The Lab Coat

I wrote a book once. It was about summer and big cities and that stuff. The kind of book that can either make you mad or sad. Well, it made me sad, so I tried to forget about it. When I finished writing it, I thought about whether the people in it would know that I wrote it about them, or simply know that they helped me to write my own story. I guess no one writes a story without a little assistance, right? But I don’t know if they would have read it anyway, or if they’re reading this right now, just like you are.
     That was a long time ago, though, and I don’t think the summer or the big cities or the stuff like that mean anything to me anymore. I guess I don’t know what means anything to me anymore.
     When I was in the third grade, Mrs. Zimmer taught me in art class to paint over my mistakes—to turn those faults into something beautiful. And so I tried; but whenever I would paint over them as instructed, it would only make them worse. It was like I was smearing the spilled soda on the carpet, you know? Man, how ugly those stains became. Just massive blobs of black paint, supposedly covering up my errors. I wish now that I had never even tried to fix what I had done wrong—to just let life play out on that gray panel of canvas. But I tried. And I tried. And I tried.
     Thinking of Mrs. Zimmer got me to thinking about beauty and all of the beautiful things that we live with, like mistletoes, and even months. How reliable and striking. See, March never just comes out of nowhere, you know? There has to be a February for there to be a March. But my March came out of much more than just February; it came out of boys, girls, ants, planes, and all of that. And so my March began seven months earlier, when I watched everything around me begin to collapse.

     One.
It was one of those hot Augusts. I guess just about every August is hot, but it was a really hot—and I mean really hot—August. Those Augusts are the worst because you can’t escape; no matter how hard you try, you just can’t escape. But every once in a while something or someone comes around to make your August less sweltering (like the Ice-Cream Man, you know?) Well, the Ice-Cream Man came around, and I guess she was my escape. I saw her at church the first Sunday of the month, but like the little boy I was—the little boy I am—I was too afraid to introduce myself. And so two more masses passed with those awkward glances, those awkward but honest glimpses that seem to beckon for the recognition and attention of the recipient, before I finally mustered the courage to introduce myself.
     “Hi there!”
     “Hey,” she replied coolly, as we both nervously struggled to make eye contact.
     “My name is Rudolph Solter! But I don’t know why in the world my parents named me Rudolf, so most people just call me Rudy, or something. I guess it doesn’t really matter what you call me, just so long as it’s not late for dinner.”
     Immediately I felt stupid for introducing my whole name, and for telling her my entire life’s story. But I certainly didn’t feel stupid for using one of my Pappy’s jokes. I could never feel stupid for that. It got a smile out of her, anyway.
     “Nice to meet you, Rudy. My name’s Ellie.”
     “I don’t think I’ve ever, e—ever seen you here before. If you’re new, well, then I think we should become best friends, Ellie.”
     Man, I hated that. I hate the way I flirt, you know?
     “Yep, I’m new, and I would love that—to become best friends.”
     With that confirmation, I heard her laugh for the first time. It was one of those low-pitched laughs that sounded more like it was agreeing with the situation than finding humor in the situation. The kind of laugh that has the ability to come-off as unintelligent—and if I hadn’t been so mesmerized by her presence, I just might have been hypnotized by that dumb laugh.
     “Are you going to attend North Point then? I know some people and I’d be glad to show you around, you know?”
     She said she knew, and we left it at that.
     And so on that fourth Sunday my August did in fact lessen its swelter.

     Two.
When I was younger, and even up until this past year, the last week of summer was always a calling to the youth of my community. As if responding to a siren that only us children could hear, we embarked on our final pilgrimages to the local pool. But things were different this year. I once heard that if you willingly spend more than two days in your house, you are clinically depressed. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but who has the right to make such bold claims in the first place? I guess that a skinny man with dark hair, standing in his white lab coat with his groundbreaking data on clinical depression, has the right to make such bold claims. Mom and Dad always taught me to listen to the dark-haired man, because, after all, he wears a lab coat. So clinically depressed, I spent four days in my room that last week of summer. The way I see it, I had no reason to go to the pool if Ellie wasn’t going to be there. And so for the first time in my life I pledged allegiance to a girl I had known less than a week.
     The remaining three days were spent school-shopping with my mother. Every year she makes such a big deal to go out and buy an entirely new wardrobe. (Sometimes I wish we didn’t have the financial ability to buy an entirely new wardrobe every year, but she would be upset if I told her that). So this year, with my learner’s permit, I drove us to the mall on Route 9. When we arrived in the parking lot, we saw two teenaged boys pressed down on the hood of a cop car. I recognized one of the boys, but when my mother asked about them, I told her I did not know. I hated seeing them on that hood, and I'm sure it was hurting their faces.
     I would love to recount to you the thirty hours of shopping that followed, but I can’t really put all of that walking and standing and trying-on into words. My mom gleefully picked out several outfits that I didn’t like, I told her how cool I thought they looked, we bought the outfits. That’s how it always was, you know? Mothers.
     Well, I’m sorry that I’ve taken so much time to tell you about my last week of August and the pools and the cop cars.

So there it was, September 3: the first day of school had come once more. I set my alarm clock for 6:30 so that I could get an early start on the day, and, furthermore, on the school year. But I didn’t wake up until after 8:00, so Ethan, my older brother, was rushing me to get ready. I selected one of the outfits from the mall on Route 9 and removed the tags before putting it on. Ethan made a joke about how “damn goofy” I looked. I guess I did look pretty goofy, but Mom thought I looked handsome.
     “Stand next to your brother by the door, Rudy. Closer. Just a little closer.”
     We were pretty much hugging each other, you know?
     “Okay,” she said, “smile nice. Real nice, Ethan. Good.”

Author's Note

I'm not sure I should have uploaded this. I guess it's one of those personal things, you know?

Reviews

[heavvur]

1. i like that you introduced this. the background forced me to read it. i couldn't resist.

2. one is awesome. it really captures the essence of awkward teenagers like my own self :P

3. i like the sentences about 'clinical depression.' i found it amusing. :) and the 'pledged allegiance to a girl....'. cute.

4. in regards to your author's note, you may not be sure whether you should have uploaded it but i'm glad you did. i found it really raw and intriguing, i love writing like that. even if it is personal, why not let your heart out on that fishing lure, y'know?