On the porch, on a hot morning in the beginning of June, I sat, reading the paper - mostly the editorials - and watching the various kids on the street leave their houses and walk a few blocks down to the high school. No, in fact, I only perused the articles, but studied the adolescents in a maudlin way, for I, only a year ago, used to be like them - a teenager who was a decent student and attended school habitually. Now, however, I lived in the basement of my friend Ava�s house as another disenchanted youth who dropped out of high school.
But, I had my reasons. Until junior year, I was a respectable student, getting mostly A�s and B�s to appease my parents. I wasn�t stellar or anything, but I had my strong points - like writing, particularly poetry. Good poetry, not the usual adolescent unrhymed rants, with no symbolism, metaphors, or alliteration. My English teachers loved my work, in fact, and several times I had stuff published in the monthly literary magazine.
The work and the teachers I could deal with. My peers, however, I could not. I only left because of them, since their taunts and mocking pushed me too far. To them, I was too androgynous, even when I had cut my hair shorter and attempted to play sports, which put my writing on hiatus. But my drastic changes only harmed me even more, since the incompetence that I felt and they preyed upon grew. After two-and-a-half years of getting shoved into lockers and laughed at in class, I left.
Sometimes, I regretted my decision, but I felt stuck. And I knew it, too. My parents disliked my reasons, although I knew they were gradually becoming disgusted with my physical appearance as well, and politely asked me to leave the house. I didn�t care, since Ava let me live in her basement until she would graduate and I got my act together.
However, I didn�t know when that would be, if it ever would come, or if I would remain static here, as another disenchanted high school drop-out with a low-paying job and no future.
Ava left like every other adolescent on the block and headed for school. I�d spend the rest of the day either watching television in the basement or at work. Across the street, someone I knew left his house. He was a year younger than I and enjoyed writing as well, and occasionally, I could righteously say that he wrote better than I. His words, although he mostly wrote prose, flew off the page with their vividness, and even when he used few words or attempted to be tacit, he was like an orator that could leave a profound impact on any audience by his presence. But he also had more perseverance than I did, and despite he - who dyed his hair purple a month ago and usually wore mascara to school - was often mocked, he seemed determined to graduate next year.
I waved to him, and he ran across the street.
�Andy, how�s the magazine coming?� I asked congenially as I put the paper down and walked to the railing at the front of the porch.
�Not bad, not bad,� he said. In the morning light, his hair appeared a plum color, and I wished I had dyed mine that shade, rather than a cherry red, which rapidly faded into a crimson. �We could�ve used some of your poems, though.�
�Yeah, well, stuff happens,� I said. �Sorry to keep you waiting. You should probably go, or else, you�ll be late.�
�Yeah, well, I�ll see you around, Eugene.� He turned his back and walked down the street. I honestly hoped he would graduate and, maybe, even go onto college and study writing or something. Anything.
I sulked back into the house and descended the stairs to the basement. Down there, I only had a cot, a box of clothes, some paper and pens, and an old black-and-white television that Ava gave me. I turned it on and sat down on the cot, but no picture came on the screen. Nonsensical static - wavy black and white lines flowed across the screen like tides at the beach. I adjusted the antenna, but nothing. Turning off the black box, I lay down to sleep for a few hours before work.
Spring came around the next year, like it always does, and Ava had graduated and was now attending a vocational-technical school to learn to become an electrician. I still lived in her parents� basement and sat on their porch. This morning, I skimmed the editorials and watched the other kids on the street head for school. Andy usually left the same time as everyone else, but yesterday, in the afternoon, he came home from school early with his parents and, in an hour, stormed out of the house. I watched the incident with wide eyes from the front window.
This morning, however, I had nothing for breakfast, and Ava�s parents were now charging me rent. Making sure the front door was locked, I walked a few blocks to the convenience store that sat across the street from the high school. Andy stood outside, his purple hair still a plum color in the sun, and smoked a cigarette.
�How�s the magazine coming?� I asked him.
�I don�t know, don�t know.� I paused, looking away from me, put the cigarette to his lips, and took it away after sucking on it for a second. �I�m not going back. You understand.�
I stood in front of him. Stunned. A month before he would graduate and maybe do something with his talent. I forgot what I needed at the convenience store.
�Yeah, well, stuff happens,� I said and left Andy, smoking still, in front of the store and walked home.
Depressed and disappointed, I sat in the basement and turned on the television.
Nothing but static.
Maybe the black box finally stopped working, but it took me a year to realize this. But, what use is a television that will only romanticize and augment reality?
I walked upstairs again to rummage through the refrigerator and find something to eat that Ava�s family wouldn�t notice or care that I took. A container of left-over ravioli stared me in the face, and I warmed it up on the stove. But it tasted like paste once it was done.
I became bored, as I waited to get ready for work, and didn�t feel like eating the ravioli anymore. I put the plate and container into the sink, but the fork slipped from my fingers. For a moment, I caught my reflection in its metallic glimmer, as it remained suspended in the air for a brief period. Then, in a second, it clamorously fell to the linoleum floor, reflecting, now, the ceiling above my head.