Holden Onto A Dead Poet

“Holden onto a dead poet”

“When people are asked about what they want to be when they grow up, they say a doctor! An Engineer! A Writer! A Director! A Physicist! A Veterinarian! Nobody ever says, ‘I want to be myself’. And this is why I say that I don’t care what my career is. If I ever even call it a career, my life has ended, and my ‘adulthood’ has assumed its power and ultimately taken over my freedom as a human being. Society isn’t supposed to fall into a line. I am not supposed to fall in line.”
That was my first improvised speech in front of my desperate and glum friends. They played it off as if nothing happened. Or rather, mattered. All of them were such bores. Most of the time they were talking about some random video game, or a girl that they would never talk to. Everything they ever talked about had as little purpose as possible. It was almost competitive. Between Kevin and Bill a small rivalry formed as to who could be the dumbest kid at the lunch table. Everybody took sides against one another. I felt lost in a war between two superpowers. But that’s only if superpowers were incapable of thinking, or functioning. Sadly though, that might be more of a truth than a comparison.
My days were almost over in high school. Summer was soon to start itself, but not until the ghost of spring tortured my final breaths into countless essays and ridiculous assignments. It was a time where hot coffee was meant to be, but the temperature outside thought differently. The uncomfortable humidity and burning coffee made winter seem useful. Despite the cold, depressing months of snow anything but heat seemed preferable.  Of course the coffee was welcome, but my sleep was not too fond of the caffeinated liquid which crept into my life so quickly.
I had no idea what on earth I wanted to do with my life. This scared me into a state of hell. Everything came at me a million miles an hour, straight at my face. I felt like a limbless blob. Things kept smashing me right on my nose. My job, my friendships (which obviously had shot themselves in the head), and pointless college drama hit me hard. This concern must have fueled my rant at the lunch table. Too bad none of my “friends” knew anything. As a matter of fact they never thought about anything. I felt isolated from them. Not as a result of their actions, or lack of them, but because they never grew. There were times when I wanted to just have a good old chat with them and they just slapped me in the face. Sometimes literally. Though I hated them, I felt glued to their presence. They were like a bad crack-cocaine habit that I just couldn’t stay away from. If I left then, at the end of the year, I would have completely dumped myself into a debacle of social separation. I remember my junior year when I followed all of those table kids. As my mind was growing, I felt obligated to continue on in a path of conformity. Good thing that didn’t work out for me. I think being alone all summer going into my senior year helped me realize that my happiness began within myself, and not in racist, obnoxious, inappropriate, hypothetical, sickening, putrid conversations. My only attitude while participating in their talks was amazement. It wasn’t happy amazement. The same amazement one gets when old yeller is shot. Not a feeling people like.
When Eric shot himself I wasn’t as surprised as most other kids. Sure it was a terrible thing and all, but his chances at survival were very slim. He was very reserved and, well, strange. But you would figure normal people wouldn’t be committing suicide. Don’t mind the contradiction, but if strange individuals were to shoot themselves three quarters of the school population would be gone.
Eric was a table kid. He rarely ever talked though. The bigoted remarks about his brown skin left him in a passive state. Everybody else overpowered him, and during conversations he was used as a tool for jokes. I tried defending him and all because the table kids were just being ridiculous. Being racist is just filler for a lack of self confidence. Obviously the table kids never realized this, and this led Eric to believe that he was the lesser one. He probably thought that a pistol would change the color of his skin.
At the wake, barely anybody cried. The ones who were crying didn’t count. They were just trying to show some sort of emotion other than happiness. Most of the people who showed up weren’t Eric’s friends. They weren’t even nice to him.  His parents weren’t even there. Even at the end, nobody cared about him. Table kids showed up. They shouldn’t have. Having them go was like inviting the devil himself along to say a final farewell. Eric’s suicide note blamed all the table kids indirectly, so naturally they had a guilt trip and forced themselves to go see their “buddy” for the last time. It wouldn’t have surprised me if they were there just to redeem themselves. After all, selfishness ran rampant among these viciously arrogant table kids.
I was sick of everybody being so quiet and independent about their thoughts. A death is supposed to bring people together, but here it just separated everybody into their cliques. And that was a terrible thing. I decided to let all my angry thoughts scream out to all the bystanders. Everybody wanted to leave, and I think that what I had to say would give them an excuse to go. They really didn’t belong there.
“Excuse me everybody. Ahem. Can I say something?” A drunken man whipped all the way around.
“Speeeeeech!!!!!” He belched it as if it were the only thing that mattered to him. Then again, he was at Eric’s wake hammered. From the other corner of the room a girl, embarrassed, loudly whispered, “Dad! Come on. Don’t be rude.”
“Okay. All of you out there…” I paused. Nobody was really paying attention except for a few that were dazed. I then continued:
“Hi everybody. Today we are here to remember a life. A tragic life ended too soon by an inevitable fate. Eric lived. Remember that. All he wanted was a peaceful life. But he couldn’t. It was cut short because of people like Dan, Brian, Kevin, Bill, and Jeff. Those five people showed Eric a destructive hate that was so strong, that it could knock over his confidence and barricade his beating heart. He felt alone, and hopeless. These five brought hell to Eric. These five gave Eric the ability to use a handgun. These five helped Eric pull the trigger and show the world how red of embarrassment he truly was. But these five are walking away as innocent victims of a terrible loss. This is a lie. Any provocation should be criminal activity.”
What I said was pretty extreme. People sort of started filing out of the building, but I couldn’t tell if it was because of me or if everybody had just reached a general consensus on being bored. It was like nobody had even heard me. The one person who actually cared for Eric was shunned by everybody in the audience. Audience is an overstatement too.
I got down from my speech-like stance and decided to walk outside to leave with everybody else. Before that, I walked over to the coffin to say my final goodbyes to Eric. I kneeled down and said a little prayer that I had learned from Sunday school back in my younger more lively days. As I rose to my feet I noticed a single picture. It was far off in the corner masked by a wreath. Behind it I saw a familiar face. It looked like Eric, but at the same time it looked just like me. I walked closer to check out the full picture, and took off the wreath. Somebody must have been mistaken. Nobody knew what Eric looked like, and they ended up putting a picture in of me. Kind of a big fault there. I walked outside quickly to let the coordinator know. He was by a big oak tree on the other side of the lawn playing with his hands. On my way I walked through a cloud of conversation only to hear six brutal words.
“I heard Eric was a schizophrenic… “