WISDOMIN A BOTTLE OF BEER

Human nature, but not quite.

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To Mama and Papa, for a lifetime of misery and happiness I’d never exchange for anything in the world.

To Collin, for the brainwave and palpitations.

To He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Revealed, for something other than memories.

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A Superficial Repertoire of Observations Made One Morning in an English Class

I met Garrett here in Crate Park High last year when he’d just moved from his old place in Belleville to resume his studies here as a sophomore. He was in my English literature class and was almost always ten to thirty minutes late. Old Mr. Gray – the 53-year old and still single English lit professor – would almost always reprimand him about his tardiness.

“Late again, Mr. Hawthorne? What’s your excuse this time?” old Mr. Gray would ask.

“Same as before, sir. I overslept,” was Garrett’s constant reply.

“Very good, Mr. Hawthorne. Keep it up.” Of course, old Mr. Gray was just being sarcastic...

“Why, thank you, sir. I will.” Garrett would often say. Then he’d take his seat at the back of the class as casually as if he’d been there all the while. Old Mr. Gray could only shake his gray head, tap his pen on the tabletop, then pick up from where he left off before he was rudely interrupted.

Other than the bantering, old Mr. Gray had never gone to the extreme measure of reporting Garrett’s dysfunctional view of punctuality to Mrs. Kandice Brower – the guidance counselor. Why old Mr. Gray never confronted Garrett’s tardiness in a more uncompromising manner wasn’t much of a surprise to everyone else in the class.

Garrett was easily old Mr. Gray’s favorite student.

He might not have looked like it – with his low-maintenance fashion sense and rule-breaking tendencies. But he was undeniably one of the smartest asses in Crate Park High. On top of the black tees, torn jeans, gray cotton hood, and old pair of chuck taylors was a head. A rather good one.

Old Mr. Gray ‘knows potential when he sees it.’ He said that all Garrett needed was a little nudge and a lot of understanding. That, I cannot argue with.

And old Mr. Gray probably saw himself in Garrett... he used to be ‘young, rebellious, and confused once’ too. That, I just had to comment on: rebellious and confused, maybe... but young?

Whenever I try to imagine old Mr. Gray being young, my imagination fails me. It’s as if he’d been borne out of spontaneous combustion along with the universe. Scrawny appearance; two-toned copper-red-and-silver-gray listless hair which is always combed towards the back; sunken, lifeless dark green eyes; crooked nose; smile/frown lines everywhere imaginable, tweed uppers, ... OLD. The only thing by which his alleged youth ever really seeped out was his childish grin. Never mind the mother-of-pearl teeth caused by 15 years of smoking. His grin reminded me of my younger brother, Dan…

Anyway...

Garrett would come out on top of the class in pop quizzes and exams of all sorts without him reviewing a single page of the references. He doesn’t take notes either. Old Mr. Gray would always point to Garrett each time nobody else in class could answer his questions. And Garrett would always end up arguing with old Mr. Gray – which fascinates the latter even more.

Quite frankly, Garrett fascinates me, too. He intrigues me more and more every day.

Here’s a boy you’d never deduce from his appearance to be the ideal student but was acing his classes without trying too hard or becoming a geek in the process.

He was an outcast, a loner, a rebel, an eccentricity, yes. But a somewhat cool sort of outcast, loner, rebel or eccentricity for that matter... if there ever was one. He exudes this aura of thought-provoking notoriety but manages to maintain graceful anonymity.

I compare him to a labyrinth with high walls of killer shrubbery and unceasing twists and turns. You don’t really intend to get in because you feel that once you’ve entered, there’s no turning back. But at the same time, you sense this unseen force which steers you towards it. And so you venture in – not knowing what to expect. And just when you thought you’ve figured things out, you find yourself at a dead end. You try to claw your way out but then it’s already grown on you and you know that you’re forever lost.

Yeah, that’s what he is – a labyrinth. He’s mystery personified. I think that’s what draws people into him.

Whether it was only some form of front he was putting up, nobody knew. Whatever game it was that he was playing, if ever he was playing, he was winning it.

He didn’t seem to be the kind of guy girls would go after. He’s no jock or some hotshot varsity. He’s no heartthrob with the perfect set of pearly whites, perfect hair, and killer looks. He was the regular guy from the regular family who lives in a regular neighborhood, eats regular food, drinks regular booze, with all the regular dreams and aspirations. Or at least that's how it seems to me.

Slumped in his arm chair at the back of the room, he was just another guy. Just another bored, dejected teenager in this nightmare of a school hoping to get out of here as soon as humanly possible without having to lift a finger. Just another bottle of beer on the cellar wall waiting to be sipped dry. Just another dark, hazel-eyed angel in the wrong heaven at the wrong time...

And I almost slapped myself silly when I realized I’d been looking at him for the last three minutes. Too late for a realization, I suppose…

He’d already seen me looking. Darn it!

Then I was suddenly back to listening to old Mr. Gray’s monotonous lecture about god-knows-what...

- to be continued -