But today—today it is cloudy—like all of this past winter. And a fog is settling over in the distance—fuzzing out the high mounds of garbage in New Jersey that mimic the likes of mountains on such ill-lit days as this. And I am gray inside like the earth is gray out. We are not bright-eyed and sunny like we were two days ago. Today, the airplanes pouring into America are mere ghosts. Their groans muffled, yet magnified as they creep just above the low clouds. I close my eyes and I see a small-engine Cessna pulling a wide-winged glider by a string lighted with the summer sun—I see white clouds tumbling from triceratops to clowns to castles on the backs of my eyelids—the images of a photographic memory filed in the albums of my childhood with my back against the wet morning grass, watching the planes from the Shirley airport endlessly etching the sky.
I am quick to open my eyes. “I’m going to be productive today,” I say aloud. “I must leave this stale apartment. I must get out and breathe the fresh city air.”
I stare out the window—out at Kimisis Theotokou Greek Orthodox Church five blocks in the distance. One tall, oxidized copper spire rises above two smaller spires on either side—all reaching towards the heavens—all affixed with green crosses on their peaks. I begin to think of home. Of St. John the Theologian—the Greek Orthodox Church next-door to my mother’s house. I feel as if I am in my bed—at my mother’s. I can hear the clash of car doors over the chiming bells ringing in my memory of what Sunday mornings used to be.
I shake my head quick—open my eyes and slap my hands across my cheeks.
“I cannot waste away, again, today.”
It’s mid-April, and two months have passed since I’ve completed my thesis. Since then, I’ve slipped out of my routine. No longer am I waking each day at six-thirty—running five miles while watching the sun crest up out of the pines and the pin oaks along the suburban streets—the same streets I’ve ran upon all my years—all my years up until now. No longer am I slaving twelve hour days endlessly editing—endlessly occupied with To Sea. But now, our relationship is complete. And I am lost without her. I’ve been writing only short assignments. Loving my pieces for but only a week, no more, and they disappear, never to be seen again—lost in my computer as they hope to be found one day, and refined and manicured like how I once worshiped To Sea. Oh, how I wish to love again.
But now I’ve veered off course. Spending hours—days—zoning out to the beats of Person Pitch and The Harder They Come with the bass turned up to eleven. Spending wasted hours on the Wii Tennis court in the haze of Honalee—all the while sitting next to books I swear I will read once the computer beats me. But the computer never beats me. And I never read more than thirty pages of Out of Africa. Maybe it’s just a common bout of senioritis. Or maybe it’s just this cold weather we’ve been having—crawling out of New York’s third snowiest winter on record—and now into a just as dreary, sunless spring. But Opening Day has come and gone. I should be alive. Vibrant. Staying ahead of the curve. Staying ahead of my homework. But I’m not. I’m stuck—waiting for the summer warmth to awaken me.
The calendar up on the wall still shows Zion in winter—February 2011. I haven’t cross off the days since February eighteenth—THESIS DUE is written in big red marker under a black X. Time on my wall has stopped. In my mind—time has stopped. I am still stuck in February.
Or maybe I am such a good liar, that I have blocked out the reality of time—staying still—staying months away from graduation in my mind, when it is really only a month away. Shit. I am only a month away from finding my nine-to-five. And all I’ve been doing is sitting around making excuses as to why I still have yet to seriously look into finding steady work come May—about why I cannot afford a ring for Tamara. And I just go on continuing to wake up late. No more running. Telling myself what’s another hour…or two ‘til its noon and I’m just crawling up out of bed—telling myself that I will do homework all day. “I have the whole day to read” – that I have the whole day to write that essay that I had all day for the past week to write. When in reality, I’ll be busy keeping the Evil Empire at bay—beating all six episodes of Star Wars, Lego Edition—only to go on to killing several thousand Nazi Zombies with my trusty Wii-Zapper, with the aid of an eighth of Island Super Skunk and half a bottle of Dalwhinnie Highland Scotch—doing anything and everything, all but reading a page or two of Isak Dinesen—penciling a handful of choice lines in my notebook that reverberate majestically to me under the veil of marijuana smoke—all before Tamara walks in the door after working her nine-to-five.
So off I go. Down the stairs and off to the corner deli on 18th and 4th for a cup a coffee. The clerk, a man in his thirties, Turkish or Armenian or Saudi or non-of-the-above—stands poised over the counter, playing with his green New York Yankees fitted—riming the fabric around his head. He quickly studies my poor pouring skills, as I spill the coffee up over the rim of my plastic cup. I clean my mess and he moves his eyes down the small shop to this youngish, curvy, Spanish woman wearing a powder blue Juicy Couture sweat-suit. She’s accompanied with a small boy with sneakers newer and more expensive than my own—the Jordan IV’s—and he is wandering about the alias as his mom plucks a pack Passion Play condoms off the wall. The clerk smiles. He grabs a Blow-Pop off the shelf before peeling back the wrapper—twisting the paper stick between his forefinger and thumb.
“On the house,” the clerk says, leaning over the counter—over the candy that the little boy pauses in front of in awe.
“Mine,” yelps the boy, grabbing the sugary thing from the man’s hands.
“The little ones always like a good sucka,” the clerk says, rubbing the brim of the hat.
“Thanks mista. That’ll sure shut him up god-near all day.”
“Is that all, ma’am?” The clerk points to the condoms wretched between the woman’s two-inch long pink fingernails.
The lady nods—pays—and exits, shoving her little man out the door. The boy busy sucking on the candy.
“Just coffee?” The clerk says, smiling to me, after we watch the woman’s picturesque ass wiggle down the road.
I nod, and I pay the buck-fifty-five that I thought he said was a dollar-sixty-five. He frowns when he gives me back the extra dime, knowing I could not understand his English glossed with the accent from whatever land he comes from.
I’ve been here—to this deli—the last two days—today would be the third in a row. And on all three days, there has been a different clerk every time. The other two men wore long beards and shaved heads. Today’s clerk wears his hair close to his scalp like the others—but this guy is the lone clerk with a smooth shaved face. And as I walk out of the deli and into the gray of the afternoon—sipping on my coffee—my phone chants Johnny Too Bad over pipe organs in my front pocket. It’s my sister calling. I let it ring for twenty seconds, just in under the time limit to voicemail.
“Happy birthday,” she says, cheerfully—static hitting every inflection in her voice. She’s a drug councilor for court-mandated ex-cons out in Riverhood. The act of caring stressed in her voice must have been beaten into her at Grad-school. She used to be my mean older sister. Now she cares too much—always hugging—always knowing the cure to everything. The static means she must be late for work—on the blue-tooth—speeding out east to make her first group session of the day.
“Thanks,” I say.
“I got your present out here. Will I see you for Easter? You know mommy is trying to get everyone out. Slow piece of shit—err—some people just can’t drive—grandpa needs his license taken away. Sorry. Will I see you next weekend?”
“Yea. I’ll be there. I got a thesis meeting Monday afternoon. Class Tuesday and Wednesday. I’ll be there.”
“Oh good. Oh, and just a warning. Grandma is looking to visit your apartment. Take you and Tamara out to dinner. I bet Grandpa is going to give you money. So, it won’t be so bad. Just warning ya. I talked to her before. She’s all excited for you. We all are. Daddy’d be proud of you, too – and the man you’ve become.”
“Okay,” I say. Drinking on my coffee.
“So.” She pauses. “What you have planned for your big day?”
“I have a ton of homework. Think I’ll just hack away at the pile ‘til Tamara comes home. Then “burritos and margaritas ‘til we puke,” I’m told.”
“Cool. Sounds fun. Enjoy. I’m running late for work. I’ll talk to you later. Happy Birthday!” And she hangs up.
The beat of the dial-tone makes my body feel light and cold. I tuck my phone in my pocket and I close my eyes. My body vibrates to the sound of an airplane approaching overhead. The roaring sound pulsing through my skin—numbing all my body—and I float above all the world and I watch myself walking fast—to the droning beat of the plane—up 18th street—turning right on 6th avenue. My feet patter quickly on the pavement. A dense fog swallows me below and I disappear for a few moments— ‘til 6th Ave climbs up a slope and I watch myself drop the cup of coffee to the concrete. A mess of brown water stains my shoes and pants and the liquid runs in the rivets between the concrete blocks—and then I am back on the street—back to myself.
I look up at the crosswalk. The red hand pulses above the 23rd St and 6th Ave signs. I look down the hill—down to the harbor—but all I see are cars parked along the road a short ways ‘til the heavy gray fog consumes the all the street and all the earth. Two days ago, when the sun finally came out, I could see the Statue of Liberty standing tall above the water below. Her golden flame shining into my eyes—shining into my heart. My freedom paved before me, as I walked with nowhere to go and stumbled upon the historic Green-Wood Cemetery, founded in 1838.
And this is where I am headed. This is the trip I am making today—to the Green-Wood Cemetery. After stumbling upon this park for the deceased two days ago, I had but two hours to explore before the gates closed. But from what I could see from the small dose of exposure—was not a cemetery, but an historic landmark with ancient statues and picturesque views of landscaped beauties mimicking the natural splendors found in nature. Thus, the views are strategically placed and engineered to inspire awe. The mausoleums and headstones not signs of death, but signs of life cut into the hills—looking like terrace hillside farming. Only two more blocks to go ‘til the 25th street entrance.
My cell phone rings, again. Johnny Too Bad chiming once again. This time it is my mother.
“Happy Birthday,” she says. Followed by singing Happy Birthday to me in a mix of the traditional song style and The Beatles version.
“Thanks,” I say when she’s done.
“I have your gifts for you at home. You’re coming home for Easter, right? I’ll give you them then.”
“Cool.”
“Is Tamara coming?”
“If she can get out of going to her Aunt’s, she’ll be there.”
“Oh, good. I hope she can make it. What are you doing today?”
“I got a ton of homework. Figured I’d batten down the hatches and just get at it.”
“Oh, okay. I won’t keep you, then. Happy Birthday. Oh, and don’t forget to make a day to go out with Grandma and Grandpa for dinner this week. I think Grandpa wants to give you money. So just suck it up.”
“Won’t I just see them on Easter?”
“Yea. But she wants to see your apartment.”
“Okay.”
“Happy Birthday!” She hangs up. And I flip the ringer off on my phone—switching it to vibrate.
I look up from my phone and the Green-Wood Cemetery is staring me in the face. The large entrance—a tall, thin brownstone building with seven domes and seven spires reach up towards the gray heaven roaring from the planes. The brown building is darker than when I came here two days ago. The façade wet with the mist that now specks my glasses. And as I pass through the gate, the large entrance makes me feel small—minuscule—unimportant—and meaningless in such a grand world. No guard this time, either. I just walk on through, and down to the Green-Wood Chapel, greeted with the sign, “Green-Wood Chapel: Open Daily for Rest, Meditation and Prayer.” I rest on the steps. To meditate. Honing in my thoughts to the self-transcendence that I so willingly know is my true religion. Raised Roman-Catholic, but schooled by nature and all Mother Earth—I have come to terms with the religion of myself and of the world—a religion made solely for me. A religion for me to follow—and me alone.
To the right, cobblestones lay scattered about the road. Two days ago, several men worked, setting the stones in gummy asphalt. The noise of the machines and the smell of the sweet tar shoot into my memories—quickly mixing with images of my father—the same odor of his profession stuck on his clothes and flesh—the smell of fresh construction forever embedding his presence in my mind. Twelve years, next month, he’s been gone—dead. Twelve years with him—twelve years without him—and now I am to live more years without him than with. I shake these thoughts from my mind, but new ones flood in. I think back to the letters I recently found in my mother’s room. Letters filling, piling out of a large basket—hundreds of letters addressed to my mother—signed by my father. Thirty-seven years ago. He was twenty-one. She—sixteen. I could only bring myself to read one, but one was enough. My young father—yet to be my father—confessing his love for my mother. My father vowing to get a job and stop smoking pot and take my younger mother more serious. In short, my father was manning up—growing up. No longer being a child in this world—but a man.
I look up the hill on the left. Tall mausoleums—small houses for the dead line three levels etched into the hillside. Great Cucumber Magnolias—their trucks wrinkled, resembling great-big thumb knuckles—twine their nubby large roots between the concrete postings of lives once lived. Beyond the gravestones, there is a small circular pond. Two days ago, a daggle of mallards swam around a fountain that spat water high into the air. The repetitive sound of splashing water made my body sink into one of the old wooden benches rimmed around the water. But today, the fountain does not sing—the ducks do not quack—and the worker-men do not run their machines. All life that made this park for the dead seem so alive just two days ago is now, today, empty—and the feeling of death—the feeling of the very reason this place exists is beginning to set deep into my bones.
My phone rings again. But this time it only buzzes in my pocket. It is my grandma. Most likely using the excuse to call me on my birthday in order to force herself over to my apartment. I let my phone ring—buzzing my left inner thigh—and I get up off the Chapel steps—walking up Strawberry Lane—up to a large Kwanzan Cherry and a group of towering Norway Spruces. The sounds of airplanes forever continue to drone loud above me. The fog is heavy—heavier than it’s been all day. The thick mist weaving between the trees in the distance. The scenery reminds me of the forests of Great Smokey Mountains—sparking my inner most desired wants—my most scared dreams of running away and living high in the hills of the foggy Smokey’s. Deep in the depths of wilderness—away from the society I know I must be a part of—even if I despise everything plastic and materialistic and of the sort. A nook in a wrinkle in my brain will always hold onto my desire to run to the backwoods of Tennessee—living with the greenest of any land I have ever seen—living away from the city that only two days ago, I could see in the distance from this very hilltop—down below—beyond the harbor—beyond Lady Liberty—beyond all this fog and mist and clouds—lies the city that I’ve been told will have work for me once I graduate. And I have pushed all my chips in. And I’ve just been waiting. Wasting away each day—each day one day closer to my end.
But waiting I can no longer do. I mustn’t wait any longer. I sit myself under a Cucumber Magnolia—up against a gray gravestone and I look out at the veil of gray before me. The rain is sure to come as the mist hangs heavy in the air—clinging to all the earth and to all life. I rest myself to the ground—atop a flat, casket-style tomb, six-foot by three. I rub the lettering on the flat stone. My fingers falling into rivets spelling James Wilke. My fingers move on, revealing James’s birthday—April 13, 1824—the same day as today—the same day as my birthday. I flip over and inspect the stone and August 25, 1848 is revealed as his death date.
“Twenty-four,” I say aloud. I jump up off the tomb and look out to where I know Lady Liberty stands tall. But I cannot see her. I smooth out my damp jeans and I fall back atop Mr. Wilke. I wipe my wet glasses on my wet tee-shirt. The lenses are smudged with water – I might as well not even have them on. I throw them to the ground, the brown plastic frames sinking into the chewed earth beside me.
I know I must grow up. I know I must live life before my August 25th steals me away. I know this life is short. But why is it that I let myself rot?
Rain begins to fall atop me—softly—baptizing me on James’s grave. “Beloved Son. Loving Brother” could soon read on my headstone if I too were to die by year’s end. If I don’t do what my father had realized he too had to do. To grow up. The rain now falls on me hard—drumming straight into my soul—clearing my thoughts. And for the first time, I can no longer hear airplanes above me. All I hear is this earth—the rain pounding trees leaves and grass blades and the thumping against my wet clothes and skin. I know I must leave Long Island behind. I know I must leave my crazy thoughts out of my life and just work a nine-to-five—solidifying myself in the mundane reality of what we humans now do on this planet Earth. I know I need to think more realistically about reality and where I fit in with it all. I know I must get my hair cut regularly. I know I must shave and shower every day. I know I must stop letting my fingernails grow long—accumulating grime and dirt as the days keep passing by. I know I must stop smoke weed and drinking copious amounts of whisky all day. I know I must man up and propose to Tamara after six years. I know I must stop avoiding the stresses of the reality of the almighty dollar. I know I must forget about all of my dreams of living off the land. I know my ideas and philosophies are a real crapshoot. Unrealistic. I know they are only dreams. I know I must force myself to love wearing suits—to love Lamborghini’s and Gucci and diamonds and all those other things this all-consuming society feeds off of. I know I must leave my dreams here, today, with James Wilke—to die here, in my 24th year—the year I no longer am a boy, but a man, adhering to, and placing all of my faith in the almighty US Dollar. The year I open my eyes before I drown in my own self-transcendence.
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