Synchronicity

Although my hiding place behind an oak tree was not entirely sufficient, I decided that if I stayed quiet enough and didn’t look too conspicuous, it would do. It was a fair enough distance away from him so that I probably wouldn’t be noticed. And that was what mattered.

He sat on the bench alone with his arms stretched out across the back of it, his eyes cast to the sky. Autumn leaves fluttered about him like brown sugar sifted onto vanilla cookies. He did not smile.

I continued to watch him and eventually broke my vigil long enough to move the sketchpad that was digging into my arm to the other hand and switch on my iPod. The Police whispered in my ears as I turned back to him.

“There’s a little black spot on the sun today,” Sting crooned. The song was “King of Pain.” I’d chosen it because that’s what they called him.

It was a popular fad at Kaywood High School to be well-versed in 80’s music. When other senior classes chose “My Humps” as their unofficial song, people around here were more likely to go with “Don’t Dream It’s Over” by Crowded House or the Go-Go’s immortal classic, “We Got the Beat.” And, naturally, with everything that becomes popular for a time, people were eager to show off their knowledge of 80’s rock while simultaneously making it terribly exclusive. There were four girls who pretty much ran the show, as it usually happens, and they liked people to refer to them as The Uptown Girls. That spawned their relentless mission to nickname everyone in the school from their favorite songs. No one, staff, faculty, or students, was safe.

While I found the practice fairly ridiculous, there was one name with which I could not argue: the King of Pain was exactly that.

He had soft black eyes that reminded one of a ghost story. As a deserted house on a rainy night would be to unwitting characters, those eyes might look innocent to those who chose not to delve deeper. The one who listened to the tale, however, saw the signs from a distance and noticed the ominous darkness which lurked there. Otherwise, he was so fair, blonde and pale, but we all knew he wasn’t just shy. A darkness, a pain, lurked within him. And the Uptown Girls just loved it.

“What do you think his hands are like?” Ophelia asked of the others in Biology with a tone that was not a whisper but more of a sotto voice for the stage. I don’t see how they managed to talk so freely about him when he must have heard every little squeal, every sigh, every time one of them said she’d “like to be the one to ‘end his reign,’ baby!”

“His hands? Well, they’re right over there…” Beth pointed in the King’s general direction.

“No, stupid. What do you think they feel like?”

“Oh… Hot,” said Beth.

“Soft,” said Marie.

“Rough,” said Connie.

They fell into a fit of giggles. I turned my attention back to the blackboard in disgust. I doubted I would ever ask myself such a question. It was disrespectful and obnoxious… and, in any case, pointless. The King kept his hands to himself.

Even as I watched him from my hiding place behind the tree, I didn’t think it would be appropriate to fantasize about him that way. It was vulgar and also… disrespectful to a point that I could not imagine allowing myself to indulge in it. Sure, I had thought about other boys that way. There were a large number of varsity football players to look at in English and I had a class with Paolo, an exchange student who brought his guitar with him wherever he went. I mean, I’m only human. But to look at the King that way… It just seemed rude to lust after someone so obviously burdened. It would be like mentally undressing Christ on the cross or something. Maybe.

Once I had actually been asked my opinion…

Ophelia was having another attempt in stealth and she elbowed Connie. “What do you think it was that made him this way?” It was assumed she meant ‘why exactly was he the undisputed Kaywood High School King of Pain’.

“It’s probably because he wasn’t hugged enough as a child,” Beth responded.

“Maybe it’s because he doesn’t have a girlfriend…” mused Connie. “I could change that…”

Then, all of a sudden, Ophelia’s eyes lit up with a kind of sadistic excitement, as if she was about to thrust into the spotlight someone who preferred sewing costumes.

“What do you think, Sister?” This was not my name but the nickname they’d given me.

“What are you asking Sister Christian for?” Marie said, but Ophelia ignored her, obviously enjoying torturing me.

“I’m just wondering…” She zeroed in on me and I stiffened in my chair, “if maybe she can tell us why he’s so…” she struggled for the right word, “Lonely?”

“So lonely, so lonely!” Connie and Beth sang in unison at the mentioned of another Police tune. At this, Mr. Goldman raised his gnarled head from the formulas on the blackboard.

“Perhaps you girls would like to come up here and show the class how to factor this monstrous trinomial, eh? Would that be preferable to you, Miss Garner?”

“I’m fine where I am, Mr. Goldman.” Ophelia’s smile was that of a week old jack-o-lantern. She popped her gum and stared Mr. Goldman down until he turned his scattered thoughts back to the board. Once he was gone she whispered some lyrics to “Dancing in the Streets” and the other girls giggled. I really didn’t want to know the connection behind that one and I felt slightly satisfied that I was in the clear. But Ophelia was back on me, her blue eyes, like spun cotton candy, locking me into my chair.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked.

I held my breath and then raised my eyes a bit to sneak a glance at him. I was shocked into silence when I saw him looking back at me. It seemed that he had turned around when she asked me her question again and I could almost hear his mind whispering, “Yes… what do you think, Sister Christian?”

I dropped my head and let my gaze focus on the completely and totally interesting desk graffiti in front of me. Someone had scrawled a few lyrics from the Cure’s “Just Like Heaven” and beside it, IDOL FOREVER! had been carved into the old wood.

When the bell rang, the girls gathered their belongings and Marie turned to Ophelia. “Why would you even bother with Sister Christian?” she said. “You knew she wouldn’t say anything anyway…”

The reason I had become Sister Christian to them was this: I happened to be the youngest in our junior class, not because I skipped a grade, but just because my birthday had fallen between August and October of the next year. They treated me as if my minus four months on earth somehow made me this naïve little thing and, according to the Uptown Girls, this was why I didn’t usually participate in day-to-day conversation with my classmates. I would have to disagree.

I had lived in the same house, in the same small town, with the same neighbor, Patricia, planting her same petunias that bloomed every spring and died every winter. Since the age of four, I’d told time more by the flowers in Patricia’s garden than the months on my mother’s Anne Geddes’ calendar.

My father was the only real occurrence of spontaneity in my life. He was an insurance salesman which sometimes kept him away for weeks or more. When he returned he always had fascinating gifts and stories of other cities and the interesting things he’d seen and done there when he was off the clock. My favorite present was my first sketchbook which I quickly filled up with a million doodles and attempts at faces and frames as I learned the basics.

When I was eight years old, I was lying awake after my bedtime staring up at the poster of Al Pacino that hung on my ceiling above my bed and I heard the doorbell ring. Curious, I shuffled to the top of the staircase and poked my head out from under the banister, probably resembling some Norman Rockwell painting with my inquisitive expression and fuzzy slippers.

My mother had already answered the door and I heard her say in a surprisingly shrill voice, “I don’t understand what you mean, Jake.”

“Barbara…” Mr. de Paula stood in our doorway, holding his police cap in his fidgeting fists. He swallowed before continuing. “I’m actually here on an official matter. You see, Walter has been under some investigation reguarding his business, goes higher up than us actually. We were starting to suspect embezzelment, but we came across something else. Your husband has been traveling on many of his business trips to see another family he has in Sandusky, Ohio… A wife and three children, in fact… Normally, protocol requires a more formal arrangement in order to inform someone such as yourself of this type of situation, but circumstances brought me here and I wanted to let you know in the event that he might come home this weekend…”

Officer de Paula scuffed his shoe against the metal doorframe and locked eyes with my mother. “You and my wife have been playing bridge together every Tuesday since we moved here and I guess I just wanted to…” He trailed off and coughed a little into his fisted hand. “The best you can do is get yourself a good attorney. You won’t want to wait on drawing up those divorce papers.”

“Thank you, Jake,” my mother said primly, one hand holding the neck of her bathrobe shut even though she wore a nightgown underneath. “I’m sure everything will work out just fine.” She smiled a free and respectful smile and closed the door before he could answer.

Needless to say, Dad didn’t come home again after that, although my mother continued on like usual, telling everyone that he was always just away on another trip, keeping their joint bank account and her wedding ring.

I guess the oddest thing to me was that, even though I’d never met the family who had my dad, somewhere in Sandusky, Ohio, I had three siblings, who could just as easily have hung posters of Al Pacino on their ceilings or liked to draw or worn fuzzy slippers. I never really felt entirely unique since.

I got older and school became increasingly hard for me. My sophomore year, I had drawn up tightly within myself and that seemed alright with the rest of the world. Why obsess over the parties I didn’t get invited to or attend the dances to which I would not be asked? I spent my time in my room, keeping to myself, rather than slapping on cheap red lipstick to barely match a dress and stand against the wall with the other dateless as the Homecoming Court floated by.

I watched a lot of TV mostly, but often my time was spent in online message boards, reading opinions about movies, music, politics, and everything else. I never found the ability to type out my own thoughts though and I haunted the sites without speaking up.

Sometimes late at night I’d go to the roof and let my hands carry over a blank page with a pen until something began to take shape as a soft sketch suddenly in focus. I never took pride in what I drew; it was obvious the images didn’t come from me but from the world working through me. Never did I intentionally draw anything anymore.

So I stared at him from behind that damn tree, asking myself one question, that was really a question for him, over and over: God, King, what reason do I have to be spying on someone like you other than an ambiguous glance?, and once I’d been through that enough times, Why would you even look up so earnestly… at me? At me, when I would have had no answer even remotely plausible to explain his reign…

“Hey.”

I snapped to attention, realizing that someone had finally noticed me lurking. Naturally, I was prepared to run away or throw my backpack at the person who had discovered me, but when the King of Pain looked back at me with his worldly eyes, I found I couldn’t move. He didn’t look surprised that I hadn’t responded and instead of repeating himself, moved over on the bench to make room… for me. Nervous and electrified at the same time, I took the seat beside him.

“I know you from class,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. He turned and looked at me, slow, torturous. His hands lay in his lap and I had no idea if they were rough or cold or gentle… He looked strangely at me for a moment and I felt my face get hot. Finally he motioned to the sketchbook I was still desperately clutching.

“Do you draw?” he asked.

“No,” I said and then when faced with his mild surprise, amended, “Well… not really… I just sort of let circumstances decide what I’m going to draw. I don’t really choose it.”

He seemed confused, which was natural enough, because I sounded like a crazy person. What’s the matter with you? my mind hissed. Just because he has nice hands and a pretty face, you’re going to start blathering all the stupid, pointless things you happen to think?

“Why don’t you just draw what you want to draw,” he said, “instead of waiting for something else to tell you?” I didn’t respond. How could I possibly force the images to come when they never had before? After all, every sketch I’d ever created had just… happened to me, blowing through my world like my dad coming home on business and then disappearing before I could make any sort of change.

“If you could draw anything… what would it be?”

“…You.”

Somehow this did not seem odd when it left my lips. He looked at me expectantly until I used my inept hand to lift a pencil and place it to a blank page in my sketchbook. As I began a basic outline, I heard my father’s voice murmuring about shading and tone, the lessons I’d forgotten about since I had stopped bothering with my own inspirations.

He was a perfect subject, moving little and not asking to see the progress. Every stroke was laborious as I forced my hands to do what I wanted. I could barely control my uneven breathing, as if I was running for my life. I ended with his mouth and as my pencil swung over the curve of his lips, I saw him smile. So that was how I drew him.

When I was done, we sat side by side and stared at the simple sketch.

“It doesn’t look like you,” I said in disappointment.

He shrugged. “Maybe that’s because you drew me smiling.” When I looked up at him, that small smile had returned. It changed his face completely and for an instant I thought maybe I could be…

Then he pointed to my headphones. I jumped and took them out when I realized they were still in my ears, the music playing quietly.

“What are you listening to?” he asked.

“…‘King of Pain,’” I murmured. Without saying much else, he put one headphone in his ear and left the other to me.

“There's a blue whale beached by a spring tide's ebb
(Thats my soul up there)
There's a butterfly trapped in a spider's web
(Thats my soul up there)”

He listened intently. It was then I realized that, until now, he had never heard the song that gave him his title. I watched his face which remained expressionless for a time.

“King of Pain…” He mused. Then he took the headphone out and the song replayed in my ear as I stared at him. For the first time in years, I found myself burning to speak.

“Why did you look at me in class? I—I mean, they talk about you all the time an—and I just don’t know why you would bother to… when you usually…”

He didn’t break my gaze. “Because… I thought you might know the answer.”

I thought about the simple reasons the Uptown Girls had given and how they could not possibly know or understand why he was. And neither did I.

“But… I don’t.”

He looked back out at the sky, obviously habitual, but when most people would draw their inspiration from the clouds and the rays of the sun, it seemed that when he did this, his pain drew him in and he was lost in it. I knew he couldn’t tell me why it was.

“I move a lot,” he said. “By Christmas, I probably won’t be here anymore.” Somehow I understood what he meant. I knew that I couldn’t possibly change what burdened him so and that this conversation would very well be the last. Everything was the same and I was no closer to any kind of truth about him.

He stood and turned to face me. A million phrases ran through my mind: what I should say, what I wished he would say. But finally he pointed toward the sketch in my lap.

“You should sign it. It’s yours.” With that, the King of Pain left me, and as I watched him leave, The Police still played their melancholy tune in my ears, over and over again. His last two words echoed in my mind, somehow just as wonderful as if he had said I’m yours. Trying to find him, I had stumbled across myself.

When he was out of sight, I took up my pencil and scrawled my name in tiny letters across the picture that I had drawn.

“I have stood here before inside the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running ‘round my brain
I guess I’m always hoping that you’ll end this reign
But it’s my destiny to be the King of Pain”