September

I awaken with a start, realizing I am weeping, the dream fading into the mist of broken sleep, yet still vivid. I don't know where I am. I'm not in my room at home and I can hear some snoozing noises coming from my left. Slowly, it dawns on me I am in my dorm room at Benedict University. It is my first night here as a freshman and the snoozer is my new roommate, Fred Hooper. Somehow I've been put in the athletic dorm, with a baseball player no less. Every baseball player I have ever known is crazier than an outhouse rat. I think the primary reason is you have to be insane to let another guy throw a 90 mph fastball at your head. At least that's my theory.

First night at school and my old buddy, The Bad Dream, pays me a little visit. I don't consider it a nightmare because it does not frighten me; it's just so real I always think I am there, back in the time before the world ended. This is just great. Every time it comes, it leaves me feeling rung out, beat up, spent with no hope of getting back to sleep. I wipe my eyes and glance over at my alarm clock, 4:00 a.m. No really, this is just fucking great. I have an 8:00 a.m. English class and four hours to burn. I feel like there is an elephant camped out on my chest, I am shaking and I need to stop crying. My whole life would need to do a 180 for me to qualify as depressed.

Slowly I get up out of bed and walk over to the sink near the foot of my bed. I'm trying to be quiet, but from the sounds emanating from Fred's side of the room, I don't think I have to worry about waking him. I turn on the fluorescent light on the side of the mirror over the sink and look at the face staring back at me. Man, I look like shit. Since my peak weight of 200 lbs. my junior year in high school, I have lost 35 lbs. At 6'4", I may be a little underweight. I look a little haggard, I think, but sleep has not been an easy thing. For the past two and a half years, I have been having this recurring dream. Not so often in the last year, but for the first six months I was having the dream nightly, then it tailed off to 2 - 3 times a week. Along with sleeplessness, my appetite has not been good either. My overriding emotion is numbness, I mean, I guess numbness is an emotion. Or is it the lack of it? I splash some water on my face and brush my teeth. Moving to my closet I pull out of my running shoes and sweats. I slip off my tee shirt and boxers and slide into my jock and sweats. I sit on the edge of my bed and tie my shoes. I pick up my keys from the bedside table and then move quietly to and through the door. I take the stairs from the fourth floor to the ground floor exit two at a time and enter the courtyard. I do a little stretching and then take off for a little cruise of campus. I can use the time to familiarize myself with my surroundings.

I've been running 3 - 4 miles in the mornings and evenings for about the same amount of time I've been having my dream. The thing about running is that it sends my worried little mind on vacation for a while. It gets busy counting my footfalls, planning out the day ahead, looking at the scenery and a dozen other little diversions. It doesn't have time to deal with the real problem of how big a fuck up Luke Shelton has become.

The moon is still up and it sends my shadow dimly chasing me down the sidewalk through the quadrangle in the middle of campus on out to the edge where the main university library sits overlooking a river that runs just west of the school. I run out to the marina that sits on a squatty bluff overlooking the river. In the misty half light of the moon I see there are a few small sailboats tied up to the dock that lies like a smudge across the water. My breathing and heart rate are up and I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. I've always liked that noise. After about half an hour I've made a complete, irregular circle of the campus and have arrived back at the dorm, back up the stairs two at a time and back into my room. Back to the still snoozing Fred. I'm puffing a little bit and I shed my shoes, sweats, everything and head to the shower.

After a quick shower, I am back in my room and it's only 5:30 a.m. Dammit, it's like I've spent the last couple of years waiting for the day to begin, hopeful that today it will be better and then getting the same old ration of shit. I'm not even let down anymore. It's just the way things are.

I sit on my bed, legs up, leaning against my pillows, and listen to Fred snooze the sleep of the clear conscience, I guess. Thinking about my junior year at high school. I began that year starting on both offense and defense, in the best shape I'd ever been physically, but my brain felt like someone had unscrewed the top and worked on the wires. My concentration was shot, my motivation was minimal and I did not have any passion for the game. And I had always loved football, I mean really loved it. By mid-season I had lost about 10 lbs. and my starting jobs. In fact I sat the bench for the rest of season. I remember John Mark riding my ass about it when he was home the weekend of Homecoming. He told me I was slacking, and I don't know, maybe I was. Honestly, I couldn't tell. The dream had done some funky things to my head, and the most relief I got was when I ran. So the running began as a respite to the wakeful early mornings and then it helped to tire me out enough to get to sleep at night.

My senior year, I had dropped to about 175 lbs. and I didn't play football, a decision that got me unmitigated hell from John Mark. My parents began to worry about my weight loss, so I ended up seeing three different doctors. All pronounced me fit and well. I remember one of the doctors asked me if I was depressed or if anything traumatic had happened recently and I told him I was as fine as frog's hair, thank you very much. I ran, went to school, studied and not much else. My sleep was constantly fragile and haunted, my appetite continued to go south, but I kept up my grades and got accepted to Benedict. All the Sheltons go to Benedict.

Benedict University is located in central Texas. It's a private university and my father's alma mater. Yep, Frank Shelton attended Benedict on the GI bill after World War II, got his undergraduate degree and law degree there. He and his childhood sweetheart, Elizabeth Anson, also from Cranston, were married during the war and attended college together, him studying, her working to help support the effort. After graduating from law school, my mom and dad moved back to Cranston, two little boys, Matthew Kenneth and James Lott, in tow. My father is what you would call a small town lawyer. He always said he would never get rich, but it had always been his desire to live in his hometown, especially after touring the world courtesy of the U.S. Navy. And I guess it's only fair he got his wish. After moving back, the other three boys, David Allen, John Mark, and me, Luke Aaron, followed. All of us boys were an even two years apart. There's something to be said for consistency. Now that I was a freshman at Benedict, David was in his final year at law school and John Mark was a junior political science major preparing to go to law school the next year. Right now I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to major in, except somehow returning to something approaching normal.

I jolt awake when Fred shakes my shoulder.

"Hey bud," he says, "are you planning to make your first class this morning?"

I look at the clock and it says it's 7:30. Okay, I'm not late. In fact I have time to run down to the cafeteria and grab a cup of coffee, maybe two.

"Thanks, Fred. I woke up early and I guess I drifted off after my shower."

"Not a problem, guy. Are you all right?"

Why are people always asking me that? It's like I've got a sign on my forehead that reads, 'Not All Right'. "Oh yeah, I'm fine thanks, I'll see you later I'm sure. Good luck today." And I'm out, at a dead run.

The day turns into a blur of searching for classrooms, English, History, Latin, class outlines, syllabi, book lists, reading assignments and best of all, buying books.

I get back to my room in the afternoon at about 4:00 p.m. to a ringing phone. I answer and it's John Mark. "Hey shithead," he says with all the love his black little heart can muster, "why don't you come over to my apartment this evening around 7:00. Catherine and I will cook dinner for you."

Catherine and Johnny have been inseparable for about the past year; I think they'll get married. She is an exceptional girl, I mean woman; she's visited Cranston a couple of times, last year at Thanksgiving and Christmas. What a beauty; shoulder length dark blonde hair, green eyes, tall and very nicely put together, if I say so myself. Johnny has done himself proud, but even I will admit, I think he deserves a woman like Catherine. Her best quality, I think, is her unassuming genuineness, if that's even a word. The first time I met her it was like she was meeting an old buddy. And she didn't seem compelled to ask me if I was all right? That scored high on my card.

"Well okay Johnny, if you can stand me, I will see you around 7:00, although I have to tell you I will be looking forward to seeing Catherine more than you."

"Yes, and I love you too, little brother. See you later." Click.

I waste a little time getting my books together, setting them in my shelves and then I lay out the syllabi and reading assignments and peruse them. I don't think I'll need to study tonight, because I'll get set up with my Tuesday classes tomorrow, then I can begin the regimen of the study routine. I sit down at my desk and write a schedule and a plan for getting my work done. At about 5:00 I am through, I lie down and set my alarm for 6:30; I think I may need a little nap before dinner.

Panicked, I swim up out of sleep, my heart pounding and I am fairly panting, out of breath. Shit, I look at the clock, 6:09, oh please God make this go away, I don't know if I can keep this up. I've been pleading with God a lot, but I think my prayers are prevented, somehow, from ascending past the ceiling or maybe God has turned a deaf ear to me. This grief is threatening to overwhelm me and I don't see any rescue over the horizon. If I could I would lay here and dissolve into the bedspread, my soul dissipating like smoke to heaven, but I'm not sure I'd be let in.

With an effort, I arise, walk to the sink and wash my face. I grab my car keys and head out. Out in the parking lot, I get into my yellow Volkswagen and head for John's apartment. My brain feels about ten degrees out of phase with the rest of the world. Pulling into the parking lot of the complex, I look for John's car and apartment number. Johnny, like me, has a VW but his is red. Finding the car, I park directly across from it. I get out and head for his apartment. Before I get to the door, Johnny pulls it open; he is always waiting to ambush me I think. Old habits die hard. He reaches out, grabs my arm and pulls me in, embracing me in a rough hug.

"Hey, buddy, how're you doing? You know what, we need to put some weight on you. You look sort of like one of those guys from the Bataan death march, only thinner."

It's been a while since I've seen Johnny, about 4 months actually, and, boy, is it good to see him, though I'm not about to tell him that. "Well, perhaps we can start with tonight's meal, Johnny boy, whaddya think?"

"Maybe, maybe. You know it's good to see your ugly face."

"You always know just what to say John."

The apartment is smallish, but okay. You walk right into the living room, which consists of a sizable couch on one wall, a television and stereo on the other, some bookshelves, a coffee table and two smaller chairs. Catherine enters from the kitchen, which is directly behind the living room; in fact I could see her through the pass through when Johnny pulled me in. She walks up and gives me a peck on the cheek. "Hey stranger, how have you been," she asks?

"Well, Catherine, they don't get much stranger than me, you know. And I have been just okay, thank you."

John and Catherine are both nattily attired in tee shirts and cut off jeans. She looks a lot better in hers than he does in his. John says, "Have a seat and take a load off, junior. Would you like a beer?"

"A beer sounds just lovely, thank you," I answer as I move toward the couch, tossing my car keys on the coffee table.

Johnny brings in a couple of Budweisers, opening both, a special little two-handed trick (he must be ambidextrous), as he walks from the kitchen. I've settled on the couch and he sets a beer in front of me and sits down beside me on my right. He reaches over and puts my right knee in the iron claw, so my only justified response is to punch him in the chest, hard.

"Boys, boys, please settle down," Catherine calls from the kitchen, her head visible in the pass through.

"Yes, mom." Johnny answers. Then turning to me he asks, "Hey Luke, would you like to smoke a little weed?"

"Sure, why not. Perhaps that and the beer will take the edge off of this most stressful day."

"Stressful, shit, just wait until the real classwork starts, then you can complain about stress, little brother." John gets up from the couch and moves to the bookshelf and removes from a little Chinese lacquer box a little baggie of pot and some rolling papers. He snags an album cover from the stack by the stereo and sits back down by me. Carefully, he removes from the baggie a few little buds of the marijuana. As he breaks them up I catch the cloyingly sweet odor of the pot. "Wow, that must be pretty potent stuff, I mean, the smell kind of jumps out at you, doesn't it?"

"Luke, my boy, you have no idea." John says.

He cleans the seeds out of his little pile of buds using the album cover and his driver's license and studiously rolls a fat little bomber. He licks the sticky edge of the paper, presses it down and, with a flourish presents the joint to me with one hand, while producing a lighter with the other. I place the doobie in my mouth and lean into the flame when he strikes the lighter. A small blue cloud appears around my head and I draw the smoke into my lungs. The smoke drops into my chest, sits for a moment, and then begins to expand. Whoa, I haven't felt this one before. I lean forward and cough.

"Not bad, huh," Johnny asks. I hand the joint over to him, nodding, my eyes watering a bit. Catherine floats through the room a couple of times to catch a hit, sipping from a glass of wine, but John Mark and I get the lion's share. That pleasant stoned feeling drops heavily onto my head moving slowly down to my arms, then on to my legs and feet. I have achieved that special state everyone calls 'mellow', trite as it sounds.

Catherine appears at the kitchen door and says, "I'm making some chicken with rice pilaf. We're sort of on a budget, so I hope that's okay."

"Luke will appreciate anything you make, sweet thing. Right, Luke?"

Lazily I nod my assent to John Mark's question and Catherine gives me a nice little smile as a thank you. Boy, I needed this. I take a sip from my beer, the cold liquid taking away the burnt pot taste on my tongue in a smooth swoosh. I lean back into the couch, take a deep breath and then exhale. My head seems far, far away.

Johnny inclines his head toward me and says, "I've got the new Jackson Browne album and you have got to hear it, it's great. It's called 'For Everyman'." He gets up from the couch, goes over to the stereo and picks up a brown album cover. I can see on the cover a picture of the artist sitting in a chair in what looks like the courtyard of a Mexican villa or a nice hotel. Johnny drops the album out of the cover into his hand and onto the turntable. Johnny sits back down on the couch beside me and the music begins. The LP starts out nicely enough with 'Take It Easy,' I've heard The Eagles version of this one, and then into the uncharted territory of the new songs I haven't heard, each sounding better than the preceding. All is going well until the last song of the first side comes on. It's a song called 'These Days" and, as the words tumble out of the speakers, my ears begin to roar and my mind blanks out:

"Well I've been out walking
I don't do that much talking these days
These days--
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do
For you
And all the times I had the chance to

And I had a lover
It's so hard to risk another these days
These days--
Now if I seem to be afraid
To live the life I have made in song
Well it's just that I've been losing so long

I'll keep on moving
Things are bound to be improving these days
These days--
These days I sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them"

When I come back to myself, I realize I'm sitting forward with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. I have that old familiar, stabbing ache, the one that feels as if my heart has been dredged out of my chest. I look at the thighs of my jeans and I realize there are splash stains where tears have fallen onto my legs. I turn to my right, tears streaming down my face, and look at John Mark. He has this sort of stoned, sort of shocked, sort of concerned look on his face, his mouth agape, and that look hits me like an arrow in the chest. I turn away, grab my car keys off of the coffee table and bolt for the door.

John jumps up from the couch and over the coffee table and grabs me by the arm about the time my hand closes around the doorknob. He spins me around and takes hold of me by both arms, about biceps high. "What is wrong, Luke, goddammit?"

"Nothing, I'm sorry, I think it's the song, it's so sad and I'm a little stoned, I don't know!" I'm beginning to cry a little harder now.

"No, that's not it, please Luke please. Don't you realize we're all worried about you? I mean, you're so damned skinny, you're wandering around most of the time like some kind of zombie and you've been this way the better part of two years. Don't you know mom and dad were worried sick about sending you off to school the way you are? Please Luke, tell me what is going on with you, now!" John Mark is almost frantic and he pulls me into his arms. I really break down now, sobbing uncontrollably. Ashamed, I bury my face in his shoulder. Catherine hears the commotion and comes into the room, moves toward us and hugs both of us. I can feel her breath soft and feathery against my neck. Johnny whispers into my left ear, "Please, Luke, we love you, we don't want you to hurt. Tell us what is wrong."

I know if I tell them, what life I have left will be over. I'm just sure of it. I bring myself under control and I pat John Mark gently on the back and lift my head off of his shoulder. "Johnny, nothing is wrong with me that I can't handle, please know that. I love you too, and I'm not hurting, believe me." With that, I pull away from him and Catherine.

"I don't believe you, Luke, and you need to tell me whatever it is that is causing this. Do you get me?" John Mark is starting to sound a little pissed.

"Johnny, I can't, okay. And I will be fine. I think maybe it was a mistake to come over." I reach out and hug Catherine, then John, open the door and escape into the evening.

November 8

It's about two weeks away from Thanksgiving and so far, academics wise, school is going along swimmingly. I had a little trouble, at first, with English. It is a basic theme writing class and the first theme I wrote netted me a big, fat F. Man, was I deflated. Not that I thought I was the next Faulkner or Hemingway or Fitzgerald, but an F! I went immediately to the professor, a young woman named Naomi Fischer, and asked her, no, pleaded with her, to show me what I needed to do to get at least a passing grade. I was a little panicked by my F, in case you hadn't noticed. Professor Fischer was very patient, went over the basics of composition and also covered a little creative writing instruction. She helped me rewrite my first theme in a manner that would have earned an A. Since my stumble first thing out of the gate, I have aced every one of my writing assignments. In fact, last week Professor Fischer asked me if I had considered writing as a major. Well, frankly, I wasn't even aware you could major in writing, but I didn't tell her that. She said if I decided to pursue literature and writing, she would be happy to be my advisor. That sort of bowled me over. I didn't think I was doing all that well with my writing, but she said I have potential, which may be the underlying theme of my life; unfulfilled potential. Anyway, I spoke to my father about it and he was not excited by the prospect of me pursuing writing as a career goal. In fact, his exact words were, "There are a lot more starving writers than there are starving lawyers." I told him I wasn't sure being an attorney was what I really wanted to do and he said there is always business school. Please, God, take me now. Oh well, anyway, I have A's in English, American History from the revolution to the Civil War, Latin, Geology and Algebra. I'm also taking tennis in PE, which is mildly entertaining. It looks as if I will make the Dean's List this semester. Schoolwork is the least of my problems, though.

This morning John Mark called me and asked if I wanted to catch a ride with him and Catherine home to Cranston for Thanksgiving. We will have the entire week off and he thought it would be easy for all of us to ride home together. In a VW! I swear sometimes the boy is just not right in the head. Well, the big mistake I made was telling John that I didn't think I was going home for Thanksgiving. He went absolutely, 100 percent, fucking ballistic.

"Do you realize you haven't been home once this semester, Luke? Or do you even fucking care? Mom and Dad call me about once a week to confirm that you are still alive and kicking. Don't you even call home?"

This is about the thousandth time John Mark and I have had this conversation, in fact we have it at least once every ten days to two weeks. It's become a bit tedious. I know he's worried, but lately it seems his concern is starting to turn into something a little more like anger. I wish there was something I could say that would put his mind at ease, but, at this point, I'm not sure there is, or, truth be told, that I really care.

"Johnny I'm sorry, but I have two major exams right after Thanksgiving, one in Latin, the other in Algebra, and I think I'll be better off studying rather than taking a week off, don't you?"

"Luke, you can take your books and notes home with you. Everyone is coming for Thanksgiving and they would like to see you."

"Yes I'm sure they would, but you see Johnny, I have an opportunity to make the Dean's List this semester and I plan to make it happen, okay."

Silence. I think I may have lost the connection. Dead silences on phones give me an uneasy, sick stomach feeling.

"In case no one has told you, Luke, you are a complete dick. I don't know what to do with you. We live about five minutes apart and I've seen you, what, about three times this whole semester. You want to explain that one? I guess I just give up."

I think to myself, 'whew, finally', but I don't say that to John. What's left of my heart breaks a little because I really do love Johnny, a lot. But I don't think I can take closeness of any kind right now.

"John Mark, I am okay. I just need to concentrate right now and the best way for me to do that is stay right here."

"Yep, all right. Maybe I'll talk to you later. Bye."

Click and he's off before I can say goodbye. I probably deserved that.

November 24

Up early the Saturday after Thanksgiving, out for a little run. My mind has been autonomically casting back for memories of Thanksgiving two years ago, and I've been fighting that particular little sharp-toothed monster.

Phillip Stecker and I had gone hunting out at my grandfather's place that weekend. It had been warm for November, though not all that unusual for East Texas. That night we had built a campfire, a big one, outside of the cabin. As usual we had a portable radio and there was an FM station from Houston we could pick up that played some very decent rock and roll. Our absolute favorite song at the time was "Every Picture Tells a Story" by Rod Stewart. Man, we absolutely loved that song. It came blasting out of the radio while we were sitting by the fire, both of us shirtless, and we jumped up and began belting out that song at the top of our lungs (probably obnoxiously off key, but we thought we were great):

"Spent some time feelin' inferior
standing in front of my mirror
Combed my hair in a thousand ways
but I came out looking just the same

Daddy said, 'Son, you better see the world
I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to leave
But remember one thing don't lose your head
to a woman that'll spend your bread'
So I got out "

We were both grinning like idiots and absolutely rocking out, the moon the only witness to this spectacular display of symphonious talent. God, to most people this would be a good, no, a great memory. To me it is like ashes in my mouth. I take two turns around the perimeter of the campus, the morning cold and foggy, a polar opposite to the one two years ago, and still that memory is stuck, like a nasty fishhook, in my brain.

I think; Christmas, maybe I'll go home for Christmas.