Brian is about six-foot six at least, and he was just promoted last month to our department.  

Lisa Daniels and I went to college together and have worked here since graduation.  My father promoted both us of us rather quickly, but I dare say that she would have made it just as far had she not been friends with me, though maybe not in such a short amount of time.  Once, back in college, she and I went with several of her friends to a free screening of Casa Blanca  and I kept dozing off.  I finally got up without saying a word to anyone and left the theatre and walked around campus and then back to my room.  I did not think that it was rude at all. Lisa never mentioned it, and I never thought of it, until here, at this meeting.  I realize now that I was probably a pretty big jerk through most of college.  I must have seemed pretty free-spirited then, and I can't believe how cool I once was.

Jason removes his glasses, pushes his hair out of his eyes, and rubs his right eyebrow with his thumb and his left eyebrow with his index finger of his right hand. The glasses are then returned to his face. People sip their coffee; some people check their watches.

My girlfriend and I are breaking up. This whole week has been a blur of phone calls and crying and me feeling like she doesn't care. At times, it seems like she does. At times, I feel sorry for her, because I know how it feels to be confused. I'm thinking about her and there are images in my head of me laying in a hospital room with her holding my hand. She's crying, saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and I'm feeling weak. I look down at my wrists or maybe not; maybe I had to get my stomach pumped. She's no longer crying, but now she's saying, "We're going get you some help. You are going to be just fine and we are going to get you some help," and I'm thinking that maybe I don't really want to make it because now it's all too humiliating. She's screaming at me for what I did, talking about brain damage or never really being able to function OK ever again, but it's cold in the hospital and I feel far away.

I blink twice and realize there is only two minutes left in the meeting. I trace the roof of my mouth with my tongue, which feels slightly numb from most likely the cappuccino I had yesterday. I'm not a big coffee drinker.

The meeting ends. People chatter as we all pour out of various doors and into the hall. The whole atmosphere is humming and very cold. Stark sunlight shines crisply through new windows, and, overhead, the ceiling lights buzz.

I'm turning down a hall to my right, walking rather quickly with the freshly- awakened Kyle racing to keep up. He never shuts up. I don't even look over at him. I say sharply, "We'll talk later" as my office door shuts behind me. In my office: a large black rolling chair, various degrees on the wall, a photo of Heather stands on my desk next to two small stacks of paper, some yellow Post-It's, and my blueberry I Mac.

**later that day, 3:30pm**

Green grass, still wet from this morning's rain, glistens in the sun. Brown rust covers the truck at the edge of the parking lot. On the front of the truck is a Rebel flag. In the adjacent lot sits a new, silver Mercedes SUV. Stepping over a green puddle that, drip by drip, leaks out of the old Ford, I hit the button on my keyring and my car doors click as they unlock.

Down I64 West I finally remember that I was supposed to fax Louis the names of candidates for the upcoming marketing committee.

With cell phone in hand, I turn down my car stereo and then, with my thumb, speed-dial Louis, never taking my eyes off the road.

Ring. Seconds pass. Ring. I switch into the right lane with Self’s latest CD playing in the background. Ring, then a click. Disconnected. Disgusted and a little bit confused, I toss the black Nokia cell phone into the passanger’s seat before turning the stereo up maybe a bit too much.

November 12

We're at Heather's parents' house for supper. We've just ate and it's pouring down rain. Heather disappears into the bathroom and I'm in a wine-red Lay-Z-Boy recliner discussing DSL-internet-connections and how-it's-been-forever-and-we-still-don't-know-who-the-next-president-will-be with her father.

Finally Heather comes back and I go into the bathroom to do two lines of coke, which doesn't make me feel much better. I tell Heather that I'm about to leave, but we end up taking her blue '92 Saab to rent The Story Of Us. We watch the movie back at her place. As we enter her apartment, we are suddenly a couple again. The evening starts with me getting pounced by her -pushed back onto her bed. She hugs me. I compliment her on her flawless face and impeccable sense of style. Prada, Prada, Prada, everywhere in her room. I'm wondering how she affords it, but then I realize, hey, she was dating me. Heather pops popcorn and we start the movie. By the time it is off it's dark and it has stopped raining.

It was only a few blocks from work to Heather's parents' house, and my car is still where it was when I first got to work. Heather drives me to the edge of the lot, but can't drive further without a pass to raise the automated gate. She gets out and walks me halfway back to my car before telling me it's chilly out and she thinks she'll start walking back now. "Besides, I don't like walking at night by myself. Especially here, with all the alleys and everything."

"Well, ok. I'll see you later. Don't get killed on the way home," I tease.

"Thanks for coming tonight, Max," Heather says while hugging me. The whites of her eyes almost glow as she looks up at me before turning back to walk to her parents'.

"Goodnight," I say, and then, "Call me when you get home."

"I will," she says, then, as she walks away, "or you call me, I'll get home before you will."

The sound of her Saab pulling away rings out across the near-empty lot, and then, silence and my footsteps. I'm left knowing that we are, again, not a couple.

I zip up my jacket, pull the hood over my head, and stuff my hands deep inside its pockets. In my right pocket is a blue BIC rolling ball point pen. With my thumb I push the cap off, then back on, then off again.

I'm thinking about meeting Kyle in this dark alley between the Copeland and Sons office building and the large brick buildings where the Copeland and Sons products are actually created. I can almost hear his footsteps and see his silhouette approach me. We walk toward each other and ultimately brush against one another. I act quickly, popping the top off the pen and thrusting it into Kyle's gut. It breaks his skin surprisingly easily, and with a little more effort glides sickly deeper into his stomach. The red circle that has formed on his shirt is getting larger and darker. I can feels his shins against the toe of my shoe as I kick him repeatedly. I can imagine the gurgling, the spitting out of blood, and the sound of his glasses breaking as they hit the sidewalk.

I snap out of it now that I am at my Bonneville. I glance around, open the door, and drive toward home, feeling like my day has been rather successful.

Back on I64, it is one of those bad nights where everything feels somehow colorless. The night air is cold, a little damp, and everything was black except for the red glow of tail lights, the blinding flood of oncoming cars, and the yellow line tracing the way home. Abbey Road plays over the car stereo, the current song: Come Together. The cell phone ringing on my right brings me out of a zoned out state that I had no idea I was in.

“Hello?” I ask, straining my eyes to get more color out of this dark night and feeling like everything was suddenly more real.

“Maxwell?” The voice on the other side asks.

“Yes?”

“Max, this is Louis . . .” booms a deep, radio-quality voice.

“Oh, hello.”

Maxwell’s silver hammer came down upon her head. Maxwell’s silver hammer made sure that she was dead.

“Hello. Listen, Max, ” I turn down the stereo, “umm. . . did you ever send that list of addresses?”

“No, I forgot until I was halfway home. I’m sorry, man.”

“It’s O.K.” Louis reassures me, “Just, could you send them whenever you get the chance?”

“Sure can. You need anything else?”

“I think that’ll do it.”

“Alright, I’ll get on that, and I’ll see you later.”

“I’ll be seeing you around. Oh, and Max . . . Nevermind. Goodbye, Max.”

“Bye,” I say while pulling into the driveway of a large white house, my house.

Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it's all right
It's all right

On 128 Browning Street, I, Maxwell Copeland, stood looking at myself before the bathroom mirror while water filled a large, white tub behind me. My face was still young, slightly tan, and slightly in need of a shave, and as I lowered myself in the tub I could hear my phone ringing three times before the caller hung up.

November 16, 2:15 pm

My day is going great, really. I didn’t see Kyle until I was getting into my car to leave to meet Jason for lunch at Steak 'N Shake. He was just coming back from his lunch-break and looked slightly less stupid in his red baseball cap. Kyle has a bad haircut.

11-23-00

It's Thanksgiving morning, and my brother's birthday.

Sometime today I'll have to see him, take him the Perry Ellis overcoat that my secretary picked up for me to give him.

I wake up of my own accord (without an alarm) which really already makes today a good day.

The first thing I notice is that I'm starving, but I make my way to the bathroom and take a hot bath, then dry off, then run some generic hair gel across my head. I'm not really looking forward to the big family dinner with the Copeland's. Not looking forward to it at all. I lay around on my waterbed in my boxers most of the morning, watching the parades and M2 on my new Phillips Magnavox flatscreen TV most of the morning, eating Cap'n Crunch out of the box and not answering the phone.

At around one o'clock, I decide to get dressed and head out to my grandpa's ranch, where everyone else is already sitting around, waiting on, I guess, me and a few others to show up.

Stuff happened and it turns out that this Thanksgiving wasn't really all that bad, after all.

November 24th

Heather’s friend Mary is always dominating Heather’s time. Heather’s friend Mary does not like me, and I can tell she thinks she is smarter than me. Heather’s friend Mary has a small waist and a tall, brilliant boyfriend who makes crazy money downtown on 3rd Street, where Mary and Heather always eat at little cafes.

It was Mary who told me that Heather had been lying to me about no longer talking to her ex-boyfriend and I am fairly certain it was also Mary who told Heather that I had a relationship with my secretary, which is totally untrue but also one of Heather’s biggest fears.

I hate Mary, and she hates me, but we always act very friendly when we are around one another.

Anyway, Heather and I went to Baskin Robin’s and while waiting in line some seventeen year-old girl, an annoying blonde wearing sunglasses, pushes through the door and behind the counter, saying, “Excuse me, excuse me,” through her nose. She takes Heather’s order.

Heather asks me what I’m going to get, but since I’m carrying no cash I tell her nothing. She offers to buy mine, and I look up at the menu and consider getting a Mocha Blast, but since I’ve given up caffeine I decide against it and continue scanning the menu.

“Look at this,” Heather says, holding her double-scoop of ice cream that is falling off its tiny cone.

I look.

“Can I have a cup or something?” Heather asks the girl still wearing the sunglasses.

The annoying girl shrugs and takes someone else’s order and finally does get Heather the cup.

“Thanks,” Heather says and the girl just stares at her and then turns away.

Heather is telling me about how awful the blonde is and I listen and fain interest though I’m thinking it is very unattractive when she curses. Then I look up at her and with a straight face say loudly, “Come on, let’s go. . . It’s too bright in here.”

Heather smiles, and as we walk out to the car it begins to rain.

***

Mary and her brilliant boyfriend, who went to Princeton or wherever, have invited me over to Mary’s for supper -probably because they feel sorry for me since I’m still upset about not being with What’s-Her-Name. Mary’s apartment is small, but clean, and her brilliant boyfriend has prepared all this crazy Japanese food, which turns out to tasting very good.

Once we finished eating, Mary’s brilliant boyfriend left and I was tying my shoes to leave when Mary sat down on the couch next to me and said, “You can kiss me if you want to.” Was she joking? I didn’t know what to do, so I acted like she was only kidding and then so did she and I left.

11-25-01 new page??

My stomach.

There must be, like, one thousand pounds of pressure inside my stomach as I sit in the cold bathroom, shaking, half-asleep. White socks on a white marble floor spin slightly when I jerk awake. Next to my feet, a splash of color, a yellow trash can. The only thing, besides the blue bar of soap, the towel of the same color blue, and the silver faucets, that isn’t white. Right now, I just want to get all the swirling mess out of me. I know my throat will burn, and my nose will, if I get sick, but, after that, sweet, sweet sleep.

My head keeps falling as I doze off. It’s resting in my left hand, my hair is pushed back slightly, my eyes closed.

After jerking awake once again, I finally decide that I am feeling a bit better, at least for now. I stand up, still a tad shaky and even somewhat light-headed. All control and feeling in my legs pour down to my feet as I attempt to make my way to the door. I see a blur of white, quickly tunneling into darkness. I don’t even feel the thud as my limp body smacks against the cold marble.

Some other day, 2001

Why am I at an expensive Indian restaurant with Heather, Mary, and Mary’s brilliant boyfriend?  I’m clueless about what to order, but somehow Heather knows what is good and orders for the whole table.

Mary is staring at me, then given me suggestive glances, and, by the end of the meal, she is rubbing her foot up my leg. I hold Heather’s hand under the table and compliment her great selection because everyone is enjoying their somewhat-spicy food. Heather drops my hand and whispers to me that we are no longer seeing each other. Like I need a reminder.

NEW CHAPTER???

So far, the only room I’ve told you about is the bathroom, which, I may have mentioned, is white. There is also my bedroom, a large room with a mature feel, predominately navy and white. From the master bedroom, there is a door that leads into the main hall. Many rooms open to this hall, but the room of most interest is the Living Room . . . . . ADD DESCRIPTION OF HOUSE, END WITH KITCHEN.

The kitchen is where I stood, preparing scrambled eggs, after I woke up on the bathroom floor that morning, after wiping dried blood from my mouth, after looking at my pale, white face in the mirror, after scrubbing blood of the white marble floor.

The eggs, a splash of yellow, in a blur of white, sizzled against the dark black skillet.

NOVEMBER 21

It was a cold, damp night in November, about 7PM and I was walking across the slightly muddy ground through the yellow and orange leaves. It had been raining but wasn’t anymore. They were calling for snow either tonight or tomorrow and the breeze was biting and unyielding, so I pulled my gray wool GAP coat around me more tightly. There were a few large clouds illuminated by either the moon or the city lights or both, and the sky glowed red in some parts and soft-blue in others. The weather reminded me of New England and I had walked around so much that now my leg muscles had started to pull on my shins. No one was around, but occasionally a stranger or a couple would walk by. The whole atmosphere became surreal and my mind felt very crisp and clear. This was a time I would always easily remember, which almost worried me because for some reason I kept thinking of someone close to me either being in an accident or dying some other way, slipping out into the wintry depths of the sky above me. This was the perfect night to fall in love, and walking back to my apartment I regretted not having someone to share such a night with and then I realized that if I were with someone, we’d probably be inside instead of battling the wind together bundled up, not realizing all there was to be shared. I knew, though, that someday I would find the person to share it with, and the cutting wind did not cease and the tops of my ears were red when I finally got back that night to find that no one had called.

12-01-01

A prescription bottle of hydrocodones sit on the glass table next to an empty, slightly smashed A&W Root Beer can. An ashtray near the sink needs to be emptied.

I open the white Kenmore refrigerator to only find about seven or eight eggs, some margarine, a carton of Minute Maid Calcium Orange Juice, and, in the back, a box of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda.

I empty the orange juice carton into a blue glass.

"Why can't they add some pulp to this stuff?" I ask, but what I'm really wanting to know is "what am I doing here?"

Then Heather enters the room in maybe just fluffy blue robe with her wet black hair hanging down in strings, dripping, and now I just look up at her with a weak smile.

"You feeling alright?" she asks delicately.

"Yeah, I'm . . .I'm feeling okay," I nod to reinforce this.

"You had a pretty rough night last night," she says. She's right, I did have a pretty rough night last night.

I lay my head on the table and she starts to run her fingers through my hair.

"You sure you're alright?" She asks, but all I'm thinking is that it is cold and I wish I were wearing a shirt.

Heather has speakers all throughout her apartment, and I just now noticed that the Smashing Pumpkin's Farewell and Goodnight is playing as she continues to run her fingers through my hair. All I remember is Heather saying, "I'm sorry you feel bad" and an itchy feeling all over and that song fading into Radiohead's Creep. As I drift into something like sleep, I wonder how the ashtray got here, since Heather and I both abhor smoking.

***********

Sometimes I feeling throwing my Blueberry I Mac out the 4th story window of my office at Copeland and Son’s.

************

There was the slight sign of the beginning of a headache, but I had already made plans with Lisa Daniels, and I had not really had the chance to hang out with her in weeks.  I picked her up and we decided to just eat at Steak & Shake and by this time my headache had risen to another level.  

I ordered the Original Double with fries and a glass of water; Lisa had cheese fries with a chocolate shake and a water and I sprawled across the red booth seat and propped my head against the wall with my Gap coat between the wall and my head.  I always take my glasses off when my head hurts like this, and I can barely keep my eyes open or focused and all my senses seem heightened. I look so bad that I figure people will assume that I'm on all sorts of drugs.  

Lisa has genuine sympathy for me, and although she has seen me in this state many times before and I'm sure she wants to inform me that when my head hurts the way it is hurting now I do nothing but complain she doesn't.  Our food arrives but I hardly look up.  I eat a few bites of the burger and some fries and try to convince myself that I feel better.  Lisa informs me that she can't drive us back because she doesn't know how to drive a 5-Speed.  I assure her that I will feel better eventually, although it might be after a long nap here in the booth at Steak & Shake.  My head always feels better after I've slept.

"You're the only person I can watch eat," Lisa laughs as I pick around my plate, clumsily dipping a fry in ketchup and half-heartedly taking a bite of it.

"Why's that?"

"Because you're just so funny.  You just pick at your food."  

And at that moment, I saw through my headache and my squinting eyes Lisa's out-of-focus smile, perfectly white and her blonde hair, cut about chin-length like I liked and she was beautiful.  It hit me then that I had been friends with Lisa almost as long as I had been with anyone, and that she would always be there and had never, ever let me down.  I had taken her for granted, and it made perfect sense to me at that moment that she and I could some day marry.  Marry?  I didn't even have a crush on her, but we had something solid and I knew I could not imagine a time when we wouldn't hang out.  

I stood up and excused myself and threw up in the men's room.  It was mostly water and lettuce that I vomited, so my nose did not burn at all and my throat felt fine.  These headaches always make me nauseous.   I looked in the mirror I was surprised that I didn't look nearly as bad as I felt. In my head I can remember Lisa saying years ago, "You're a smart boy, you can figure it out." 

When I got back to the table I resumed my slouching, head-ache posture and the waitress asked me if there was something wrong with my food.  I explained my headache and she got me a box and Lisa and I left Steak & Shake.

NEW PAGE

The Velvet Underground plays in my bedroom as I walk in from the shower, towel around my waist.

Outside, the snow doesn't really fall but more like hovers around the window. It is the first snow of the winter, and it shows no signs of stopping.

I pull down the blinds, dress, and drive to the Galt House, where Heather will be staying two days on business.

To get into the parking structure, I have to press a green button and get a ticket. The arm raises, and I park in the first available spot. I cover up my Nokia cell phone, lock the doors, and make my way to the Galt House West, which is connected by a breezeway to the Galt House East, across the street.

I use the phone in the lobby to ring Heather's room. No answer. For fifteen minutes, I try to call. She finally answers, and I ask her on which side of the Galt House she is staying.

"The side that's not skanky," she replies. No part of the Galt House is at all skanky, though some parts are nicer than others.

"Which side is that?" I ask, not even knowing at the time that I was on the West Side.

"The one with the glass elevators. Did you see a little restaurant when you walked in?"

"I don't remember, I don't think so," I crane my neck around, trying to spot the restaurant.

"I'll just come down to the lobby and see if you are there."

"Ok," and when I hang up the phone I see a glass elevator across the street, going down to the lobby, so I run across the street into the Galt House East.

Heather walks out of an elevator after a few minutes, looking around. Her back is to me, and I sneak up behind her and tickle her, which makes her jump and then she turns around to see me and asks if I would like to get something to eat in the restaurant at the top of the hotel. I nod and then we step into the elevator behind us.

In the elevator, I see a girl I haven't seen in years, Jennifer, a girl I once worked with every day when our company did business with GKN. We exchange hello's and she tells me that several other employees from GKN are staying at the Galt House West for the night. She then gets off the elevator on the 3rd floor, telling me that everyone is staying on the eleventh floor of Galt House West.

After a very expensive plate of chicken and rice, I ask Heather if she would like to go with me to visit everyone on the West. We nearly freeze going across the breezeway and it takes forever to get an elevator.

Once on the eleventh floor, I am greeted by old friends. Guys are saying it's nice to see me again, and the girls are hugging me and telling me how sweet it was for me to drop by.

More people I used to know are coming into the hall. I ask Heather if she would like to go to the mall, because I get the impression that she is feeling a little left out. I tell her we can leave in a second and start to tell everyone my goodbye's. When I turn to leave, I see Heather stepping into an elevator while at the same time Jennifer gets out.

I spend most of the day trying to make Heather not mad at me, and after we walk to the mall and then order pizza, she has a meeting and I need to leave.

The walk back to the parking lot isn't any warmer than before, to say the least. I finally find my car and drive to the place I came in. There are arrows painted in front of this gate that are pointed towards me, which would make me think that I could not get out this way if it weren't for the fact that I saw a car just leave from this gate.

I pull up to gate and look for a place to scan the ticket that I was given. The only place that I see is a box with a slot in it. I wonder if I should drop the ticket there, and finally decide to. Nothing happens, and now I’ve lost my ticket. I walk to the other side of the gate and press the button that I pressed when I first drove up, hoping it would spit out another ticket, but it does not. Behind me there are people waiting to leave. I back up and drive to the other end of the parking lot, where there is another gate and a sign that reads:

                                                                    Parking:

                                                                    .75/hr

                                                                   Lost tickets ...$10


Ready to pay the ten bucks just to get out of the lot, I press the Intercom button to find out where to pay the money. I wait but there is no response. Behind me, a black lady is waiting to get out of the lot, too, so I walk to her car. She rolls down the window slightly and I explain my situation. She suggests that I go to the top level of the parking structure and try to find someone who works there. I back up and let her in front of me, and when she pays and the arm raises for her to drive under, I am right behind her. I gun it as the arm lowers down, almost hitting my Bonneville. I don't slow down until I come to a red-light on 6th Street.

When I get back home, I play the messages on my machine. One is from my friends at the Galt House. I suppose they called as I was on my way there; the message says:

Hey guys, what room number is this?

Eleven Thirty Three.

Yeah, Max, this is Jake Whitney. Hey, me and Justin and Jennifer and everybody, we're all here at the Galt House. You should call if you get the chance; maybe we'll go do something.

The room number is 1133. Talk to ya' later.

I delete the message and turn on the TV. There is a movie about modern vampires on, but I'm really to tired to watch anything and decide to just go to bed.

december

It always surprises me to wake up and see snow covering everything, and this morning is no exception. I think about how perfect everything looks, and I am tempted to get my camera and take pictures of it all, but instead just scratch the back of my head and get ready to go to work.

My opinion of snow changes as I walk outside in my gray wool coat to start the Bonneville. My fingers start to go numb as I scrape frost off the windshield before running back into the house to finish my Pop-Tarts and then brush my teeth.

new day

I get home from work, place my briefcase down on my black marble countertop in the kitchen and pull some fresh strawberries from the refrigerator. I call Heather, but she isn’t in. A message on my answering machine tells me that Heather is at Yoga with Mary. She never calls me back that night.

another day

And so the sun was not up when i was
and i was up past it
and it got so cold
and i left Parish Court where I'd been reading Hemingway
and found my way back to the room and ate pudding with a fork and thought about how the evening was but a hollow mockery of all that it could have been. and pudding fell on my dress pants and it is unhealthy ..for the pants...and i only smeared it to see if could salvage some for my consumption but on this night no pudding could be salvaged from the now-stained pants that i wore...ah, but so cold and so out of my head right now.

new day

It's Sunday morning, and there is no reason for me to be awake, but I am. I woke up needing to pee and I still can't go back to sleep. I decide there is absolutely nothing to do and I make my way to the medicine cabinet. I reach past a bottle of Qualudes for a vial of coke and pick it up. Then I put it back down. Something inside me, all over, is so tired and washed out that even cocaine is no longer a high; it is more like a dull habit.

I take a deep breath and wash my face. I comb my hair and decide to get ready to go out for a walk, just to see what happens. Grabbing my long overcoat, shutting and locking the door behind me, I start my walk down the street. A cold wind is blowing crisp leaves down the sidewalk and an elderly man helps his wife up the stairs to a large, grey stone church.

I'm thinking that I haven't been inside a church for a long time, and that I have nothing better to do. Inside people are hustling about, greeting one another, shaking hands and laughing. A few people even shake my hand and finally everything settles and the service starts.

I'm looking at the program throughout most of the service, hardly looking up at all. I drop a few dollars in the plate when they pass it around. The service goes on, and ends an invitation.

The choir is singing I Have Decided To Follow Jesus and the pastor is saying, "Child, if you are lost here this morning, please . . . don't wait another day."

I look around at the large stain glass windows and the high ceiling.

"Friend, don't wait until it is too late . . ."

Though none go with me, I still will follow . . .

"If everyone will, bow your heads. And with heads bowed and eyes closed, if you are lost here today, just slip up your hand. Just slip up you hand and no one will see. If you feel that your life is headed nowhere, just take that first step today. Just take the first step and Jesus will carry you the rest of the way."

Though none go with me, I still will follow . . .

I feel like my life is headed nowhere, and I try to raise my hand, I really do. I'm raising my hand and shuffling my feet and tears start to pour down my face. I'm shaking too badly to raise my hand any higher and now I'm sobbing so loudly that it scares me. The shaking scares me and drop my hand quickly. It was probabally in the air for no more than ten seconds. I take a deep breath and stop shaking and crying. I bury my hands deep inside my pockets.

"Thank God for that hand," the pastor says, and I almost start shaking again.

I hold out, and the choir stops singing. The pastor dismisses the service and everyone makes thier way to the door and shakes the pastor's hand.

A few people tell me they are glad to see me and that I should come back anytime.

It's my turn to shake hands with the pastor. I feel like I should say something, maybe "thank you" or maybe something like "that was a good message," but when I open my mouth I can feel his cold hand grip mine and there is a lump in my throat.

As I walk down the steps of the church, into the cold winter's wind, I can still here the choir.

Though none go with me, I still will follow
No turning back, No turning back.

Shaken by the whole experience, I walk down the street to a small coffee shop called Twice Told and drink a mocha while skimming through the Sunday paper. I concentrate mostly on the comics and almost forget about everything that happened this morning.

new day

“Max, umm. . .Hey, it’s Heather. . .I thought you should know. . .umm. . . I thought that maybe I should tell you that I have an, umm, date with someone tonight, but don’t freak out, alright? Ok? You can give me a call when you get in.”

I do call and she tells me it is with, guess who, her ex-boyfriend, the one before me. I try to get her to say it is just a casual thing and that nothing will happen, and she knows that is what I want to hear but refuses to say it.

I wish she would just lie and tell me nothing will happen so that I can at least use that against her when something does happen. I am upset all afternoon and fantasize about Mary and then feel even worse and try to call Heather but she’s not home.

Late January, 02

Heather calls and I'm trying to find something to help me come down off the coke. She's crying, saying I've got to stop doing this [the drugs], saying I have to stop doing this to myself, to her -- to us.

"Doing what?!" I shout, but she only cries more and I didn't really mean to be so loud. She tells me she's got to go and is still crying when she hangs up the phone. I sit the phone on the bathroom sink, not really caring about her or about trying to come down off the coke too much, even though I'm still pillaging through the medicine cabinet.

In the mirror, I can't believe how bad I look, and I try not to think about it, and I try to remember when was the last time I showed up for work.

Heather is asleep next to me when I wake up.  What an odd place to find her.  She still sometimes calls in the middle of the night wanting to spend the night with me, sometimes even do a little or a lot more, but she has a boyfriend.  I sometimes say "No," but it looks as if I didn't say no last night.  She always acts so sweet then, but the next day and weeks later she hates me and won't return my phone calls or talk to me.  She never talks to me during the days - only calls at 2AM.

"Christmas is fast upon us," I can still hear Heather saying as I flip through the pages of a JCrew with my cordless phone in my hand. 

"Christmas will be awful this year without 'us,'" we both agreed. But somehow Christmas has past, but I don't remember it and I'm wondering, "How could I miss Chrirstmas?"

I'm wearing a pair of Calvin Klein khakis and a navy shirt by It-Doesn't-Even-Matter-Anymore and I have the haunting realization that it is no longer mid-December.




February 1st, 02

Some how I find myself at Mary’s, and we are watching Sally Jesse Raphael. Mary’s telling me how her boyfriend is an idiot, that she never sees enough of him, and that things are beginning to get dull with him. I start to sympathize with her until I realize that she feels exactly the way Heather does about our relationship and then I don’t know what to think.

She gets up to turn down the TV and stands there and says again, “You can kiss me if you want to,” except this time neither one of us laugh and I adjust myself in the couch nervously and accidentally kick over a glass of water.

Mary is gone and back with some paper towels, and there we are, me leaning off the side of the couch wiping up water and Mary in the floor cleaning it up. She looks up and I look down at her and then she kisses me.

I’m stunned and thinking that the kiss was nice and that she looks even prettier and smarter close-up, but that she just isn’t Heather.

Mary starts to cry, babbling about how she feels like an idiot and is afraid she’s ruined our friendship. I’m wondering, perhaps out loud, “What friendship?” but then I kiss her so that she doesn’t feel like an idiot and to verify that I felt nothing.

July 10, 02

I had a wonderful weekend with Ellen, a friend I have only seen twice or three times in my entire life. We kept in touch over the years through letters, though she wrote me a lot more often than I wrote her. It always seemed that things in my life were either not interesting enough for me to write about or too complex to explain to someone that I’d not even ever sat down and ate with.

The second night that I stayed over at Ellen's, she had a party that finally ended around 4AM.  I was happy to crawl into bed, and Ellen assured me that she would join me after she changed shirts.  She stood at the foot of the bed and pulled a T-shirt over her head. Her back, which was turned towards me, was dressed in pale moonlight and I noticed then that she had a very nice frame. She slipped into another shirt as one of her friends that rents the upstairs-part of her house knocked on the door, asking her to inspect the damage they had just done to the bathroom door during their partying.  She went upstairs and I rolled over and quickly fell asleep.  I woke to the sounds of rain and thunder, and for a moment I was very content because it was nice to have someone there to cuddle with, just as we had the night before.  I then realized that Ellen was not there.  I checked the clock.  It read: 5:34 AM.  The rain hammered hard against the windows and I debated going upstairs.  More thunder.  I felt alone and for the first time all weekend began to think about the ex and her boyfriend and the out-of-the-country trip they were now on.  I was feeling even more abandoned when, suddenly, the door creaked open and Ellen slipped under the covers and all was restored. 

The visit with Ellen was refreshing.  Ellen and we had such a nice time that the immediate concerns of the weekend regarding the ex and the out-of-the-country trip she was taking with her new boyfriend to celebrate her birthday were displaced, but more than that, my opinions on love and what was special and could never be generic were now under fire. 

Were I not lazy, I would perhaps come to some startling conclusions that would help me through the processes of losing the ex, but as it were, I just went on with it in the back of my mind. I was glad that it wasn’t complex -just a casual, casual thing. Was it? And later, when I was walking alone in the dark, I found how to put it into words. I wasn’t in love with her, it occurred to me that the new feeling I had was this: I didn’t feel alone anymore.

And in the break room at work I thought on this and other things, while fellow co-workers lounged against the sink or sprawled in the uncomfortable, plasic chairs, all with coffee cups in hand and listening to Louis Park. He lead the discussion through a dizzying array of topics. So we stood, just kicking the old peanut around; our conversations getting heavier, dealing with an amalgamation of religion, genetics, and evolution. Are people nowadays healthier, more intelligent, and superior genetically than those 20,000 years ago or aren’t they? While waiting for the morning to turn into lunch- time, which it did quite quickly that day, no conclusions were reached. In my mind, it is all give-and-take, and while we may be better and more efficient in some ways, there is a tradeoff so that, really, the populace never really gets ahead of the curve. But then, on further inspection, I don’t really agree with that, either. Suddenly the topic changes again and I’m telling a co-worker that given the fact that people have free-will, decisions can be made that might alter God’s plan, but He will always have another plan and everything works out. For example, I really believe the ex and I were meant to be, but she has free-will and has made decisions that effect us, so now there is a new plan. Or was I meant to go through all this the whole time, as if to gain some experience and learn some profound lesson? The co-worker and I just shrugged it off at that point and agreed to start jogging before work, beginning at 6AM the next morning.

October 24, 02

It was time to ask Mr. President for some time off, so I said, “Dad, I need a break for a while.” And with his blessing, I left my office that same day, taking with me only half of a roll of Shock Tarts and the latest issue of Maxim. I sold my Bonneville the following week and bought a plane ticket to Florida. Summering in my dad’s condo in Orlando -with the big sky, palm trees, and sunsets are as much childhood memories for me as rural Kentucky, which is where I lived until we moved to Louisville and Copeland & Son‘s was created.

At first I really thought things would be better with Heather and I if I went away for a while, but the only difference was that my pathetic local phone calls were replaced by my pathetic long-distance phone calls.

I leased a Porsche Boxter upon arriving in Florida, which is a major upgrade, I thought, from the Bonneville I’d been driving. Heather would still say I was being frugal, though, since I opted for the year-old Boxter instead of the brand-new 911.


Riding beside me in my new Porsche is this beautiful, twenty-something Japanese girl named Sara. Sara without an ‘h’ is nearly perfect with young-looking skin and large pretty eyes, but my favorite part of her is either her high cheekbones and sharp jaw line or her small, feminine back that supports a cute little neck that is dotted with a few freckles and always curtained by several hairs that have fallen out of her ponytail. She’s wearing a small, very nice-fitting navy blue Mensa T-shirt and short khaki shorts and white Keds with no socks.

“You’re looking too cool for school,” I told her when I picked her up.

I’m wearing a short sleeve western-style shirt, with snap pearl buttons down the front, dark straight-leg Levis, and a pair of red Converse All-Stars. Sara’s hair is shiny and shoulder length, mine is cut like Sting’s. We are singing along to a Sense Field CD but are on our way to see the Ben Folds concert. I still miss Heather very much, but Sara is making it better.

“You’re nearly perfect,” I tell her.

“What does that mean, ‘nearly perfect‘? What’s wrong with me?”

I think about it for a while, but honestly can’t come up with any flaws, “I don’t know, but I’m sure there is something. No one is perfect.”

The sun is setting and the sky is pink and blue, with soft white clouds stretched across the wide sky. Sara’s hair is blowing in the wind and I’m shifting gears as we pass the other cars. I’m slowing down when suddenly I see a terrapin in the middle of the street. It grip the steering wheel tighter and close my eyes briefly as I drive over it. I don’t feel us hit it, so I check the rear-view mirror and see something small, what looks like it could be its head/neck, fly up and then bounce a few times on the pavement. This upsets me. I check the speedometer to see how fast I was going when I hit it.

“Did you see that? That was too-cool-for-school,” Sara says excitedly, laughing.

I smile and shake my head left to right, not meaning ‘no’ but just because there is nothing to say. Then, “No, that was not,” I mock-scold, and I start to wonder if I’ll ever find The One.

Sara just shrugs and is applying Lip-Smackers lip gloss in the mirror. “It’s cherry,” she says, and I look at her and she smacks her lips and suddenly it doesn’t matter so much whether she’s The One or not and I tell her again that she is too cool for school.

The concert was hot, smoky and crowded.  I was a bit confused about what to do with my hands, since this was the first time I had ever taken Sara out, but everyone was standing close and we were really pressed up against one another.  I finally worked up the nerve to put one of my hands on her upper thigh as she stood in front of me.  Her hand then rested on mine, either to hold my hand or to keep it in a respectable position.  Her thumb rubbed against my thumb and then my other hand found its place against her other thigh and soon she took my arms and wrapped them around her and looked back at me and smiled, her pony-tail hitting me in the face as she did so.  

It seemed apparent to me that Sara maybe didn't really enjoy Ben Folds and so I asked if she would like to leave.  I hadn't heard any of my favorite songs and was begin to wonder if I would.  She agreed and we slipped out, hand in hand.  

The holding hands thing, though, was different from the way Heather held my hand, so when I held her hand, Sara let go and then repositioned her hand in mine.  It felt a little strange at first, but nothing I couldn't adjust to.

"You hold hands different than I do"

"I can adjust," I say.

"Good," she smiles, "I can't."

We walk to my car and I open the door for her, which she says she isn't used to.

"I'll take you home early tonight," I said, "if we get to hang out again sometime."

"That's pretty much guaranteed," she said.

August, 02

I'm still in Florida nearly a year later, during late August and it feels like the other side of the world. I sit with my bare feet propped up on a wooden desk over-looking the falling rain that hits a blanket of leaves that covers everything; I pick lint from between my toes and listens to a band called Modest Mouse. I mistakenly sing the lyrics, "gotta-see, gotta-know, right now what's that writing on the wall? It's nothing at all."

Much has happened since January and Heather and missing so much work, but it is all too much. Sometimes the days are so long. Actually, every day is so long.

Each day, I sit down in the evening and review, starting from getting out of bed and ending with sitting down to reflect. In this reflection, I remember hitting the snooze bar, I remember planning my day while in the shower, I watch myself dress, eat breakfast, and wait for the day to really start. All the conversations I was engaged in throughout the day are thought through, and I analyze what I said versus what should have been said. I always try to end my reflections on a positive note, smiling while I think of a time during the day I laughed or did something good. This entire process only takes about ten to fifteen minutes, but seems like much longer. I find that listening to soothing music in my padded black headphones helps me concentrate.

I really believe now that everything will be just fine.  All the things that have happened, involving Heather and Mary and work and Sara and Ellen and even Kyle, they are all good people somewhere deep down.  And if I never see them again, the world is full of new people and opportunities and I've got nothing to lose.  I've thrown out all the drugs and have considered settling down here in Florida and life is a novel that I'm reading and it is finally becoming quiet interesting.

August, 02

I’m still crazy after all these years. Thoughts of home are somewhere in the back of my mind, especially since Dad is hinting that it is time to come back to work and that I’m old enough to pull my own weight like he had to. I’ll be back soon, though I think I dread it. The truth about Mary is out, and there is more to what went on between us than I’ve ever cared to write down. I had been reading Ayn Rand, both The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged and so was feeling a lot of conviction and feeling very moral and so I told Heather late one night over the phone. We had been talking about working things out, about me coming back home, or, even better, she had admitted to me that she had always had a ‘secret plan’ to come and stay with me in Orlando, out of the blue, like a surprise. So things were going better than I could have hoped, but, thinking honesty was the way to go, I told her all about Mary since her and Mary were supposedly best friends. Now everyone, including Mary’s brilliant boyfriend and the whole circle of friends that Heather and I shared, knows and I have more enemies than friends back home. Or at least it feels that way.

August 13

I remembered running with my co-worker before work last year and as we ran I learned how it felt to push myself again and at the same time I was learning something else. There comes a point when you’ve kinda lost all you really can imagine losing, and at that point everything starts to be OK again. When you run for so long that your legs ache and your heart races and you can’t breathe and all you want to do is stop, but you keep pushing on and suddenly the pain resides and you are left with this euphoric dizziness and you’re running effortlessly and it doesn’t seem real…and it’s the same way when you’ve lost all you really can imagine losing. It’s anaerobic.

EDITOR'S NOTE:  This was the last entry found as part of Maxwell Copland's journal.  We have done our very best to piece the entries in order, although there is some ambiguity in the entries which he did not date, since several parts where written on just scraps of paper and some even on napkins, all found in his desk drawer in Florida.  Maxwell Copland's body was found laying on a park bench several miles from the condo where he was staying in Orlando, an apparent intentional overdose consisting of Demerol and other pain medications.  Maxwell held in his hand a copy of Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, book-marked on page 62 with the underlined phrase "by then I knew that everything good and bad left an emptiness when it stopped. But if it was bad, the emptiness filled up by itself. If it was good you could only fill it by finding something better."