When we talk about heroes, people mention firemen and policemen, maybe doctors or everyone in the military. That’s all true. Or we’ll talk about King Arthur or Luke Skywalker or these very fictionalized icons from history or film, and they fit the definition of a hero, too, however unrealistic the characters are. Or some people say things like “My dad” or “My sister” or some other relative that they love. That could be true, but I’m pretty skeptical of it. No sense bastardizing the word and applying it to anyone that hasn’t screwed up their lives. But I mean, these are answers you give when a teacher tells you to write an essay about what it means to be a hero to you. And you come up with some bullshit, and let’s face it, a lot of it is bullshit, either because it’s so trite and abstract or because it’s mostly fiction or delusions. I did that, too, and I’d get mad when people disagreed that my mom was a hero.
But these heroes are made-heroes, either through training or exaggerations or some biases. I don’t mean made like their actions turned them from one of us average folk into heroes, but I mean made we made them into heroes. Objectively, they might not be heroes. Let’s take police. Is every policeman a hero? Really? The ones that sit at the desk, the few that are dirty, the few who never see any action or have the potential for action, the ones that abuse their power and hand out traffic tickets to anyone that barely exceeds the speed limit on an empty road? Are they all heroes? Sure, some of them are. And I respect them for it, but I don’t know their names and I don’t know what they’ve done to earn this status. I mean, Hercules had to go through twelve grueling trials to be called a hero. Can every cop say the same? Some of the kids I knew in high school that became a local cop in our town that averages one murder a year are not hero potential. They were bullies, idiots, jackasses, immoral and just plain average. Being a cop for them was about getting a gun and cuffs and a badge and more power than what they had as the kings of homecoming court. They might’ve changed since then, but I doubt it.
When we call people heroes, we ruin the word, we water it down for all the real ones out there. I was volunteering at an old folks home called Hilltop Manor, and they had a church service from the Calvary church on video. We watched it and the pastor talked about Arland D. Williams, a hero from 29 years ago. A real hero. If you’re like me and aren’t old enough to have seen the footage or you just missed the news that month, look it up. It’s hard to handle but you shouldn’t look away. He dies, I’ll tell you that. There was a plane that crashed into a bridge and plowed into the Potomac, an icy river I’m told. Six people survived the crash, among them Arland. Helicopters came and lowered a rope to save these six, but it wouldn’t happen. The helicopter’s skids were under the water at one point, that’s how close it was and how desperate the pilot was to save them. The rope fell to Arland. But he was trapped under the fuselage. He passed it to someone else. They climbed up and lived. The rope went back to Arland. Passed it to someone else. They lived. Lenny Skuknik, another hero, dived in to rescue a woman who was too weakened to pull herself up. Gene Windsor, the paramedic, stood on a skid and lifted a woman from the water. They were taken to shore because Arland couldn’t hold on to the rope. The tail-end sunk and so did Arland. He died. He saved two others at least. He passed life vests and floatation devices to the others. He was resigned that night. He knew he’d die and he helped the others.
Maybe he was thinking, like I expect I would be, this is a pretty cool way to go. Maybe he was religious and thought this was God’s Will. Maybe he was just a normal guy and crying his eyes out the whole fucking time because he didn’t want to die either. I can’t tell you. Maybe some of the survivors could, but I can’t.
This is old news and I don’t give two shits about that. Everyone should know about it. Maybe you didn’t have a TV then. Maybe you were just a plan in your parents’ minds. But you should know about Arland, about Air Florida Flight 90 on January 13, 1982. You just should.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
A multi-post story
I'm going to be ambitious and drag out my day into a few posts, probably one scene today and one tomorrow and maybe a third sometime. It depends on if I still find it interesting after a few thousand words. It'll be short to read, but long to write. It won't be polished, but I hope it'll be worth reading. Maybe I'll publish it someday, but I'm getting ahead of myself
Even now, chilled from the night's wind and finding it difficult to steady my snotty hand, I feel I should recount this. I'm not sure how we got out here, miles past town, past the first cornfield and past a dozen churches to the only spot in town that you couldn't see a church from. The warm day had melted into a cloudy night with thunder in the distance and no more street lights.
"I wish there were stars."
"Yeah," I said. "There's one."
She gave me a look, but I couldn't see any detail because there was no light. She might've raised an eyebrow or yawned. "Those are birds."
"Past them. Right there."
"Ooooh," she said dragging the syllable out then giggled.
We didn't know where we were. We had taken enough turns and gone out past the limits of our knowledge to somewhere where no one was around to help us. We'd have to trace our steps back or just hope to stumble upon the campus.
How did we get out here? Now that I think about it, today had started weird. I went outside.
I'd left the window open all night and it creaked when the wind rocked it against the brick. It was still warm enough for a fan. After dressing, I opened the door and let a draft cool me off and knock my papers to the crumb-top floor. I showered, watched TV, fiddled with my phone, played Solitaire then Spider Solitaire and it was nearly three.
I lay on the bed with my feet wrapped in a blanket, opened Franny and Zooey and continued from where I'd left off, after Buddy's letter. I got about twenty pages in.
"Knock, knock!" she said and thrust a drawing in my room. "You probably slept through Sunday brunch, so I brought you some bacon!" The drawing was of bacon. It had been flapping to wildly with a breeze for me to see that at first. She poked her head in next, sideways so her long brown hair fell onto my dresser. "I figured real bacon would be cold and mushy by now. So this is even better."
"It's great," I kept my finger on the page, hoping this would be a momentary interruption.
"Oh my," she said and looked around my 8" x 10" room. "My bathroom at home is bigger than this." I had a walkway between my bed and the dresser and desk and ended at the mini-fridge. Any parties in here would instantly turn into a mosh pit, which was why no parties were ever thrown here. Yeah, that was why. "How do you function in here? I mean, I figured since you practically live here, it'd at least be nice or spacious."
"It's a lot less messy than it looks. I just don't have the room to spread out the filth."
She walked all the way in and the wind shut my door behind her and she gave me a terrified look. "Do people just randomly shut your door?"
"Maybe they thought I was being too loud," I said, joking. But then it seemed she was serious. "It was just the wind. Or a ghost."
"I've never heard of Hoffman being haunted. Graham is." That was where she lived.
"I thought it was Jordan. Something about an old patient from the mental hospital."
"No, see, the rumor is that Graham used to be a mental hospital. Jordan isn't big enough. Graham is. And there's the penguin lady. Some say she was a nun, others say she had pictures of penguins all over her walls. But if you go up to her room at midnight, and put a piece of paper by the door, it'll get yanked under. It really does."
"Oh good." I shut my book and sat up. I laid it on the covers that my feet had been under.
She leaned her butt against my dress and slung her purse around to the front. "Lovely view," she said after glancing out my window to Pietenpol. The blinds were in the panes and they were all closed, blocking out the daylight, but the windows were up. Some half naked guy with a towel around his waist walked past a window.
"How much time did you spend on this drawing?" I said and examined the border around the bacon, the alternating shaded and blank strips, the bubble letters spelling out "BACON!" It was underlined too.
"I don't know. I was up on the fourth floor, just felt like working on it."
"It's good to see I'm more important than whomever you were with."
"Well, you know." She looked cute when she smiled. She squinted and I could see her discolored but straight teeth.
We spent the next two hours getting to know each other. That's not a euphemism. It was question after question from her. I'd answer, then she'd answer it too.
"People aren't all jerks!"
"They are," I said. I was sweating and it made me more nervous to think she smelled it in my tiny room. My deodorant was on the desk. She could hand it to me. It wouldn't be weird to put it on in front of her.
"No. I like to think that everyone has something interesting about them."
"They do. But we're talking about whether they're bastards or not."
She was still leaning against my dresser. I crossed my legs for the hundredth time, hiding my bare feet and toenails that needed clipping.
"Yes, but most of them try to--"
"No they don't."
"Oh c'mon!" She dipped her head when she said it.
"They don't care. They just do what they want. Take Ethics, you'll see."
"I'm taking it next semester."
"There's this guy, Peter Singer I think, that has an example of a kid drowning in a pond and you're wearing an expensive suit. Most people would jump in to save the kid, ruining their clothes."
"See! They're good."
"Yes, but then you go out to a fancy dinner and spend fifty bucks when you don't need to. You could send that money to a charity where it'll feed five kids for a week instead of you for one meal."
"No, but, no, just no!" She was smiling and squinting.
"He thinks you should give until that dollar you're donating hurts you more than it helps them. He's a utilitarian."
"But, I mean they're not trying to be mean people."
"That's true. But they are."
"They're not jerks though."
"Yes they are." I hugged my knees and wiggled my sweaty toes.
"Well, how do you define a jerk?"
"There's two jerks. The mean people that are obnoxious and malicious, then there are people that don't do the right thing."
"No, I mean, there are good people. A lot of people. Maybe not the majority."
"Maybe five percent."
"No!"
"That's still 350 million good people."
I crossed my legs again and stared out the window at Pietenpol. I could see a dead tree at the end of the building, the branches swaying with every gust.
"You think I could buy your book off you?"
"Maybe borrow it."
"But you're going to Wales next semester and I'm going the one after that. We'll never see each other after you graduate."
"Well," I said and thought about suggesting she could mail it to me. "I guess. Yeah, you can have it. I'll get it the next time I'm home."
"What time is it?"
I leaned over to the desk, across the crumb-top carpet for my phone.
"I keep looking at your microwave, but it doesn't tell me anything." It was unplugged.
"Five."
"That explains why I'm getting hungry. Are you?"
"Not really. I don't get food until about 8 most nights."
"Hmm. So you don't want to go to CUIFS?" (pronounced "kwifs" in the IPA).
"I never go there. It's been two years since my last visit."
"Oh come on!"
"Fine," I said, "But let me put on deodorant."
Even now, chilled from the night's wind and finding it difficult to steady my snotty hand, I feel I should recount this. I'm not sure how we got out here, miles past town, past the first cornfield and past a dozen churches to the only spot in town that you couldn't see a church from. The warm day had melted into a cloudy night with thunder in the distance and no more street lights.
"I wish there were stars."
"Yeah," I said. "There's one."
She gave me a look, but I couldn't see any detail because there was no light. She might've raised an eyebrow or yawned. "Those are birds."
"Past them. Right there."
"Ooooh," she said dragging the syllable out then giggled.
We didn't know where we were. We had taken enough turns and gone out past the limits of our knowledge to somewhere where no one was around to help us. We'd have to trace our steps back or just hope to stumble upon the campus.
How did we get out here? Now that I think about it, today had started weird. I went outside.
I'd left the window open all night and it creaked when the wind rocked it against the brick. It was still warm enough for a fan. After dressing, I opened the door and let a draft cool me off and knock my papers to the crumb-top floor. I showered, watched TV, fiddled with my phone, played Solitaire then Spider Solitaire and it was nearly three.
I lay on the bed with my feet wrapped in a blanket, opened Franny and Zooey and continued from where I'd left off, after Buddy's letter. I got about twenty pages in.
"Knock, knock!" she said and thrust a drawing in my room. "You probably slept through Sunday brunch, so I brought you some bacon!" The drawing was of bacon. It had been flapping to wildly with a breeze for me to see that at first. She poked her head in next, sideways so her long brown hair fell onto my dresser. "I figured real bacon would be cold and mushy by now. So this is even better."
"It's great," I kept my finger on the page, hoping this would be a momentary interruption.
"Oh my," she said and looked around my 8" x 10" room. "My bathroom at home is bigger than this." I had a walkway between my bed and the dresser and desk and ended at the mini-fridge. Any parties in here would instantly turn into a mosh pit, which was why no parties were ever thrown here. Yeah, that was why. "How do you function in here? I mean, I figured since you practically live here, it'd at least be nice or spacious."
"It's a lot less messy than it looks. I just don't have the room to spread out the filth."
She walked all the way in and the wind shut my door behind her and she gave me a terrified look. "Do people just randomly shut your door?"
"Maybe they thought I was being too loud," I said, joking. But then it seemed she was serious. "It was just the wind. Or a ghost."
"I've never heard of Hoffman being haunted. Graham is." That was where she lived.
"I thought it was Jordan. Something about an old patient from the mental hospital."
"No, see, the rumor is that Graham used to be a mental hospital. Jordan isn't big enough. Graham is. And there's the penguin lady. Some say she was a nun, others say she had pictures of penguins all over her walls. But if you go up to her room at midnight, and put a piece of paper by the door, it'll get yanked under. It really does."
"Oh good." I shut my book and sat up. I laid it on the covers that my feet had been under.
She leaned her butt against my dress and slung her purse around to the front. "Lovely view," she said after glancing out my window to Pietenpol. The blinds were in the panes and they were all closed, blocking out the daylight, but the windows were up. Some half naked guy with a towel around his waist walked past a window.
"How much time did you spend on this drawing?" I said and examined the border around the bacon, the alternating shaded and blank strips, the bubble letters spelling out "BACON!" It was underlined too.
"I don't know. I was up on the fourth floor, just felt like working on it."
"It's good to see I'm more important than whomever you were with."
"Well, you know." She looked cute when she smiled. She squinted and I could see her discolored but straight teeth.
We spent the next two hours getting to know each other. That's not a euphemism. It was question after question from her. I'd answer, then she'd answer it too.
"People aren't all jerks!"
"They are," I said. I was sweating and it made me more nervous to think she smelled it in my tiny room. My deodorant was on the desk. She could hand it to me. It wouldn't be weird to put it on in front of her.
"No. I like to think that everyone has something interesting about them."
"They do. But we're talking about whether they're bastards or not."
She was still leaning against my dresser. I crossed my legs for the hundredth time, hiding my bare feet and toenails that needed clipping.
"Yes, but most of them try to--"
"No they don't."
"Oh c'mon!" She dipped her head when she said it.
"They don't care. They just do what they want. Take Ethics, you'll see."
"I'm taking it next semester."
"There's this guy, Peter Singer I think, that has an example of a kid drowning in a pond and you're wearing an expensive suit. Most people would jump in to save the kid, ruining their clothes."
"See! They're good."
"Yes, but then you go out to a fancy dinner and spend fifty bucks when you don't need to. You could send that money to a charity where it'll feed five kids for a week instead of you for one meal."
"No, but, no, just no!" She was smiling and squinting.
"He thinks you should give until that dollar you're donating hurts you more than it helps them. He's a utilitarian."
"But, I mean they're not trying to be mean people."
"That's true. But they are."
"They're not jerks though."
"Yes they are." I hugged my knees and wiggled my sweaty toes.
"Well, how do you define a jerk?"
"There's two jerks. The mean people that are obnoxious and malicious, then there are people that don't do the right thing."
"No, I mean, there are good people. A lot of people. Maybe not the majority."
"Maybe five percent."
"No!"
"That's still 350 million good people."
I crossed my legs again and stared out the window at Pietenpol. I could see a dead tree at the end of the building, the branches swaying with every gust.
"You think I could buy your book off you?"
"Maybe borrow it."
"But you're going to Wales next semester and I'm going the one after that. We'll never see each other after you graduate."
"Well," I said and thought about suggesting she could mail it to me. "I guess. Yeah, you can have it. I'll get it the next time I'm home."
"What time is it?"
I leaned over to the desk, across the crumb-top carpet for my phone.
"I keep looking at your microwave, but it doesn't tell me anything." It was unplugged.
"Five."
"That explains why I'm getting hungry. Are you?"
"Not really. I don't get food until about 8 most nights."
"Hmm. So you don't want to go to CUIFS?" (pronounced "kwifs" in the IPA).
"I never go there. It's been two years since my last visit."
"Oh come on!"
"Fine," I said, "But let me put on deodorant."
Saturday, April 2, 2011
A prelude to a Goodbye
This blog was meant to sharpen my writing. I can't tell if it's working, but stories are connected scenes, not essays. This is just a series of essays. So I've rethought my goal for this, but I'm not sure I'll be able to change this. Instead of ranting and reviewing and praising and expressing my thoughts, I need to only report on five minutes of each day or five minutes of a day past. Five minutes is my limit because I won't be writing more than 2000 words and a typical scene of that length shouldn't be more than 20 minutes but for practice, I've limited it even more. When I go to my real writing, I should be able to ease up and have clear, vivid scenes. I can't just concern myself with style, economy and tone. I'm not saying I've mastered those, though I do a pretty good irritated narrator, but my focus should've been on the scene all along.
Last night, before I finished my "volunteer" work at Hilltop, playing Pitch with some eighty year old ladies, my stomach grumbled loud enough that one of the ladies asked if I was getting enough to eat. I explained that with my schedule, classes and work, I hadn't eaten yet, but would fix myself a big meal after I left.
That was a lie. I wouldn't fix myself any meal, but I did get some food. At GCS, the fast food service on campus, there were three guys standing near the counter. I fumbled with my wallet, pulled out my ID card and shoved it back in my pocket. I didn't want to waste a second ordering. I waited behind them until they said they weren't in line and were just waiting for their food. Then why the hell don't you stand elsewhere? Plenty of room! And there are chairs for you.
The place had plenty of empty seats, but it was busy. Or had been. Everyone except the three idiots that were in my way had their food in their bellies already. But they stayed at the tables and talked. And no one was yelling or anything, but the dozen different conversations mixed together and filled the place. It had wonderful acoustics, which is why they had local bands and theater groups play here some nights. But it meant that I couldn't hear too well. And being next to the kitchen, where the dish washer rattled and the deep fryer hissed and everything just seemed louder, I couldn't hear too well.
A dark blonde girl with plenty of curves and a soft belly that showed beneath her tight shirt was at the register. She leaned on the counter with her body parallel to the floor and her tits hanging down. Her head were on her folded arms, like they were a pillow. She saw me and smiled and sighed and I got the impression she wished I hadn't come in.
I glanced around the kitchen for TRC, but didn't see her. So I scribbled my name and order on the slip of paper and X-ed the "Takeout" box. As I wrote it, TRC leaned over the counter and cocked her head, trying to read my order upside down. "Cheeseburger and fries," and then she left for the stove. I slid it towards the curvy girl and fumbled in my pockets for my card. She lifted her head and straightened up and rolled her shoulders back. I handed her my card and glanced at the TV, highlights from the latest college game were on.
Uninterested, I turned back and there was TRC with a smile, leaning against the counter. She had a Coca-Cola sponsored cup in hand that she beat against the other hand. I assumed it was meant for me.
"Hey."
"Hey"
She's such a thin girl, and attractive but not terribly so. The soft girl next to her had more sex appeal because TRC's bones stuck out at the joints and whatever butt she had was hidden by baggy jeans and a long sweatshirt. And when she smiled, her round cheeks rose up and she squinted, though I was sure she wasn't oriental. She plopped the cup on the counter with the opening down.
"Thank god it's Friday," she said, holding my cup hostage. The ransom was one decent conversation, something I could never afford in public.
"Friday, Friday," the curvy girl sang.
"Oh god." She turned to me, who was confused about the singing and reaction. "Someone printed these papers with her on it and all the lyrics and they wallpapered our door."
I chuckled a little. "Oh?"
"We deserved it. Last week, while we were in class we had some Bieber songs blasting through the walls."
"Glad you're not my neighbors," said the curvy girl.
"We get into these wars all the time," TRC explained to me. "They had this picture of Bieber on the door across the hall from ours, and you can't just take things off of people's doors, right? So every time we left the room, we'd have to see it."
"I think he's cute."
"This is why we don't hang out more."
She scooted the cup towards me. Another customer came behind me and I shifted down so I was in front of the curvy girl and not TRC. I gave her a nod and she gave me the chipmunk smile, showing the gaps between her teeth.
I filled my cup at the soda fountain and sat, glancing from the TV to the counter. Every time she was staring at me. When my order was up, a stout black boy, who I had never had contact with outside of GCS but who knew my name, walked it to the counter and handed it off to her.
"It's been a pleasure serving you," she said before letting me have it. "It's nice to see you're as verbose as always."
I tried to make some joke about how I'll keep it down next time, but it was so loud in the place, she didn't hear me. Or maybe it was so trite that she didn't care to respond.
-Cantwhistle
P.S. This is what I'm going to try to do. It won't be a story, but it'll be a recap of an event from my day that might be a part of a story. Just one scene, five minutes.
Last night, before I finished my "volunteer" work at Hilltop, playing Pitch with some eighty year old ladies, my stomach grumbled loud enough that one of the ladies asked if I was getting enough to eat. I explained that with my schedule, classes and work, I hadn't eaten yet, but would fix myself a big meal after I left.
That was a lie. I wouldn't fix myself any meal, but I did get some food. At GCS, the fast food service on campus, there were three guys standing near the counter. I fumbled with my wallet, pulled out my ID card and shoved it back in my pocket. I didn't want to waste a second ordering. I waited behind them until they said they weren't in line and were just waiting for their food. Then why the hell don't you stand elsewhere? Plenty of room! And there are chairs for you.
The place had plenty of empty seats, but it was busy. Or had been. Everyone except the three idiots that were in my way had their food in their bellies already. But they stayed at the tables and talked. And no one was yelling or anything, but the dozen different conversations mixed together and filled the place. It had wonderful acoustics, which is why they had local bands and theater groups play here some nights. But it meant that I couldn't hear too well. And being next to the kitchen, where the dish washer rattled and the deep fryer hissed and everything just seemed louder, I couldn't hear too well.
A dark blonde girl with plenty of curves and a soft belly that showed beneath her tight shirt was at the register. She leaned on the counter with her body parallel to the floor and her tits hanging down. Her head were on her folded arms, like they were a pillow. She saw me and smiled and sighed and I got the impression she wished I hadn't come in.
I glanced around the kitchen for TRC, but didn't see her. So I scribbled my name and order on the slip of paper and X-ed the "Takeout" box. As I wrote it, TRC leaned over the counter and cocked her head, trying to read my order upside down. "Cheeseburger and fries," and then she left for the stove. I slid it towards the curvy girl and fumbled in my pockets for my card. She lifted her head and straightened up and rolled her shoulders back. I handed her my card and glanced at the TV, highlights from the latest college game were on.
Uninterested, I turned back and there was TRC with a smile, leaning against the counter. She had a Coca-Cola sponsored cup in hand that she beat against the other hand. I assumed it was meant for me.
"Hey."
"Hey"
She's such a thin girl, and attractive but not terribly so. The soft girl next to her had more sex appeal because TRC's bones stuck out at the joints and whatever butt she had was hidden by baggy jeans and a long sweatshirt. And when she smiled, her round cheeks rose up and she squinted, though I was sure she wasn't oriental. She plopped the cup on the counter with the opening down.
"Thank god it's Friday," she said, holding my cup hostage. The ransom was one decent conversation, something I could never afford in public.
"Friday, Friday," the curvy girl sang.
"Oh god." She turned to me, who was confused about the singing and reaction. "Someone printed these papers with her on it and all the lyrics and they wallpapered our door."
I chuckled a little. "Oh?"
"We deserved it. Last week, while we were in class we had some Bieber songs blasting through the walls."
"Glad you're not my neighbors," said the curvy girl.
"We get into these wars all the time," TRC explained to me. "They had this picture of Bieber on the door across the hall from ours, and you can't just take things off of people's doors, right? So every time we left the room, we'd have to see it."
"I think he's cute."
"This is why we don't hang out more."
She scooted the cup towards me. Another customer came behind me and I shifted down so I was in front of the curvy girl and not TRC. I gave her a nod and she gave me the chipmunk smile, showing the gaps between her teeth.
I filled my cup at the soda fountain and sat, glancing from the TV to the counter. Every time she was staring at me. When my order was up, a stout black boy, who I had never had contact with outside of GCS but who knew my name, walked it to the counter and handed it off to her.
"It's been a pleasure serving you," she said before letting me have it. "It's nice to see you're as verbose as always."
I tried to make some joke about how I'll keep it down next time, but it was so loud in the place, she didn't hear me. Or maybe it was so trite that she didn't care to respond.
-Cantwhistle
P.S. This is what I'm going to try to do. It won't be a story, but it'll be a recap of an event from my day that might be a part of a story. Just one scene, five minutes.
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