And Then There Were None

The theme of the day is guilt (relevant).

Long ago I lied to my parents to get them to take me to Chuck E. Cheese (an unparalleled kids' arcade palace complete with tubeslide and ballpit) and afterward, the guilt was too much. Here's what happened.

--

I wasn't the traditional "problem child." I didn't get into fights or paint the neighbor's cats, but I did still somehow find a way to consistently get into trouble at school. I would talk too much and distract my classmates and when we got in line to go to the cafeteria, I would pick a random direction and begin cartographing the school like an ancient explorer. Curiosity was frowned upon in my elementary school.

My elementary school was also aggressively disciplinary, with almost every grade and class operating on some sort of demerit system. For instance, in first grade, we were given a flimsy cup into which 3 plastic bears were carefully doled out. If we were to misbehave, we would lose these bears and at the end of class, the number of bears that remained after the day's firing squad of misbehavior would be recorded on a giant board prominently displayed in the class. My bears were usually all KIA. 

There's nothing more demoralizing to a young child than to see a quantitative representation of how shitty he is. Especially if this comes in the form of a looming board that screams out ZERO! YOU GOT ZERO BEARS THIS WHOLE WEEK YOU WORTHLESS WASTE OF LUNCHABLES! I BET THE SOFT SPOT IN YOUR HEAD HASN'T EVEN CLOSED UP YET! YOU SUCK!

Once my parents caught wind of this system of evaluation, without fail the first question of the day as they picked me up from school would be, "so how many bears did you get today?" (Which is a bad way to ask the question. It should be, "how many bears didn't you lose today?") My response to this question was often zero with the occasional, glimmering "one!"

My parents, worried that their son's lack of bears was a lurking precursor to a life of underacheivement and petty crime (not even the cool crimes, just the three strikes and you're a felon kind). So, they cooked up a plan. On one fateful Friday after school, they challenged: "Patrick, if you can go a whole week without losing any bears, we'll take you to Chuck E. Cheese to celebrate."

The gauntlet had been thrown.

I was determined to go to Chuck E. Cheese. I thought all weekend about how things were going to change and how I was going to be the picture of good behavior for the whole next week.

Monday morning I walked into class. I set my backpack down. I climbed into my chair and sat silent and upright, like a good boy should. The teacher said "alright, will everyone please get out the homework that you did over the weekend?"

Homework? What homework? She hadn't assigned any- oh no. I had been focusing so hard on how to be a respectable young man all weekend that I had totally forgotten about any homework that had been assigned. I looked around as all of my classmates pulled a completed worksheet out of their backpacks.

Then, out of nowhere, the teacher was behind me.

"Patrick, where's your homework?"

I looked up at her with a frown.

"Didn't you do your homework?"

I slowly shook my head a teary "no."

"Well, then. I guess I'll just have to take a bear." And she deftly swiped a bear from my cup and walked away.

It hadn't even been 4 minutes into the week and I had already failed the challenge for which I had spent all weekend preparing. I was very distraught.

When my parents came to pick me up after school, they didn't ask the question right away. They started with the "who did you eat lunch with, how was nap time, did you enjoy recess" array of inquiries that every parent asks but that no parent really, truly, cares to know. I grumbled responses.

Then they asked the question. "So did you lose any bears today?" I don't know what came over me, but the response that I formulated in my head is not what came out of my mouth.

"No." I said.

"You didn't?! That's great!" My excited parents chittered. "One day down, only four to go!"

Only four to go, I thought. Somehow I had turned this unequivocal disaster into a small triumph. I resolved to try hard to keep my bears the rest of the week, but if the worst happened, I could just tell them I didn't lose any.

I lost every single bear that week. I kept lying. My parents thought I was the paragon of obedience. I was going to Chuck E. Cheese.

We headed over to Chuck E. Cheese immediately after school on Friday after I revealed that I had, yet again, been perfectly behaved.

For the entire car ride over, the four or so hours we were there, and the car ride back I was completely untouched by the implications of my actions. It wasn't until we got home and as my mother was putting me to bed and said "I'm really proud of you, Patrick." that I started to process that I had actually done something dishonest.

"Goodnight, honey." My bedroom door closed behind my mom with an ominous click.

I suddenly found myself alone with my thoughts and the prizes I had bought with the tokens I won at Chuck E. Cheese.

I started to think to myself: "Did I do the right thing this week?"

Doubt began to fester in my mind. What if I was found out? How would my parents react if they discovered that I had not in fact earned my way into their reward but rather deceived them?

I started to sweat and worry. I spread out the toys that I had won in the bed in front of me. A small red plastic airplane, a plush dolphin, and a whoopee cushion stared back. My guilt began to manifest itself.

"Did I do the right thing?" I asked the toys.

"Noooooooooooooooooooo..."

Like the whistling of a breath through a broken harmonica came the response. I was quite surprised.

"W-who said that?"

"I did." The airplane whispered as it turned toward me. "You lied to your parents!"

"You should be ashamed!" added the dolphin.
I squeezed my eyes shut and clamped my hands hard against my ears. It did no good.

"You didn't earn us..." the dolphin continued.

"You're a terrible son..." the airplane accused.

"Stop!" I pleaded.

"How dare you lie to your parents. They love you..." growled the airplane.

"Your parents should send you to military school..." the dolphin suggested.

"No!" I exclaimed.

"PLBLBLBHBHHBLBBBLLBBHBBHHBHBHB!" The whoopee cushion made a loud fart sound.

"AHHH, FINE. I DON'T DESERVE YOU!" I grabbed up the toys in my arms and ran down to the kitchen table where my parents were talking to each other.

"I LIED TO YOU! I LOST ALL MY BEARS THIS WEEK AND I SHOULD HAVE TOLD YOU BUT I WANTED TO GO TO CHUCK E. CHEESE AND I THOUGHT THIS WAS THE ONLY WAY BUT NOW I WANT TO DIE!"

I collapsed in a heap of tears and toys on the floor.

--

My parents still tell this story at dinner parties.

"The Telltale Shart"

In order for one to fully appreciate the goal of this post, a general understanding of Edgar Allan Poe's story of guilt, "The Telltale Heart," is helpful.  The full text (it's a super quick read unless you aren't good at reading) can be found here.  In the case that you don't feel like reading some dead guy's old, dated story, I've paraphrased it and centered it around a more modern and relatable event.  I have entitled my rendition "The Telltale Shart." 

--

"The Telltale Shart"

TRUE!  nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad?  This ill-feeling had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them.  Above all was the sense of smell acute.  I smelled all things in the heaven and in the earth.  I smelled many things in hell.  How then am I mad?  Hearken! as I recount this harrowing tale.

It is impossible to say how first the feeling entered my bowels, but once there, it haunted me.  I was party to a gathering where droning voices tugged me into restful napping -- when abdominal rumbles first made their their presence known!  A swelling pressure and great discomfort replaced the peaceful calm of my digestive tract.

Now this is the point.  You fancy me mad.  Madmen know nothing.  But you should have seen me.  You should have seen how wisely I proceeded -- with what caution -- with what foresight I went to work!  Side to side I glanced, checking for any hint of anticipation on my coworkers' faces.  There was none.

Then I pushed.  Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I made my efforts!  I pushed slowly, very, very slowly.  A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did the walls of my sphincter.  

Eventually, I reached the blessed moment.  My cheeks were still and stalwart as the pressure released.  As the trial reached its end, I gave a small effort to ensure that all had escaped.  Lo! a new discomfort!  Betwixt the buns, though silent, too much had come to pass.  It seemed as though something more had escaped beyond the air which I had yearned to release.

Then, an affront was on my sensitive nostrils.  They were finely attuned to the scent of treason.  My body had betrayed me.  I was sure of it.

I began to gasp up lungfulls of air.  If I were to breathe up the awfulness, there would be none more for the rest to bear witness.

I did my upmost to preserve my countenance whilst engaging in this most nefarious affair.  But!  I was sure that they were keen to my misdeeds.  Though my companions held strong to their task, I was convinced that the feature of my err was hot on their noses.  

I smiled, hoping my reasonable appearance would convince them of my innocence.

They continued on as if nothing was the matter.  Chattering away with not a care in the world.  I fidgeted.  Was it possible that they could not smell it?  Almighty God!  -- no, no?  They smelled! -- they suspected! -- they KNEW! -- they were making a mockery of my horror!  But anything was better than this agony!  Anything was more tolerable than this derision!  I could bear their hypocritical smiles no longer!  I felt I must scream or die!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more!  I admit the deed!"  I stood and revealed the seat of my pants.  "Here, here!  It is the mark of my horrid shart!"

--

You should really read Edgar Allan Poe's version.  His is less juvenile.  Here's the link again.

I Cried to an Owen Wilson Movie

To be more specific and to make things way worse, I'll clarify:  I cried while watching "Marley and Me" in theaters in the middle of the afternoon.  This was obviously not a proud moment in my life, but I'd like to qualify it a bit and give some context with the hope that it will absolve me of at least some of the shame. 

--

Late in the winter break of my second year of college, my family and I decided that going to a theater would be a fun way to spend the day.  We jumped onto Google to see what was showing nearby.  To give some idea of the cinematic landscape of the time, here are a few of the things we probably found:

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Gran Torino

Yes Man

Valkyrie

The Wrestler

Doubt

The Reader

Not such a bad selection.  The movie we left the house to see was none of these, however.  We went on Fandago to reserve tickets to see "Seven Pounds."  Which, for people who are unaware (and if you are, I'm about to ruin the movie for you), is a movie in which Will Smith atones for a past mistake, which took the lives of seven other people, by jumping into a bathtub with a killer jellyfish in order to have his dead body chopped up, divided into its notables, and shoved into seven new people in need of organry.

Now, I can't be the only one like this, but I have a hard time processing my own emotions, as in things that happen to me or people around me.  If someone were to have all of their fingers chopped off, they would say "Oh dear god, my digits!  You’ve just killed my dreams of becoming a hand model for Lamasil!"  And they would be appropriately upset in the moment.  However, if I had all my fingers chopped off, I would stand there like a mute idiot looking bewilderedly at my fingers while expressing the emotional latitude of a rusty bike chain.  It wouldn't be until months down the road when I was eating a bag of Bugles and discovered that I would no longer be able to put them on the tips of my fingers to look like a witch that my new, fingerless reality would come crashing in around me.

Conversely, when a normal person goes to the movies and watches on screen a sad thing that they know is fake, they can rationalize to themselves.  "Oh, well that's not me, so why would I be upset by that thing.  I still have plenty of popcorn and I don't have to pee yet.  This is awesome."  I, on the other hand, immediately break down and begin to weep uncontrollably.  "Nobody puts baby in a corner!  Oh, God, that's so beautiful.... buhhhhuhhhuhhhhh (rough onomatopoeia of crying like a pussy to a poorly written movie line)."  And from this point forward, the other patrons of the theater get to listen to my constant snuffling for the duration of the film. 

So, with this new knowledge in tow, one can accurately predict how I spent the latter 60-70% of the 123 minutes of the movie Seven Pounds.  I cried like I was trying to solve a water crisis.  I had to go refill my empty Sprite cup from the fountain outside because I had run out of tears and shooting blanks from my eye-holes was starting to hurt.

Around 143 minutes later (we have a lot of previews at our theater), I stepped out into the lobby emotionally drained and deliriously dehydrated.  My eyes were red and salty from all of the tears and rubbing with popcorny hands.  I didn't want to do anything, I didn't want to go anywhere.  I was burned out thoroughly.  The other patrons as they flowed from the doors behind me were completely unaffected, chattering excitedly about how they were going off to do more "fun things with their day" like jetskiing and blow.  My family started walking toward the exit, my mom rattling her car keys in her purse. 

"Hsmsmmmhnn.."  I muttered as I raised my arms in pathetic defiance.

My family stopped and turned.

"C-can we please just stay here.  I can't go out into the world after that enema of sorrow.  Can we just watch another movie, but a happy one this time?"

After a surprisingly short exchange, I convinced my family to stay.  I must have looked really bad. 

It was settled that the second movie of the day would be "Marley and Me," a whimsical tale of a dog and his particular knack for getting into zany scenarios!  On paper, it seemed like the perfect remedy for my emotional destitution.

We walked into our new theater; my family found seats and sat down, I followed them slowly and collapsed into a chair near them.  Falling into the chair had expended the last of my reserves.  I lied comatose, and awkwardly diagonal, in the chair as the same twenty minutes of previews I'd already seen flickered at me.

                              

The movie started and it was really dumb, which was exactly what I needed, so I was happy.  Marley was tearing apart the house and jumping out of moving cars and generally being raucous while Jennifer Aniston and Owen Wilson were doing an embarrassingly bad approximation of responsible pet ownership.  I was starting to slowly come out of my funk.

Then, Marley started to get sick.

No.  No, no.  No, no, no, no no no no no nononononononono.

I felt like a kidnap victim about to get kidnapped a second time.  This wasn't happening.  I couldn't go through this again.

But I was going to.  I hadn't moved in my chair and I was still lying like someone had dumped Stephen Hawking out of his wheel chair into a sticky theater seat. 

I tried to go to my happy place as Marley began his terribly cheesy death-spiral.  I repeated in my head "Do not cry to an Owen Wilson movie.  Do not cry to an Owen Wilson movie."  But I couldn't help myself.  That damn dog knew it wasn't supposed to exercise after eating or drinking, but did it anyway and killed itself.  I was already too vulnerable from the previous movie and this new wave of sad ripped through the emotion levees my heart was struggling to rebuild.  When Owen Wilson shed that first poorly faked tear over the taxidermied dead dog replica, it was too much for my weakened constitution.  I sank into my chair and started to blubber and convulse in a fit of despair. 

I don't remember how I got to the car.  Someone might have carried me.

--

I still can’t look at Owen Wilson’s crooked nose without a flashback and a reawakening of my PTSD.

Pissing My Sister's Bed

When I was younger, but still way too old for it to be okay to pee myself, we had a family friend visiting and I had to share a bed with my sister.  She had inherited a queen-sized bed from our grandmother and there was plenty of space for two tiny people to sleep.  My parents sent my sister and I to bed a little early, presumably so that they could talk about "adult things," as they called them.  So my sister and I scuttled up to her room and fell asleep.  

Several hours later I woke up.

Something wasn't right.

My ass was all wet.  I lay motionless for a moment, trying to run through the possible scenarios of what would cause prolific ass sweat at night time.  Was I some sort of horrible werewolf/moon-sweating abomination?  Had I finally reached the cursed year which would mark my transformation into a terrible anally-sweating beast?  I shifted a bit.  I could feel that my legs were also wet...and my back.  I felt warm, but it wasn't because I was sweating; it was like the liquid was warm.

Then it dawned on me:  I had pissed my bed.

Then something else dawned on me:  I was in my sister's bed.

My blood would have run cold if I wasn't insulated by my own urine.  What was I going to do?  Clearly I couldn't admit to peeing in my sister's bed.  How old was I?  Eleven?  Jesus, nine year-olds in Somalia carry guns and shoot people and I'm peeing myself while sleeping next to my little sister.

I pulled myself out of bed.  Anyone who has had the misfortune of bedwetting knows that the most uncomfortable feeling in the world is when you slowly pull yourself out of a pissy bed.  I went to sleep with dignity and I woke up smelling like an old-folks home.

I snuck out of the room and into the bathroom.  I grabbed an armload of toilet paper and drippily tiptoed back into my sister's bedroom.  I mashed the toilet paper awkwardly into the wet patch where I had been laying.  This could literally have not helped my situation less.  Now I just had wet toilet paper on a wet bed.  I started panicking.  "I'm going to have to kill my family.  I'll cancel the mail and newspaper in the morning so the neighbors don't get suspicious, and then I'll- Oh shit, wait.  That guy is here, so I'll have to kill him too.  He's boring enough that people won't notice that he's gone for a couple days.  That's enough time to get a plane ticket, or find a zeppelin, or take a ferry somewhere.  No, it'll be fine.  It'll be fine."

When I started legitimately brainstorming what killing tools we had around the house I decided that this might not be the most prudent avenue of thought.  

Denial came next.

I didn't pee myself.  I was eleven!  Eleven year olds don't piss themselves.  Eleven year olds are almost adults!  Something else must have happened.

Then I vaguely remembered something from my school's half-assed attempt at sex-ed.  There was something called a "wet-dream."  Surely this was what had befallen me.  I woke up "wet" and I didn't remember having a "dream", but that doesn't mean I didn't dream about something;  I forget dreams all the time!

So that was that.  I had an alibi.  Now to just tell my mom so she could change the sheets and I could get back to bed.

I walked confidently, but still dripping, to my parents room.  I went over to my mom's side of the bed.  I tried to wake her up gently, but to this day I have not yet succeeded a single time.  

I tugged at her sleeve.  "Hey mom."

"AGHGHHBHBHH!  INTRUDER!  A TINY MURDERER NEXT TO THE BED!  GRAB THE SHOTGUNS!"  My mom jolted awake, her fear meter jumping from zero to bike-ride-through-Harlem-at-midnight in an instant.

"Mom, shhh.  It's your son."

"Oh, gosh honey.  You scared mommy.  What's wrong?"

"I had a wet dream."

"...what?"

"I woke up all wet.  I must have had one of those wet dreams.  Apparently boys my age do that."

"Okay...well why are you sharing this with me?"

"The sheets are all wet.  I need you to change them."

"The sheets?  How much did you..."  She pulls her feet out of her bed and turns on her lamp.  "What's wrong with your pajamas?  Is your...is your shirt wet, too?"

"Oh, yeah.  There's a lot of whatever came out of me."

She looks down.  "You're dripping on the floor!  Get into the bathroom!"

She ushered me into the bathroom where I took off my pajamas and changed into some different clothes.  "Let's go take a look at the bed."  She said.

I followed her into my sister's room.  My mom slowly walked around to the side opposite my still slumbering sister and inspected the massive wet spot.  "This is...a lot."  She said.

"Must have been a weird dream."  I responded unknowingly.

She sniffed.  "This smells like urine.  I think you peed the bed."

"No, no.  It was a wet dream..."

"This is pee."  My mom walked around to my sister and shook her awake.  "Honey, you need to wake up.  Your brother peed in your bed."

Turns out it was pee.  I should have killed them when I had the chance.