12.27.2008

The day the music died.

Ding.
Wrrrrrrrr.

Knock the phone from my night stand in my half-asleep attempt to answer it. I pick it up and read the message. It's from my roommate. Apparently Andrew, an old mutual friend of ours, is in town. Says he's meeting him for lunch. Catching up since it's been years. Wants to know if I can shake the hangover in time to attend. I put the phone down, open, on the blanket that's mercifully shielding me from the stray rays sneaking through the blinds.
Sure, I could make it.
Physically, that is.
But otherwise?

Andy. Andrew. Andy was a smart kid. When I met him he was Andrew, so that's what I call him. Andrew James Maroney III: that's the name that our first-period computer class teacher recited from the attendance sheet back in the seventh grade at South Junior High School eleven years ago. His rosy cheeks, humble demeanor, slicked-to-the-side executive haircut, that quietly sarcastic sparkle in his eye. I liked him at first glance. I remember it like yesterday, only it's not.
It's a long time ago now.
Too long.
Not long enough.
History.
More like histrionics.
I confess.

He was the first friend I made in that new school, though we didn't have much in common other than our huge bookbags that made us look like hunched-over turtles scurrying through the hallways to their next class. The true mark of an Honors Student during those primordial days was the massive backpack; it symbolized the fear of using ones locker in case one was late for class and/or accosted by a carefree hooligan waiting to prey on nerds. Most of us would rather carry all of our textbooks and three-ring binders in our bags, zippers screaming for mercy, than risk suffering either of those two fates.
Paranoia.
Social Anxiety.
Even at that young age.
Priceless, in retrospect.

Andrew and I were in a lot of the same classes together all through those three years, even gym and lunch. He was always picked one or two rounds before me in basketball, but I got way more rebounds. He was eventually allowed to sit with the cool kids in lunch, but I remained with the derelicts for my tenure.
Not much has changed.
Not much will.
Your course in life is determined
by the track laid out for you
at age thirteen.
Think back, honestly.
Prove me wrong.

None of that's to say that I was bitter or jealous. The two of us were pals. We rode the same bus. We both lived in developments, though his was a sheltered cul-de-sac subcommunity of split-level homes with mortgages almost paid off by the joint incomes of two parents per house, and mine was a condominium complex comprised mostly of single mothers trying to make ends meet for the sake of breaking various cycles. And besides, right from the start that bright young prospect taught me something. Andrew Maroney was smart. He was naturally intelligent, studious, well-rounded and well-read. Me, I tested well. I retained information. I could figure things out based on context clues. I was a charlatan with a stroke of luck. He was bound for brilliance. Though both of us had the opportunity to "make it" in the world, I'd be the one who'd really have to work at it. It'd come to him as easily as long division had, and not that he wouldn't earn it. He was just predisposed to making the necessary sacrifices in the recipe for success. Me, I didn't care that much. I'd aspire to grand achievements, or I wouldn't. Years down the line I'd wind up being distracted by pleasures of the flesh, the girls and the booze and general debauchery that come with young adulthood. The stuff that dreams were made of would be destroyed by the furniture of the houses of Sodom, maybe even Gomorrah.
And it all started that first week of junior high when I realized I wasn't the star student anymore.
I relinquished that title once held in elementary school and made way for the Andrews of the world.
It didn't bother me one bit at the time.
In fact, it came as a relief.
I didn't have to fill those shoes anymore, and when I happened to do exceptionally well
it came as somewhat of a surprise to all, including myself.
Being slightly better than average had its advantages.
And when I finished high school with the thirty-sixth highest Grade Point Average in my graduating class of six hundred thirty-six
a lot of people were proud of me.
Me, not so much.
I knew better, saw through my own smoke and mirrors.
The Andrews were taking the hardest courses, Physics and Literature.
I stuck to the ones with the college credits and the likelihood of having attractive young ladies as classmates.
Electives came easy.
I liked easy.
I liked it too much.
It got me in trouble in college.
Trouble in college got me out of college.
There were no attendance sheets there.
Only empty bottles of Jack Daniel's
and emptier hearts.
Homecoming had a whole new meaning.

Somewhere along the line I landed in construction, and though I'm grateful for my union job it's not really me. It never will be. I'm the guy who reads in his car on lunch break. The one who always hears from coworkers how he's an idiot for wasting his true talents and should go back to school while there's still time. In the next breath they contradict themselves like most people. They tell me that I pay attention and do nice work, I make those pipes look good. They accept me as one of their own, though I'll never accept them as true peers. Union brothers, father figures, friends; but when it comes down to it we just don't have anything in common other than our tape measures, pliers, and pocket levels. No more over-stuffed bookbags.
Those days are done.
I had my shot.
I blew it.
I'm making the best of the hand I sabotaged.
It works sometimes.

I squint my eyes and wince as the sun gets brighter in my room somehow.
I contemplate replacing the blinds with plywood.

"You coming or not?" my roommate asks. I've been stalling for a few minutes, mulling it all over.

Andrew's career has budded promisingly, his fiancee is a trophy, his student loans and car payments and mortgage will disappear with a few years' salary. He'll earn every bit of it, he applies himself to the best of his ability while I let the chips fall where they may.

"Nah, I don't think I can make it." Ah, sweet double entendre.

I can look a lot of people in the eyes: my mother, since she watched me fight my way back up; my real friends, since they know I mean well despite my shortcomings; my various foremen and all the other disgruntled old construction workers, since they recognize my work ethic and respect me for that if nothing else.

I can look a lot of people in the eyes, but not Andrew James Maroney III. Somehow I feel that he was expecting more of me, even when I wasn't. He hasn't been around to see the struggle, equally valiant and shameful at times. It wouldn't compute anyway. He's bred for the win, God bless him.

"Tell him I said Hello."

"Whatever. Will do."

Click.

I turn my phone off
pull the covers over my head
roll over on my side
and go back to sleep
still a Wildcard in the Race
not yet an undeniable Failure.

As long as there's time
there's hope.

No comments: