bad, and My Childhood.” Light laughter. “Avery Cooke, for his memoir, Stirred, Not Shaken. Max Gatz, for his memoir, Portrait of a Jewboy as a Young Man.”
“We love you, Max!” someone screams, and everybody laughs.
“Sally Hill, for her memoir, Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. Tristan Potter, for his memoir, Diary of a Glutton. Shakespeare Shapiro, for his memoir, 17 Down. Padma Vajpayee, for her memoir, Upanishad Is Not a Dirty Word. Galaxy Veeder, for her memoir, Black Holes. Charlotte White, for her memoir, Cages.”
The woman waits for the applause to stop. She turns to her fellow judges and says, “May I have the envelope, please?” and the two men start checking all their pockets and then pretend to panic, before one of them finally comes up with the requested item hidden inside his shoe.
Everybody laughs at this bit of theatrics, and my stomach clenches up in a knot. Oh my God, this is it, I think. I realize how much I want Charlotte to win, or if not her, someone else other than me. It’s not so much that I’m afraid of tripping on my way up to the podium, though that is a legitimate concern. It’s more the feeling that my winning would somehow change things between us. I know this is my issue, not hers, but it just seems that her memoir is so much more consequential than mine, and that my winning would be an insult to her life and her experiences. Charlotte would hate me for saying this, but I can’t help feeling that she deserves this for everything she has gone through and for being brave enough to write about it.
“This year’s winner is…”
The dramatic pause. I hate the dramatic pause. Get it over with, already.
“Melissa Brookstream, for her memoir, Inked Fragments.”
Thunderous applause as Melissa (4.0 GPA, perfect SATs, editor of Red Herring, drama club, Yale, cancer survivor) climbs to the stage and accepts her award. I clap politely, a little disappointed that Charlotte has not won, but knowing deep down that she is probably relieved not to have to step into the limelight.
The graduation ceremony winds down, we get our diplomas, throw our caps in the air, pose for pictures with family and friends, shake hands with classmates we barely know, and go off, all of us, with our own entourages to mark the occasion in our own special ways.
My parents have made reservations at
a fancy restaurant, and my dad immediately orders a bottle of wine and tells the waitress to bring glasses for all of us. “My son just graduated high school,” he says, as if this is justification enough to violate the legal drinking age.
“I can’t believe it,” my mother says. “How can I possibly be old enough to have a son who’s already off to college?”
“Don’t get rid of me yet. I still have the summer.”
“I wish I was leaving,” Gandhi says.
My parents are in high spirits and keep telling me how proud they are. They are dying to read my memoir, but I put them off and tell them that someday, someday I’ll let them read it, though it’s hard to imagine a scenario in which this will ever happen.
My father raises his wineglass. “To Shakespeare,” he says.
“To Shakespeare,” my mother and brother repeat.
We clink our glasses and drink.
By the time we order dessert, we have nearly finished a second bottle of wine, and my parents have launched into stories about our childhoods that we have heard a thousand times. Normally, I would have little patience for this, but today I am genuinely enjoying myself. As I sit back and sip my wine, I notice that Jody Simons and Paige Blanchard have just walked into the restaurant with their families in tow. Because I have a girlfriend now, I do not feel the extreme awkwardness and discomfort I would always experience in the presence of girls I fantasized about, nor do I feel the familiar jolt of panic when Jody sees me, waves, and walks over to our table.
“Hi,” she says cheerily.
My parents look at her, then look at me, and both begin to smile.
“Hi,” I say. “Mom, Dad, this is Jody. She graduated today, also.”
“Congratulations,” my parents say.
“Thanks. I just wanted to meet you and tell you that Shakespeare is, like, the best name ever.”
