Chapter One
Which Way From Here - page 1
Written By: Joshua Murphy Pleasantville NY
A single tear slides effortlessly down my cheek. Sitting with my fingers clenched, disbelief slowly fills my thoughts. I turn my forearm just slightly to check the time and see that it's a quarter past three. I can’t remember why a quarter past three feels so important. It meant something to me today, but what? Resting my elbows on my knees, I unclench my hands and lay my head softly into them. Immediately all control of my physical movement is gone. I could feel deep down somewhere inside of me the hold I had on my emotions was also slipping. Everything went black there existed no past, present, or future. I seemed to be in a constant state of emptiness. Noises which moments before had been overwhelming seem muffled, almost non-existent. I could see a single tear slip off of my chin and make its way towards the cold linoleum of the gray speckled floor. It seemed to defy gravity and time as it crept closer and closer to the ground. With a tiny splash the tear hit the linoleum. As I watched that little tear break apart, I felt the crying begin. Knowing that holding it in would only make it worse I decide to let it out. Then at that very moment I felt a hand on my shoulder but couldn’t look up; I don’t care who's hovering over me, because I know that it isn’t who I want it to be!
Every so often there is a moment that sneaks its way past our everyday routines and inserts itself into our lives. You know one of those moments that change everything. One of those moments that can never be predicted. These might be a positive change or event, but 99 times out of 100, this moment is horrific. Oddly it usually impacts us through a simple little sentence. You would think that such a life defining moment would take more than just a noun and a verb to have such an effect but it doesn’t. Someone died. You have cancer. A plane hit the world trade center. The President was shot. These moments are unexpected and impact each of us differently. They do however have one common denominator. They change us. These events pull us out of our everyday routines, like a fish being hooked and pulled out of the water. Then as if that wasn’t enough this thing latches on to you and stays with you morning, noon and night. You wake up and instead of thinking about breakfast you relive this moment. Instead of talking about last nights TV show with your coworkers you sit around, alone and think about this moment. Instead of going to bed you pace and try to remember what it was like before the moment. This moment is full of stomach-tightening agony and that’s only the beginning.
We did everything we could. That was my moment. That sentence was all it took to change my life and me forever. How could I not change? The most important thing in my life had been taken from me. In the two seconds it took for the doctor to tell me Michelle was gone thousands of thoughts pushed past each other to reach my consciousness. I was no longer happily married expecting a child. I would never see her again; I would never touch her again. I would never hold her again. When did I last see her? What was the last thing I said to her? I would never talk to her again. Why? I couldn’t stand. I had to sit. I slowly moved myself over to one of the chairs in the waiting room. It had a light blue cloth seat and a dark metal frame. As soon as I eased myself into the chair I knew it hadn’t been placed there as a sign of compassion but merely because some plans called for a chair. Suddenly one thought made it’s way into my consciousness. A thought that I truly didn’t want but one that seemed to hold me trapped in that horrible chair. She’s gone. That's it no heaven, no reincarnation, no anything, just gone. Everything that she had ever been, gone. That wonderful fun loving carefree person gone. She was simply a corpse lying on a table in the other room. There has to be more, right?
A single tear slides effortlessly down my cheek. Sitting with my fingers clenched, disbelief slowly fills my thoughts. I turn my forearm just slightly to check the time and see that it's a quarter past three. I can’t remember why a quarter past three feels so important. It meant something to me today, but what? Resting my elbows on my knees, I unclench my hands and lay my head softly into them. Immediately all control of my physical movement is gone. I could feel deep down somewhere inside of me the hold I had on my emotions was also slipping. Everything went black there existed no past, present, or future. I seemed to be in a constant state of emptiness. Noises which moments before had been overwhelming seem muffled, almost non-existent. I could see a single tear slip off of my chin and make its way towards the cold linoleum of the gray speckled floor. It seemed to defy gravity and time as it crept closer and closer to the ground. With a tiny splash the tear hit the linoleum. As I watched that little tear break apart, I felt the crying begin. Knowing that holding it in would only make it worse I decide to let it out. Then at that very moment I felt a hand on my shoulder but couldn’t look up; I don’t care who's hovering over me, because I know that it isn’t who I want it to be!
Every so often there is a moment that sneaks its way past our everyday routines and inserts itself into our lives. You know one of those moments that change everything. One of those moments that can never be predicted. These might be a positive change or event, but 99 times out of 100, this moment is horrific. Oddly it usually impacts us through a simple little sentence. You would think that such a life defining moment would take more than just a noun and a verb to have such an effect but it doesn’t. Someone died. You have cancer. A plane hit the world trade center. The President was shot. These moments are unexpected and impact each of us differently. They do however have one common denominator. They change us. These events pull us out of our everyday routines, like a fish being hooked and pulled out of the water. Then as if that wasn’t enough this thing latches on to you and stays with you morning, noon and night. You wake up and instead of thinking about breakfast you relive this moment. Instead of talking about last nights TV show with your coworkers you sit around, alone and think about this moment. Instead of going to bed you pace and try to remember what it was like before the moment. This moment is full of stomach-tightening agony and that’s only the beginning.
We did everything we could. That was my moment. That sentence was all it took to change my life and me forever. How could I not change? The most important thing in my life had been taken from me. In the two seconds it took for the doctor to tell me Michelle was gone thousands of thoughts pushed past each other to reach my consciousness. I was no longer happily married expecting a child. I would never see her again; I would never touch her again. I would never hold her again. When did I last see her? What was the last thing I said to her? I would never talk to her again. Why? I couldn’t stand. I had to sit. I slowly moved myself over to one of the chairs in the waiting room. It had a light blue cloth seat and a dark metal frame. As soon as I eased myself into the chair I knew it hadn’t been placed there as a sign of compassion but merely because some plans called for a chair. Suddenly one thought made it’s way into my consciousness. A thought that I truly didn’t want but one that seemed to hold me trapped in that horrible chair. She’s gone. That's it no heaven, no reincarnation, no anything, just gone. Everything that she had ever been, gone. That wonderful fun loving carefree person gone. She was simply a corpse lying on a table in the other room. There has to be more, right?
Which Way From Here - page 2
Written By:
Troy Brosnan Abington,
MA
September 2006
“Pack of Camel’s and a Boston Globe.”
“Is that it buddy?”
“Yeah, that’s it”. I reply.
I’m up to about two packs a day. My lungs hurt and my fingers reek of tar and nicotine. When the questions, “How are you?” Or “How have you been?” Are asked to me, the response rarely changes. I usually find a way to answer in one word replies; FINE is a good conversation stopper, a good conversation deterrent is “Did you catch the Sox game last night?” I find though it only works well in Boston… Or Chicago. When in New York I will use the Yankees, but in all honesty nobody talks to me in New York unless I know them.
My name is David Solomon, my wife Michelle passed away nearly four years ago, I have been lost since. I Tivo about forty hours of television a week and watch about seventy five. I have written Ninety five screenplays in just about as many months, five sitcoms and a better version of the Bible. My version. It doesn’t get anyone’s hopes up and there is no happy ending. Oh, and Noah doesn’t build a fucking ark. I work the nightshift at Boston Help, a suicide help line. I spend most of my time talking drunken Red Sox fans out of putting down the Ladies Bic at two thirty in the morning when the bars close. “There’s always next year.” I tell them, and end the conversation with one word. “Believe.” It’s funny, I don’t believe in anything, and haven’t for nearly four years. My life consists of filling people’s heads with the exact opposite of everything I believe in. My friends don’t come around anymore, rarely call, believe it or not it is getting easier. I get invitations to weddings, dinner parties but I have convinced myself that they are pity invites. They always read Mr. David Solomon… Never Mr. David Solomon and Guest, they are probably right though, nobody could ever live up to my Michelle. One day I will stroll into a dinner party or show up to a wedding. What would that be like? What would they say?
I’m a lonely thirty one year old. Things need to change, this isn’t who I am. I need to stop wallowing in self pity and actually change, become the man that she would want me to be. I’m not this sad.
“David, we seem to be caught in the same circle we have been in for months. You seem to be making progress then you leave here and go to a bar, or something destructive. If you don’t want to help yourself then I can’t help you. You have segregated yourself from all your friends and family. You have cut your existence down to your job, and television. I’d mention your endless writing but I believe that is the only therapy that may be working right now. You need to contact your friends and family. It’s not healthy to do what you are doing to yourself. You will drive yourself into deeper depression. It’s no way to live. “
September 2006
“Pack of Camel’s and a Boston Globe.”
“Is that it buddy?”
“Yeah, that’s it”. I reply.
I’m up to about two packs a day. My lungs hurt and my fingers reek of tar and nicotine. When the questions, “How are you?” Or “How have you been?” Are asked to me, the response rarely changes. I usually find a way to answer in one word replies; FINE is a good conversation stopper, a good conversation deterrent is “Did you catch the Sox game last night?” I find though it only works well in Boston… Or Chicago. When in New York I will use the Yankees, but in all honesty nobody talks to me in New York unless I know them.
My name is David Solomon, my wife Michelle passed away nearly four years ago, I have been lost since. I Tivo about forty hours of television a week and watch about seventy five. I have written Ninety five screenplays in just about as many months, five sitcoms and a better version of the Bible. My version. It doesn’t get anyone’s hopes up and there is no happy ending. Oh, and Noah doesn’t build a fucking ark. I work the nightshift at Boston Help, a suicide help line. I spend most of my time talking drunken Red Sox fans out of putting down the Ladies Bic at two thirty in the morning when the bars close. “There’s always next year.” I tell them, and end the conversation with one word. “Believe.” It’s funny, I don’t believe in anything, and haven’t for nearly four years. My life consists of filling people’s heads with the exact opposite of everything I believe in. My friends don’t come around anymore, rarely call, believe it or not it is getting easier. I get invitations to weddings, dinner parties but I have convinced myself that they are pity invites. They always read Mr. David Solomon… Never Mr. David Solomon and Guest, they are probably right though, nobody could ever live up to my Michelle. One day I will stroll into a dinner party or show up to a wedding. What would that be like? What would they say?
I’m a lonely thirty one year old. Things need to change, this isn’t who I am. I need to stop wallowing in self pity and actually change, become the man that she would want me to be. I’m not this sad.
“David, we seem to be caught in the same circle we have been in for months. You seem to be making progress then you leave here and go to a bar, or something destructive. If you don’t want to help yourself then I can’t help you. You have segregated yourself from all your friends and family. You have cut your existence down to your job, and television. I’d mention your endless writing but I believe that is the only therapy that may be working right now. You need to contact your friends and family. It’s not healthy to do what you are doing to yourself. You will drive yourself into deeper depression. It’s no way to live. “
Which Way From Here - page 3
Written By:
Justin Hughes Chicago,
IL
Stop looking at me like that you jealous fucking retard monkey. Please don’t open your mouth. Just grab your coffee and squeeze my ass and go off to work.
“Honey, you can’t be serious. You are inviting Dave? When was the last time that they saw him for Christ’s sake?”
“Sean. Dearest. They are my parents. They really liked David when we dated. He used to visit them when I went to Syracuse. and so fucking what if he goes to THEIR fucking party. So I lost my virginity to him over fifteen years ago when we were in high school because this is what this is about, right? That there was other boys that staked claim here before you did? I also fucked six other guys before we got married but I’m not inviting them. Shit! four of them don’t even have last names!”
“Hey listen, I didn’t bring that up! What is up with you always bringing up the dudes you slept with like it’s some weird fuck badge of merit? I understand that ole-first-time-Dave was, and I want to stress the big fucking WAS, close to your parents but c’mon it has to have been at least twelve years since his weaseling weekend visits. And you know you’re just inviting him out of sympathy.”
“Sympathy? Sympathy? D’you really think so? Huh. Yeah I guess I could be sympathetic towards my first love that just lost his wife. Not to mention the unborn child he lost too or that he only found out about a few days before. You’re such a fucking retard sometimes.”
“Ignoring the name-calling yet again, my point is that he is going to know that it is out of sympathy that we invite him.”
“Ohhhh so now, it’s WE, huh?!”
“That he is going to be bombarded with sympathy from every direction even if it’s just this harmless fun social gathering he is going to know that in the back of everyone’s mind is Michelle. Even if it’s not, he will think it. All I’m saying is I hate sympathetic overtures. It’s so forced and full of falsehood. But then again, what do I know? I’m a ‘fucking retard.’ I’m late. I’ll call you.”
Shit. You’re right. YOU ARE A FUCKING RETARD. But you’re right. I just want David to be better, to be happy, and forget that stupid bitch he married.
“Fuck.”
“Anna?”
“Sweetie, will you please, for the last time, call me Mom? Please?”
“You said “Fuck”, Mom.”
“Henry, please go get dressed for school.”
Stop looking at me like that you jealous fucking retard monkey. Please don’t open your mouth. Just grab your coffee and squeeze my ass and go off to work.
“Honey, you can’t be serious. You are inviting Dave? When was the last time that they saw him for Christ’s sake?”
“Sean. Dearest. They are my parents. They really liked David when we dated. He used to visit them when I went to Syracuse. and so fucking what if he goes to THEIR fucking party. So I lost my virginity to him over fifteen years ago when we were in high school because this is what this is about, right? That there was other boys that staked claim here before you did? I also fucked six other guys before we got married but I’m not inviting them. Shit! four of them don’t even have last names!”
“Hey listen, I didn’t bring that up! What is up with you always bringing up the dudes you slept with like it’s some weird fuck badge of merit? I understand that ole-first-time-Dave was, and I want to stress the big fucking WAS, close to your parents but c’mon it has to have been at least twelve years since his weaseling weekend visits. And you know you’re just inviting him out of sympathy.”
“Sympathy? Sympathy? D’you really think so? Huh. Yeah I guess I could be sympathetic towards my first love that just lost his wife. Not to mention the unborn child he lost too or that he only found out about a few days before. You’re such a fucking retard sometimes.”
“Ignoring the name-calling yet again, my point is that he is going to know that it is out of sympathy that we invite him.”
“Ohhhh so now, it’s WE, huh?!”
“That he is going to be bombarded with sympathy from every direction even if it’s just this harmless fun social gathering he is going to know that in the back of everyone’s mind is Michelle. Even if it’s not, he will think it. All I’m saying is I hate sympathetic overtures. It’s so forced and full of falsehood. But then again, what do I know? I’m a ‘fucking retard.’ I’m late. I’ll call you.”
Shit. You’re right. YOU ARE A FUCKING RETARD. But you’re right. I just want David to be better, to be happy, and forget that stupid bitch he married.
“Fuck.”
“Anna?”
“Sweetie, will you please, for the last time, call me Mom? Please?”
“You said “Fuck”, Mom.”
“Henry, please go get dressed for school.”
Which Way From Here - page 4
Written By:
Jacob Martinez San Antonio,
TX
The breath forms a cloud of moisture in the crisp air as I sit down at the tiny desk where I do my writing. “Why is it so cold in here?” I scribble on the blank page, “Why is it always so cold?”. Most people find it comfortable enough in their own homes to be able to talk to themselves when they’re alone, but not me. Maybe it’s the fact that this isn’t my home, just the place where I sleep, that does it to me, but I’ve never found myself able to think out loud here; which accounts for all the writing. I come home, sit here in the little alcove where I’ve shoved the desk and write, mostly about nothing, but that nothingness leads to the work I’ve mentioned earlier. “Writing begets writing”, as they say.
“This party—Anna’s party. Should I go, should I not go? Knot go. Should I, should I?” The words begin to fill the page, nonsense at first, I told you, but I always make it a point to write on paper as if I’m writing something formal. Always from top to bottom, keeping within the margins, always.
“Anna’s house. Anna’s old house. I remember that house, red brick, green neatly trimmed lawn. Her father used to work endlessly on that lawn, and his car. Anna’s Mom used to joke that he loved his car and that lawn more than he loved them, only joking of course, but I wonder if deep down she actually believed it. I used to go to her house often when we were together, and by often I mean that when I went I didn’t need to knock, they never kept the door locked and allowed me to just waltz right in and join them on the couch if they were watching TV, or the dinner table if they were eating. It was a wonder that we ever got togeth—“.
Wait a minute, why would Anna just invite me to a fucking party out of the blue like this? That’s hardly her style. Just another feel sorry for Dave thing I suppose. Right after it happened, friends I didn’t know I had; family I never talked to, or wanted to talk to, began treating me like a child who’d just fallen and hurt himself. Everyone wanted to help, everyone wanted to take me out, cheer me up, everyone knew what was best for me. Everyone but me. The requests that I go out for a night on the town had dwindled over time. It had gotten to the point that I was finally feeling content that they’d taken the hint. That I didn’t want to forget, forget about Michelle about the baby, I didn’t want to meet someone new, or put myself back “out on the market”.
Now Anna’s joining the game? Out of all the people to try to console me after it happened, Anna was never one of them. She knew. She knew that no matter what we’d been through together, how much we may have loved each other back then, that Michelle was the greatest thing to ever happen to me. Anna respected that, and I was grateful for it too. Sometimes when things like this happen, you just need someone to talk to, an old friend, like Anna, and sometimes, you know it’s better not to.
The breath forms a cloud of moisture in the crisp air as I sit down at the tiny desk where I do my writing. “Why is it so cold in here?” I scribble on the blank page, “Why is it always so cold?”. Most people find it comfortable enough in their own homes to be able to talk to themselves when they’re alone, but not me. Maybe it’s the fact that this isn’t my home, just the place where I sleep, that does it to me, but I’ve never found myself able to think out loud here; which accounts for all the writing. I come home, sit here in the little alcove where I’ve shoved the desk and write, mostly about nothing, but that nothingness leads to the work I’ve mentioned earlier. “Writing begets writing”, as they say.
“This party—Anna’s party. Should I go, should I not go? Knot go. Should I, should I?” The words begin to fill the page, nonsense at first, I told you, but I always make it a point to write on paper as if I’m writing something formal. Always from top to bottom, keeping within the margins, always.
“Anna’s house. Anna’s old house. I remember that house, red brick, green neatly trimmed lawn. Her father used to work endlessly on that lawn, and his car. Anna’s Mom used to joke that he loved his car and that lawn more than he loved them, only joking of course, but I wonder if deep down she actually believed it. I used to go to her house often when we were together, and by often I mean that when I went I didn’t need to knock, they never kept the door locked and allowed me to just waltz right in and join them on the couch if they were watching TV, or the dinner table if they were eating. It was a wonder that we ever got togeth—“.
Wait a minute, why would Anna just invite me to a fucking party out of the blue like this? That’s hardly her style. Just another feel sorry for Dave thing I suppose. Right after it happened, friends I didn’t know I had; family I never talked to, or wanted to talk to, began treating me like a child who’d just fallen and hurt himself. Everyone wanted to help, everyone wanted to take me out, cheer me up, everyone knew what was best for me. Everyone but me. The requests that I go out for a night on the town had dwindled over time. It had gotten to the point that I was finally feeling content that they’d taken the hint. That I didn’t want to forget, forget about Michelle about the baby, I didn’t want to meet someone new, or put myself back “out on the market”.
Now Anna’s joining the game? Out of all the people to try to console me after it happened, Anna was never one of them. She knew. She knew that no matter what we’d been through together, how much we may have loved each other back then, that Michelle was the greatest thing to ever happen to me. Anna respected that, and I was grateful for it too. Sometimes when things like this happen, you just need someone to talk to, an old friend, like Anna, and sometimes, you know it’s better not to.
