Public Speaking

It was the first night of the new semester. The sun had beat down on the classroom all day, leaving it way hot. I looked around at the other people, not really excited about any of them. The professor was late. One guy, dressed in a suit, looked particularly impatient. He was switching between reviewing his cell phone, his watch, and the clock on the wall; all punctuated by his nervously bouncing knee. I didn’t like him most of all. His neck gurgled out of his white collar (I imagined how dirty the inside of that collar was), blending in with his round red face. His red hair was thinning, and he seemed to be sweating more than the rest of us.

Our first assignment was simple, just provide the class an introduction. I can’t even remember what I told the class about myself, probably some garbage about rock and roll.

But that guy, the gurgling neck guy, when he got up, he put it to me. He told the class that he worked for First Security, I’m assuming in their Marketing department because he seemed particularly proud of the First Security logo he had had a hand in placing on the scoreboard at the new Rice-Eccles stadium.

Then his back story: he went to high school in some small indiscriminate town; maybe a year of college, maybe not, but then an LDS mission. When he returned, as he put it, he was the luckiest guy in the world to not only find that his high school sweetheart was still single, but still hot for him. They married and had children; I think two, but this was a long time ago, so I’m pretty fuzzy.

One normal night he and his wife went to bed. She had a blood clot in her leg which killed her. He woke to find her dead body the next morning. It got worse. He sunk into a depression he couldn’t break from, and child services had to take his kids away.

It took two years of I’m assuming medication, counseling, and brutal emotional exercise before child services deemed him healthy enough to again be a father to his and his wife’s kids.

He stated this as matter-of-factly as someone deciding whether to watch TV or read a book before bed. There was no request for pity in his voice. He was simply objectively fulfilling the assignment set forth by the professor by describing who he was with what made him up.

What a shit I was.

Julie

It’s those miracle moments that happen almost never. As a kid your neighbor’s cousins show up one Sunday night and Julie, who used to be chubby and annoying looks different, better. You start by throwing pine cones at her because that’s all you can do, and you end up in your backyard, on your trampoline talking. Kids don’t talk, they play, but that night you conversed, and it was awesome. Then you never see her again. She only lives an hour away, but every time you’re told she’s coming over, something happens – you’re leaving when she’s arriving, plans change, your family moves.

It happens again years later, you’re home from college for the weekend, and your friends get together with their friends, and there she is, that girl you never did anything about because you were too scared, the girl that always seems to be with somebody else. You’re bowling, lights are flashing, the bad music is too loud, you don’t know what to say, and all you can do is act retarded, guttering the ball, sending it spinning two lanes over; running half way up the lane before you let go, causing the poor shoe sprayer to come over, threatening you. You do it again, and get kicked out – anything to get her attention. You see her laugh which makes it worth it. She goes off to college and disappears.

You see a girl dancing, she looks silly, her flannel shirt is too big for her, but you know immediately that you like her, and that you’ll do well by her, but you do nothing. New Year’s she shows up again, at the same party, some other guy won’t leave her alone – all you want to do is get her attention, but you’re out of ideas. The noise is too loud. There’s not a moment. You leave before the ball drops. Why is there some guy out front spitting fire? It’s freezing, but you feel the heat 20 feet away.

Later your friends gather friends at your place, and she walks in. It’s another miracle moment. You’re driving, telling every joke and bad story you know. At the restaurant you end up sitting next to her, you barely speak, but you have her attention.

Months later life is bearing down. Stress won't settle. Work and school are killing you. You’re so behind with your homework, and you’re so tired. She calls, she wants to see a band play, and she’s picking you up in 20 minutes. You almost tell her you can’t go. You hear her pull up, you turn on your porch light, and open the door, anxious for her. It’s freezing outside, she gets out of her car, walks up to you with a red shirt on, and you grab her, and just hold her, and she holds you back – even more tightly, though she’s not quite sure why.

You watch two or three songs before you leave, getting back into her car, just to talk.

It’s spring again, life has eased, and everything’s working. The music is good - audible enough to speak over, but it can still be heard. Then she disappears for reasons that refuse to make sense.

Time keeps on passing, but you’re standing still. You’re not aging. You try stopping a passerby to find out why, but the touch shocks you, he’s moving too fast, he doesn’t even notice you. The sky is too loud, with the sounds of the clouds passing like a river into an ocean.

Others come and go. This one lies to you, you weren’t strong enough for that one, and she won’t let anybody near her, despite her being flawless. But with none of these were those miracle moments.

Friends offer advice, people make the notion arbitrary, like picking out the color of the paint you’re going to use in your living room, or the kind of car you’re going to lease for the next two years.

But it’s not. And of the few things you’re sure of, it not being arbitrary is that which you’re most sure of – otherwise it all amounts to nothing.