Journal of Shane Obscure

by Roger Morgan

1.

Why on earth or where on earth (rather) did I lose my jacket - what happened to it? I was cleaning my car out, all the junk, next to the movie theater, and a few hours later I couldn't find my jacket. What on earth happened to it? I have a feeling it got thrown into the trash bin when I was cleaning the car out but who the hell knows. That jacket looked real good, too, better than most jackets. It was sort of a pullover. In the flap inside was plaid colored material and the outside was black. I don't think I remember a zipper in the middle. It had a large collar. I miss to death that jacket but more than anything I miss how it looked on me. When I knew it was lost for good I searched for another one just like it at the same place I got the first one. I didn't find that one and when I told the girl I had lost it she felt pretty bad for me. I bought another one but it wasn't the same.
     I miss the things I lose; I really do, especially if they looked good on me.

     The nights are like days now because I'm always inside. I should put the sun inside a box and carry it around with me. Then every once in a while when I need it I'll just open up the box. I could use it anytime, but I'd probably ware it out during the day. Then at night I won't have any left and I guess at that point I'd better just wait for morning.

     Every girl I meet becomes like a sister. I know, that doesn't sound too good, but it's not that bad, either. I remember one family trip my real sister and me met these two twin girls. Both of them had brownish-red hair and freckles. They were identical twins and I think they both liked me. But I never did anything about it.
     On one those trips I'd walk to a creek. The creek was more of drainage but the water didn't seem dirty, like cesspool water. I'd be alone by that stream and think about things and if only I could remember what I thought up back then. Maybe in a dream I can find some of those things I've lost. I swear I seem to not hold on too much. Although some are still around, the real important things are gone.

     I miss the snow in the mountains. I miss seeing children my age. I will never see a child my age again because I'm not a child any longer.
     There was a line of kids to rent sleds. Actually, they weren't sleds - they were hard plastic vessels that resembled over-sized plates. When I reached the foot of the hill, snow covered all the way up, I saw dotted trees, but only off to the side, and kids, mostly boys, were climbing up the hill. They were separated because it was a long climb and it was tough for everyone to stick together. I'd see them come down the hill in twos or threes, never any more than that at one time. When I climbed up I did it mostly alone. There was one other kid with me but he had to tie his boots. I made it up passed him and there was another kid up there. We went down side by side but as momentum gained we broke apart. I can still see the trees along the side, each side, and I thought about how bad it'd be if I slid over towards them. I never did though.
     Going down the hill was something else. There ain't nothing like it. I still can't understand why I only did it a couple of times before quitting. Maybe it was too much a good thing.

     Papers, papers, papers... books, books, and books... more books and papers.
     They don't mean a thing.
     I am brand new to this. I came in and then walked out. I saw the look on her face, the way she glanced over, and I didn't hold on the way I should've. They can all sense I've been hiding; everyone can.

     When Marc first came into the room and he saw me, I knew I had a friend.
     I felt safe when he spoke. 'Hey man,' he said, 'do I know you from someplace?' It was at Ed's house. I had worked with Ed. He's a pretty good guy, Ed, a bit quiet though, and hanging with him, well, I can't explain it really. But when Marc came around it was like seeing an old friend. I didn't know him. I never knew him. And when he said what he said I tripped. But it was just that, simply enough, he could sense that I was bored, too. We knew that something just wasn't happening.
     I was in my early twenties. I had very few friends. Marc didn't know Ed too good. And Ed didn't like Marc too good. I could sense that the way he barely glanced over the side of one eye when Marc came into the room. Ed and I were watching hockey. That's all we'd ever do, quite frankly. Sit around, watch sports, and then I'd take off.
     I never did see Ed's roommate till that night, when Marc first came in. Cudd was behind Marc. Imagine that, following someone else into your own living room. But that, I could sense right off, among other things, was an attribute of Marc. He was a leader, sure, but in that way, that kind of passive way in which to lead you'd want someone following you, just in case you go nowhere; then you can just give in and not be alone. I could tell that about Marc, too. That he didn't like to be alone. I've known many people somewhat like him. You can see fear in their eyes. But with Marc it was not at all a chicken shit fear. It was a cagey fear.
     Cudd's a real oaf. A loaf. He's got a big wide skull and a face like a rubber genie. His hair color would change practically every week. He had grown up in the bad side of town and shit, you'd never know it. Besides his fickle hair color, Cudd was a real backseat person.
     As Marc stood there behind the couches, watching the hockey game, he'd make these noises, these sniffling noises. I could tell Ed was annoyed. Ed kept everything inside but I could read him. I didn't know him too well but I could read him. He didn't like Marc Sandoval right off the bat.

     Most of the time I prefer being alone. But I like knowing that soon I'd be hanging out with someone, knowing that in a matter of hours I'd be alone again.
     The Marc thing continued as it began. I'd be hanging with Ed, watching - you got it - hockey. Shit, imagine being Ed's wife, spending time by his side. You'd make his dinner, that's for sure. Anyway, Marc and Cudd would come back from the gym, and Marc would come in and stand where he stands, and Cudd'd always go into his bedroom. And Marc's sniffling would begin.
     "There's some Kleenex in the bathroom," Ed said one night.
     I remember laughing inside. The poor guy couldn't take it anymore.
     Marc just replied, "No, thanks. It wouldn't help. I got allergies this time of year."
     But you know what, strangely enough, for the rest of the game, on that particular night, Marc didn't make another
sound.

     I noticed something about how Marc is different than Ed and Cudd. He's got a look, this expression, like he's not so secure, safe, or comfortable. But he is more confident. Ed and Cudd are dull. The way Ed sits there on the couch, it can practically put you to sleep, I swear to God. And Cudd. He thinks he's got an edge. It's like, he looks it, you'd think so too, at first - that he's so far gone he's retired right there on the tip of it. He puts on this look, like he's seen so much that he's sick to death and needs to rest his weary eyes. But it's false. He's dull as dull can be. But Marc, even though he's fat, was still a pretty muscular guy. And he's got a real lean stare. He seems hungry, like a contender. And like a contender very discontent.

     The way, on those first few nights that Marc stood back behind us I felt unsafe, and yet not harmed. But I wasn't bored. I felt that if this guy were around on a weekend night, then maybe things wouldn't be so dull. I really can't think of a better word to sum up my life, or those last few years before I ran into Marc. Marc and Dusk. But now I'm skipping ahead. I'm going too fast.
     I think it was the fourth night, as Marc stood back there, that I heard the sliding door, which was next to where Marc stood, open up; Marc went outside. Then he closed the door. The sun had just gone down. It was a hot night. Back then it was always pretty hot. I remember that. Some particularities, I'm sorry to say, I don't recall. And if this was a novel, and not just a sloppy journal, I guess I'd have to. But in a journal I can simply say: back then it was pretty hot. And quiet, too. Because I recall when that door opened and closed it was awfully loud. It was as if there hadn't been a sound in my life until that happened.
     Oh, I forgot to mention this. Ed, every time we sat and watched a game, would drink a beer. A beer. ONE beer. And so would I. But on this night, Marc, before he took his place behind us, had something in a paper bag. He had put it in the freezer, let it stay there a little while, and then grabbed it out. This was right before the sound barrier had cracked with that sliding door opening. So Marc stood holding a large bottle of beer. Now let me remind you: Ed drank one. One can. And that's what, we all know, is 12 fluid ounces. Marc had a 40-ounce bottle. That impressed me. Remember, I had just turned 21 that year. Simple things like that impressed me. And shit before that, before all this and that with Marc and Dusk, things were pretty dull. I said that before and I'll say it again: dull.
     It was like I had been waiting around. Imagine there's this waiting room and you're all alone and there's nobody, anywhere in sight, and you're simply just waiting. Sitting there with a real shitty magazine and there's ain't a decent one in the bunch - not even a Highlights - and there's this real depressing music playing from unseen speakers above.
     When Marc opened and closed the door I had (once again) caught Ed's eye glance over. I think if he could he'd have said something. But all Marc was doing was going out to the backyard. It ain't like he was breaking any laws.
     And when I looked out and saw Marc over by the slide, on the other side of the pool, and as I noticed the cherry of his cigarette, breathing in the night, I could swear - I swear to God - that that music in the waiting room had turned down just a bit - just enough - to where it wasn't driving me as secretly crazy as it had been before.

2.

     I'll just jot it down quickly. My memory is baked. I'll just jot it all down as I recall it. Otherwise, I'll never be able to write anything.
     That first conversation. I do remember it being a warm night. I remember the racetrack lights caused a UFO landing effect in the distant trees of the neighborhood. You could see those lights from Ed's backyard.
     I remember Marc just standing there when I walked out. When I opened the sliding door and closed it, I remember feeling as if he already knew I was coming outside. And I walked over to him. He had something, at the time, I wanted. But it's funny, he offered before I even asked. A cigarette. I really needed a cigarette. I remember, too, before we started talking, as I glanced over at the house, at the living room with the dusty gray curtains drawn, I could see the TV light flicker, and Ed's gaunt silhouette.
     I remember those kinds of things better than anything.
     For some reason I couldn't make out Marc's face at first. It was out of focus. I don't know why, but in the beginning I remember not being able to see him too good up close.
     We both stood smoking.
     "I wonder what's going on at the track tonight," he said.
     "I'm not sure."
     "You ever been there?"
     I think he knew I hadn't.
     "No. Never been."
     "You play poker at all?"
     "Not too many times."
     "We've played a game here once. I cleaned Ed out pretty good."
     I thought to myself, maybe that explains Ed's abhor for him. But it had to be more than that.
     Marc kept taking these big drinks of the 40 oz. bottle. It looked good the way he drank. I wanted to drink just like him.
     "Have you won a lot of money off Ed and those guys?" I didn't know what else to say.
     "Not too much. I just.. well, this is between me and you.."
     I felt real important when he said that. Glancing over, I could see Ed's silhouette move around in the living room. Who knows, maybe he sensed something. It was funny seeing his gangly shadow move around in there. He seemed real far away.
     "Even though these guys think they're good players, they're not. But I let them believe they are."
     "A hustler trick."
     "Not really, because I'm no hustler around here. They knew I was good from the beginning, unfortunately. Cudd went on and on about it before we even played. Fuckin' idiot. Actually, I brag them just to butter 'em up. So they feel good about themselves." He grinned and raised an eyebrow. "False confidence is easy prey."
     I changed the subject just slightly.
     "I notice you and Ed don't talk much."
     "He's used to me being around. Where do you know him from?"
     "Work. We used to work together."
     Marc smiled.
     "I don't think he's got that many other friends besides his roommates."
     The way he said this wasn't mean, and yet it wasn't sarcastic, either. It teetered on both. That was something else I noticed about Marc. He was blunt. Gutsy. To the point. Nothing like Ed. And he didn't have a motive. An agenda. At least it didn't seem that way at first.
     "I don't really know how many friends he has," I said.
     "Are you his friend, or did you just work with him?"
     He had a joking pitch to that one. Sort of.
     "A little of both, I guess. He's pretty mellow, but he's an all right guy."
     "Yeah. I know. I like Ed." I made him feel guilty, saying Ed was an all right guy.
     Marc took another big pull of the drink. I remember vividly that bottle, how it'd empty down - right into him. "But what I meant…" He cleared his throat… "Are you his only friend, beside his one other friend?"
     "Who's his other friend?"
     Marc smiled.
     "A certain guy who dresses like a bum, who used to hang out and get loaded all the time around the neighborhood, and who used to walk instead of drive in high school, and who always puts people down, and who's our age, and who could probably buy a Rolls Royce if he wanted to."
     "He's rich?"
     "His father is."
     I didn't know whom on earth he was talking about.
     "I guess he's a friend of Ed's from way back," said Marc.
     By now his beer was finished. So was his second cigarette. My beer was gone, too; so was my first cigarette.
     "So what are you guys up to tonight?"
     That was Marc. He was talking about Ed and I. I glanced over at the living room. Ed's silhouette was gone. But this did not necessarily mean Ed was gone. He was probably lying down on the couch. He does that after a while. He'll lie down and watch the last of a game that way - his skinny legs stretched out comfortably over the end. His couch horizontally faced the television. He resembled a skeleton on a raft when he laid down that way.
     "I'm not sure what's up tonight," I said. "Probably nothing."
     Actually, I was pretty sure of that.
     "You want to get more beer?"
     That thought hadn't occurred to me.
     "Yes," I said.
     Frankly, that was the best suggestion I'd heard in years.

     Cudd was asleep when we got back. Ed was in his room. Ed's room laid the middle of the house. It had once been the den of Sissy's father. This was, by the way, the house where Sissy grew up. Sissy knew Cudd from, of all places, church. Ed knew Cudd from work. Somehow everything about Ed led back to work.
     Sissy wasn't home that night. When he did get home it was late. Not too late, but Sissy was very social, and he'd rarely return before midnight. He was different than the rest of us.
     But I'm skipping ahead. I'm jotting all this down like a lunatic.
     The liquor store, where Marc and I walked to, was down the street about a dozen houses, then around a corner. Marc and I didn't say much. He talked about work. Where he worked it didn't matter. It was just a shit job you get: penance for avoiding college. He talked about work and about his girlfriend. He talked about how he was popular in high school. And how he'd, at one time, been in excellent shape. I could see it. Marc's a big guy, like I said, but not a fat guy. I mean, he's fat, but he's not a fat-guy. It hangs on to the muscle like it would a lazy steer. I didn't do much talking. And the funny thing is, he didn't expect me to. I liked that. See I'm a listener. I love to listen. I learn a lot of things that way. Marc liked it, I could tell, he liked having somebody he could talk to. I noticed that Marc's got a singing voice when he talks. It's difficult to explain, but it's different than Ed. Ed speaks, Marc talks. For Marc, hanging with Cudd was probably a drag. Cudd was Marc's Ed. I'd instigate all the conversations with Ed. I get tired of that. I can be pretty funny, people tell me, but I'd rather listen and add a sarcastic remark then instigate a joke. I hate jokes. I never tell a joke. If you were to ask me to tell a joke, I'd have to think real hard to remember one. I think jokes are an excuse to not be funny. I don't know, it's difficult to explain.
     Anyway, at the liquor store we got two more 40 oz. When we got back to the house it was only us awake. The door was unlocked. That had surprised me. Ed wouldn't've kept it unlocked unless I was around. If it were just Marc he would've locked it. But then again, Marc wouldn't've left without someone else .
     We sat around in the living room, drank and watched TV. Some low budget cable cheese with a real hot chick in it. That kept Marc pretty content.
     After about an hour, a funny thing happened. It was pretty much right after he'd drank his bottle. Marc was on the floor, lying alongside the Ed-couch, with his head propped up along the other couch; and right towards the end of that movie, and also right when I started feeling a decent buzz, I heard Marc snoring.
     He'd fallen asleep.
     I didn't expect that. Shit, now that I think about it, not even Ed'd ever fallen asleep. But Marc did. And I felt a brand new kind of aloneness. I wanted to talk about something. I had a voice inside that desired to be heard.
     Ed's bedroom light was still on. It peaked through the cracks of his sliding door. But that didn't matter.
     So that night I left Marc asleep on the floor. It was the first night I had actually met him. It was the first time in a while, too, that I really listened, without faking it, and that afterward, I'd actually felt like talking.

     That night I went to a diner. I drove to the place where I'd usually go during the weekday. It was different. I remember feeling different that night. I'd usually do this: I'd sit in a back booth and read. I kept paperbacks in my car and I'd read them in that booth and, other than ordering and very small talk, I'd barely talk to the waitresses. But that night I sat in one of the booths up front, near the counter. I talked to some old waitress about movies. She wasn't really old, now that I think about it, but she seemed old to me then. And the funny thing is, I instigated the conversations. I was talking and talking. And it seemed brighter in the restaurant. It was just plain different that night. I even glanced back at the back booth where I usually sat and kind of laughed to myself. Maybe it was the beer, that I felt so intrepid. Maybe that's what had made the old booth seem so lonely and nostalgic.
     But that night, I swear, I talked so much I think the waitress - who had always tried to talk with me before - I think towards the end, before I left, she got pretty damn tired of listening.

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