I'm One Of Those People

I do not wish to go below now.

–Henry David Thoreau

I’ve got no stomach for demolition. Hell, I can’t even stand the thought of dismantling the Christmas tree. It tears me up, so there it sits, six weeks beyond the holidays and still strung with lights and hung with ornaments, the needles showering to the floor every time the door opens or closes.

So there you have it: I’m one of those people.

Turns out I’m also not much good at loving. My first mother pronounced me unlovable right before she handed me over with my suitcase to the woman from the county. I was plenty old enough to understand exactly what she said, what she meant, and what the hell was going on, and you’d be correct in assuming that an experience like that will leave a long-term impression on a boy.

My other mothers, such as they were, apparently didn’t see much in me to refute the first one’s assessment. Lord knows, though, it isn’t for want of trying that nobody’s loved me, at least so far as my end of the deal is concerned. I learned early to “Yes, ma’am” and “no, ma’am,” and I’d skedaddle to fetch a drink of water for anybody who asked. I always made an effort to hold the door for the ladies.

Not, of course, that any of it ever seemed to do me a lick of good. You’ll understand, certainly, that being so wholly unlovable left me in a mighty tough position. Leaves me, I guess I should say.

I could dig around in my closet and find a Scrabble game whose tiles are stained with my own blood, and the story I could tell you regarding that curiosity might go some ways toward explicating the sort of man I’ve become.

I’ve learned, though, that that would be a complete waste of time, mine and, most especially, yours.