Random

by Lesley Choyce

  I say that nothing makes sense, yet I sometimes act as if things have deep meaning. I know. But you will have to accept my story for what it is. My story. Life still does not make a whole lot of sense. Gloria’s mother and father should be perfectly happy. Nobody cheated on anybody. They have health, income, a beautiful, smart daughter. But something has made it impossible for them to be happy.

  As you might guess, I took Gloria to the forest. We skipped school and went to the woods. We didn’t talk that much. I pointed to things—oak trees, blue jays, moss. I was able to make Gloria’s sadness go away. For a while.

  But later in the day it came back.

  “I feel that it’s all my fault. My parents are breaking up because of something I did or didn’t do.”

  “I doubt that is the case.”

  “And now I’ve drawn you into this. Now I’ve made you suffer.”

  That didn’t make sense. “How have I suffered?”

  She really didn’t have an answer. “You missed school.”

  “I call that real torture,” I said.

  “But I’ve got you entangled.”

  “I like that word. Entangled. I like the feeling of being entangled.”

  Later that day, I walked her home, and her mother was there, and they both hugged and cried, and I went in and had an awkward snack in the kitchen.

  I felt great about the night together, the day together, the whole wonderful entanglement of it all. But here’s the kicker.

  When I left Gloria, I felt sad again immediately. On the walk home, I felt more alone than ever. I would sit in my room and watch a movie. Alone. And then go to bed. Alone.

  I felt more abandoned than ever. I could reflect on how good it had been to be with Gloria. How totally NOT alone it all was. How we had come together and shared sadness and then, dare I say, happiness. And then it ended. And I wasn’t convinced we’d ever be able to revisit that island of a night and day that was so entirely shared.

  As I drifted off to sleep, I slipped again down that slope into darkness. In my dream, the police were knocking at the door again. But in my dream I believed that all I had to do was not open the door and my parents would still be alive. And my life would go on as normal.

  The only mistake I had made was opening that damn door.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Joseph Stalin—nasty guy. Joe DiMaggio—baseball player who married Marilyn Monroe. Joseph Conrad—author who wrote Heart of Darkness, which we had to read in English. Very dark. Joseph Smith—had to look him up. Founder of the Mormons who come around here in white shirts and ties on a Saturday morning. Thought it was okay for a man to have more than one wife. Joseph—father of Christ. Well, he doesn’t even get credit as a biological father. Christ was sort of adopted, you might say, or he was the result of a kind of early artificial insemination project on God’s part.

  God. At some point I should discuss God, although I am not and probably never will be an expert on this subject. Right now I’m just at work on my name. All the Joes I can think of. This to stave off chaos and confusion. Gloria is not returning my phone calls. She’s not answering her cell.

  Dean has called me twice and left messages. “Dude, I think I figured something out. Call me.”

  “Joe, I’m a little confused on this so if you could call me, I’d like you to hear what I have to say.” No, I can’t do Dean-world right now. This is the world according to Joe. I’m doing this to occupy my mind. To connect the dots of all the Joes. We are all related, I profess. Even me and Jesus’ father. Not God. The other one. Joseph of Nazareth.

  Other Joes I can think of. There are Saint Josephs—more than one. We are that holy. But I’ll have to look them up. Maybe I’ll turn out to be another one but I don’t think so. Oh, another Biblical one—Joseph from the Old Testament who had been given a coat of many colors by his father. Then there’s Joseph Kennedy, JFK’s father who, I think, made all his money in illegal booze. Do I have that right? Joe Louis was a boxer. Joe McCarthy was a senator who ruined hundreds of Americans’ lives by calling them Communists in the 1950s. He and Stalin were in the Bad Joe camp, for sure. I bet there were others. All us Joes can’t be saints, you know.

  And then there is me. Joseph Campbell. Not exactly famous, I know. A young school teacher named Celia Wright meets a metal band lead guitarist. Turns out his name is Henry Campbell. She gets pregnant. I am born. They debate, so the story goes, about two hundred somewhat exotic names. Give up and call me something ordinary. Joseph. Joseph Campbell. One of my earliest recollections of school is someone calling me Campbell Soup as soon as the teacher said my name. And it stuck, of course. That and the fact that I drank too much Pepsi one day and accidentally peed my pants. I vividly remember that day in grade one. Brian Deveau raising his hand to tell Ms. Schwartz, “Hey, Ms. Schwartz, Campbell Soup just peed his pants.”

  It takes a while to recover from such humiliation. I never drank Pepsi again, nor did I urinate during class time. One lesson learned in life.

  And this reminds me of something. Get this. My little lack of bladder control was the worst thing that ever happened to me in life up to that point. No kidding. My life had been so non-traumatic that this seemed like the end of the world as we know it. More than that. It remained the “worst day of my life” right up until ... well ... you know.

  Up until twelve, I had been, as they say, an Ordinary Joe. And so I should have remained. I went searching on the Net for other Joe words. The Joes were once considered the blues in the 1950s. As in depression. As in, “Gloria has the Joes.”

  There was once a guy named Joe College. He dressed and acted the part of someone going to university. Not a bad term, really, but there it is.

  Joe Schmo was another one. “Yeah, who says? Joe Schmo?” This from an old, old movie I saw once. Joe Schmo never appeared on screen. He, too, was average and not all that bright. Joe Blow seems to be about the same. That’d be a tough one to be named as a kid and my guess is that if there ever was a Blow family, they changed their last name.

  I think there must have been Joe Crow somewhere and he could have hung out with Joe Blow and Joe Schmo but probably not with Surfer Joe, who appeared on the scene in the early 1960s and was—you guessed it—an average surfer.

  So my name is associated with all of these things. From helping to raise a savior—to representing all that is average in a male. So how, I might ask, can I go back to being an Ordinary Joe?

  The answer is that I cannot do this. I am the sum total of my parts. I was assembled, prepared to meet the world (very nicely, thank you), then later shredded and glued back together and set adrift.

  My dad comes home and knocks on my door. He looks tired.

  “Come in,” I say.

  “Everything okay?” The generic all-purpose question.

  “I’m still worried about Gloria.”

  “It’s pretty tough when parents go through hard times.”

  “Any advice?”

  “Be a good friend.”

  “I think we may be more than that now,” I say. I had decided I could talk to my dad. I was pretty sure he would understand.

  “Oh,” he says, jumping to conclusions. A pregnant pause. “You guys, didn’t ... um ... do anything the other night?” He looks a little embarrassed.

  “There was nothing sexual about it.” And this, as noted, was not one hundred percent true, but we didn’t really do anything. And clothes were on, remember?

  “Well, if you ever need to talk ...” His voice trails off, suggesting that he hopes like hell we never have to talk about it but he’d give it a shot if he had to. Neither of my parents has ever had the sex talk with me. Hell, I don’t think ninety-nine percent of parents do that anymore. There’s just so much stuff out there, so, like, what could they say?

  “Thanks, Dad. Do you know much about depression?”

  “A bit. Gloria, right?”

  “Well, yeah. But I think I’ve been there.”

  “Of course. When you were firs
t with us. The doctors said we had to watch you.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We watched you.”

  “And?”

  “And you got better.”

  “Not totally,” I say.

  “I think I know that. Still have bad days?”

  “Yeah. But I’m coping.”

  “I know you are. But Gloria—you’re worried, right?”

  “She’s been down for a while. I thought I was helping, but I’m not sure it’s enough.”

  “Tell her to try some evening primrose oil, some melatonin maybe, and some 5-HTP. I’ll bring some home.”

  “And that will help?”

  “It might help but it won’t cure. Her heart is breaking because her parents are breaking up. I’ve seen it too many times. Parents fight, kids get damaged.”

  “You and mom never fight.”

  “We do it quietly and away from you. But nothing major.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Call Gloria.”

  And he leaves. I suppose some kids have fathers that come home drunk or make impossible rules for their kids or scream and yell when the lawn mower doesn’t work. But not Will. Will eats a lot of vegetables and a handful of organic supplements. He has a calm, quiet way about him and I liked him as a person ever since he first came into my life. Sometimes I wished he was more interesting, more exciting, even a little crazier, like Henry was when he was young. But most of the time I’m cool with who Will is. He seems to understand how the world works—the good and the bad of it—and he’s okay with that. He doesn’t have plans to become wealthy or famous or change the world. But he tries to be helpful to his customers with advice about selenium, evening primrose, and such. My dad’s idea of doing something totally crazy is sitting outside in the backyard on a summer afternoon and letting himself get a sunburn while drinking three beers and eating a bag of salted pretzels. Wild and crazy or what?

  Still no answer from Gloria. It’s getting late in the evening. I’m hoping she is just sleeping.

  Dean is calling again.

  “Joe, it’s Dean.” As if I wouldn’t recognize his voice. “Joe, I’ve been thinking.” This is often a bad sign. “All that stuff people post about me.”

  “It’s crap. None of it is true. You shouldn’t pay any attention to it.”

  “I know. Most of it is not true. But it hurts.”

  “So don’t read it. Turn your computer off. Read some books about marine biology. Study sharks.”

  “I will. I promise. But Oliver posted something about me.”

  “Oliver is a class-A turd.”

  “I know. But he said that I’m a faggot.”

  “He called me a homo for saying hi to him once in the hallway. So he thinks you’re gay. Ignore it.”

  “No. I think he may be right.”

  “You think. You’re not sure?”

  “I’m not sure about much. But I am different.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily make you gay.”

  “But I’ve considered the possibility.”

  “Do you really like guys?”

  “Some.”

  “Do you like girls?”

  “Some.”

  “I’m not convinced.”

  “But what should I do?”

  “I don’t know. What if you are gay?”

  “That’s what I was thinking. What if I am? Would you still be my friend?”

  I didn’t know what to say at first. This was beyond weird and I was a little freaked. “If I saw you staring at me in the washroom, I might get worried. But I’ve known you a long time, dude. I don’t think you’re gay.”

  “But I’m still not sure. Maybe I just haven’t met the right girl.”

  “Probably not.”

  “But you’d be okay with it if I was?”

  I was still kind of freaked, but I didn’t want to say what I really felt. Instead I laughed. “Totally. They say straight guys should have at least one gay friend to advise them on things like what clothes to wear and what women really want. I read that in a magazine.”

  “But I’m not sure I’m gay. So don’t tell anyone.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I feel better.”

  “Good.”

  I’m back to thinking about my old plan to strategically place dog crap in the path of Oliver’s feet. I think it may be worth the effort. I realize it may turn out that Dean, who has been a friend of mine forever, might actually be gay. But he’s pretty unsure of—well, just about everything. So I’ll give it time. If he is gay, he’s going to have to build some confidence about it. It’s hard enough being sixteen and straight. Gays must have one hell of a set of challenges. As for me, I’m pretty sure I’m just an Ordinary Joe. Straight. Damaged. And trying to find the silver thread that ties everything together.

  Not that I ever expect to find it. The world is way too screwed up for that. It’s just that part of me keeps searching, despite the fact that it is hopeless.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It’s been over a week since my last entry. What happened? you might wonder. Well, go back and listen to the last part of that last entry.

  I hit a wall. I decided the digital diary thing was messing up my head. I replayed some of what I’d recorded later that same night and found it puzzling. Maybe some things should just be, I decided. Recording and analyzing everything like that did not make me feel any better. It did not help me understand things better. Who was I to be able to help anyone? Dean? Gloria?

  But as you can see, I’m back. My dad asked me how the DD was going. I told him I quit. He said he was fine with that. Typical for my dad. Never pushy. Very organic in his approach to business, life, and raising a son.

  So, of course, here I am. Hello. I’m back. Is it for him? For Gloria (who I still think may listen to this someday)? Or is it for me? I really don’t know. But I am back after my ... what’s the word? ... hiatus. From the Latin, I think. A break in continuity. A gap. A missing link in a chain of events. Or get this ... a new word for you, I bet. A lacuna.

  A breather. A rest. A pause. It seems logical to think that as I move through my life, my sequence of random events, there is a place where a gap occurs. But I would be lying if I said that nothing happened during this past week. A lot did happen during Joe’s lacunic absence from his digital diary.

  First, I guess you could say that depression is infectious. Coming back down from my exultant first co-sleeping event with a member of the opposite sex, as you may have noted, I fell into that pit. That basement of despair. That dark place. Gloria’s own unhappiness had opened up a wound. And then she went away.

  Gloria and her mother went to stay with Gloria’s grandmother, a three-hour drive from here. She would not let me know the phone number there and she did not answer my calls to her cell phone. Instead, I received short text messages like this: “Am ok. At G’mom’s till things chill. Be kind.” Or cryptic e-mails like this: “Went to Grandmom’s doc and he prescribed some meds. Mother and daughter on pharmaceuticals. All is well. Can sleep now. Thanks for helping me. Love. G.”

  At first I had this terrifying fear that it was just a first step. Maybe soon Gloria and her mom would be gone, possibly for good. Isn’t this what happens sometimes when a family breaks up? A good chance I’d never see her again. Never hold her in my arms like that night. And why didn’t she at least take my phone call or call me?

  I drifted through my dark days, my only real diversion being Dean and his current situation. Most of school was just a fog—kind of like the way it had been for me right after the accident. But this was a bit different. As I drifted from one class to the next, I found myself thinking dark thoughts. What if Gloria was a blip? A one-of-a-kind thing in my life. A good thing. A good thing gone. And I had failed somehow to really help her.

  But let’s leave that there for the time being, because I don’t know what more to say about it. One more shift. Random can be good. Random can be bad.

  As you
can see, I had to break that one off. This is later the same night. I tried to sleep but couldn’t, so, as usual, anything goes here. Skip over this part if you want. And remember, there is no story line here. No deeper meaning. Just a boy and his microphone headset, staring out at a dark night.

  So let’s talk about education to get one’s mind off personal things.

  Eighty-seven percent of what you learn in school is of little value, let us assume. Some would argue that percentage is higher, some lower. But let’s not be cynical for a minute and realize that eighty-seven percent leaves a full thirteen percent as something useful. Let’s call it knowledge. My school, in its infinite wisdom (just joking), had just this year come up with elective mini-courses on various unlikely topics. You could choose one class that met for only one period a week on subjects like this: surreal art, experimental music, contemporary poetry, astronomy, the history of magic, eastern religions, or ancient Greek philosophy.

  There were only eight of us who chose ancient Greek philosophy, which must have sounded like a real yawner compared to the history of magic. The course is taught by Dr. Henson Langley. Langley was in his last year before retirement. He was completely bald, but had a goatee for a beard. His eyes were fierce and he scared a lot of kids, which is how he had survived a long career as a mathematics teacher. All he had to do was look straight at you and it was like a laser beam burning a hole.

  But I liked him. He was for real. “It’s my last year,” he told us first day of class. “I’ve endured plenty. I’ve taken my share of crap from students and administration alike. I don’t think they can fire me, so this year I feel that I should speak my mind freely. What is discussed in this classroom is to stay in this classroom. Whatever I say, whatever you say. There will be no tests, no final exam, no papers. You will be graded on your attendance and your questions. That’s probably the way we should have been running schools for these past several centuries but we screwed it up somehow.”

  He was serious. All you had to do was show up and ask questions.