February 8, 2015

A former student reports on college life ...

"Not dying yet! Trying to remember to smile everyday. Some days are easier than others."

It's the damnedest thing she should say that as it's a real world consideration for the likes of me. Which alternative dwarf would this be: Masky? Frozeny? Remember Autonomic Functions-y? In any event: No Self Pity allowed. It's not that it can't make for good writing now and then, it's just that it very rarely makes for good reading.

So I'm meeting the new neighbor, proud owner of the big-ass hole in the ground next door, for the first time. He's stopped by to check out what will eventually be his backyard, trying to scope out where they'll place the garage, he says, as I sidle up to the fence, stick my hand across that which makes good neighbors, and affix my eyes to his, giving him a stern look, saying "My name is John." To which he responds, " "My name is John, too." "Well, that will make it easy to remember, " I reply, and I can only hope in that moment of serendipity, I squeeze out a glimmer of a smile.

"Did you remember to smile?" Julie says as I return from the yard. I reply that I can't remember, and it's the truth. Don't remember whether I smiled in that actual instance, but also am not likely to remember in any other. It's all too much, the things I have to remember because of this goddamn fucking disease: how to get out of a car, how to say the person's name, then make small talk loud enough to make myself understood, how not to trip over too many words. Remember to smile on top of all that? Don't make me laugh.

"John!" I hear out of the corner of my ear, and almost immediately recognize the voice as one from my old life, a real prince of a guy, but I also almost immediately realize he's been keeping up with the diary, and out of love for me will want to see how I'm doing, which is no problem in and of itself, but even worse, he'll want me to tell him How'm I doing, and it's not enough, it's never enough simply to say, I'm fine. Really. Because the fact is that I'm not fine. I'm fucking miserable. I used to be a fairly good bullshitter back in the day, could glad hand and back slap with the best of them, whereas now I murmur, "Oh, I'm okay. Holding my own, I guess" when all I really want to do is get away.

Those encounters are the worst: unexpected meet-ups with folks from the old life, people who really and truly love me because of kids I taught or work we shared or the small town we all knew together. And they'll be so glad to see me, and I them, the problem being that unless we're someplace close and controlled, it's going to be nigh unto impossible for me to make myself understood. No, better I should receive an email from a former student on a Friday night pointing out some coincidence she knows is meaningless or just asking after my well being. Then I can respond, and she can respond, and then maybe she will say the damnedest thing.