There are three small squares of cork-board mounted on the wall by my bed. Originally, a fourth hung with the rest, but twice now it has fallen and as I am a man who prefers to pick his battles, I concede this one to the cork-board.

Pictures of family and high school friends are tacked to the squares, a few sketches and postcards, and a giraffe my sister drew for me when she was five. I wonder, always, how it is I still have that.

On the square hung highest on the wall (next to an old poem written me by a middle school crush and a group photo from a Halloween piano recital, in which a scowling fifth grade Andrew is dressed as Count Dracula three years running) is a program from a play I had been in, A Christmas Carol brought to you by the Masque circa Winter 2002. On the back, amongst a few scribbled signatures, in nearly illegible writing I have signed "Andrew Haynes, Scrooge. To that punk kid."

Clipped to this is a note:

Andrew,
This was on Mitch's bulletin board in his room. Please keep it and know you're a good role model.
Thank you,
Kim.

Next to this on the highest cork-board square is a program from a funeral.

Mitchell James Henderson

July 15th, 1992 to April 20th, 2006

2006 was the year I graduated high school. It was the year I finally had a social life outside of the Masque Theater. It was the year I finally had a girlfriend. It was the year I finally got out of Rochester.

I was a relatively active kid, far more so than I am these days at least, teaching classes and acting in shows at the Masque, taking Century High School by storm with my boyish charm and laid-back-cool-dude attitude (right guys?), and serving as a senior high representative on my church's youth committee. I wasn't a particularly religious guy, in fact by my senior year I was fairly certain I could call myself an atheist, but the church was an important place to me. I had a fair number of friends there, a great relationship with the minister and her husband, and the youth group was genuinely fun to be a part of.

Mitch was a junior high representative on the committee. He was in 8th grade, angsty but good mannered and the funniest fuckin' kid I have ever met. The monthly committee meetings were jokes to him and I, the two of us scolded on a regular basis for throwing pennies at whoever wasn't looking and trying to sneak out the smelliest of farts.

I didn't see him often. Once every week or so for church, the monthly meetings, and whenever the junior and senior youth groups would embark on joint adventures, but he was a genuine friend of mine. And I knew he looked up to me in a way any young boy looks up to an older boy who is a little bit cynical but also makes fart jokes. I would give him the occasional ride home from a meeting and he would talk about the latest R rated movie he had seen or which swear word was his new favorite.

I remember the moment my mom told me what happened. She had picked me up from school to take me to the doctor's office on my lunch hour. There was a small chance I might have lymphoma, so we thought it best to find out for sure. Turns out I didn't. But right as we got to the doctor my mom parked the car and turned to me. Mitch was dead, she told me. For some reason still relatively unknown, he had gotten a hold of his father's gun and shot himself in the neck. His younger sister found him bleeding out in the study. His mom was gone, off to his school to pick up homework or a book, something he had absentmindedly forgot but needed that night. They had gotten into a brief fight before she left, him and his mom. And the last time she saw him, the one time after she had chastised him for being lazy or irresponsible or whatever it is moms say to teenage sons who don't really feel like getting their shit together, was with a hole through his neck and his eyes rolled up into the back of his skull.

I was devastated. And I was furious. And I was sobbing. And when the doctor told me I didn't have cancer I didn't really care. And I didn't go back to school. And when I went to see Sara I didn't say anything, I just held my eyes shut and pushed my head into her belly and tried to think about something else.

I didn't understand it. I don't understand it. And I missed him immediately. I missed the goofy man he was going to be. And that was the moment I finally decided that, no, I do not believe there is a God. Not because he let a 14 year old boy die. Not because I was mad at him. But because as I sat in church and tried to grieve I felt nothing. No comfort. No understanding. No invisible pat on the back. And I know that the power, wisdom, and glory of God is more complex than that. I know that there is more to faith than seeing those selfish, human moments of need met with some divine intervention. But so was there more to my grief. So was there more to the emptiness I felt in that sanctuary. And I am sorry that I cannot find the words to fill that emptiness, but my rejection of the Heavens was not a knee jerk reaction made out of spite and rage. It was the declaration of how I had felt for the better part of my life, now reaffirmed.

I have not been back by choice since.

Mitch's mother, Kim, gave me the program at my graduation party less than two months after he died. Her eyes were sad as was her smile and she hugged me for a moment before leaving.

I see it everyday, the program. Hanging in my room always since June 2006. And still three months until it has been with me as long as it had been with him.

I stare at it sometimes, think about how old he'd be now, what he'd look like. I try to imagine how he'd talk, what fads he'd have fallen for, what he would be wanting to do with himself now that he'd be graduating high school so soon.

But sometimes, most times, I wonder... if he were still alive today, if he had never gone, would I still know him? Talk to him? How often would I see him?

And, really, would he still mean so much to me?

mostly just because no one likes having that talk

no, i'm not mad.
i'm confused.

because i'm pretty sure just a week ago
i walked you home in the rain
and even though you only live two minutes away, i got soaking wet for you.

don't get me wrong, i understand.
you have very pretty eyes that get really big when you laugh loud
and you're plenty fun to be around
but when you tell me
'i mean, yeah, okay, there are feelings, but i just don't really feel that pang to be exclusive you know? so, i mean, what's the point?'
all i can say is 'yeah. okay. i mean... yeah.'
'cause, you know

i mean. yeah.

'cause no, i'm not mad.
just surprised.

because i'm pretty sure the other night
the night i went down on you for the better part of an hour
you were pretty into me.

and yeah, i was pretty into you
more into the fact that you were pretty into me
and more into the fact that i could finally say i was seeing somebody again
but there wasn't a long list of cons
though the pros weren't really tipping the balance.

so no, i'm not mad.
just overwhelmed with a crippling sense of inadequacy

is that too dramatic?
because i'm pretty sure nothing stings more
than slow, cross-eyed rejection
and when i'm certainly not devastated, you still got me to hole up in my room and write another passive aggressive poem.

would we call these poems?

but no.
i'm not mad.
just, you know.

Part 1.3

We arrive at Jeff's later than most. A pile of shoes block the door and we force our way in, adding our own footwear to the mountainous obstacle.

It appears I do know Jeff, or at least met him in passing. I had, as has become expected, forgotten his name immediately after we shook hands.

A large group of people have congregated in his room, sitting two asses to a chair, crowding atop his mattress, standing awkwardly in corners. She and I sit up against the wall near his door.

I take my position as silent observer, speaking only when spoken to. This is a role I do not mind playing, one I used to reprise frequently at social events I was dragged to by my high-school-days lady friend.

"You don't have to stay here with me if you want to socialize, you know," I say to her. "I'm a big boy."

"Believe me," she says with a smile. "If I wanted to be out there I would be. I will be. But sitting here with you right now is just fine with me."

"Okay."

Across the room, a lanky, long haired boy eagerly stuffs weed into a bowl and begins passing it around. When it gets around to us she dutifully declines but waves it my way.

I take it and, well... when in Rome.

Soon, a young man by the name of Brett, the other lead in tonight's canceled performance, makes his way to the center of the room with a clip board. He is probably under the influence of something or another, taking frequent pauses in his speech to stretch his eyelids and cock his head to the left. Jeff stands with him, and another long haired, this time bearded, fellow sits in a folding chair nearby.

"If we could just take a moment," Brett is saying, "to talk seriously to you all about something we've all been thinking about."

"Yes," says Jeff.

"Because we are all very serious about what we are here to discuss."

"Yes."

Pause. Eyebrows raise, head ticks to the left, and we continue.

"There are five of us, myself, Jeff, Billy," he motions to the beard in the folding chair, "and two others thinking about moving into a house--"

"A commune," adds Billy.

"Yes, sure, a commune of sorts, this summer. Through next year. We are looking for people--"

"Artists," adds Billy.

"Yes, sure. Yes. Artists of all different walks and fields--"

"Painters, sculptors, photographers, actors, writers--" adds Billy.

"Yes--"

"We are looking," says Jeff. "To start a revolution that will bring students and young artists to the forefront of the Minneapolis art community. We are looking for people interested in and serious about this goal who would maybe like to come live in or work with this house to mold a studio space, rehearsal place, and gallery space to get this ball rolling."

"Yes," says Brett.

"Right," says Billy.

"Cool!" someone chimes from the crowded mattress.

Spatters of applause.

People begin to talk excitedly about the prospect. Jeff and Brett explain a little more, but I tune out.

She looks at me. "I could never do that."

"Me neither."

"Yeah, fuck it."

"Yeah."

She smiles. "It's kinda cool though."

"Yeah, I just could never operate that way."

"Me neither."

"Kinda cool though."

"Yeah."

She rests her head on my shoulder. "Welcome to my world."

I laugh. What's funny is as I look around the room I can easily attribute names to all these faces I see that match up with friends I have back in Chicago.

It's interesting to see all these people in the same room. Back home I run into everyone in smaller pockets at various gatherings. It's strange comparing the artsy community here to the one back home.

It's also strange that I refer to Chicago as home now. But that's fine with me. Just strange that the change has become so definite in the last year.

But a real niche has arisen from the traditional college experience at the U of M so much more concrete than what has come out of art school. There's a greater urgency here. A need to define oneself as an artist. Whereas, at Columbia, it's something always apparent and easily taken for granted.

I don't know which I prefer.

Brett approaches the two of us and crouches next to her. "I feel like we should do something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Create something."

"Okay."

"Okay..." He looks around. "Any ideas?"

"Nope."

"Okay..." He stands up and spreads his arms. "Hey, uuuh... people? We should like... do something."

"Yeah!" someone shouts.

A large mass of people arise and rush out to the living room.

She looks at me and smiles. "Welcome."

Time passes, she's talking to a rotund queen about why he hated her play and he's blushing and laughing and trying to convince her he didn't hate it.

I get up and wander out to the living room, curious about the laughter that has begun to drift down the hall.

I'm feeling pretty okay still and as I squeeze through the crowd another bowl is thrust my way.

Cheers.

Part 1.2

We sit inside a classy hipster café called the Wilde Roast. I drink a small coffee; she eats a large salad and talks about the background music. I don’t say much.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You’re being really quiet.”

“Sorry.”

We sit in silence for a few moments.

“I’m excited for the play tonight,” I say.

“I think you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I’ll like it.”

”I hope so.”

I catch her eyeing the desserts and smile. “Still hungry?”

“Oh God,” she drops her fork on her empty plate. “That shit looks so good.”

I stand up and offer to buy her something.

“No no no no no,” she stands. “I’ll get it myself.”

“No, come on, I said I would buy you dinner and you didn’t let me.”

“When did you say that?”

“A while ago.”

“Stop it.”

“I did! When I bought the bus tickets. Whatever, doesn’t matter, let me get this.”

She sits down. “Stupid.”

I buy her a large, fruity dessert in a big coffee cup after she begrudgingly points it out. She makes me try a bite. It’s pretty awful. She grimaces after tasting it, but finishes it quickly.

“That was gross,” she says outside.

“So gross.”

“I ate the whole thing.”

“You sure did.”

We hop on a bus that takes us onto campus and we walk toward the theatre building. It’s dark outside, and quiet. A few people are walking about, but mostly it’s quiet. She sees some people she knows and yells at them waving. They yell back and we keep moving.

Visiting friends that go to real college always makes me a little sad. Nostalgic for the classic college experience I’ll never really have.

It’s cold and wet outside. My choice of footwear for this visit was less than exemplary, and crocs squeak and squish around as we walk. I’ve rolled my pant legs up to my knees to prevent them for getting anymore soaked.

A walking sight-gag, we tromp through campus. Me, a giant in my size-too-small suit jacket and homemade man-pries, and her, less than half my size in her six-sizes-too-big acrylic fur hat and huge, hipster Ray band spectacles.

We arrive at the theatre building, a giant concrete building three stories tall housing at least 8 different theatres. Around every corner she’s introducing me to people whose names I’ve forgotten before they’re even mentioned.

We plow our way through pockets of peers until we arrive at the Ready Room, a brightly lit room with walls made of mirrors and row upon row of hot yellow lights. I am introduced to Maddy Riley, her newfound identical twin soul mate. The two hop around and giggle at some newfound revelation about another thing that makes them hopelessly the same.

I shake hands with a few more people and she pats me on the head and moves to the changing room to get into costume. I step outside to get some fresh air and sneak a cigarette.

When I return someone I may or may not have met earlier tells me she is looking for me. I peak my head into the Ready Room and she is sitting at a mirror putting on her makeup.

“Someone’s not here yet,” she says. Call was a half hour ago.

“Uh oh,” I say.

“Yeah, what the fuck.” She drops her make up and looks at me.

“I swear to God,” says Addie, a large, loud, tech girl with bad teeth and big hair. “If she walks through that door within the next two minutes I will be genuinely glad to see her for once.”

“That’s mean,” she says.

“I’m serious,” says Addie. “I will, for once, be happy to see her.”

“That’s still a mean thing to say.”

I sit down next to her. “Everything’ll be cool. The show doesn’t start for another half hour. I’ll go get my seat and see you after the show.”

“Okay.”

We hug.

“Good luck. But not good luck. But good luck.”

“Thanks.”

I go upstairs to the theatre and get my ticket. The seats are tiny and I have to bunch my knees up to my chin. I pass the time by reading the program over and over. I want to check the time, but my phone is still lost and I don’t feel like asking a neighbor.

Soon, a man walks out onto the stage holding a clip board which he reads from.

“Ladies and gentleman, we apologize for the delay. Due to an unfortunate accident, a cast member has not shown up for the performance and we are unable to go forward with tonight’s show. If you would like to wait five minutes we will have the box office open and ready to offer any ticket exchanges or refunds on your way out. We apologize again for the inconvenience.”

Oh no.

I go back to the Ready Room. She’s not there, but Joe, an older student with a big beard and silly hat tells me she’ll be down shortly. I ask if they’ve heard anything from the missing cast member, and he tells me they still have no idea where she is.

I sit down and wait.

She comes through the door, her hair braided into cute pig-tails and make-up smeared around her eyes. She is crying and walks slowly toward me with her head down.

“I’m sorry…”

“Why?”

“You came all this way to see the show…”

“It’s okay.” I pull her into me for a hug and she sniffles.

“This is stupid.”

I don’t say anything.

“I’m really sorry…”

“Not your fault.”

She pulls away from the hug and wipes her eyes.

“Okay, I’m over it.” She smiles. “Let me go change.”

She does. When she returns she sits down next to me.

“Now what?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I think we’re just waiting to see if we hear anything.”

We walk upstairs and sit on a big puffy bench.

“I hope she’s not dead,” she says.

“Me too.”

The next hour is spent wandering around the theatre building, pockets of kids standing around speculating about what happened. She tells the story over and over about how I came all the way from Chicago to see this show, and people express a polite amount of sympathy then continue on with their conversations.

Soon the stage manager gets a call. The actress is fine, she collapsed in her room and just woke up. She’s on her way to the hospital now.

Quickly, the mood changes. Relief spreads through the room. People begin talking about a meeting/party at Jeff’s house.

I don’t know who Jeff is, but it looks like we’re going to his party.

“But I don’t’ want you to get bored,” she says.

“I’m not gonna get bored.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m doing whatever you’re doing, kiddo.”

“Okay. Let’s go have some fun, I guess.”

“Okay.”

Part 1.1

Rock Band has destroyed me. A game I have readily avoided due to the sheer cost of owning it alone.

I love it now, I think. It has done what all twelve Mario Party games have only dreamt of doing and developed a game that doesn’t bore the fuck out of people after the first half hour.

We have been playing for what could easily be an hour, waiting for her to arrive.

She’s been is classes all morning. I, in the interest of saving quite a bit of money, took the overnight bus to Minneapolis and arrived at 6:30 am. A long time Rochester-era friend of mine found and rescued me from the bowels of the unfamiliar city. To protect his identity I search for a humorous nickname but am too tired. His name is Danny Eckberg. Google it.

After breakfast and a bit of a stroll we arrive at his place and rest. Upon awaking, my introduction to Rock Band begins.

Also, I lost my phone. So that sucks.

Danny’s phone, serving as my surrogate means of communication, rings. He tosses it to me, I answer.

She’s lost. I look to Danny for directions, but he throws only a compass rose my way, and being unfamiliar with the immediate location I struggle to use it in a constructive way. Eventually I just run outside to see if I can spot her roaming the streets.

Sure enough, here she comes. Walking at a painfully slow pace, donning her new acrylic fur hat, she comes.

I am excited to see her, of course. Over the past year and a half she and I have become increasingly fast friends, and life in Chicago has grown mind-meltingly stressful. To get away is, in a word, a treat.

It is also important to mention here, though there may be no need already, I harbor a great deal of affection for her. This is a more recent development than some of my close friends are willing to believe, but I insist that these feelings have only begun to manifest themselves in the last few months of our friendship.

That said, however, it may also be important to note that I haven’t had a crush on anybody, let alone a legitimate relationship, since the disastrous high school break-up of ’06. I am, suffice it to say, out of practice.

But if there is one thing the Windy City has taught me, it’s ‘look like an ass as infrequently as possible.’ So my dorky, pimply, angsty teenage self that has been resurrected along with these feelings stays quietly inside me for the most part and I remain cordial and socially acceptable.

She trots towards me once she sees me, waving and smiling. We embrace momentarily and say our hellos. She is tired, of course. I know few people these days that report they are lively and attentive after a morning full of classes.

I am in town to see a play. Night Train to Bolina. She is one of the leads and has been obnoxiously busy with it for weeks upon weeks.

It is noon now, seven more hours until she is due at the theatre, so we return inside and convince the next few hours to be devoted entirely to Rock Band. Alas.

Danny does Oasis proud with a heart-wrenching rendition of Wonderwall, I warble away with Fleetwood Mac, and there isn’t a dry eye in the house after she takes the mic and brutally rapes Rage Against The Machine with their own tune.

Perhaps the Mario Party franchise would be more successful if it gave you the opportunity to scream into a fake microphone for points.

Before we leave, Danny insists upon making us lunch, selling us on the fact that the one item on the menu is not only a mysterious tasty treat, but also the only thing he can prepare without use of the microwave.

The dish, the secret recipe I unfortunately could not get the rights to divulge here, is a surprising and silly treat ironed and pressed to perfection on a big red knock-off of the George Foreman grill.

Created and coined as “Quesa-Quesa” by a twelve-year-old version of Danny’s father, the crispy specialty is a delicacy, I’m sure, in some far away made up Eastern-European country.

We eat, we chat, we exchange high-fives with our host, and leave.

We walk slowly to her apartment. It has warmed up outside, the ice that attempted on several occasions to take my life earlier in the day has turned to rivers and oceans.

As we walk through someone’s front yard to avoid one of these mass expanses of accumulated H^2O (yeah, I remember something from chemistry. Suck it.) one of her boots sinks into a puddle of mud and she groans.

“Now we have to go home and wash my boots,” she sighs.

I smile. A moment passes.

“I am, of course, using the royal ‘we’ in that instance.”

“I assumed so.”

“You don’t have to help me wash my boot.”

“Good.”

We walk a bit further.

“I’m glad we’re friends,” she says.

“Me too.”

“I don’t know what to do after the show tonight.”

“Whatever you want.”

“But I don’t want you to get bored.”

“I won’t be.”

“Okay,” she says as we approach the door to her apartment building. “We’ll do whatever the fuck I want.”

I smile. “Perfec’.”

She smiles back. “Perfec’.”

Update.

Puddles are pretty big these days,
So big you have to walk around them if you don't want to get your shoes wet.

It's mostly because of all the rain.

The rain is what does it.

The Clubhouse

The summer before my first year of middle school, I was either nine or ten probably, considerably smaller than I am now at any rate, my best friend of the past 6 or so years, Stephanie Kunkel and I sat in the small attic space above her garage that we had spent the last several months or so turning into our club house.

The club had no name, the important fact being not that we were an established club but that we were in charge.

Stephanie and I would swap between President and Vice President, my turns as President always lasting longer than hers what with my being an outspoken glutton for power and attention.

Sheldon, Stephanie's younger brother would, on occasion, make an appearance to put in hours as our Secretary, taking dictation on an old broken typewriter whenever I felt compelled to pretend I had something of importance to say.

I had just learned how to swear that year. Not that I had just learned what wear words were, but I had recently became aware of the power of words such as "Hell" and "God Damn" and maybe even, dare I say it, "Ass."

The real biggies, the four letter words that mean business, "Shit," "Fuck," and "Cunt" were still out of my vocabulary's reach but I didn't need them. I did just fine with what I had.

This particular summer was a hot one and while we were out of theThe sun, the attic had no air conditioning and made for an excellent sauna.

We were dying, lying on the tiny squares of carpet we had lain around between boxes, sweating through layer after layer and we had nothing to do. In just a few weeks Stephanie and I would be separated, off to different schools, off to become separate people with separate genders and sensibilities. Steph had already begun to try on blush and maybe even lipstick, had already started to talk about boys and maybe even have crushes on them and I was worried. That's not to say I wasn't discovering an interest in girls but to me, Stephanie wasn't a girl. But I was a man, and Stephanie showing interest in little stupid boys meant that interest in me was dwindling. I guess. It was sound logic at the time.

But we're sweating in the attic, growing apart in uncomfortable silence when Sheldon, the young brother secretary comes scrambling up the ladder from the garage. He was loud and mousy and anxious to be our friends but the minute he arrived we sent him immediately to the Box, an old refrigerator box we had filled with tiny rubber bugs. The rule was if you were neither Stephanie nor myself you had to spend up to five minutes in The Box to prove your worth. Old fashioned hazing at an early age.

Sheldon at this point was a master of the box and lie in the darkness with the rubber snakes and spiders humming to himself.

Suddenly, in the tiny attic window overlooking the driveway, Stephanie sees something move. A tiny little ball of fur clutches to the screen, trapped between the metal netting and the small glass pane. How it got there was not apparent and how long it had been watching us was unknown.

We watch it, Sheldon clambering out of the Box to stare with us. And I, with the natural instincts of a child, take a pencil and, with limited care, poke at the shaking ball of fur and watch as it shifts, pees itself, and falls to the window sill still strapped between glass and screen, dead.

A tiny baby bat that I had killed with a pencil and curiosity.

I do not remember the specifics of what followed. I remember being upset and I remember not knowing why. I had seen death before. Simba's father died right in front of my eyes, Bambi's mother had been shot, but neither of these things had effected me so greatly as this. I mean, I hadn't killed Mufasa. And when Bambi's mom was blown away I hadn't pulled the trigger. And the baby animal I had killed was no cartoon, but in fact very real and very much dead.

I didn't cry but I was angry. I didn't know what dying meant, and now that I had ended a life I still had no idea, but now I knew I didn't know and I was angry.

I yelled at Stephanie and Sheldon for not understanding and I didn't even swear.

Swearing makes you powerful and important and an adult and I wasn't any of these things. I was a little boy with a best friend who didn't love him anymore because she loved make-up and shoes and girl things instead.

I left. And we weren't friends anymore. Not anymore, because she was a girl and I was a murderer and we just weren't friends anymore.