A week ago today, I started writing this blog. I have written, erased, re-written, erased yet again. I’ve thrown my arms akimbo and put my head down in frustration. There is so much going on right now and so much to talk about, but nothing—or perhaps everything—is too conflicted to make it here.
Even as I sit typing now, I am grasping at air, trying to express something, anything, that will inspire or interest you.
Yet you wait patiently and continue reading, and here I am at a loss of words, uselessly wasting your time with words that seemingly have no purpose or point.
I’m looking about my living room for some inspiration and coming up short.
I’m going to close my eyes now and think of David. We’re at the beach. He’s standing in his diapers, looking out at the water. The wind is blowing, and his little cowlick is standing on-end. His little belly is poked as kid’s bellies do. His little brain is churning and chewing on something. The expression is absolutely the same as it will be for the rest of his life: so serious. I’d look at him and catch him mulling on something. He doesn’t know I am looking at him. I want to know what he is pondering. It’s the face we make when we aren’t making a face.
I see him now doing this little dance he did—we are much older. It’s this Jersey-Shore-swagger-type move. I listen to awful music at the gym—music that is repetitive, something that would be playing at a club I never went to when I was in my mid-twenties. I see him do this little dance on the treadmill… he would do it when I was getting frustrated or losing focus on my workout. It makes me smile. I find myself trying it from time to time at the gym when I’m feeling beat. I look like a moron. I always well up and refocus my attention. The empty treadmill next to me makes me sad.
I’m seeing him now with me wherever we would go. His stupid Blackberry and the sound of the keys as he is constantly present, but not, deep in several conversations. I’m annoyed. I have more pictures of him using his phone than a person should have. The Blackberry is on my counter, locked. I don’t know what is on it because I don’t have the password, and if I put it in wrong too many times, it will erase everything.
I’m seeing him in his tuxedo at my wedding. His haircut is awful, yet he is looking so handsome and making me, the groom, insecure. Why can’t I look like that in a tux? Shit just doesn’t fit me the same way it does him. Short of hemming his pants, everything just fits him better. I need to workout more. I need to make better food decisions… nachos are good.
We’re in the restaurant in Beaver Creek. My mom is with us. She’s never had a margarita on the rocks. We’re all pretty buzzed. Everybody is smiling. This is what family is supposed to feel like. David just took the best, most perfect nacho as I was reaching for it. Perfection: the right amount of cheese onions and all the fixins on a crunchy little chip. Asshole. The three of us do a shot. David and I are smiling and laughing because Mom has a buzz, and she says the funniest things and has this laugh. It’s like a child’s laugh—innocent.
It’s Christmas—our last Christmas together. I’ve subscribed to wearing awful overly-thematic outfits akin to Randy Quaid in National Lampoon’s Christmas. David caught on and does, as well. Jason and I are reciting quotes from the movie, and our wives and girlfriends are just looking at us and laughing as we regress to our much younger selves.
It’s the upstairs room of my grandmother’s house. There is an easel in the center of the room. Jason is on one side, I am on the other. We are furiously working on a new edition of our comic from JTD (Jason, Timmy, David). David is downstairs, balling his eyes out and throwing a temper tantrum. We assigned him the roll of janitor. He can’t write, and his drawings are crappy. Jason and I get yelled and are told that, for some reason, David is now an editor. We nod our heads, knowing he is the janitor. I crumple a piece of paper and throw it on the floor.
Medieval Times in Orlando, Florida. It’s a birthday party… I think it might be my birthday party. Our knight just won, and I was able to eat with my hands without getting yelled at. In the lobby is the most beautiful collection of swords, maces, shields. It’s a dreamworld for kids. Our parents are actually buying us swords. Real metal swords… nirvana. They will punch our names into it. I opt for “Sir Timothy.” David somehow gets “King David” stamped on his. I should have gone second.
We stayed up all night looking at our swords. We never once fought with them—they would have gotten taken away, and we would have chipped the edges.
He’s in his Yankees hat. He’s standing amongst the boxes strewn about my living room. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs. I am drunk, I am defeated. I’m asking him to leave. I can see his face. He’s asking me, “Why?” He’s backing away but also trying to be there for me. I’m enraged. My blood is boiling. He tries to come near me. “C’mon, dude, mellow out…”
GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT… I close my eyes, exhausted. It’s not about him—it’s all just taken its toll. I open my eyes the next day to never ever see him alive again.
Fuck me… open or closed, these eyes miss you so much. I see you in everything and hate that the last time I saw you, I was shit-faced and yelled at you. You didn’t deserve that. I was wound so tight, it just popped. It was supposed to be a new beginning for me and you. A new place. I got a roof deck so you could use it. I wanted to create a bigger place for you to hide out…
I see your face. I am looking to that exact spot in the archway where my kitchen meets the dining room. I see your face, and I am full of shame for something I cannot take back. I know it had something to do with what you did the next day. People can tell me otherwise. It wasn’t the only thing, but fuck man, why did I have to yell at you that night? What I needed was you. I asked you to leave, and you did… forever.
