Spending the Decades After My Death in the Tackiest Places on Earth Seems Fitting
There's something clarifying about looking back at those first few years of nurture vs nature and recognizing the patterns that define who and what you are in the world as an adult.
Spending more time with my mom has unearthed a few tidbits that seem to resonate in ways I hadn't considered much before. She tells me that on my first day of school, kindergarten, while all the parents were walking their children to their first class ever, I refused to let her walk with me. At five years old, I was determined to do it on my own. I'd heard this story before but not that it broke her heart and she sat in her car and cried. She took a picture of my tiny frame marching in alone and had it published in my high school year book thirteen years later.
She tells me that when I packed up my truck to head out after college (ultimately ending up in Chicago) there were no tears from me, just determination to go out and tackle things solo. She tells me that, at the time, she wondered if she'd ever see me again. A few years later, apparently I looked at her and said "I think you're permanent." A shitty thing to say to my mother but revealing nonetheless.
I've mined my circus-like career and life choices for humor and stories for as long as I can remember but it takes being shoved off a cliff (rather than my almost pathological decision to jump off of them throughout my days) and hitting, while not rock bottom—I still have a ride, shelter, and food as well as a few folks who care about me—pretty close to that barrel floor, to see myself more objectively.
A rolling ˈstone (gathers no ˈmoss) (saying)—a person who moves from place to place, job to job, etc. and so does not have a lot of money, possessions or friends but is free from responsibilities.
In the consistent pursuit of being that guy, a few years ago I landed on what I wanted done to my decaying corpse once I shuffle off. At the time I was married and the responsibility fell to my wife. She was busy having massive amounts of sex for money and she isn't my wife but my third ex-wife so the duty falls upon you, Dear Reader.
First, I want to be cremated. I've been to a few open casket funerals and that shit is plain creepy. Nope. Ashes to ashes for me, gang.
Second, I want my remains to be portioned out into three equal amounts.
The first third should be placed inside my trumpet, the trumpet welded shut and made into a functioning table lamp. The lamp should then be sold in the Midwest at a garage or rummage sale.
The second third should be placed in a futuristic looking glass jar, sealed, and a label should be placed on it that states "AUTHENTIC MOON DUST! Straight from Apollo 11, this is dust from the actual MOON!" The jar should be taken to a gift shop just outside AREA 51 in Nevada and placed on a shelf with other Moon-oriented crap with a price tag slightly cheaper than the most expensive alien figurine.
The final third should be mixed in with ceramic pottery and made into a figurine of Mickey Mouse with a huge cock and then placed in a Spencer's Gifts somewhere in Orlando, FL.
I figure, in keeping with my bizarre rolling stone trajectory to date, these objects (lamp, moon dust, and figurine) will be sold, sit in some of the tackiest homes in America, resold at other garage sales, and on and on. I will still be dancing through the world like an idiot.
My dad thinks this tendency to roll and gather little moss—no wife, no kids, few possessions, limited debt—is a flaw. "No, pops. My habit of finding fault with women who choose me and then marrying the women I see as a challenge is a flaw. The gypsy lifestyle is not a bug but a feature. I'm in my mid-fifties. That part is baked into the bread like cheese."
Last week I walked into my high school for the first time in thirty-eight years.
After my sojourn to the two malls of my youth, I decided it was time to revisit the building I spent the most time in during my days of hormonal overload and scholastic achievement. In my mind, it would take around 90 minutes to drive from Wichita to Towanda, KS, home of Circle High School (and that’s about it). The drive took just under 24 minutes.
This disparity in my memory of the trip and the reality of it was the first sign that nearly four decades and having lived in major cities since had affected my perception.
In 1984, the school was a dome building. The dome was why it was called ‘Circle’ and, yes, this adherence to the literal seems about right in hindsight. As I drove up, the dome was gone. Towanda looked almost if I had never left with the sole exception being the local grocery was gone and replaced by a brick building with no indication what it was for except for a huge sign on the front that stated unambiguously “HEBREW.” I’m sure I’ll swing by and dig into what that means but I had other discoveries to make on this trip.
I pulled into the parking lot. The football field was still to my left, the building (now more complex than the big dome) still to my right.
“Can I help you?” He was leaning a bit too much my way and it occurred to me in the Era of the Mass Shooter his concern was merited.
“Yeah. I’m an alumnus from 1984. Haven’t stepped in the building in four decades and I’ve recently moved back to Kansas to help my family. Where are the students?”
“Columbus Day. We’re in-service today so I guess you’re lucky in your timing. I’m Mr. (I can’t remember). I’m the Principle. Mr. Science Teacher Who Looks Like a Baseball Coach? Could you give this gentlemen a quick tour?”
He printed a badge on a lanyard for me. Mr. Science Teacher was happy to help. He started the tour by showing me the outdoor courtyard that was the center of the dome.
“That’s where the library stood back in my day,” I said with a bizarre tilt of gravity. “Wow.”
“That’s where the library was? I had no idea. My wife graduated from here so maybe you know some of the same people?”
“When did she graduate?”
“2009.”
“Ah. No. I graduated in 1984.”
He looked at me as if I was a dinosaur that had strolled in and could magically speak.
He escorted me to a mosaic on the wall. Approximately 10’x12’, a facsimile of the Thunderbird mascot with emblems for music, art, speech, and drama in the corners. It hung on the wall with a certain reverence as if it were a relic of an ancient civilization. “Do you remember this? They saved it from I guess when the school was pretty new.”
“I remember it because it was my sophomore class that made it. Some of those stones were cemented in it by these hands.”
Again, he looked at me as if I was Benjamin Franklin checking out all the cool new developments in electricity and micro-brewing.
We went to the auditorium and, aside from brand new chairs and some fairly nice lighting equipment, it was exactly the same stage I had performed The Music Man on. Behind the stage was the hallway with both the Vocal Music Room and the Band Room. They were both much smaller than I remembered. I looked down the hallway toward the side exit.
“What’s over there?” Mr. Science Teacher asked.
“Oh. Probably not there anymore but back in the day there was a stash of Playboys and weed I had up above the door in the ceiling.”
“You wanna check?”
“Nah. Don’t want to get anyone—meaning you—in trouble.”
We went by the poster farm of graduating classes. I found 1984 and 1987 (when my sister graduated). I don’t look vastly different from back then but most of that has to do with my ridiculous weight loss fifteen years ago. The faces, though. The fucking faces. People I had completely erased from memory or compartmentalized into a box marked “High School in Bumfuck, KS” were suddenly thrust into my brain. I immediately started noticing the many girls I’d slept with from 1982 through 1984. I started to comment that “I fucked her,” but remembered I was in Kansas. Lotta Jesus out here so I never know if my less than sacred language will wildly offend someone.
“Wow. I dated her. I dated her, too. I also dated her.”
“How did you find the time?”
“Well, I mean, I only dated her once in the band room.”
He laughed. I hadn’t offended.
We walked around for an hour. I was gobsmacked. It was surreal to be in those hallways and to see trophies and pictures of these kids I knew so many years ago (including the National Forensics League Debate Championship gavel trophy with a photo of myself and our team). Also, a picture of the ‘top ten’ of our graduating class (including two girls I dated).
It was all a bit like time travel. I’m coming to grips with the dominant feature in myself in that I am a rolling stone and have always been one. I do gather moss but I leave it places I can easily find: Chicago, New York City, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and, of course, Wichita. I can roll my ass off, skipping across the pond of life like a skipping stone, and when I need a green, mossy blanket, I can stop rolling for a while.
Except for after I die. Then I'll be sitting on end tables across this great United States, gifted as jokes or purchased by lunatics, all the way until Chuck Heston finds his way to Earth after the apes take over.
