Stories
The Time I Woke up in a Field
Notre Dame was ranked third in the country, and my family had driven in from Missouri to visit for the game against Wake Forest. My dad brought large brown bottles of his homebrew, Grand Slam Stout, and my brother brought Maker’s Mark and eggnog.
Some hours later, I woke up in a field. Disoriented, pants torn, I tried to navigate by the sun back to campus. As the sun started setting, I came upon College Street, and my spirits lifted. I waved down a car and asked if I was getting close. “No.” Can you call somebody? “No, I don’t have a phone.” Do you need a ride? I hopped in, and they drove me three miles, across St. Joseph River back to campus. We listened to Taiga remixes. Good guys.
I hopped out at a stop light to run the rest of the way back to my dorm, ignoring offers to take me closer. I lived in the northernmost dorm. It was made of cinderblocks. I bought a Gatorade at the vending machine, and as I was retelling the day’s events, the Hall Rector approached. He bade me into his rooms, and we sat and talked about alcohol consumption at length. He said I was an alcoholic. I was a philosophy student, so I wouldn’t take the charge lightly. Besides, I was related to proper alcoholics. I blacked out a few times a year for a few years before finding moderation.
I retired to my shared room and attempted to rest. Celebrations erupted, with cheer and drinking in the fountains. The top 2 seeds in the country had lost, and Notre Dame had won. We were Number 1. Overloaded with gameday celebrants, the region buzzed with activity. Vuvuzelas, thumping boomboxes, and strained vocal chords. And the smell of cheap beer, and brightly colored sugary things to mix with clear liquor. All the while, toeing the boundaries of an ostensibly temperate campus with strictures that could easily expel.
There was no shelter for being hungover at 10pm. No noise tolerance.
Last I remembered, I was walking from the tailgate North to the Stadium. Later, I was told that I watched the game's 1st Quarter before excusing myself with slurred speech to the bathroom. Those companions then lost my trail. A different friend spotted me stumbling towards the ladies' restroom apparently disoriented. They asked if I need some help, I refused the offer and presumably left the Stadium en route to a soft bed and fluid intake.
I must have left with the wrong bearing and with quick pace. I have fleeting memories of being separated from the Way Home by a chain-link fence. I climbed it, but my baggy clothes snared at the top. I struggled, tearing fabric and skin. Tired, I freed myself and rested in the grass and the fallen leaves on a cold Autumn day in November.
In later years, I wouldn’t buy season tickets anymore. I kept the money, partied at the tailgate, and relished the comforts and foods of home. I moved off campus and developed my domestic proficiencies. The house was gross, sometimes, with pools of beer, warping the floor, and abandoned dishes that faded from slick green to sludgy brown. I got more instruments and played them more loudly. I started smoking a pipe. I would take refuge in my car, listening to music.
I would go for miles-long runs while drunk a few more times, often inappropriately dressed, in unfamiliar territories. I never got stuck on top of a chain-link fence again, tearing holes in my clothes and leaving jagged scratches underneath. I lost nice headphones a few more times. I haven't retraced those steps in Indiana, and I don't know if I will.
Some hours later, I woke up in a field. Disoriented, pants torn, I tried to navigate by the sun back to campus. As the sun started setting, I came upon College Street, and my spirits lifted. I waved down a car and asked if I was getting close. “No.” Can you call somebody? “No, I don’t have a phone.” Do you need a ride? I hopped in, and they drove me three miles, across St. Joseph River back to campus. We listened to Taiga remixes. Good guys.
I hopped out at a stop light to run the rest of the way back to my dorm, ignoring offers to take me closer. I lived in the northernmost dorm. It was made of cinderblocks. I bought a Gatorade at the vending machine, and as I was retelling the day’s events, the Hall Rector approached. He bade me into his rooms, and we sat and talked about alcohol consumption at length. He said I was an alcoholic. I was a philosophy student, so I wouldn’t take the charge lightly. Besides, I was related to proper alcoholics. I blacked out a few times a year for a few years before finding moderation.
I retired to my shared room and attempted to rest. Celebrations erupted, with cheer and drinking in the fountains. The top 2 seeds in the country had lost, and Notre Dame had won. We were Number 1. Overloaded with gameday celebrants, the region buzzed with activity. Vuvuzelas, thumping boomboxes, and strained vocal chords. And the smell of cheap beer, and brightly colored sugary things to mix with clear liquor. All the while, toeing the boundaries of an ostensibly temperate campus with strictures that could easily expel.
There was no shelter for being hungover at 10pm. No noise tolerance.
Last I remembered, I was walking from the tailgate North to the Stadium. Later, I was told that I watched the game's 1st Quarter before excusing myself with slurred speech to the bathroom. Those companions then lost my trail. A different friend spotted me stumbling towards the ladies' restroom apparently disoriented. They asked if I need some help, I refused the offer and presumably left the Stadium en route to a soft bed and fluid intake.
I must have left with the wrong bearing and with quick pace. I have fleeting memories of being separated from the Way Home by a chain-link fence. I climbed it, but my baggy clothes snared at the top. I struggled, tearing fabric and skin. Tired, I freed myself and rested in the grass and the fallen leaves on a cold Autumn day in November.
In later years, I wouldn’t buy season tickets anymore. I kept the money, partied at the tailgate, and relished the comforts and foods of home. I moved off campus and developed my domestic proficiencies. The house was gross, sometimes, with pools of beer, warping the floor, and abandoned dishes that faded from slick green to sludgy brown. I got more instruments and played them more loudly. I started smoking a pipe. I would take refuge in my car, listening to music.
I would go for miles-long runs while drunk a few more times, often inappropriately dressed, in unfamiliar territories. I never got stuck on top of a chain-link fence again, tearing holes in my clothes and leaving jagged scratches underneath. I lost nice headphones a few more times. I haven't retraced those steps in Indiana, and I don't know if I will.
Wonder and Wander
I’m drifting through space, watching our vessel shrink, and the inevitability grips me. This is it. I’m through. Oblivion here I come.
Communications are still live.
“It’s gonna be alright,” the voice on the other side consoles.
“Well, obviously not,” I think to myself; there’s literally no chance of extended survival. You don’t have to pander just because I’m helplessly lost.
“Whatever you say,” I end up uttering. “I’m just thinking how to spend these final moments.” I sputter, “I hadn’t given it much thought before, but here we are.”
My eyes swell. For what it’s worth, I’m rather a big fan of living; not a bad gig at all. But I’m about to be the newest member of a prolific and prestigious organization, “Dead People.” All the greats (apart from some living legends) are co-members. Not exactly something to cry about.
“I guess I’d like to talk…Discuss. Try to figure something out while I still have the chance.”
“You don’t want to say some goodbyes? You just want to chat?”
“Yes, I actually would, and furthermore, I hope and pray that everyone I might bid farewell is well-aware of what they mean to me. That I’ve left them with a slew of reminders of their worth and value, and since they need not one more, they won’t mind if I query.”
“Hey, you’re the boss:” the answer smacked with cheek and struck me as ill-mannered for our situation (how am I getting chastised right now? Unbelievable).
“So, what would you like to talk about? ps. You’re at 7% O2 and falling.”
“Copy. I guess I’d like to solve something. Accomplish one more feat by means of discourse.”
“Okay, whatever that means. Let’s do it. You start.”
Silence. For all my talk and indignation, I hadn’t thought of a topic. I’m like an player of 20-Questions insisting to play but dawdle-some with my selections. “Shall we tackle one wicked or tame? Solve an ancient puzzle or guarantee a success?”
“….Uh, whichever’s easier, I s’ppose.”
His reply falls on deaf ears. For the first time since my detachment, I actually see past my visor. Marvelous and breathtaking. Exhaling deeply out my nose, my heart rate slows.
"Might as well make the most of what I have left." 4%. "Damn. What do I want to talk about? I’m wasting my time." “I’ve got one. Let’s do a mental exercise. Trivial, yet illuminating.”
I was pleased; I do these all the time. They usually come in the form of a counterfactual conditional, “If you were an ‘X,’ then you’d be such and such.” So which should I choose?
“….How do you hope the universe is like?” I started, addressing no one in particular. “What’s the ideal? Would there be a variety of life, both intelligent and otherwise? How are they spread throughout the cosmos; how do they interact, if at all? You get the idea.”
“Well, we don’t even know if there’s any life besides Earth-origin. Everyone knows that.”
“But that’s not what I’m asking. Our universe could be arranged in uncountable ways. Each distinct from the others. We can have larger and smaller, denser and rarer. And that’s just for simple matter. Complexity skyrockets with life.”
“Oh, I gotcha. Well, let’s see now….”
Static roars over the headset, then cuts out completely. 2%.
“Hello, you there…?”
Nada… Zilch. There might as well have been a tumbleweed rolling by. I was stuck with the sound of my own breathing and that high pitched whine that always accompanied me.
I hadn’t been monitoring my breathing. Barking away over the comm probably wasn’t ideal for oxygen preservation either. Things were looking pretty grim for our short-lived discussion too, but to be fair, I had kind of failed in picking an easy, manageable prompt. Last goodbyes sound pretty comforting at this point. Retrospecting, I might have passed on a solid opportunity, and there’s no chance for redemption. I’m finished.
The sands of time, for me, are running low.
A calm hovers over me. Clear-eyed and focused, I recall the gravity of my position. Last words. 1%. Have to come up with something better than “Hello, you there?” That’s absolutely miserable. Alright, I need something poetic, with a ring, and cadence. Preferably elegant in print as well …
Except, I don’t. The brutal reality is that my last words will reach me alone, so instead of using these obvious and decrepit criteria, I’ll do as I please.
I’ll say a soliloquy. And so, I hummed along with a tune in my head. It was contemplative and deliberate, inquisitive and charming. Overcome by emotion, knowing I could not capture the majesty with words, I laid my head back and let my eyes droop. The red 0% in the corner of my vision flickered and faded as I listened to my silent eulogy.
Communications are still live.
“It’s gonna be alright,” the voice on the other side consoles.
“Well, obviously not,” I think to myself; there’s literally no chance of extended survival. You don’t have to pander just because I’m helplessly lost.
“Whatever you say,” I end up uttering. “I’m just thinking how to spend these final moments.” I sputter, “I hadn’t given it much thought before, but here we are.”
My eyes swell. For what it’s worth, I’m rather a big fan of living; not a bad gig at all. But I’m about to be the newest member of a prolific and prestigious organization, “Dead People.” All the greats (apart from some living legends) are co-members. Not exactly something to cry about.
“I guess I’d like to talk…Discuss. Try to figure something out while I still have the chance.”
“You don’t want to say some goodbyes? You just want to chat?”
“Yes, I actually would, and furthermore, I hope and pray that everyone I might bid farewell is well-aware of what they mean to me. That I’ve left them with a slew of reminders of their worth and value, and since they need not one more, they won’t mind if I query.”
“Hey, you’re the boss:” the answer smacked with cheek and struck me as ill-mannered for our situation (how am I getting chastised right now? Unbelievable).
“So, what would you like to talk about? ps. You’re at 7% O2 and falling.”
“Copy. I guess I’d like to solve something. Accomplish one more feat by means of discourse.”
“Okay, whatever that means. Let’s do it. You start.”
Silence. For all my talk and indignation, I hadn’t thought of a topic. I’m like an player of 20-Questions insisting to play but dawdle-some with my selections. “Shall we tackle one wicked or tame? Solve an ancient puzzle or guarantee a success?”
“….Uh, whichever’s easier, I s’ppose.”
His reply falls on deaf ears. For the first time since my detachment, I actually see past my visor. Marvelous and breathtaking. Exhaling deeply out my nose, my heart rate slows.
"Might as well make the most of what I have left." 4%. "Damn. What do I want to talk about? I’m wasting my time." “I’ve got one. Let’s do a mental exercise. Trivial, yet illuminating.”
I was pleased; I do these all the time. They usually come in the form of a counterfactual conditional, “If you were an ‘X,’ then you’d be such and such.” So which should I choose?
“….How do you hope the universe is like?” I started, addressing no one in particular. “What’s the ideal? Would there be a variety of life, both intelligent and otherwise? How are they spread throughout the cosmos; how do they interact, if at all? You get the idea.”
“Well, we don’t even know if there’s any life besides Earth-origin. Everyone knows that.”
“But that’s not what I’m asking. Our universe could be arranged in uncountable ways. Each distinct from the others. We can have larger and smaller, denser and rarer. And that’s just for simple matter. Complexity skyrockets with life.”
“Oh, I gotcha. Well, let’s see now….”
Static roars over the headset, then cuts out completely. 2%.
“Hello, you there…?”
Nada… Zilch. There might as well have been a tumbleweed rolling by. I was stuck with the sound of my own breathing and that high pitched whine that always accompanied me.
I hadn’t been monitoring my breathing. Barking away over the comm probably wasn’t ideal for oxygen preservation either. Things were looking pretty grim for our short-lived discussion too, but to be fair, I had kind of failed in picking an easy, manageable prompt. Last goodbyes sound pretty comforting at this point. Retrospecting, I might have passed on a solid opportunity, and there’s no chance for redemption. I’m finished.
The sands of time, for me, are running low.
A calm hovers over me. Clear-eyed and focused, I recall the gravity of my position. Last words. 1%. Have to come up with something better than “Hello, you there?” That’s absolutely miserable. Alright, I need something poetic, with a ring, and cadence. Preferably elegant in print as well …
Except, I don’t. The brutal reality is that my last words will reach me alone, so instead of using these obvious and decrepit criteria, I’ll do as I please.
I’ll say a soliloquy. And so, I hummed along with a tune in my head. It was contemplative and deliberate, inquisitive and charming. Overcome by emotion, knowing I could not capture the majesty with words, I laid my head back and let my eyes droop. The red 0% in the corner of my vision flickered and faded as I listened to my silent eulogy.