Strange and Charm by Jeff Scheidel
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Chicago NELSON ALGREN SHORT Tribune STORY PRIZE FINALIST 2011 Strange and Charm By Jeff Scheidel ince they took my license away, I’ve gotten very good with bus schedules. They tend to scare the hell out of people who aren’t used to them, mostly because of transfers, but necessity is the mother of transportation. It’s a long way to go today, and I’ve only ever walked that far when my regulator was busted, and then I never get anyplace I aimed for anyway. I tend to end up in somebody’s backyard, or lobby, or someplace else I’m not welcome. SToday, my regulator’s working pretty well, and I have a specific goal in mind. Pointing one- self at an objective and following the rules, this is the way to avoid a random collision with the universe. I’m no stranger to public transportation. When I lived in the suburbs, I took the train regularly, but trains are easy, as they’re very linear. They show up at a certain time, they go in one direction, and you get off when they call your stop, usually close to on schedule. Today I’m on the Number Fourteen, which I will take to its northernmost point, before transferring to the Number Seven, which is fortuitous in that it’s a prime number. Primes used to be very important to me, when the details of my profession required them as razors for my calculations. Punctuality is paramount these days. Being late for a hearing just gives Dad and the state another excuse. But at least this one is academic, rather than legal. Intense self-disci- pline, along with a daily massive intake of valproic acid, have helped me keep these events out of court. If I’m to remain in total control of my affairs, I need to show progress. I can practically taste it. Thomas Edison once said “Many of life’s failures are people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up.” Of course, this is also what keeps red- necks sitting at the same slot machine for hours at a time. I keep looking out the window. I very much need to watch the stops, and make the cor- rect exchange of my body from one vehicle to the next. My judgment must be perfect. In one of the several facilities where I’ve resided these last few years, I met a guy with dyspraxia, something I had not heard of until then. This bad piece of wiring, which he in- 1 Chicago NELSON ALGREN SHORT Tribune STORY PRIZE FINALIST 2011 herited rather than gave to himself, means that he can’t judge distances. Literally, he can’t fill a glass of milk, or fit clothes in a drawer. This makes it dangerous for him to drive, or even cross the street, and sometimes to even put one foot in front of the other, especially on a flight of stairs. The obvious hazard is the potential for colliding with things. For this high crime, he has been occasionally institutionalized. My problem is not distances, and yet I still perpetually face the hazard of colliding with things. There’s virtually no chance of being committed again. I’m not violent, not a danger to myself, certainly no menace to family or friends. I know, I know, the pieces aren’t all there, at least not all the time. Even on increasingly stronger doses, sometimes the spot where I’m sitting doesn’t connect all the way over there, across the room. Before the state intervened, there used to be entire-family types of events, where every- body would convene and discuss my situation, my actions, the consequences, the course of action. I remember one October, sitting there in the kitchen, seemingly invisible as Dad and Uncle Clint and Aunt Vivian and cousin Trent talked about me like I wasn’t there. I barely was, I will say, since I’d come home from the facility half in the bag with whatever they’d injected into my thigh. “This is butt-ugly. I mean, hell, this must be the second or third worst thing he’s ever done.” “He’s done something worse?” “Don’t ask.” Only Marie, my beautiful, wonderful sister, ever spoke to me directly about any of this. She would ask me how I felt, what I needed, what I thought should be done. To everyone else, I was not to be consulted. But now I consult myself. I’m all I have. I’m trying to read the paperwork on the way, but it’s too bright today, and my floaters keep getting in the way. They only really come out in the light. They’re dancing across the page, blending in with the words. When I’ve described them to people, even those close to me, they think it’s just another symptom of whatever’s crawling around in my head. But they are most definitely real. One of them, in my right eye, is so large, and so detailed, I’ve been able to make out a face. I’ve named it Hugo. Most people can never get a good look at theirs, but every time I move my head quickly to the left, Hugo and his little friends wash across my vision. It’s one of the reasons I gave up on playing with my little microscope years ago. When I first go to focus it, the reflection off the mirror at the bottom tends to light up those float- 2 Chicago NELSON ALGREN SHORT Tribune STORY PRIZE FINALIST 2011 ers, with all their hideous shapes, their twists and curves. When I’ve talked kiddingly of Hugo, I’ve gotten these reactions as if I’ve got an imaginary friend. I always try explaining, it’s just a thing in my eye. “Oh, so you’re seeing things, too,” they say. No no, I insist, but I haven’t been able to convince anybody of anything for years. The paperwork is fairly clear. It was written in such a way that even humans can under- stand it. Essentially, if I’ve been good, and prove it, if I haven’t tripped over anything, I can go on doing my thing. Otherwise, I could end up in a downstate facility this time. But I’ve been clear enough to manage for months now. No issues. I’ve always been good at discerning the meaning of the written page. A sound knowl- edge of Latin and Greek roots has allowed me to decipher twenty-five cent words. And wading through legalese simply entails breaking it down into components. Plus, I’ve had to deal with so many legal papers, because of this whole ordeal, because of Janine, because of the various scrapes I’ve been in, that it’s old hat. I didn’t start out in physics, although it suited me well enough. I’m a detail-oriented person, and it’s a very detail-oriented profession. All the figures are right there on the page. But when they start crawling off the page and up your arm and whispering into your ear, people notice. started out as an English major. I always loved reading, as well as writing. I collected books of short stories and poetry. I still do. I I didn’t tell Dad about my chosen path right off, and fibbed that I was just taking the general requirements while I figured out my future. I knew full well what he would say. When I finally declared, he was predictably to the point. “First off, Junior,” he intoned before the entire clan, including Marie, Uncle Clint, and cousin Trent, “it’s a cab-driving degree. How you gonna support yourself? You know how little teachers make? In the old days, people paid off the schoolmarm with live chickens. It’s barely better to this day.” I simply nodded. It was the only way to deal with him. It’s barely better to this day. “Second, I know why you’re doing this. You’ve always gotten sticky over poetry. Your preening little buddy Eric, the one who doesn’t like girls, he’s a poet, right?” “I like girls, Dad. Don’t sweat it. That’s not going to change.” “How about your cousin Karl? He’s doing pretty good.” “Uh … he’s a repo man, Dad,” I pointed out. “He steals cars back from deadbeats.” “But he makes a good buck. I hear he’s the top guy in his outfit.” 3 Chicago NELSON ALGREN SHORT Tribune STORY PRIZE FINALIST 2011 “I guess. But isn’t that like saying he’s the prettiest of the Three Stooges?” “Always, always you gotta be a rebel,” he insisted. “Twelve highlanders and a bagpipe make a rebellion,” I quoted some long-dead Scots- man, for no reason other than one of Dad’s words had collided with a buried memory. Shaking his head, Dad would have none of it. “You’ll be a cab-driving girlie man. Can’t have it. Can’t have it,” he concluded. “You always had such a head for math. Can’t you do something with that?” And with that, he left the room. Mom and Marie consoled me, telling me not to worry about it. And still. I absolutely hated admitting it … but he implanted in me the germ of uncertainty. Not about liking girls. But about supporting myself. I’d already had concerns, but now I had the worse condition: second-guessing myself.