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The Real GOOD Loser, A Story That Could…
Chapter Twenty-Six: Finale Part Two of Three: Showstopper
“There is only one war that matters: The Great War…and it is here.”
— from the show Game of Thrones
The date today is Tuesday February 22nd, 2050…. I am the Boy Who Died.
Three voices creep into my dream and tear apart the image in front of me. The sound of a trumpet gets louder as my dream fights to stay alive. One last horn blows and echoes around the inside of my mind louder and longer than what seems possible. Waking up, I smell reality.
This is how I’ve trained myself to identify dreams now. Smell. Reality has a very unique smell.
Breathing in that unfortunate smell, I keep my eyes closed as I don’t want to forget this dream yet. Some might prefer to live in the past if they could, but me, I’d prefer to live in these dreams of mine if I possible. But I can’t. It’s taken me a lifetime to accept this…to accept that: reality always wins.
“We shouldn’t wake him up,” I hear someone say as the emptiness of this reality quickly consumes me. “We should let him keep dreaming.”
“Why do you say he’s dreaming?” a second voice asks as the spotlight in my mind turns to him.
“He had that smile on his face,” a third voice in the room walks onto the platform waiting for him in my mind, “like he was king of the world or something.”
This last comment is made by Jayce; one of my twins. Jayce is My Joker. To me it’s his laugh that makes him so special. He’ll try and make others laugh even when he’s hurting himself. A laugh like that can only cover one’s sadness for so long though—I know that from experience.
The Three Young Men around me get a small chuckle from what Jayce says about my dreaming face. Time has made them men but when they talk to each other like this I can still sometimes hear them as children. Surrounding me on all sides, I complete their circle by lying in this bed; they have their own chairs in here now and so I know where each of them sits without having to open my eyes.
For the past few days, I’ve been slipping in and out of consciousness; discussing the life I’ve lived and telling myself I can be proud of the legacy I’m leaving behind. I believe this, I really do. But still it hurts. Because I don’t want to leave them… my three best friends… my wolfpack… My Boys.
If every life is a story, and if all stories are love stories, you were always the real focus of mine.
Beneath the sheets I move my fingers just a little to make sure I’m still here; to make sure this isn’t another twisted creation of my mind. Feeling the softness of the bed confirms I have not yet made my exit.
Even if this wasn’t true though—even if I was just watching them have that party I want them to have when I’m gone—I’d still be content. Yes, I am dying, but I have made my peace with this life and with my boys around me this is still a wonderful ending to my story.
Keeping my eyes closed, I feel my heart inch its way up my chest and feel like I might choke on the sadness swelling up inside me. With a purposeful breath I push it down and fight to stay strong. For them.
Throat cancer took away my ability to talk to anyone today. Pretending to still be asleep, I force myself to think about that to keep this sadness from overwhelming me.
I was supposed to go see a specialist after being advised by my doctor. But then I got frustrated with the insurance process and those stupid referral requests. The cost of merely existing had me getting mad at those poor people on the phone for just doing their job; like all the bullshit was their fault. Putting Band-Aids on my life had become my life. After a week of trying to set that appointment up my throat felt better. So, I did as I always did…I did what The Beatles told me to do: I “Let It Be”—God, how stupid I was.
Tapping into the anger does its job. I feel the sadness inside me leak away; replaced by frustration and that sense of hopelessness this reality makes certain is always present just beneath the surface. It’s as if I can literally see these emotions that live inside me now. I’m so tired of talking to myself though. It feels like I’ve been doing it forever—When will all this just end already?
With my eyes still closed, I focus again on the three voices talking all around me.
“Do you guys remember Dad asking us that question all the time?”
It’s funny the things our loved ones discuss when we’re dying.
“You mean… the question?” I hear Brett reply knowingly. “Who’s gonna change the future?”
I can’t help but hear the gloom fill the space between Brett’s words. Brett is my other twin; my Believer. To me it’s his heart that makes him so special. He’ll believe in you even when you can’t believe in yourself. Everyone should be so lucky to have a person like that their lives, but a heart like that gets heavy in a world so darkened by anger and hate—I know mine did.
“Do you remember why he asked us that? Like was he serious? … I mean, do you really think he thought we would?”
The questions are presented to the group by my youngest son; Joey. Joey is my Thinker. All three of my boys have some Joker and Believer in them, but to me it’s his curious mind that makes him so special. His mind is always asking questions and coming up with ideas. In a world so full of problems, a mind like that becomes troublesome—mine most certainly did.
When these boys were young I had trained them to say, “We will!” whenever I asked this question about who was gonna change the future. It was a cute thing to do when they were all little. I did really believe we’d change the future for a time though. Unfortunately…that time never came.
The room goes quiet after Joey presents his brothers, Jayce and Brett, with his series of questions. There is a fan on somewhere; the breeze moves back and forth and reminds me that this is no longer some dream of mine. With no one talking, I reflect on that actual dream I was just having before these three wonderful morons of mine decided to wake me up.
That dream was most definitely some variation to the ending of that story I wrote years ago. Even now, when I am about to die, my mind is still messing with me it seems; attempting to piece together a puzzle I was incapable of piecing together on my own.
Maybe people will finally read my story when I’m dead?
When I’m gone these boys will find one hundred copies of that story I wrote years ago in my closet. Being told my illness was terminal, I gained the courage to read it a while back. That’s when I found myself wondering if maybe people would finally read it when I’m dead.
I had originally titled that story Social Recovery 101: A Book That Could Spark A Redistribution.
That word redistribution I had pirated from the book The Real History Of The End Of The World by Sharan Newman. Many books found me and talked to me in ways I needed over the years. That one discussed people who had prophesized the world’s destruction and had massive followings by doing so. Hoping our world would be awakened rather than destroyed, I gave my story that title as an act of defiance.
Writing that story had me feeling like the-little-engine-that-could attempting to climb Mount Everest: “I think I can…I think I can…I think I can.” Really, I didn’t think I could. It was like chopping down a forever re-growing tree of doubt. Each day and each chop had me questioning my sanity.
Part of me was relieved to put it away. I had a story to tell, and I did. Whether people read it or not was out of control—it took me a very long time to accept that.
People called me a lot of names for believing in what that story could maybe do, funny enough I learned the words friends and family and doctors were looking for when watching a comedian’s stand-up act one day: Russel Brand’s Messiah Complex. “He thinks he’s gonna save the world!” Are the words they were looking for: “He’s got a Messiah Complex!”
Studying entertainment had me realizing plenty of messiahs had been depicted to me over the years. If people might tease me and compare me to one, I decided I’d be like Harry Potter: the Boy Who Lived. I’d make people believe in magic and miracles again. Me and my boys would be voices people could trust—how blasphemous.
No real messiah would be as angry or inappropriate minded as me. My mind remembers sending that last query to agents and constantly having to erase spam email hoping someone had responded. I’d get excited when my phone rang only to be disappointed when it was just another person trying to sell me something.
With so many ways to communicate, somehow humanity had lost its ability to communicate entirely it seemed. Life—every goddamn part of it—had become exhausting and FAF.
Money was causing the world to fall apart around me. Wealth discrepancy connected us all. I, however, would never be comfortable telling people what to do with their money—and said so in that story—rather, I’d need to show people. To do that I’d need money…a boatload of it.
Yes, I was most certainly crazy and delusional for what I believed that story might give me the opportunity to do. Lying on this bed now though, being called crazy no longer scares me finally, and believing in a delusion or two or three of four seems a bit like common sense.
Me as President though? … Hard pass on that one. Who in their right mind would want to be President these days? Other parts of that dream I could have lived with.
With that story I’d increase humanity’s cognitive ability to interpret stories. Rather than simply watch and believe, I wanted to teach people how to watch and decipher instead. I needed to increase humanities collective C.S.I. Score: Common Sense Intellect: one’s ability to separate truth from fiction when presented a piece of entertainment in the real world.
I purposely deceived potential readers and listeners of that story by blurring the lines between fiction and reality. In the end those readers and listeners would be challenged to piece together what was real and what wasn’t.
The Uncle Marshal me and Joey talked to in that story I imagined being Eminem: the rapper. If the story worked, I’d ask him to re-write that Cinderella Man song for me and turn it into an anthem for The J-Man——If that really happened why couldn’t my boys call him Uncle Marsh someday?
Many of Eminem’s songs spoke to me over the years. At times some felt like they were written just for me. Did that make me crazy? … Or had I simply become a product of my world? — A person that felt more connected to the entertainment I consumed than the people that surrounded me.
The idea for that story first came to me in 2014. In the YouTube video I made after the fire in 2016 to try and get people to read what I wrote then I used that song No Love Eminem did with Lil’ Wayne imagining “feeling alive again” if I could escape the nightmare that had become my life at the time. Years later, when I finally attempted writing that story again, what I most wanted was to escape the tyranny of Joey’s mom; Sirena I called her in that story.
She had chosen to play a different role in my life by then and so I needed a name that fit. The name I chose stood for “super powerful enchantress” according to some Google search I did. With a change of perspective, Eminem’s song No Love conveniently described how she had been treating me then—Who would have ever imagined it?
I still believe all people have some good inside of them. She, like the rest of the world, tested that belief to its extreme at times.
She had rendered me utterly powerless. My only hope of escape, I thought, was to pour my pain and frustration into that story and hope it might break me free of the chains I created for myself by getting involved with her in the first place.
I really was King Stupid maybe. For so long I tried writing that story in a way that wouldn’t embarrass her. Right up until the very end at least. It’s a miracle I kept it together for that long maybe.
With that story I’d fight. For me and anyone else feeling chained to a reality controlled by not-so-good people. If my story worked: GOOD would win! —— Eventually…. Finally…. Maybe?
Joey was in fifth grade when I finally put that story away. His mom wanted to send him to a private school thirty minutes away the following year. Like my son, I wasn’t a fan. Looking back, perhaps I was being selfish though.
I had big plans for me and that story and these boys then and wanted them to live a normal life as long as possible. The fact she was willing to spend some of that house money on him I should have perhaps been grateful for; as her concerns about school were most certainly valid.
The twins were juniors at our town’s public high school then and learning almost nothing. I’m sure some kids were learning something but most most definitely were not.
Getting kids to put their phones down and participate and focus on anything was feeling impossible by then. Scrolling had quickly become our life. If entertainment was poisoning our reality—like my book claimed it was—scrolling entertainment put the angrification and stupification of our reality into hyperdrive…while podcasts spread Idiocracy like a plague.
That same year our town was debating letting a horse track be built on the old dump site just off the highway. Joey’s mom had a lawn sign supporting it of course. When I teased her she said it was her neighbor’s sign. “If you’re going to support something you should be honest about it,” I said to her that day. “I am!” she replied…believing a lie maybe.
I had given myself one last chance to find a literary agent for my story when all this was going on. Once again I found myself feeling like Will Ferrel in that movie Stranger Than Fiction: “No way this can be real,” I remember thinking. But it was. And I had the pictures to prove it if needed.
“Useless P.O.S.” — “Psycho.” — “Fucking Loser!”
The hurtful words she threw at me in the years I spent working on that story are easy to remember now. All I could do then was take screenshots of text conversations on my phone.
I can’t remember if her calling me an f’ing loser is why I changed the title to that story at first, but it fit nicely when all was said and done. I continued to watch her treat other people good, just not often me for some reason. I think it had something to do with that resentful victim thing I talked about in that story.
People needed to learn how to laugh at their behavior that story said. Studying hers—like I had my own—would help others. She didn’t need to lose for me to win though. Grow and learn maybe but not lose necessarily. Her and I would always be parents together—for better or for worse.
That story would just to be an introduction though: “One long disclaimer” I called it. How I’d deal with her later would depend on how she reacted: Would she do what was right for our son … or would I need to make her?
“Is it better to be feared or respected?” I started that story by asking readers and listeners. “Is it too much to ask for both?”
I wrote that story in the way life pushed me to. Readers and Listeners wouldn’t understand much of it until the very end. Even then they’d need my help understanding a lot of it…which was kind of the goal really.
I considered that story a recruitment tool: a business plan camouflaged in story that would help me find others that thought like me. No one could fix the world with all its problems—not in my lifetime at least—but I thought maybe we could entertain a troubled world and let the entertainment maybe fix it someday.
That was the big idea at least. If entertainment was truly hemorrhaging with reality—like I thought it was—I figured we could maybe use that to our advantage.
“With entertainment we made the fake real not knowing it for the most part,” I wrote somewhere in the finale to that story. “Maybe we could do it again… but better this time.”
To truly change things for the better, I’d need to surround myself with smart people: people like Yuval Noah Harari. His name was always hard for me to remember—never mind pronounce—but I loved his books. His book titled Nexus sits on the bookshelf Joey and I built above this bed I lay in now.
That book discussed how information shaped society over time. “Movements seeking to change the world often begin by rewriting history,” he wrote in another book I listened to titled Homo Deus. Inside the front cover of one of my many journals I quoted something from that book’s chapter about Storytellers: “The power of human cooperation networks rests on a delicate balance between truth and fiction.”
Words like those made me think that man would understand what I was trying to do. I’d need help from people like him and others like Jonathan Nolan and Lisa Joy. They were the creators of that show Westworld I liked. I thought they might be the right people to help me create a show of my own someday that might create real change in the real world.
I wanted to make people dream again. With that story I’d unlock people’s inner child. That’s what that word JoJo stood for. That was the word I’d put inside that Octagon of P.A.I.N.——Not that word dIverge like in that dream I just woke up from.
I imagined a wide variety of people joining my little J-Squad someday; flying white flags with that backwards L on it and diverging from the future many believed ahead of us. All of us pieces to some cosmic puzzle the universe wanted us to try and put together.
Thinking Eminem and I might be friends—and that I’d beat X2 in some potential legal battle— and that I’d be partners in some mission to change the world with super smart and super talented people were actually some of my least concerning delusions back then.
I never wanted to be President like in that dream but had no interest in being some playboy either. I had work to do and would live the rest of my life alone if needed. I’d be like Jon Snow in Game of Thrones: sent to the wall to protect the rest of the world from Northern Threats. To me “Northern Threats” were fictional creations of our minds mostly.
In case I didn’t want to live the rest of my life alone though I wrote myself a potential love interest into that story: a teammate—a female Robin to my Batman…or a Harry to my Lloyd maybe.
The first version of my story had me marrying Emma Watson. I changed it to Drew Barrymore because her birthday fell on JoJo Day and because of that ham sandwich bit and because I thought people might be critical of me going after someone younger than me. I changed it once more to Miley Cyrus when I watched her make that new year’s resolution. Discovering her birthname was Destiny it had to be her, I thought.
She seemed like someone who could really laugh at herself—a necessity to being with someone like me—but all three of those woman appeared genuine, kind, and humble to me; the features I most admire in a person. None of them were married then either, and so, while any of them being interested in a twice-divorced-father-of-three-from-two-separate-moms was unlikely, it was possible.
People love gossip and drama. With that story I was going to feed it to them with a shovel.
I overthought a lot back then. I even had a choice of songs picked out for whoever might have me: All Of Me by John Legend or Give Into Me from that Country Strong movie.
By the time I put that story away Miley was doing all these alterations to her appearance. She was doing them all along but started getting carried away. I imagined her a beautifully spirited person that needed no physical alterations and could be a role model to women thinking they needed to do this stuff themselves…watching her from afar saddened me.
I was different from the rest of the world. Very different. That’s why I envisioned living the rest of my life alone and not letting this reality weigh me down. Perhaps all three of those fine ladies would have wanted to join the J-Man had I made what I imagined real though. Hell…maybe even at the very same time——Giggidy, Giggidy.
Oh shit…did I just think that out loud? Dear Readers and Listeners….Elvis has left the building! —— Good afternoon, good evening and goodnight.
“Look at him,” I hear one of my boys say from beside me, “he’s literally laughing at himself now.”
Realizing I can pretend to be asleep no longer, I decide THE TIME HAS COME….
Opening my eyes, the clock I see coming into focus reads 1:19 p.m. I don’t believe in signs anymore but seeing this number now has me wondering if maybe I should.
After watching that second plane hit the twin towers my first month at college I saw the number 911 everywhere. I considered it a sign of something bad to happen in my life until Grammy Price died on December 12th, 2021—on my mother’s birthday oddly enough—and I started seeing this number instead: 119.
“Angels are trying to communicate with you.”
I was working on my story then and read this thing about angels. I told myself it was gram trying to tell me things were about to turn around for me; and the world maybe. Telling my boys this, one of them found something on their phone that said it was a sign of the devil. In that moment I remember thinking we humans could turn anything into a negative.
I’ve since come to believe that if there is a God it’s not some big thing looking down on us but something very small instead. Working in ways we are incapable of understanding. From that perspective, we are a bunch of big dumb giants; unable to see or hear.
Looking at this number now—and thinking all these crazy things—has me again wondering if maybe there is something after this…
Maybe I’ll get to see Grampa Phil?
I regret never giving him a copy of that story to read. I just couldn’t. I needed someone to tell me it was good before I was comfortable giving it to him and sadly that never happened. I learned early on not to ask for help or guidance with that story. People had expectations of me and I felt their disappointment deep in my bones whenever I mentioned writing.
Alone you can only believe in a dream for so long I found. I worked on that story in semi-secret for four years; weaving as many thoughts and ideas and pot-stirring conversation starters into it as I could. I finally had to quit after making that stupid post on my towns Facebook page on September 11th, 2024; a date I chose because of this number thing.
With that post I invited people to read my story on that website where they could pre-order a printed version if they wanted. Only one person ever did. Embarrassed, I sent Mrs. Tucker her money back and kept those hundred copies that are in my closet now.
I figured that many family or close friends would have known my struggle and supported my dream by then. Holy shit was I wrong. The kicker is stupid me honestly thought I was doing that to help them back then.
Looking past my boys, the computer I wrote that story on is still tucked into the corner of this bedroom.
I was using pictures of them for chapter headlines on that website thinking it might get the attention of a literary agent. Wanting them to be comfortable with that, the memory of us looking at those pictures always stayed with me…
“Dad,” Joey said sitting on my lap looking at that computer, “I don’t know if I want you to get published.”
“Why not?” I asked him.
“Because” he answered thoughtfully, “then everything will change for us.”
One of the twins had his weight on my shoulder while the other leaned on the desk. They have always cared deeply about how other people feel; an amazing quality really. They both knew how much work I had put into that story and that what their younger brother said in that moment might upset me.
I remember their eyes studying me as I thought on how to respond.
“Boys,” my memory has me saying to them that day, “there are people this story will help—people that feel hopeless right now…they need us.”
Joey was right of course; things would change for us, if what I imagined became real, things would change in a way no one believed possible. That, however, is not why I remember that conversation with them that day.
I realized I’d been lying then. I said I was writing that story for them—to give them a better life—but really I was doing it for myself. They had all they needed then. It was me who was looking for a better life and validation from a world I thought might never love or understand me. They already did love and understand me though.
When I failed to get the attention of a literary agent with that first version of my story, I decided I could handle the mountain of self-doubt and worked on improving it while investing as much time as possible with them. Regardless of what happened, I knew I’d never regret that.
We did a lot of fishing during that time—they fished, I watched mostly—and went to the movies to see Griffen a lot and sometimes out to eat to see Tia. They were old students of mine and all around great human beings; that’s why I wrote them into my story…I thought maybe my story would give them a platform to spread some of their goodness with the world someday.
That period of my life—when I was trying to patient—was long, lonely, and doubt filled.
Keeping so many secrets and looking like a failure—a loser—to so many people had me feeling super depressed. I’d go for walks back then and feel like a winning lottery ticket waiting to be scratched some days, most days however I’d go for those walks and feel like a piece of trash waiting to be thrown away. Hope and doubt certainly had themselves a good game of ping pong in my mind back then.
I wasn’t strong enough to use that story…but maybe they will?
With this question a speck of light splinters through darkness as my boys’ voices come back into focus. They are talking about the “Henrieboys Dorm” poster on the door. The room we are in now looks a lot like it did back then; posters and pictures and puzzles still litter nearly every inch of its walls: my Fortress of Solitude I’ve come to call it.
Many people are like me today and survive by sharing a roof with family. Generation after generation lived off the wealth of their parents and grandparents; when life was a bit fairer and more equitable. Those days are over now though, and this this dystopian existence appears here to stay. With most of us still slaves to possessions and addicts of consumption; with roofs over our heads but holes in our hearts.
The sound of footsteps approaching interrupts my critical thoughts.
Rolling my head on its pillow I look towards the door and see a sprinkle of rain tap against the window. A long moment passes before I watch four friends walk into the room: Lauryn, Nel, Pras, and Candace: my students.
I love these students more than anyone could possibly understand. With seven heads surrounding me now, I feel my momentary joy turn to anger——WHY DO I HAVE TO PUT YOU THROUGH ALL THIS!?! Clenching my teeth, I suddenly feel like some monstrous beast preparing to destroy their existence.
Noticing the change in my expression, my boys look at me with concern. Each of them then turns to the door and looks at the four students standing there.
Joey breaks the silence and says what they’re all thinking: “What is he looking at?”
There are so many things I wish I could tell my boys right now. Things they should know when they find that story in my closet. I wish I could jam my memories into their minds so that maybe they’ll understand…
After reading that story I forced myself to watch that YouTube video I made after the fire: JoJo Apocalypse, I titled it.
The video still had its four hundred something views, zero likes, and two dislikes. I always thought to know who one of those two disliked belonged to, but the second forever haunted me as I never knew when that person might be looking right at me.
I got that job teaching at that recovery high school a few years after posting that video and a year after getting out of that halfway house…. but I was only a math teacher at that school.
That story in my closet would introduce the class I thought this world really needed and make sense of that video. Friends and family did me the favor of acting like that video and everything that happened before never happened. But it did.
With that story I’d prove to the world—and myself mostly—that I wasn’t completely insane back then. “This is going to work,” I used characters in that video to literally tell people, “It’s a little crazy perhaps—but I’m not crazy. I just finally know what I have to do…and I know in my heart its right.”
The four students I just imagined coming into this room weren’t exactly real. The names of Nel and Pras and Lauryn were the names of the singers in the band Fugees and Candace was the name of an old girlfriend who died after we separated just crossing the street at twenty-seven years old.
I had three long loves in my life: my first wife, my second wife, and Candace. She didn’t much like her teeth and would use that feature to do this funny impersonation of Sid the Sloth from the movie Ice Age. Unlike the Candace in my story, my real Candace did die. She lived on in my memory though and I would keep that memory alive if I could. To me Candace had beautiful teeth but an even more beautiful soul.
Closing my eyes to this reality once more, I think again of what I could done differently to get people to read that story back then…
Maybe a few more lies and tricks and a bit more deception would have had people listening to me back then? … Or maybe I just wasn’t ready? … Maybe I had more to learn? …
With my eyes closed, I feel a small hand on my thigh nudging me as I continue asking questions.
What else could I have learned? … Hadn’t I been through enough? … Couldn’t I have just caught a break?
—Ouch!
My eyes snap open. Looking down, I look to see what has just pinched my hip. Faith; my granddaughter, smiles up at me. Lifting my cheeks, I smile back.
I never did let another girl steal my heart again, but then this little one came along and captured it effortlessly. When she was born my son gave her this name because of something I supposedly said once: “Faith can be whatever helps make you good person.”
According to Faith’s young imaginative mind, her and I are boyfriend and girlfriend actually. We even have a song: Bubble Toes by Jack Johnson because of some viral video thing we did a while back.
Faith grabs my hand, and I watch her begin her routine of tracing that heart onto it.
A month ago, she was coloring beside me when some cartoon mentioned tattoos. Wordlessly saying I had none of my own, I took that black sharpie marker she’s using now and drew a small heart on the back of my left-hand; just below the pinky knuckle. Faith then drew two letters inside it: a capital U and a little r. This is my mark now and Faith makes certain it doesn’t fade.
I wrote the secret missing from my story on the smooth white rock my boys had given me with that marker Faith is using now. They’ll find that rock with those one hundred copies of my story. They had given me that rock when I had gotten my diagnoses with a card that read: “You were a wonderful councilor to us and will forever be our rock.”
I held that rock for countless hours in search of some inner peace; never truly finding it. The secret I wrote on it was to be my story’s Showstopper: a funny ending to my story for a world full of people that took themselves too seriously in my opinion.
In the story my boys will read the ending is different. But with the notes and things I’ve left they should piece together how that secret fits into it. My hope is it provides them with one last awkward laugh from dad.
Faith finishes her work and jumps back a step to sit on her father’s lap. I watch my son wrap his arms around her the same way I once did him. With my son holding tight onto Faith, I watch him press play on the remote to turn on a movie for us to watch: Back to the Future—a classic.
Together we all watch Marty McFly walk into Doc’s workshop. He turns up the volume on the stereo full blast. Preparing to strike his guitar, a young Michael J. Fox says, “History is gonna change,” right before being blown back by the sound coming from the speakers.
The song Power of Love begins to play…
Is any of this real? … Or is this all just happening in my head?
I feel an extra set of eyes join us in this room. Zeroing in on those strange eyes, the truth suddenly hits me: All along the target was you…Y-O-U—My Readers and Listeners…My Candidates.
Finally feeling as I if am the star of my own movie, a commercial interrupts the real movie playing on the television in front of me.
Frustrated with the ticker counting down the seconds before this movie begins again, I close my eyes to this reality one last time. The rain taps harder on the windows as the sounds of this reality begin fading away.
I always wondered what I’d say in this moment. Having just closed my eyes to a commercial, I hand the microphone to the frustrated me…
When is enough, enough? … Seriously… How much money do you really need? I mean…do I really need to say it? Fine…I will…for Lauryn: Go F-Yourself. —— Or you could always change…If not now than when?
The End. (Question Mark)
The Teacher’s Playlist:
Earth by Lil Dicky
“Can anyone hear me?”
*
(End of Chapter 26)
Recovery High School 