I only heard his story

“Did you know the boy?” 

            I had to admit I had no Idea what she was talking about.  A woman around fifty or sixty stood in front off me with a look of discussed.  I didn’t even know what had triggered her words.

            “You said you were from Thibodaux didn’t you?”

            “Yes.” I was still waiting for her to get to the point of it.

            “Awful what happened, you didn’t hear.”

            “No, what?” I stood, waiting.

            “A boy was killed by his father.”  At that a gentlemen who appeared to be a few years older than his wife stepped to her shoulder to add,  “Cut him all up.” Then he just shook his head.

            I still had no Idea what they were talking about, but I still told them how awful I thought their information was.  Then I proceeded to tell them what my job commanded me to tell them.  “Thibodaux is one of the six sites of Jean Lafitte National Historical Park and Preserve.  The location focuses on interpreting the culture of the wetland Acadians.  They have Cajun music concerts every Monday evening and conduct canoe trips in the surrounding bayous.”  I just read the list as I pictured it in my head. 

            “I don’t think we will stray from the city, but thanks for the information.”  The old couple turned away and was out of site around the corner headed to Café du Monde probably.  I pictured them drinking their coffee and chicory with a touch of white powder on both their noses still shaking their heads.  “Awful” or “This country’s gone crazy.” But in the next breath they would comment on how delicious their pastries were. 

            I started to hear more and more from other visitors, as they came through the park.

            “He was only seven.” One visitor said.

            “He had cerebral palsy “ others confirmed.

            I finally took a break from working the front desk and looked at the Times Picayune.  The times article was written with the same tact the visitors exuded.  One gruesome detail after the next made it clear that a horrific murder had taken place in my hometown which commanded national attention.

            When I returned to the desk, I was resolved to avoid talking about Thibodaux including its National Park attractions.  I succeeded in my goal, for the most part.  I stopped claiming I was from the damn place, but a co-worker and fellow ranger mentioned in to one couple.  Of course they had seen the headline and read the article.  The question came at me again.  “Did you know the boy? This time the couple waiting for a response was much younger.  I think they were from jersey. 

            I snapped back.  “Do you know Snookie.”

            “No,” the woman said.

            “Well there’s your answer.” 

            They were not very appreciative.  I could tell by their look. It was a look that said, the nerve.  The look also said, we get it.  The man actually apologized.  I apologized right back.  I new I had made an overstep in tone.  My retraction was insincere. 

            What if I did know the boy?  Would a couple continue to talk to me after hearing that he was my first or second cousin?  Where would the conversation go?  What is the next brilliant question to follow a positive response?

            I didn’t know the boy only his story.  The day took its toll.  I knew that most visitors simply couldn’t be helped from the beginning, mainly because they came in looking for the wrong thing.  Most don’t even realize they are in a national park, but the off topic questions of the day were too much. 

I thought about how uninterested people are until tragedy strikes.  What if the park service felt that way? The 9/11 ground zero and Virginia Tech national memorials would be the biggest attendance grabbers in the nation.

I was wondering why others were so fascinated with tragedy, but I learned that I am no better than them.  All I could do was say, “that’s awful” and shake my head, just like the rest of them.  Personally I rather forget this process of insincere concern for my fellow humans. Perhaps the insincerity memorial would make a big splash, but I guess there would have to be a marker or plaque on every corner and one on my front door.  

Wal-mart

Fuck.  I’m doing it again.  Headed to Wal-Mart to get a new tire on my car.  I would have gone elsewhere, but eighty-five dollars.  You can’t beat that.  I’m talking to you Pep boys.  Oh, wait. It was Tire Kingdom that charged me one hundred forty-five dollars for my last tire.  That was an emergency though.  I had lent my spare to a friend and was without it, so I had to get the jeep towed to the nearest tire place.  I still had a since that the Kingdom new I had no choice.  Tire Kingdom that’s how they ran it.  I guess I was lucky to walk out of their with my head on my shoulders.  After all, I didn’t kneel and kiss a crest with three grease heads on it.  Oh, nope that’s Pep boys again.  I’ve certainly had my share of car troubles.  

The initial reaction of deciding to go to Wal-mart is “No, not there, anywhere else.”  However, it’s hard not to want to save the extra cash.  Plus, they have everything.  After all, I was headed there for a tire.  They have a full auto garage at each location.  I wonder if their will be any mechanics in the future or just Wal-mart employees in blue vest that bid you to have a nice day even as they turn their backs on you. 

When I got to Wal-mart I pulled around to the side where they auto bays were.  The attendant was helpful, but after getting into my car he told be they would not be able to work with my car.  It had been stolen several moths back.  All that was missing was the CD player and the ignition key.  I had been starting it with a screwdriver; the reason Wal-mart could only help me so far.  They agreed to put the new skin on the tire, but I would have to put the tire onto my jeep myself. I rolled the tire to the attendant in the pissiest fashion to demonstrate my feelings. 

I knew it would be a while so I decided to see what I could get at Wal-mart to add to my eighty-five dollar tab.  My hair was getting pretty shaggy, so I decided to get a haircut, another American industry to come under the umbrella of the blue and gray.  If I had bad eyes, I could have corrected that as well.

After my haircut walked around a bit.  I noticed that this Wal-mart though familiar was still different.  I began to think about Wal-mart architecture, if you can call it that.  What is it with the design of these stores?  Why not make them all the same.  Instead some are mirror images of one another.  Some switch the frozen foods with hardware.  Some switch the jewelry section with boys clothing.  However, other sections are always located in the same place: customer service, electronics, gardening.  There are probably entire teams of physiologist who sit there and figure out where to place a rack of socks to sell a few extra pairs.  In my situation all, they had to do was make me wait to get more of my money. 

After walking around a while, I had picked up a four-way tire iron and filet knife.  I knew I had to get the tire iron, but I was just flat out tired of not being able to properly clean the occasional fish.  Plus it came with a sharpener.  Every knife in my kitchen was near worthless, so I convinced myself that the twelve ninety-five I was spending was really saving me money in the end. 

The total came to one hundred and thirty-six dollars and fifty-two cents.  Maybe it was the extra money I spent or the fact that I still had to change my tire, but I left Wal-mart uttering the same word of curse only my hair was shorter.  

I'm a Frankenstein

I can’t remember ever putting pen to paper as a child, and I could barely use a computer until high school.  I’d say that’s where I felt a connection to writing first.  I wrote a paper on Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.  I had a great teacher who taught me the value of writing and how useful it could be. 

The paper focused on a theme in the novel. The monster was not necessarily a monster.  People just made him that way by rejecting him for his sewn-together, gruesome appearance.  In other words, the monster became so in character after learning violence from humans.  The rest of the paper discussed a question about the monster.  Who was the monster, really?  The monster was only cruel after he received cruelty.  Frankenstein created the monster and let it loose without knowledge of the world.  I posed that the true monsters were the people in the novel.  I don’t recall much else, but I remember being proud of the work.  I remember how writing was what allowed me to reach a higher level of thought and reasoning. 

I have written many papers that helped me learn about the world, but I have just recently discovered how creative writing allows me to learn about myself.  Creative writing has become a means to understand my own existence in the larger world.  It also gives me the power to create anything I want including a new world or new creatures.

I can’t help but continue to think back to the question of the monster in my first memorable piece of writing.  It seems writing itself, the act, turns one into a Frankenstein. I am a creator of beings rejected by society.  It’s not their fault.  They lack sufficient skills to survive in the outside world.  It’s not their fault if they get put down and never picked back up.