Anatomy Lesson

I will try to tell you how I feel. One night at the age of thirteen, I became obsessed with the contents of my belly button. I have an innie, and as most owners of innies will know, things (typically lint and dirt) tend to take up residence deep inside the soft inner workings. I imagine it is warm and cozy in there, and were I a solitary piece of lint floating about the universe, I might burrow into a happy little navel and never want to leave. Well, as the keeper of an inward pointer, I have to be vigilant, making sure to wash it well and keep it free of debris and odor.

On that night so many years ago, while sitting on my bed after a long hot day of doing boy things, I noticed a smell, and not a good one. Upon further exploration of my own parts, and an index finger passed from navel to nose, I discovered that my belly button was the source of the putrid but as yet invisible cloud of stink. I had not been very vigilant, and the sweat, lint, dirt, and dead skin inside my belly button had fermented into a corrupt potpourri that assaulted my sense of smell.

I had to do something, so I ran to the bathroom and took a shower. Soap, fingers, and a water heater tank full of hot water made short work of the nasty problem, and I toweled off standing naked before the mirror. I made sure to dry out all crevices and corners on my person, and as I did so inspected my navel one more time, to be sure that I would not wake in the dark to the choking smell of rotten button wafting through my room. It was then that I noticed a sort of grey and booger-looking something deep inside, at the end of my navel tunnel. Frustrated that rubbing the area red and raw with water and soap had not been enough, I searched the bathroom cabinet for cotton swabs and rubbing alcohol. If the little cave of stench refused to release the squatters within it, I would sterilize them out.

Ouch. Alcohol is not meant for application to the belly button, not once the nasty little umbilical tail has fallen off several days after birth, and not once you have rubbed it raw at the age of thirteen. The burning sensation sent me to my knees, tears squeezing out through clenched eyes, screams squeaking out between clenched teeth. A few minutes of intense pain and self loathing and I was back before the mirror, digging once again into the now throbbing belly button, contemplating the possible methods for removing the persistent little grey and booger-like something that I was sure did not belong.

Tweezers, and another ouch, or rather an OUCH! I had successfully pinched at the offensive material and pulled, only to see the light of heaven pierce the ceiling above as I fell to the floor, unsure of my own name the pain was so great. I lay there marveling at whatever it was that my body had been hosting. I wondered if it intended to soon burst forth from my belly button, and if it were it to do so, what would become of me?

Tired of battling whatever it was, and discouraged by whatever it was doing to my body from within, I went to the only source of anatomical knowledge readily available to a thirteen year old at such a late hour on a summer night, my mother.

“Don’t pull on it! You need that, it is part of your body!” My mother exclaimed when I revealed to her my crimson navel and the reason for its redness. It might have been that very moment that I decided I would never become a surgeon; the danger of cutting, pulling, or removing from a patient’s body something that they needed to survive was too great a risk.

And so, back to telling you how I feel. Later that night, as I lay in bed with a red belly, trying to silence the mocking voices in my head and pass into a state of sure to be fitful sleep, I began to feel sick. My innards had been ripped from within me and run through a series of grinders, blenders, and rollers, then placed haphazardly back inside, of that I was certain. I wanted to vomit and expel whatever it was that had snuck through the dark, down my throat, and into my gut, thrashing around with claws and teeth and tail. I felt empty and bursting full at the same time, gaseous and hollow with every gasping breath. Tears and sobbing accompanied every move, and I regretted all that I had done earlier that evening. I wanted to run back in time, breaking through impossible barriers and turning back the clock to a happier time, sitting on my bed with a stinking belly button; a belly button that stank because my day had been full of sweaty outdoor fun with my little brother.

This stinks.

Broken, broken, three-nine

Anyone out there got their ears on? I had a cb once, and never found a way to successfully break into the chatter passing back and forth over the air waves. Minutes into owning the damn thing I felt foolish, shy, and more lonely than I had before turning it on.

I have been asked by a therapist of sorts to replace the phrase "I failed Jared." with something else. Maybe I will just tell her I was a trucker pushing eighty on my own private highway, chatting away on the cb radio with fellow truckers, ignoring the radio runt that kept interrupting our deep discussion on burger joints, speed traps, and strip clubs.

Midnight Spurring

So here I am once again with close friends in a darkened theater. We are about to see the late night viewing of yet another movie that I know will make me cry, if for no other reason than the fact that we could have seen it together. The door opens, paving a long, bright path on the floor. A tall shadow stretches down the length of this aisle of light, and in saunters the black urban cowboy. He sits just a few seats down the row from me and my posse of support, sparking glances of surprise, whispers of amazement. 'How many times have we seen that guy at this theater, and how weird is it that he always seems to pick the same movie, the same showing, even the same row of seats that we do? Weird, isn't it?' After a few moments of quiet discussion about who he might be, and debate over the odds of us seeing him again next weekend, we settle in to watch the movie. Credits pop and fade, thematic music cues, the leading lady appears, and my mind wanders back to the tall dark man at the end of our row. I lean back far into my seat and turn my head gradually until I am looking at the cowboy. He seems unaware that he is the subject of intense study, so I take my time, scanning his frame and face as best I can in the flickering darkness. His face is a weathered story line, the furrows and crows-feet of life experience marking each chapter. He is dressed in dark pants and a dark buttoned shirt, bolo tie with a lump of turquoise cinched up to his neck. I can't see them in the dark, but memory paints a mental image of his cowboy boots, with their black leather shining, chains dangling, and...golden spurs.

Spurs. Who wears spurs to a movie theater? More to the point, who wears golden spurs to a movie theater in New Hampshire? The cowboy shuffles his feet and the spurs jingle, presenting their own question in response to my silent query; why don't you ask?

I ignore the...spurring, and dismiss the suggestion that I approach a stranger in a dark theater during a movie to ask him why he is wearing spurs as ludicrous. I continue to watch him, and begin to wonder why he is here, and who he is. Did he know we would be here, and if so, how? Is he stalking me? Wouldn't that just be my luck, to have someone obsess about me, only to discover them to be a leathery cowboy. I play the scene out in my head; it is past midnight at the police station, and I am covered in blood, the trunk of my demolished car full of body parts. A single light bulb flickers overhead as I sit handcuffed to a chair, quivering before two detectives. "That's right, six-five, African-American, dressed in black, with a turquoise bolo tie, and golden spurs. He follows me to the movies every weekend for the late night showing, and sits in the same row. He killed them all! Why don't you believe me?"

Back to reality, I move on to a more reasonable scenario; could he be someone from my past that I offended or ignored? Returning to my life by chance, he is watching me, assessing the danger before approaching. I actually doubt that I have ever mattered to anyone that much, at least to anyone outside of the list of faces that I would recognize at first glance, and it seems impossible that I would fail to recognize such an odd figure. The possibility of past transgression dismissed, I review the personalities of those close to me, searching for one that would be patient enough to stretch a practical joke over several weeks. It would take some serious planning to pull this off, wouldn't it? No one that I know seems capable of such diligent coordination, but isn't that disbelief a critical element of the practical joke? Tired of speculation and drawn to the screen by the thunder of roller skates on screen, I dismiss the possibility that he is here on purpose, and declare myself to be the paranoid victim of my own imagination.

As planned, the movie pulls my mind away from the worries of family, the grief over your death, the woes of work, and the fear of the black cowboy at the end of the row. Moments later, clarity, as it often does when I am least expecting it to, pulls up alongside me and strikes me hard across the face;

Jared, have you returned to Earth as a lanky, misplaced cowboy? I ask not because I am a believer in reincarnation, but because it is impossible to trust my feelings right now, which hint that you may be back and trying to tell me something. If you have indeed returned to visit me, you didn't pick the most inconspicuous of vessels, did you? A six-and-a-half foot black cowboy wearing boots, bolo, and golden spurs tends to stand out a bit in southern New Hampshire. My first question, while it should lean more towards your purpose in returning is instead, were you given a choice? Did they present you with a catalog of personas available for possession, and you flipped to the last very last page, the discount and refurb section, where odds and ends are offered "as is", without instructions or guarantee? Perhaps, but I like to imagine that they lined up ten possibilities; the first nine being tall handsome men with smiling plastic faces, perky pectorals, and come-run-your-fingers-through-me hair, while the tenth man was a gangly, leather-skinned, time-ridden, black urban cowboy. He was every fat girl with coke-bottle glasses and an asthma attack that was never picked for dodgeball. To the surprise of all who watched, you chose this oddity as your method of manifestation. You picked him because that is what you always do; you make the alone less lonely, the weird seem normal, and the rejected feel welcome. Clarity striking me once more, this time more forcefully, is that the message you are trying to convey, that I should take up your cause?

What the Tuck?

I miss things that we never even did together. The other night in my dreams I tucked him in, pulling the blankets up to his neck as his legs wiggled in that way your legs will do when you find yourself between clean, crisp linen on a cold night. He closed his eyes and smiled in his ever-loving way, shrugging his shoulders up into a snuggle before relaxing under the warm, soft weight of his rainbow blanket. I leaned over him, drawing my face close to his, stopping just shy of his cheek to whisper, "I love you Jared, forever." I breathed in deep, then kissed him on the cheek, and he was warm, and he was soft, and most of all he was real. His cheek was as soft, alive, and reachable as the three cheeks I had kissed earlier that night while tucking in my own children.

I don't recall ever tucking him in before, so why would I give any number of things in trade to do so just once for real?

Gravity Without Pull

In rare moments, I am able to still both my body and my mind enough to imagine Jared sitting with me. It is more than a cozy feeling, a spiritual sensation, or my hazy imagination; no, he is right there next to me, smiling, talking, laughing, smoking a cigarette. I can see him, I can smell him, I can hear him, and my skin buzzes with that magnetic feeling from someone sitting close but not quite touching you. When I am with Jared I am able to leave the urgency of this world behind and take a peek at forever. It takes great effort; I am emotionally drained and physically shaken by the time the spell is broken, typically by a child rushing in with a tattle to tale, or a phone ringing in another room. This is the toughest time, I am like a junkie coming down from the high he knows he shouldn't have been on; I am mournful, beaten-down, and guilty, but I know that I will do it again, as soon as I am alone and still enough. For now the lows are worth the highs. I do however fear that one day his edges will blur, his features fade, his smells dissipate, and his sounds dampen. What will I do then?