Departure

She said "I hope some day you feel you can talk to me again. I don't know what happened that there is this gulf in our communication."

Anger rises within me when I see that. She doesn't know? What does that mean? Was that someone else who sent me those hateful emails? Was it a joke? I bled tears for those words. I bled tears and bruised my knees. And now she comes to me to rip me open again.

Is it her fault? It is me who hasn't been answering the phone.

But it is also me who has been reading postmodern literature every waking moment, creating the most brilliant papers that I never knew I could produce. I am the one subdued and careful, who smiles sparingly. I am the one who never laughs anymore. It is my soul that is racked with grief and sorrow, who fights away apathy and indifference.

It is me who fell to my knees, calling for the angels. This broken corpse is me, who walks among the remnants of glory. Winds swirl around me, taking my story to add to its collection. This is where the fallen prince walked too, they hissed. He cut his feet on those mountains when he climbed. Here is where the fallen people lay camped for forty years. Here is where they were slain by their captives, strangers from the East. Here is where you kneel, dying, blood running from your veins, spilling into the sand which buries the dead for only some time.

She looks out the building facing the desert, searching for any sign of me. But I have left. She may follow, but she wont. She is afraid. She is lost, she says to herself, bitter resentment welling within her. Fool, that she may think to find salvation in a desert. She angrily threw her water after my trail, at the place where I had disappeared.

After a long absence

I may take a moment to explain a few things. Just as Calvin may have crashed a golf cart into a tree last night.

"I'M TIRED AND I'M MAD THAT I HAVE TO DEAL WITH YOUR INAPPROPRIATE CHOICES EVEN NOW WHEN YOU ARE AN ADULT. IF YOU DON'T LIKE BEING LDS DONT CLAIM TO BE ONE BUT IF YOU DO, START BEING NICER, CONSIDERATE OF THE FAMILY AND RESPONSIBLE. I APPRECIATE YOU SERVING MIRIAM BUT YOU DO IT GRUDGINGLY SO IT'S NOT TO YOUR CREDIT, WHEN YOU FACE JESUS HE WILL ASK YOU WHY YOU DIDN'T DO BETTER AND I WILL BE THERE SAYING I TRIED TO RAISE HER BUT SHE MADE HER OWN CHOICES."

I may have copied and pasted this from an email my mother may have sent me last week. I may have cried because of it. I may have printed the whole thing out and may have handed it over to Dan Muhlestein in the hallway of the JFSB the next morning. I may have been angry and yelled and screamed. I may have vented to my brand new roommate on her second night.

I may have made Camille mad. I may have been rude. I may care less for her than I may about the roll of unprimed canvas leaning against my bed. I may know that it may make her cry, and I may feel that crying is good for a person. She may have caused me more tears than I may have her.

I may have taken an alcoholic to a grocery store to buy food where he may have bought beer. I may have gone to a coffee shop with him and may have let him smoke a cigarette while discussing religion, faith, agency, and reactivation efforts. I may have listened when he told me about going to counseling with a group of porn addicts. I may have invited him to church with me.

I may have texted Calvin the other day while I may have been sitting in a basement to give me an excuse to leave after I didn't leave when I may have had the opportunity. When I did leave, my friend may have been mad that I felt I may have had to make up an excuse. I may have not wanted to tell him it was because I might have known I shouldn't have been there.

Calvin may have told me something like "You gotta do this on your own" and he may have really meant it. I may have known he wouldn't bail me out, and I might have known all along why. I may have known I would do it myself even before I may have asked him.

I may have actively decided to fail Whalquist's class because it may have been a waste of time. It may be the most worthless class offered, and BYU may owe me tuition money back for it. I may be morally opposed to busy work, and I may not really have cared to go to class. I may have felt I had no other option but to go. I may have struggled to get out of bed every single morning, I may have pretended to care. I may have given each and every one of my teachers a fraction of an effort. I may have read a newspaper in the back of Tuttle's class. I may have learned absolutely nothing. Cronin may have told me that that was not an option for me anymore. She may have demanded that I retake her class in the Spring, and I may have taken that as an answer to prayer. I may have asked specifically where to start in my efforts of putting things right. I may have felt the Spirit.
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I may have gone to see my bishop. I may have gotten a blessing. I may have scheduled my life as an attempt to fix it. I may have said I was sorry. I may have bruised my knees kneeling on tile when I prayed. I may have called on God to take care of my problems so that I didn't have to deal with them anymore, and I might have gotten a no. I may have gotten a trust me and you may get through them.

I may have spent my day working and reading and gaining my intelligence back. I may have written all over my copy of All The Pretty Horses as I read it, which Dr. Cronin may have told me to read instead of The Road. I may have spent the last couple hours at the library atoning for my lack of concern all of last semester.

I may have said I'm sorry, and I may know that for the most part it falls on deaf ears. I may be writing to a specific person knowing that I may have made them angry. I may be perfectly willing to face God for this post, and I may know that I might be better off if I leave it alone and let it be buried by silence. I may know this post unearths years of secrets that may all have been buried by silence.

I may just have needed to tell someone, and no one at the same time, because I may feel like I am betraying the trust of multiple people by yelling to the world "I HAVE A PROBLEM." I may be going in for counseling on Monday.

Or I may not.

Mike and me

Suzanne had called me a month ago to extend the promotion to me. I accepted of course. I may as well, since the only real option was to go up. I knew it was coming for some time now, and really it wasn't a big deal.

Training for Stadium of Fire was my first training as a supervisor. East gates, in case anyone was wondering. That means I had taken Brian's spot. He was a weird kid. I never really knew what to think of him. He is one of those people who you feel like is nice because they want something from you. That is what happens when you work at the Marriott Center--everyone starts to want things from you. Then they get insanely angry when you can't accommodate them because they aren't really deaf or don't use a wheelchair, or were simply too late for those Hannah Montana tickets. Too bad, better luck next time. But how do you express all that at training? You don't. That's just one of those life lessons that you have to learn on your own.

It wasn't until after training that I heard about Mike.

"He had a brain aneurism and he really likes Brooks and Dunn. I originally had him in the south end, but I'm afraid he's one of those people who really isn't going to do anything. I shouldn't have hired him, but I'm not going to fire him the day before, so I'm putting him with you as security, and just try to...I don't know, keep him out of the way."

Sure, Suzanne. Piece of cake, right?

She scheduled him for security all right, but not at gate 6 like I expected. She stuck him between 6 and 7 to make sure people aren't passing things through the fence.

Mike was about 40, but had the mentality of an 8 or 9 year old. He smoked and was overweight, and was growing a mustache like Brooks...or Dunn. He had big blue eyes that seemed to take in everything and yet missed it at the same time. I bet that if I had given him a holographic sticker he would have been entertained for more than half of the 6 hour shift.

When he got to his spot, he knew he was being put out of the way. I faced him and his clear disappointment, suddenly regretting having accepted the responsibility. In a sudden move to salvage my own humanity, I moved him to gate 7, telling him that he was to periodically move between gates 7 through 10 and help out the security already stationed there.

Boy was he a whiner. He needed a cigarette break, he was hot, he was tired, he wanted to watch the show, but he never told me any of that unless I asked. But I had to ask because I had already asked everyone else. "How are you?" I asked them all.

"Tired." "Fine." "Hot--by the way, Corbin Bleu asked for extra security detail so he wouldn't get mobbed when he left."

"When is he leaving?"

"I don't know, but can we do it?"

"No, but I'll pass your request on to Suzanne." Easy. Easy easy. But when Mike came up to me to ask for his third break, what could I say other than "sure"?

Suzanne checked on me, pointing out that Mike wasn't where he was supposed to be. I told her he was, and that he never went anywhere without letting me know first in the form of a question. "Send him home when you cut your first round of security" she advised. I nodded. It was protocol. It happens every game. Besides, he was hot and tired. He should have wanted to go home.

But when I asked him to, he almost cried.

"Mike, did you not want to go home?"

He looked at me, fear and despair reeking in his posture and expression. "All my family is here watching the show."

"You can go watch it with them."

"I....I don't know where they are!" The tears were coming. It was like waiting for a dam to break. The pressure of being sent home was almost overwhelming for him. No, I told myself. Suzanne said to send him home. Send him home.

"The ticket office can tell you. Go ask Suzanne and she can help you."

"Okay" he agreed, turning to go. His shoulders were slumped and his head hung. He stopped after three steps and turned, timidly, almost like he was afraid. He kept his head down, looking at me in stolen glances. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, you did everything I asked you to do" I answered. I tried to smile but I don't think it came out right. He was unconvinced, I knew. I could see it. "We have more people than we need. We do this every game, all the time. We just don't need you here anymore." The words made me bleed. I almost winced at the sound of them, hoping he took them as gently as he could. Whether he did or not, I don't really know. He straightened a little and I told him where he could find Suzanne, and he walked away with the elation of being free from his taskless bondage easing everything that told me he was upset.

I hoped he found his family. I hoped the rest of the shift, then the walk home. His despair at the notion of failing so entirely at his one day $9 per hour job pushed against me as I lay in bed. I finally picked up my phone and went to sit on my front porch, which was loaded with furniture that my roommates hadn't wanted in the living room. I sat down and called home.

"Hello" a deep, playful voice answered on the second ring, almost singing. Pink Floyd played in the background, and I detachedly wondered how my dad was getting away with his music so loud at 3 in the morning.

"Daddy!" I cried as I let everything go, my story and tears flowing freely from me.

My dad's usual thinking look...and civilian shirt...and sunglasses.