Friend Request [hannah]

“Those guys are jerks. Just ignore them.”

Alex tried to ignore them. He nodded. “I know.”

“Seriously,” his friend Sara tried again. “They’re jackasses.”

Alex smiled. “Jackasses,” he muttered. He told himself he was strong enough to take it. It wasn’t the first time jackasses had called him that name. It probably wouldn’t be the last time. He looked over his shoulder at the huddle of frat boys. Two of them looked over. One whispered something while the others snickered.

Alex kept walking. They reached Sara’s dorm and said goodbye. Alex walked two buildings over to his own dorm and climbed the stairs. They’d just installed new grey rubbery flooring in the stairwell. It smelled like industrial strength adhesive.

He walked into his room and threw his book bag on the floor. He turned on his computer. He logged into Facebook. He waited for the top icons to tell him how many new notifications he had. He waited to see who cared.

No notifications.

Alex leaned back in his chair and stared at the profile on the screen. His own face smiled back at him. Under that a collection of tiny faces. All different. 437 friends.

437 friends and no notifications.

He got up and walked to his mini-fridge. He grabbed a bag of stale cookies off the top of it. He turned back to his computer, glancing at the empty bed on his way there. The bed was more than empty. It was naked. Just a mattress sitting on the plain bed frame. A reminder that his school-assigned roommate just couldn’t live with him anymore.

Alex ate a cookie.

He sat back at his computer and grabbed the mouse. He swirled the cursor over familiar names. There had to be someone he wanted to interact with. He pulled up a detailed list of his friends, but none of them looked interesting. He saw a link on the screen inviting him to find new friends, maybe from a list of his classmates. He clicked on a link to view students in his graduating class at Kent State.

He scrolled through faces and names. He scoured eight pages of people Facebook thought he should know.

On the ninth page Alex saw him. He didn’t know him, but his smile caught Alex’ attention. It wasn’t the normal college-guy smile-- that cocky, possibly drunk, macho smile. It was an open, vivacious smile that wasn’t even aimed at the camera capturing it. The smile was for someone standing outside of the camera’s range, or maybe the smile was meant for no one at all. It was just the uncontrollable act of someone who is genuinely happy.

The smile reached out of the screen and grabbed Alex. He couldn’t look away from it. He stared at it and heard laughter. Bright, true laughter. He wanted to laugh with whoever owned that smile.

Alex looked to the rest of the person in the picture. He had a great face. Not only the captivating smile, but lively blue eyes, a smooth jaw, and a square chin. Curly blond hair peeked out from beneath his ski cap. The name next to his picture was Jude Malone.

Jude.

It was interesting name. He must have interesting parents.

Alex looked back at Jude. He definitely had that all-American college dude look. He was probably in some frat house right now, intoxicating coeds with his smile and cheap beer.

But there was something about the smile. Something that didn’t fit the frat boy mold. Alex didn’t know why, but he believed the smile was never used to attract drunk girls.

Or maybe any girls at all.

Alex clicked on Jude’s name. The computer told him Jude went to Kent State and was born on August 31st. Alex couldn’t see anything else in the profile. He would have to become Jude’s friend to view more.

But he wasn’t Jude’s friend.

Alex stared at Jude, his mouse cursor hovering over his face. He had every intention of closing the window, but he stalled. And stared. And wondered if he would ever meet Jude Malone.

…

It was Sara’s idea to go to the club. Alex didn’t like clubs. At least not the kinds of clubs Sara wanted to go to. Somehow she dragged him to one almost every Thursday night. A few more girls would go with them. Sometimes the two chubby girls who lived next door to Sara. Sometimes Sara’s roommate. Alex and Sara always went though. They were a team. Sara manipulated Alex into having fun, and Alex made sure Sara didn’t get scooped up by some creepy thirty year-old townie when she got too drunk to know any better.

Tonight it was just Alex and Sara. The club was dark and dirty, and filled with sweaty people. Sara tossed herself around to the music. She danced on Alex as if it was possible for him to be attracted to her. He moved his body along with hers. She must have been sneaking drinks from old guys again. She didn’t even notice that Alex was distracted. He looked away from her and over the heads of all of the writhing college students.

He didn’t mean to be searching for him. He knew that at a school that size, it was highly unlikely that Jude Malone would be at the same club on the same night. Alex told himself he wasn’t looking for him. Still he watched the crowd. His eyes narrowed every time they fell on blond curly hair.

…

Sara eventually sweated out all her energy and collapsed into Alex. He dragged her back to campus and dropped her at her dorm. He went back to his room. He sank into his desk chair and opened his computer. The bright screen burned his eyes. He pulled up Facebook. He clicked. One. Two. Three. Four clicks of his mouse. He’d memorized the fastest way to get to Jude.

He sighed and his eyelids sagged.

One more click.

He sent Jude a friend request.

…

Alex held the last of his poptart in his teeth while he zipped up his book bag and threw it over his shoulder. He started to leave the room, but stopped and went back to his desk one last time. He woke up his sleeping computer. He opened Facebook.

No notifications.

Jude did not want to be his friend today.

Just as he hadn’t for the past eleven days. Alex’ friend request was pending. Always pending.

He went to class.

He didn’t live far from his classroom, but he rode the bus. He sat and looked out a dusty bus window for seven minutes. He watched faces. He knew a lot of them. Not by name. He just saw them every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday as he took the same bus through the same part of campus at the same time.

His stomach twisted. He wrapped his arms around his waist.

The same faces. Over and over again. Never the face he wanted to find.

He saw his stop approaching on the right. The bus pulled over. Students put away their iPods and climbed off the bus. But Alex didn’t move.

He sat. He needed more faces. New faces.

Different students took the empty seats of those who’d left, and the bus groaned back into the street. Alex watched the sidewalks slip past the bus. He knew Jude was out there. Somewhere. In a dorm, or a classroom, or a booth at Taco Bell. He was somewhere in this tiny college town. And Alex had to find him.

…

Alex lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Sara called. He didn’t answer his phone. He didn’t move. Seventeen days, and Jude still hadn’t accepted his friend request. He was too good for Alex. He didn’t want to get to know Alex. He didn’t want to be Alex’ friend.

Sara called again.

Then texted Alex when he didn’t answer his phone.

Come on loser! I want 2 go out 2nite!

Alex threw his phone at his computer.

…

I log in to Facebook. I have a friend request. I frown at the screen.

I don’t get friend requests. This isn’t even a legitimate Facebook account. It’s just a joke account that I made for a fictional character to make my sisters laugh. I look to see who the friend request is from.

Alex Wright.

I don’t know anyone named Alex Wright. And there’s no way he knows who Jude Malone is. Jude is just a character in the unpublished novel I wrote.

I shrug. I hope this Alex kid doesn’t notice that Jude declined his request.

...continue reading...

Memoir [jake]

Memory is not fully itself when it reaches only into the past. A memory that is not alive to the present does not 'remember' the here and now, does not 'remember' its true identity, is not a memory at all. He who remembers nothing but facts and past events, and is never brought back into the present, is a victim of amnesia.
- New Seeds of Contemplation, Thomas Merton

* * *

I’m not sure of the exact reason for the call anymore, but we had been on the phone, talking for a little while; Brett’s was the first number I knew by heart. I guess it was that time of year, because somehow we ended up, as many second-graders might, talking Girl Scout Cookies. We both agreed unanimously on the quality of Thin Mints, but I knew for certain that my favorites were Samoas. And, considering the context of our conversation, I felt compelled to express this delight to Brett, my best friend, hoping he might share my affinity.

“You know the Samoas?” I asked him. “The caramel and coconut ones?”

“Yeah!” he shouted. I was just about to follow up with “Those are my favorite!” when he continued, “I hate those!”

“Yeah, me too,” I replied, without missing a beat. I felt instantly ashamed of my compromise.

The conversation carried on, and I forget the rest.

* * *

The Rec-Plex (short for Recreational Complex) was a periodic pleasure for my father and his four boys. He took us there maybe one Friday or Saturday out of the month for a couple hours of play; we spent most of our time in the pool area, but I can remember following my dad every once in awhile into the gym area, which had a track on the second floor above the basketball court, and running around the track with him.
The pool area was divided into kids’ and adults’ sections. The kids’ section had shallow water with mushroom-shaped fountains and such, but it also had a slide and a whirlpool for older kids or adults. The adults’ section, however, was an enormous quadrangle. It was usually roped off in various places to indicate where the “free swim” area stopped and the more professional swimming lanes began, or to indicate the vicinity wherein those who wanted to use the high-dives should stay.

I was old enough to feel comfortable swimming in the adult section with my dad and brothers, but I was also old enough to start realizing things which were comfortable within the confines of family, but embarrassing when combined with the presence of friends.

One particularly embarrassing thing was public showering. My dad was one of those guys who perceived the practice as a matter of recognizing an anatomical given. This was not a problem for a number of years because it was all I knew, and I had only ever been to the Rec-Plex with my dad and brothers, not friends. As a young boy growing up and starting to make more friends, however, this unabashedness had begun to wear out quickly.

On one of these days of aqueous enjoyment, I happened to run into two acquaintances of mine, Calvin and Matt, in the large quadrangle. I had shared a couple classes with them over the course of elementary school, but was not exceptionally close friends with them. We chatted briefly, shooting as much of the breeze as nine- or ten-year-olds can, and then we went on with our regular, pooling activities.

Perhaps an hour or so later, Dad informed us that it was time to go, which meant, as it suddenly occurred to me, that it was also time to hit the showers. This was a dreadful proposition to be sure: on the one hand, I knew I would be unable to explain to my dad why showering was not on option this time, but on the other hand, were one of my classmates to happen through on their way to the locker room and see me naked—it just couldn’t happen.

As quickly as I could, though after much deliberation, I stripped down to nothing and began scrubbing myself with the bar of soap, my heart beating with terror and anticipation of the worst. After having sufficiently bathed myself, I turned off the water and scrambled across the tile floor to grab my towel. However, I was so nervous that my muscles didn’t seem to function as fluidly as they normally would. I tugged stiffly on the absorbent cloth, unable to free it from the hook, hanging twice as high as me.

Then, despite all hope, the nightmare became reality: just before I had yanked the towel from the hook, Calvin strolled around the corner, headed to the locker room just beyond the open showers. I attempted to cover myself, but it was too late: Calvin had already seen not a cotton-swathed boy, but a cloth-rectangle floating above a naked boy’s lower half. With the towel finally in its proper place, we made the briefest eye contact and Calvin walked on.

* * *

I sat on the couch, pondering. Looking up, I asked, “Do you ever have those seemingly irrelevant memories that, for some inexplicable reason, almost regularly come to mind? But you know, you know for a fact, that those related to that event won’t remember it, too?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Steffeny responds. The rest of the girls answer similarly.

“I have those all the time,” I continued, “and a lot of them have been surfacing lately. I’m not really sure why.”

* * *

It was second grade when my crush on Jani Becker started. She was the first girl that I had ever liked, and I was pretty enamored. We were in class together, but, being that I was exceptionally shy, I never let on to her that I liked her and hardly even talked to her (though I enjoyed what few interactions we had).

This of course did not lead to any first kiss or handholding, or flirting of any kind, seeing as I was too bashful to ever admit my affection to her, but I did continue being charily fond of her. In fact she was the only girl I liked from that time until the end of fifth grade. I had plucked up a little courage and self-confidence over this time—enough to talk to her at least, being that she was in my fourth and fifth grade classes—but throughout this time I remained, on the subject of my sentiment, steadfastly sheepish.

I had developed general relational skills, but, because of my limited dealings with romance, when it came to Jani, a girl whom I like liked, I had no idea how to properly interact.

It was now the beginning of my fifth grade year—by this time, I had only told my mom and Brett about my three-year crush—and I was seated at a table of all girls, directly across from Jani Becker. During some downtime in class one day we, like kids and grownups do, started talking. And, like kids and grownups do, we started talking about relationships, who liked who, and whatnot. I don’t remember much about the conversation, but eventually the group turned to me.

“So do you like someone?” Jani asked me, smiling.

I admitted that I did, but was not willing to say whom. The girls all giggled.

“Is she in another class?” Jani asked, leaning forward on her desk.

“No, she’s in our class,” I answered honestly, not yet realizing that I had considerably narrowed the scope of prospects. The girls giggled some more.

“Is it Katie?” they asked, referring to another Katie across the room.

“Nope, no one at that table,” I said, nervous but still clueless.

“What about that table?” they asked, indicating the one just next to it. I denied my attraction to anyone at that table. Slowly they began eliminating tables in the classroom (of which there were few), and slowly I began to realize that once we reached our table, I was screwed. If I stopped them at this point, at another table with another set of girls, they would presume my affection for someone I didn’t actually like.

“Is it this Katie?” Jani asked, pointing to her left.

I shook my head, nervously simpering. My time of secrecy was drawing to an end.

“I think I know who it is…!” Jessica whispered across the table to Jani.

My heart was pounding as the girls paused for a moment.

“Is it me?” Jani asked. There it was. The gavel fell. No one was left to choose from, except for Mrs. Scanlon, and that would not do.

“Yeah,” I blushed. The girls erupted in excitement.

“Does anyone else know?” Jani pushed on.

“Yeah,” I said, “I told my best friend back in second grade.” It was a seemingly insignificant admission.

“Whoa,” she said, “you’ve liked me since second grade?”

I couldn’t tell if the shock was out of flattery or offense. It hadn’t occurred to me that liking someone that you hardly talk to for almost four years might be a long time.

* * *

Moving from elementary school to middle school was a big change, not drastic, but big. We had six teachers every day instead of one, we used lockers instead of having our own desks, and our student population was much higher than I was used to, as it combined three elementary schools together. The experience was altogether new and exciting.

My first day of sixth grade started out well. I had seen a few familiar faces on the bus ride and had already made a friend in my first hour course, “communication arts” (English, in laymen’s terms). Now I made my way to my second hour: geography with Mr. Elmy. I entered the classroom and surveyed the room, hoping for a friend to sit with. But I didn’t recognize anyone, so I plopped myself down in an open, front row seat and began looking around the room, waiting for class to commence.

As my eyes drifted, my gaze fell on a kid named Ryan Reavey, sitting in the back row, chatting and joking with a girl whom he probably knew from his elementary school. I watched them for no particular reason as they talked, innocently observing their interaction.

His eyes caught mine. “Hey, you got a staring problem?” he asked me, catching me completely off guard. I turned with my head lowered and mumbled something like, “no,” refusing to turn around again. I felt hurt, and stupid. I didn’t even know him.

It was in that moment, the first of many in my adolescence, that I realized that I had to learn to be quick-witted, or I would not survive.

* * *

“If you were able to take a collection of these memories and look at them altogether, what would they say about a person? If you knew nothing else about that person, would you be able to get a sense of who they are? If you did this with your own memories, could you tell something significant about yourself now?”

I paused for a moment, having adequately concluded my thoughts. “I don’t know. That’s what’s been on my mind.”

...continue reading...

Prickly Beards and Cherry Cigars [steffeny]

I distinctly remember

Driving to grandma’s and writing on my magnetic etch-a-sketch. I proudly showed off the intervention that I had devised for my grandparents. Stop Smoking. It will kill
you. You should stop. I love you.

When I showed my mom she yelled at me and I didn’t understand why. I had worked really hard on that message and besides, mom was the authority on the perils of smoking. Constantly complaining about the uncompromising smell that invades all clothes, skin, and hair. We have to wash everything. Don’t take your nice stuff to grandpa and grandma’s, she warned us, it will be ruined. And don’t get her started on them riding in our car. Smoking is why they don’t come to visit us. Smoking is why they’re grumpy and their health is bad. Smoking is the reason for everything in our relationship. Especially the bad and uncomfortable stuff. They smoke and that’s bad. I heard her tone more than her words. We love grandpa and grandma but they smoke. We feel sad, but we all have to suffer the consequences.

---

Grandpa. Stuart Steiner. Stern. Rough around the edges.

His prickly beard pokes me when we hug. He lets me sit in his recliner- the throne – and watch all the classic Christmas shows. Crunch Crunch. He turns the pepper grinder over and over and all over every meal. Every bite. Mom says it’s cuz the smoke made his taste buds broken. But I think he likes things with extra flavor. He’s usually grouchy and doesn’t seem very happy to see me, but then grandma mixes drinks and we play cards. He teaches me to play dice and black jack. To him it’s serious business. Me and Colby have spinning competitions on the old black bar stools. I feel so dizzy I can’t hold my giggles in. They smack into the discolored walls, making a stark contrast against the serious space. Exhilarating exhaustion and warning looks from dad cause me to collapse onto the blue davenport. Davenport. That’s a weird word. What’s a davenport? After a lot of hard thought, I decide that it must be a long, uncomfortable, blue couch bench.

Regaining my strength, I set out to explore the bedroom closets in search of toys or games. Any sort of entertainment will do. I find Simon. Circular, colorful, and mysterious. Pushing the neon, pie shaped buttons, I can’t seem to make it come alive and so I quickly throw it aside. The rubix cube too eludes me. I’m perplexed by the crates full of dirty old baseballs kept in the closet. Huh… Finding nothing of interest, I head back to the deck to check on the adults, hoping to find some measure of excitement. My mom seems bored and annoyed. But dad is strangely happy. His insides seem to be smiling in enjoyment, all the while reaching for something slightly out of grasp. Maybe he’s sad there aren’t any good toys around either.

Me and Colby go back inside to watch another TV show. I feel the tiredness creeping in and all over me. We chase and run around the house but are soon scolded and back to the TV we go. I drop down onto the white and beige speckled carpet. It’s a tinted shade of yellowish gray like most things in the house. Even the couch is prickly. I lay on the carpet and feel its scratches on my face. Breathing in deep, I stare up at the thick glass coffee table from my vantage point underneath and trace the edge with my pointy finger. It’s the shape of a kidney bean and held up by a scary tree branch. Sharp and twisty. On top rests an array of ash trays and the boring brown coffee mugs. My little fingerprints are left behind as proof of my careful and curious investigation. Being in this house feels like a nap all of the time. But no one seems to mind. I want to go outside, to run, to breathe the fresh air. Mom says it’s because of the smoking that we feel bad and tired and why we can’t go play. I think I believed her.

The clock dings. Again and again. Waking me up and reminding me of another hour’s passing. But time seems to stand still in this house. Suddenly aware of my surroundings, I realize that no one is around. I’m all alone. Where is everyone? I know they’re home. They must be home. But they are nowhere to be found. The house seems even more quiet and hollow than before. As I walk down the long hallway toward the back bedroom, I run my hand along the walls, feeling the texture of the familiar film that coats them. I reach the bedroom and the door is shut. I pause long enough to feel the fear sitting in my belly. I take a deep breath and slowly push open the door. Mom and dad are sleeping on the bed. It seems like in this house everyone is tired. Even me. The back room scares me. I only go back there to find my parents or to get dressed for the day. All our clothes are packed in mom’s suit case. We always seem to wear sweats at grandma’s house. Only sweats every day. I’m not really sure why.

Grandma comes out of her room where grandpa is sleeping and takes me into the kitchen. She gives me a cookie or fixes me my favorite, English Muffins. I sit at the bar stool and I can’t even spin. I feel the weight of this sleepy house.

---

When I smoke I can smell him again.

It was a beautiful night. We went to the garden. Relaxing, I breathed in the cherry cigar, my first. Semi awkward, semi comfortable. The cool evening air passed easily between us. Later that night I lay in bed. Feelings of confusion well up inside me. Even more than the emotions, I am overwhelmed by a familiar smell. Unable to identify it, I realize that it’s on me. It is me. The smell of smoke from my cherry cigar. And though I’m 23 and safe to make my own decisions, so many thoughts ebb and flow though my mind. Hitting me. Smoking is awful. Horrible. Terrible. But I did it. I liked it. Suddenly I feel a tinge of hurt. I’m afraid. Am I bad now?

Consumed by the aroma, I realize that I smell like them. The smell in my hair. The taste in my mouth. The dry feel of my skin. I lay in bed perplexed, feeling the weight of all the judgments that we once place on their shoulders. The river of realizations continues to flow through me. This is what grandpa smells like. This is what grandma tastes like. A strange happiness spreads through my insides. Finally free simply to say: I like smoking and I like my grandparents. In this one tiny act I understand them so much more. I can’t even explain it. Suddenly I feel close to my grandparents in a way that never happened while they were alive. Bridging years of distant disconnect. Grandpa, I’m sorry. I don’t hate you. I’m sorry for hating you. Grandma, I miss you. I’m sorry for judging you. I wish I would’ve seen, smoked sooner. How could this one thing be so divisive in our family? How could this one thing bring us back together?

Drifting off to sleep I imagine my grandpa’s prickly beard on my scrunched up face and grandma’s delicious molasses cookies spilling out over my little hands. I smile. I love you guys. See you tomorrow night. I’ll meet you on the porch, cherry cigars in hand.

...continue reading...

Untitled [jana]

“Pay Attention” they command,
and the experience of generations
insists that I submit and discipline
and practice solitude and silence.

Like piano scales the minutes rattle by,
jarring empty space a song could fill.
This silent train wanders
loud as the whisper of my own heartbeat,
And I wander inside, looking for the quiet room with the window.

I don’t know what I’m looking for,
perhaps the focus of a child at play
A mindful state of the heart

...continue reading...

Condolence [olivia]

I caught your grief like the flu
But I’m just a poser
‘Cause tomorrow I will taste again.
I’ll run the dishwasher without sinking to the floor and staring.
I’ll laugh without remorse.
I’ll look the cashier straight in the eye.

I caught your grief like the flu
And the symptoms came on suddenly.
The smell of Stargazers, a punch to the gut
Those damned sentries flanking a little white coffin.
Smelling of sugar and death.
Of overexposure and loneliness.

I caught your grief like the flu
Guess I’m glad I’m not immune.
The old tape still works.
I blow off the dust and pop it in one more time.
Images grainy, but familiar.
He was real. Beautiful. Beloved.

Remembered.

...continue reading...