Jack Emerson Page 2

  Chapter 2

  ¶

  So you understand a little better the lens that is portraying Jack, I should tell you a little about myself. This addition comes by request after I finished the story… well, thought I had finished it of course. You see, not being a “writer” myself, I have barely now come to appreciate the influence the narrator has. I feel more thrown into the roll than anything else, but I might as well polish up a few things.

  I'm sticking to what I said about this being a story about Jack and not me, but I guess I really only know him, in relation to me. Everything I included was what caught my attention, or impressed me; I’m curious if someone else was writing this story what they would say.

  Well until someone does write another story about Jack Emerson, you're stuck with me, which I don't think is too bad of a thing.

  Looking back, it seems quite random events shape our lives, in mine, it has been a lot what people have said.

  My mother told me when I was little, that only small people get bothered by small things. If I had to say one thing about me, about Chris Else, it that I try not to let things bother me, I don't stress out a lot about pretty much anything. I don't attract drama, and I'm easily contented, overly contented when I'm in the snow with my skis.

  I think everyone has their story, although I think some you can see a lot from the outside; mine has just never been a story that caused ripples or conflict. Mine all of the battles have been inside, mostly gradual. I think we all make the hero’s journey, but mine just isn’t as cinematic, which I don’t think that’s a good or bad thing.

  I feel very lucky for the life I have; I haven’t known any different, but I find myself people watching a lot more since high school.

  I like Chinese and Mexican food a lot.

  I’ll listen to any type of music from country to jazz.

  I prefer dogs to cats.

  I don’t like driving in the city, especially not in traffic.

  So that's basically me in a nutshell.

  And well, now back to Jack.

  …And back to the beginning like I promised: I walked up to his apartment floor and knocked on the door. When I first arrived he was much quieter and reserved. I’m glad he felt comfortable enough around me to be himself, or once he figured out why I was there, he figured he would give me something to write about.

  “Christopher is it,” he asked warmly as he opened the door.

  “Yes, Mr. Emerson,” I stammered.

  “Call me Jack. Would you like to come in?”

  “If you don’t mind, I was hoping to borrow some of your time.”

  “Borrow away; it’s not mine as far as I am aware.”

  I laughed, but I don’t even really know why. It was just funny to be frank with time I guess… as if time would call you out if you were a liar.

  “Could I get you something to drink? I’ve got tea, juice or some cold milk,” Jack offered.

  “Water is fine, thanks.”

  “So what brings you here today?” Jack said as he got two glasses from the cupboard and filled them.

  “I want to know the answer to the riddle.”

  “Oh you remembered.”

  “Remembered? I couldn’t forget it. It just haunted me. I even asked a few other people. I mean it’s not like the two trains problem in algebra where you simply find where they meet.”

  “You’re right it’s not like that problem at all; I didn’t ask you where they meet, only if they did.”

  “Well do they?”

  “What do you think?”

  "Maybe," I answered.

  "There had to be."

  "But he could have been going so many different speeds the whole time."

  "It is easier to imagine, two people at the same time, one walking up and the other walking down, or his shadow walking up the second day while he walked down. They would have to meet somewhere.”

  “Wow, I don’t think I ever would have gotten that.”

  Jack chuckled, “I did start you off with one of the harder puzzles. But I’ll give you another before you leave today.”

  “Oh great! So now when I don’t get this easier one, I will feel dumber?”

  “If you don’t want another puzzle, that’s fine.”

  “Well of course I want another puzzle!”

  Jack chuckled again.

  “You are just something else Jack.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, how would you describe yourself?" I asked.

  The look said it all. So I clarified, "okay, well if you were writing a book…"

  Jack laughed off the question, but I insisted.

  "I do think you would write a fantastic book. I would love to get in your head."

  "You'd never make it out alive or sane. That would be like wanting to pet the biggest kitty in the world. Chomp!" he said with his hands as imaginary jaws.

  "It can't be as bad as you make it out to be."

  "Oh really, easy to say when you haven't been there."

  "No matter what you say I'm going to get a story out of you."

  "You might."

  "So let’s pretend you are writing a story, how would you describe the main character?"

  "You cannot describe the main character of a story, the story describes them."

  "Alright then, how does your story start?"

  "You are persistent I'll give you that!"

  "Like… Once upon a time in a fairytale land..."

  Jack gave me that look again, "If you were saying that to make me show you how a story should start, you might have done it. If not you should pay attention.”

  I smiled in triumph, and Jack began telling the story.

  ¶

  “The night was so dark it couldn’t get darker, but it was somehow, or at least it seemed to be; but then if it was darkening, it wasn’t at it darkest yet. Maybe it was the cold, because when a night is at its darkest, it is also at its coldest.

  I shouldn’t have gone out in the first place, but I had to go; it was that or be alone.

  I dread the walk home, it is almost more sad that I know the way so well I can find it even in the darkest of nights. It is not my home, and that and many other things is why I care so little for being there.

  I feel torn right down the center, and one side regrets that I ever left to the party, the other wishes I would have stayed and found a way to enjoy it without making a fool of myself. So many people and so many opinions! I saw the trains of thought crissing and crossing and crashing everywhere. It was all I could do to stay on top of it. I tried to set the stage to what I knew best. They all seemed to be so experienced at these social conventions, so would it really be too much to want a home court advantage?

  Though one would think there is a home court advantage in one’s own head, there at the party my mind twisted and bend on itself; no matter what I tried to think, I just felt I was losing the whole time. Everyone else seemed to be fine. Partially that is why I went to the party; if I will lose again anyway, at least someone else can win, or enjoy the prize fight between me and myself.

  I wish someone else was there for that same reason, not that I would wish this on anyone else, but I’d like to know I wasn’t completely alone.

  I feel like I’m in grade school again, or maybe I never left. I thought I did, I thought I had graduated from petty insecurities, but there I was again, wanting some perfect stranger to listen to me talk.

  Maybe I’m exaggerating a little, he was not a stranger, in fact, I really was hoping there would be nothing strange between him and me. Maybe he won’t remember how the girl he had barely met had left early in a pouting hustle. I would like to think no one noticed how I left, but I can’t assume everyone in that room was oblivious, I would have noticed, I always do.

  It stresses me out tracking just one person’s emotion, let alone a whole room of them at once.

  I felt so mentally
and emotionally exhausted after I left. I don’t know how I can keep legitimizing this yearning to going out; it never satisfies the craving I have for company, or maybe it does and I over think it.

  Me, over thinking something? Ha! I’d laugh, but it really isn’t funny at all. I feel broken; like a train barreling out of control.

  My house is just around the corner, but I’m not ready to be home. I spotted a little patch of grass the other day and told myself that would be a good spot to lay and look at the stars; that was summer and now November has already begun.

  I don’t even care, I’m lying right here right now. If someone walks by and sees a girl shivering uncontrollably in the grass on a dark night, there might be drama, but I really don’t care.

  I couldn’t even see the stars because I was shaking so furiously. I closed my eyes and just let myself sink; I felt myself falling and falling, and I really thought I had fallen out of life, but then as I opened my eyes I saw the stars brighter than I ever remember them. There they were happily staring back at me.

  It was beautiful. I took a deep breath of new life; it was a lot colder than I was expecting, and suddenly I started shaking furiously again from the chills. I quickly ran inside, but the image of the stars stayed with me.”

  ¶

  "Who is the girl?" I asked Jack when he stopped.

  "That's what I'm trying to explain."

  "Yes, but what's her name?

  Jack just stared blankly back at me.

  "Please..." I pleaded. "She needs a name."

  "I'm just telling a story not inventing characters." Jack groaned.

  "Exactly! The character is you…"

  "Could be," he interjected.

  "hmmm... So instead of Jack we’ll call her Jacky."

  "You can call her whatever you want. I however will not call her Jacky."

  "Jacky Roberts! Oh and why is Jacky so sad?"

  "Why do you assume she's sad?"

  "What?" I asked confused.

  “I am not describing her situation, I am describing how she would describe it."

  He could tell I was lost, so he explained, "a person can write sad things and not be sad, a person can say happy things and not be happy. Only you know what you feel."

  "So she's really a happy person pretending to be incredibly sad?"

  "No, she's just a person. Every moment we have a new canvas in our mind to paint the picture of our soul. There are no strokes permanently there.”

  ¶

  “If in one moment a person can be happy, and the next sad, when are they doing better or doing worse? What is it that is actually changing?” I asked.

  “Happiness cannot be the cause of its self, or can it?”

  “Seeing someone else happy makes me happy.”

  “But that is not your own happiness creating itself. That is you stepping outside of yourself to share happiness with someone else. So then you might ask about good fortune? That brings happiness right?” Jack asked.

  “I want to say yes but I'm hesitating.”

  “There's not an answer I'm looking for. I don't even know how I would answer it yet myself.”

  “Okay let’s say I find a dollar on the ground, I would feel happy about it. But then again, maybe it’s the hope in fortune that inspires.”

  “I think you’re right; what gets better or maybe stronger, is our foundation that hope is built on.”

  ¶

  Since I already told about the rest of my visit that day with Jack first, I’ll just add in the riddle he left me with.

  “A homeless man discovered by collecting cigarette butts, with seven of them he could make one whole cigarette. He collected forty-nine cigarette butts one Sunday afternoon and smoked them all that day, how many did he smoke?”

  “That seems too easy,” I replied thinking out loud.

  “How something seems could have absolutely nothing to do with how it actually is.”

  “It also could have everything to do with it.”

  “I think in this case, you should just wait to give me your answer next week.”

  ¶