The windows had been sealed, the firewood covered, and the bolt inside the door gave a satisfying click as it found home. Hamilton Starkweather gazed at the pond just south of the summerhouse and reflected fondly on the prior two months. It had been another successful season of swimming, friendly visitations, and well-aged brandy during summer storms. Now it was over. His extended holiday had helped him relax more than he had in years, but he couldn't help but feel melancholy at its passing. Now it was back down to dreary London and the daily malaise of the publishing business.
A figure stalked briskly up the footpath that led from the main road. The hard clacking noise of plastic souls on the worn concrete were like pinpricks in the still morning air.
"Nigel Pellington, as I live and breathe!" Hamilton called out in his boisterous way, recognizing the threadbare peacoat that his friend had been wearing as long as he had known him.
"I thought you'd left for the smoke this past Tuesday, and why on earth is that muffler wrapped around your head, it'll be summer for another six days!"
Hamilton had barely gotten the sentence out when the figure abruptly pulled a antique Luger from the coat pocket. The shot scattered a flock of mourning doves that had been bathing in the pond. They found their formation as they soared over Hamilton Starkweather crumpling onto the lawn.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Pleading out
Most of us are taught that revenge is never the answer, that what you get out of it will ultimately weigh more heavily on you tham anything you dish out to some transgressor. Most of us also pay as little attention as possible to that life lesson, at least as far as the way we think and feel about the people that have done us wrong. It's hard not to imagine terrible things happening to people we think deserve it. Sometimes, we can't help but imagine the satisfaction of doling out retribution. We have plenty of reasons for thinking this way, after all, 'violent revenge movies' is a category my Netflix account suggests pretty heavily to me. Not trying to say that it doesn't have reason to, there are a lot of eighth graders that would be embarrassed to have my taste in movies. I just find it amazing that it's a category.
I'll get to the point.
In late 2012, I lost my friend Megan to someone else's negligence. I had been close with Megan for about half my life. She understood me in ways no one else ever has, and even though I think that was because we were a lot alike (she often referred to me as the older brother she never wanted), many other people would tell you the same thing about their own relationship with her. She had more people that would describe her as their 'best friend' than anyone else I know. This isn't due to any flightiness or phoniness on Megan's part. When she spent time with someone, she made them feel important and needed because, to her, that's exactly what they were. She didn't take the people in her life for granted, and made sure they knew she loved them. Losing her was a devastating blow to a wide and diverse network of family and friends.
There were many people that, naturally, wanted swift retribution. I can't say I didn't. Someone central to our lives, someone that was a piece of all of our heart's was ripped away for nothing other than someone's alcohol-impaired driving. That someone should pay. It was obvious. The fact that this person showed little or no remorse for destroying a unique and cherished life only sharpened our collective resolve that she should pay dearly, and for the rest of her life.
Over a lot of long, sleepless nights, that became less and less of a concrete idea for me. I don't want this person walking around free for the simple danger of her destroying more lives with her reckless disregard, but what would it change for her to know the pain she caused? Nothing. Nothing will bring this precious person back and that's an ugly, pointy fact that has to sit in our guts for the rest of our lives, but if we all got five minutes in a room with no windows with this person, that would invite a new kind of ugliness that we would have to carry around, one that is even harder to shake.
This person recently plead guilty to the charge of vehicular manslaughter and will serve a year in prison followed by a few years of supervision. That's actually more than I ever expected the criminal justice system to do in this case, and it's actually quite good in a case like this. It still won't change a thing for me. I'm glad this person will have some time to think about her actions, but I doubt that will make her any different of a human being.
There's no justice, after all. There's just us.
I'll get to the point.
In late 2012, I lost my friend Megan to someone else's negligence. I had been close with Megan for about half my life. She understood me in ways no one else ever has, and even though I think that was because we were a lot alike (she often referred to me as the older brother she never wanted), many other people would tell you the same thing about their own relationship with her. She had more people that would describe her as their 'best friend' than anyone else I know. This isn't due to any flightiness or phoniness on Megan's part. When she spent time with someone, she made them feel important and needed because, to her, that's exactly what they were. She didn't take the people in her life for granted, and made sure they knew she loved them. Losing her was a devastating blow to a wide and diverse network of family and friends.
There were many people that, naturally, wanted swift retribution. I can't say I didn't. Someone central to our lives, someone that was a piece of all of our heart's was ripped away for nothing other than someone's alcohol-impaired driving. That someone should pay. It was obvious. The fact that this person showed little or no remorse for destroying a unique and cherished life only sharpened our collective resolve that she should pay dearly, and for the rest of her life.
Over a lot of long, sleepless nights, that became less and less of a concrete idea for me. I don't want this person walking around free for the simple danger of her destroying more lives with her reckless disregard, but what would it change for her to know the pain she caused? Nothing. Nothing will bring this precious person back and that's an ugly, pointy fact that has to sit in our guts for the rest of our lives, but if we all got five minutes in a room with no windows with this person, that would invite a new kind of ugliness that we would have to carry around, one that is even harder to shake.
This person recently plead guilty to the charge of vehicular manslaughter and will serve a year in prison followed by a few years of supervision. That's actually more than I ever expected the criminal justice system to do in this case, and it's actually quite good in a case like this. It still won't change a thing for me. I'm glad this person will have some time to think about her actions, but I doubt that will make her any different of a human being.
There's no justice, after all. There's just us.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Walking Through the Snow
That Thursday was an off day to say the least. The health department had shown their faces early in the night at the bar where I work. One of the owners spent hours pretending to look for paperwork he knew perfectly well he hadn't updated. The charade might have been intended to keep the agents from looking too closely at the kitchen.
There was also an open mic that night. A sharp contrast was set between some extremely talented professional comics and musicians, and some creative roadkill of both varieties. It ended with some tightly rehearsed and excruciatingly annoying comedy songs from a duo that shall remain nameless. The screechy-voiced chanteuse on tambourine saw fit to play their last song with her top off, and acted surprised when told that could cost the bar it's license under the wrong circumstances. Even if that hadn't been the case, I would've told any lie, committed any misdeed to keep my customers from having to look at her bare torso any longer.
A snow storm was raging outside. There are no windows at this bar, so the accumulation seemed even faster to me when I looked out the door. Many places in the area were going to close early, we were following suit at midnight.
I was hungover, sleep-deprived, and training a new barback. These are three things that are normal for any shift, and I found a little comfort in their familiarity. The odd night at work hadn't been enough to distract me from what the calendar said: January second. It had been exactly one year since my best friend died.
His name was Jason William Schwallenberg. We called him Schwalli.
I first met Schwalli when I was 15, we were pretty close by the following year. I feel like I have endless reels of memories of driving around in various Mazdas with him at the wheel, listening to the same cassettes over and over, pounding our fists on the dashboard or stomping our feet in time. He was on the short side, wore glasses, and wouldn't back down to anyone. When guys big enough to make me shit myself tried to get tough, he was always the one to throw it right back in their face. He was always there for his friends, had style to spare, and taught me more about music than anyone else in my entire life.
I spent that Thursday thinking about how I didn't get to see much of him the last few years. He had gotten married and had two little girls, so it was understandable. He wasn't always the most effusive guy, but whenever he talked about his family, you could see they meant everything to him. I was thinking about them a lot as well that Thursday. I hate that his wife never got to say goodbye to him. I hate that his children won't get to grow up with one of the best fathers I can imagine anyone having. I hate that his parents had to suddenly lose their only son in the prime of his life. There's a lot to hate about it, but not much that can be done.
I didn't talk about it with many people that Thursday. I don't live in the town we grew up in, so most people in my life now never met him. But, if I'm honest, the main reason I didn't talk about him is shame. It always seems that when loved ones passed so young, that it should have given me the impetus to take life by the tail, to never waste time on anything, to never worry about petty nonsense or what other's think. Then I look back on the past year, and feel like it didn't take long to get mired in all the same bad habits and let the usual humdrum take back over.
But it isn't about that. It also isn't about me.
It's about trying to hold on to the memory of an unassuming man who might never have known what a profound impact he had on many different lives. It's about remembering to not only tell the people in your life that you love them, but also show them while you have the chance.
I walked home in the snow storm that night looking at all the freshly fallen snowflakes glinting like diamonds in the streetlight and thought about a guy that loved life, family and music. I thought about how I'll never see him again, but hope to keep him in my heart forever. Life is woven together out of love, hope, and beauty, but it's also fragile, short, and can be bitterly cruel. That's why it matters so much.
"The most terrifying fact about the universe is not that it is hostile but that it is indifferent; but if we can come to terms with this indifference and accept the challenges of life within the boundaries of death — however mutable man may be able to make them — our existence as a species can have genuine meaning and fulfillment. However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light."
-Stanley Kubrick
There was also an open mic that night. A sharp contrast was set between some extremely talented professional comics and musicians, and some creative roadkill of both varieties. It ended with some tightly rehearsed and excruciatingly annoying comedy songs from a duo that shall remain nameless. The screechy-voiced chanteuse on tambourine saw fit to play their last song with her top off, and acted surprised when told that could cost the bar it's license under the wrong circumstances. Even if that hadn't been the case, I would've told any lie, committed any misdeed to keep my customers from having to look at her bare torso any longer.
A snow storm was raging outside. There are no windows at this bar, so the accumulation seemed even faster to me when I looked out the door. Many places in the area were going to close early, we were following suit at midnight.
I was hungover, sleep-deprived, and training a new barback. These are three things that are normal for any shift, and I found a little comfort in their familiarity. The odd night at work hadn't been enough to distract me from what the calendar said: January second. It had been exactly one year since my best friend died.
His name was Jason William Schwallenberg. We called him Schwalli.
I first met Schwalli when I was 15, we were pretty close by the following year. I feel like I have endless reels of memories of driving around in various Mazdas with him at the wheel, listening to the same cassettes over and over, pounding our fists on the dashboard or stomping our feet in time. He was on the short side, wore glasses, and wouldn't back down to anyone. When guys big enough to make me shit myself tried to get tough, he was always the one to throw it right back in their face. He was always there for his friends, had style to spare, and taught me more about music than anyone else in my entire life.
I spent that Thursday thinking about how I didn't get to see much of him the last few years. He had gotten married and had two little girls, so it was understandable. He wasn't always the most effusive guy, but whenever he talked about his family, you could see they meant everything to him. I was thinking about them a lot as well that Thursday. I hate that his wife never got to say goodbye to him. I hate that his children won't get to grow up with one of the best fathers I can imagine anyone having. I hate that his parents had to suddenly lose their only son in the prime of his life. There's a lot to hate about it, but not much that can be done.
I didn't talk about it with many people that Thursday. I don't live in the town we grew up in, so most people in my life now never met him. But, if I'm honest, the main reason I didn't talk about him is shame. It always seems that when loved ones passed so young, that it should have given me the impetus to take life by the tail, to never waste time on anything, to never worry about petty nonsense or what other's think. Then I look back on the past year, and feel like it didn't take long to get mired in all the same bad habits and let the usual humdrum take back over.
But it isn't about that. It also isn't about me.
It's about trying to hold on to the memory of an unassuming man who might never have known what a profound impact he had on many different lives. It's about remembering to not only tell the people in your life that you love them, but also show them while you have the chance.
I walked home in the snow storm that night looking at all the freshly fallen snowflakes glinting like diamonds in the streetlight and thought about a guy that loved life, family and music. I thought about how I'll never see him again, but hope to keep him in my heart forever. Life is woven together out of love, hope, and beauty, but it's also fragile, short, and can be bitterly cruel. That's why it matters so much.
"The most terrifying fact about the universe is not that it is hostile but that it is indifferent; but if we can come to terms with this indifference and accept the challenges of life within the boundaries of death — however mutable man may be able to make them — our existence as a species can have genuine meaning and fulfillment. However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light."
-Stanley Kubrick
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