Grabbing the Short End of the Stick

I wish people would leave me alone.  There are times when solitude can be comforting to me. When I can let the demons in my head run free for a while.  Why do I feel as if I am confined when I sit in this room to listen to your prattle of endless inadequacies and shortcomings.  You make me sick.  You make me feel as though I am left grabbing the short end of the stick. What is it you want from me?

Jerome.  Jerome, why are you this way? How should I know? I don’t know.  If I had an answer, I would tell you, but it seems explanations aren’t my strong suit apparently. 

I will tell you this much, I loved my older brother.  He warned me about how things would be and he was right.  Oh yeah, he was right. 

There have been days when I did not even want to get out of bed.  I would open my eyes and stare out the window at the gray skies and the raindrops falling from God’s Heaven and I think this was how life was meant to be.  

I know I have been a disappointment.  Dropping out of school and living on the streets with the riff-raff as you call them.  Doing dope in abandoned buildings where the roof is falling in.  Collapsing.  Dilapidated old ghosts wander the ruins.  Echoes live in broken glass and graffiti.  People with no hope move like spirits that no one notices until they do something to get our attention. 

My fate has always depended on me grabbing the short end of the stick.  It has become my mantra, my superpower if you will, but the long and short of it is, I am always on the outer lap of the track desperately trying to make up for my lousy placement. 

My friends kept telling me, “Don’t get Mr. Aggroni for Literature, because he believes Shakespeare is the beginning and end of it all.  King Lear is his role model.” 

When I get my schedule in the mail, right there on top is Mr. Aggroni Literature Studies.  Senior year was supposed to be set on cruise control, but no, this creton is speaking as he and Bill were roommates in college.

Sorry, I know I am not keeping on topic, it’s just that there are so many extenuating circumstances in this whole mess.

I admit, I loved Melody.  Just her name describes who she is.  She was the song that continues to run through my head.  The breeze blowing through the trees.  Her song was a gentler one than the soundtrack that has been playing in my head since junior high.  

Metallica.  Marilyn Manson.  The Clash. Soundgarden. Rage Against the Machine.  Man, when Tom Morello goes off, it sends me to a place so dark and violent that I am certain we share the same zip code.  

She brought me to a place that was soothing to my soul and for the first time I can remember, I knew peace.  

She held my hand as I cried through the night when we got the notice about my brother Private Sean Satter had died in Afghanistan.  I.E.D.  K.I.A.  I.D.K. Acronyms that rattle through my head like a waking nightmare. They paint a not so pleasant picture of what your final moments were like.  I wake up sometimes soaking wet from my own perspiration.  Can you hear me when I mumble your name?  

Sean, you were a great older brother.  I remember how proud you were when you finally got through marine boot camp.  You said it was hell.  I’m sure it was, but we both had plenty of practice.  Didn’t we? We were efficienados when it came to ducking dad when he came home from Dooley’s Bar.  Mom wasn’t so lucky.  She always wore the bruises he inflicted on her and never said a word.  She would tell her friend Violet that she had fallen.  I’m sure Violet thought she was some kind of klutz, I’ll bet.

Melody used to ask me and I’d go with the company lie.

“Oh she fell on the steps when she was doing laundry.” 

I was careful.  She never came over when dad was home ranting and raving about how badly the world was treating him.  He grew up ducking his dad too.  Funny that.  Funny how this behavior is passed down from one generation to the next without so much as a word or nod.  

Statement?  Sir, I am making one.  I am letting you know how we arrived at this junction.

Does it freak you out when I talk to Sean as if he was here in the room with us?  Some people think I’m ready full time for the looney bin.  Let them put me in a padded room with a posey vest on.  Do you know what a posey vest is?  I’ll tell you.  It’s what the orderlies in a psychiatric hospital call a straight jacket.  I’ve had the pleasure from time to time.  It’s like giving a hug to yourself, you know.  You should try it sometime.  It’ll relieve the stress you get from this job.  Sounds like you need it. 

Yeah, yeah, I know about how Melody died.  I was there.  I saw her in her last moments and then called 9-1-1. I can still hear the sirens screaming in the dark of the night.  I can still see her body lying on the sidewalk where her body hit with all the force gravity could provide.   It’s all right there on your clipboard.  No, I am not trying to be a smart ass.  It’s just I want someone to listen…to actually hear what I got to say instead of passing me off because I’m just a kid.  I miss her.  I miss her badly.  It’s the worst pain I have ever had.  

My father’s name?  James Satter.  He works down at Daxon’s Garage.  He’s a grease monkey.  Always wears oil smeared jumpsuits with a cigarette hanging out his mouth.  Has a hard luck story to tell you while he has a vehicle up on the rack.  Has dark black hair and a five o’clock shadow smeared with his greasy hands when he wipes his nose with the back of his hands.  His nose is always running on account of all the blow he gets into.  Sometimes while he’s working.  

My mother’s name is Dawn.  She’s on antidepressants on account of him.  She has brain damage, too.  Sometimes she forgets my name and she sits there in her chair with a blank look on her face.

You know the Greeks were big on fate, right?  If you got the short end of the stick, that was fate.  Zeus Moiragetes was the god of fate, was their leader. At the birth of a man, Moirai spun out the thread of the person’s  future life, followed his steps, and directed the consequences of his actions according to the counsel of the gods. Once approved there was nothing you could do to change any of it.  I think they had a point.  

Did she ever reveal to me that she was thinking about ending her life?  All the time.  Her fate wasn’t exactly kind to her.  Her folks had no idea what to make of her.  She was so creative.  I have some of her art in a book I have in my room.  When I get sad, I flip through the pages and remember when she drew them.  She liked Japanese art.  She liked it a lot. I should have brought it.

She had this one drawing.  It was a self portrait with her face, but the skin was peeling back and her skull was emerging.  It was magnificent.  Her mother told her to put it in the trash, because she found it deeply disturbing.  She didn’t get that this was Melody’s cry for help.  Parents are the worst, if you ask me.  They want unicorns and fairies, but end up getting the short end of the stick as their child stumbles and fumbles up the treacherous staircase called Adulthood.  

To me, it’s like a roller coaster ride that never ends.  

I’d like to say I came up with that gold nugget, but I got it from this kid who was being evaluated by the goon squad.  

Goon Squad?  

The shrinks in juvenil psyche.  Once they put it into your folder it’s there for the rest of your life like that thread Zeus Moiragetes gives to the gods on Olympus.  Once written it becomes a part of your identity. That’s why he jumped.  One night after bedcheck, he found an open window while the on-duty staff slept off a bender in the office.  His name was Horace and he said it as “horse.” He said some of the older boys cornered him in the shower and had their way with him.  

“I’m not like that, Jerome.” He told me after it happened.

“It’s okay, Horace.  Things happen sometimes.  We have to be okay with it.” I urged him, but I could see in his eyes that my words made no impact.  

I got out of my rack when I heard him fiddle with the open window.

“What are you doing?” I saw him open the window fully so he could crawl out on the ledge. 

“I am going to fly to God.” He answered as the wind blew through his loose fitting gown.  

“You can’t fly.” I grabbed the window sill when I saw the four story drop to the cement below.

“He will catch me.” And just like that Horace let go and began to fall to the cement below.  I will not gross you out in describing the sound when his body hit the ground only to say I turned my head to spare myself the spectacle. 

The next morning they locked down our unit as they cleaned up the mess he left behind. 

No!

No, don’t say that.

I did not push him and I certainly did not push Melody.  She asked me to, but I told I could not…would not do it.  I did not push Horace either.  

There was this abandoned warehouse down near the docks where some of the homeless junkies used to gather.  Some of them were old like my father, some of them were younger than me or Melody.  She would give them all some of her recent artwork. She knew most of them by name. She knew their stories and how they always ended up with the short end of the stick.  We all had that much in common.

One of them, Pratter, I think he called himself, was a veteran from Vietnam and said he was still haunted by the deaths of some of the men in his unit.

“Sometimes they would appear out of nowhere in the middle of the night…like ghosts.” His colorless eyes went wide as if he was seeing them as he told his story.  “I can still hear the voices of the guys who bought it in the firefight.” 

I told him about Sean.

“Man, that Afghanistan is a bad deal, just like Vietnam.” He would say as he toked on a number he had rolled for us all to share.

“His Humvee rolled over an I.E.D.” I said taking the joint from the guy sitting next to me. 

“I thought them Humvees were armor plated to protect the guys inside.” One of the older men shook his head as he took the joint.

“Sean told me that was all just a joke.” I shrugged.

“So sorry about your brother, man.” He said as he inhaled. 

“Thanks.” I managed to say, wiping the tears from my eyes.

One night she took me up to the roof.  It wasn’t hard since most of the barriers leading to the roof had been removed.  She sat down on the ledge dangling her feet from the edge.

“I wonder what happens when you die.  Have you ever wondered, Jerome?” She asked with an odd flash of her dark eyes.

“No.” I replied honestly. 

“Look at the lights in the harbor.” She pointed, “Just like the carpet of stars in the sky, doncha think?” 

“I never really noticed.” I shrugged.

“As an artist, I must see things as they really are and try to reflect just a modicum of their beauty.  Life is mostly ugly.  It really is, but the artist has to catch a glimmer of beauty as van Gogh did when he was in the psychiatric hospital when he painted his Starry Night.  He was only allowed a small window, but he managed to paint one of the most beautiful renderings of the night sky as we have come to know it.  I want to do that.” 

“Why don’t you do it?” I asked.

“Because I cannot master the vision he had.  And that makes me sad.” She cocked her head to one side, her walnut colored hair covered her shoulder.

“If you keep trying, one day you will get it.” I encouraged her.

“Will I?  What about all those artists who have tried to capture the image he managed?  What if I’m one of those who never get the vision?  What if I keep getting the short end of the stick when I come to the end?” There were tears in her eyes.

“You have got to keep trying.” I sighed.

“I’m not so sure I can.” Her voice caught in her throat, “Jerome will you help me?”

“Sure.  I will do whatever to help you.” I avowed. 

“Help me off this ledge.” She wiped the tears from her eyes with her hoodie sleeve. 

“No, I won’t do that.” 

“I don’t know if I have the courage to let go.” She shook her head.

“Don’t let go, Melody.” I felt the sting of tears in my own eyes.

“I love you, Jerome.  I have always loved you.  You understand what I have gone through and how painful this journey has been.” She slid herself closer to the edge.

“Melody, don’t do this.” I pleaded.

“Why not?”

“I love you and want to see what road you are going to travel.  You may be the next van Gogh.” I reached out for her hand.

“Sorry.” She shrugged and lifted herself off of the ledge.  Her descent was silent and before hitting the ground, for a moment she seemed as if she was beginning to take flight, but the illusion only lasted for a brief moment.  

Like deja vu, I watched her hit the cement below with a sickening sound. Her wings broken like the rest of her body. 

With all my might, I shouted, “Nooo!”

But it was too late.  People poured out into the street and pointed up at me as I sat there. 

She lay on the sidewalk below sprawled out in an unnatural position as blood flowed from her broken shell.  

Is that what you wanted to hear?  Or were you hoping I’d admit to lending her hand off the ledge.  If I did that then I would admit to planting the I.E.D. that killed Sean.  

If murder was in my fate, I would have offed my father first, but he is still alive and breathing much to my dismay. There is nothing that will remove the memory of what I have seen.  You can lock me up and throw away the key, but that will never protect me from their memories. Memories that wait for me to sleep before making another appearance. 

Life is like a tug of war where opposing forces pull at a rope so that in the end it is hard to tell the losers from the winners.  You can reach for the brass ring, but then you only wind up grabbing the short end of the stick.