Bright Guy

Okay, I’ll come clean: I’m not smart. This may not seem like much of revelation, especially if you know me. And let’s face it, if you’re reading this, you probably know me. However, many people think I am smart. Random people will accost me on the street and ask for directions or some other kind of difficult question, but as they are speaking, all that is going through my head is the theme song to Gilligan’s Island.

Now, it is true; I wear glasses and read a lot. I mean I have all of the accoutrements of the smart, so I could see people making the initial mistake. Like, you see a tall guy and you figure he must play basketball or you see an Italian guy and you figure he must have mob connections. Of course, it’s not true; not all tall people play basketball, but we have a tendency to do quick, lazy stereotypes when we first meet someone. I mean, why not, it’s fun and easy!

When I was in school, kids used to cheat off of me all the time. And I get it: chubby guy +glasses+ clothes picked out by mom=genius. It’s an easy mistake, but, at some point, don’t you think it they would figure it out? Wouldn’t someone look over and see me penciling in the answer “George Washington” to the question, “Who is thought to be the father of modern astronomy?” and breathe a sigh of annoyance and look for some fresh brains to cipher off of?

They wouldn’t though. They would lean over, as obvious as can be, and copy whatever half assed shit I could think up like they were the slickest cats in the world. The teacher would never interfere, of course. I mean talk about only cheating yourself. While I knew I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the tray, I took solace in knowing I was not quite as dumb as these guys.

Over the years, I have come to terms with the limited mental capacity I was given in this crapshoot we call life. Oh, sure, I may never win the thing-a-ma-jiggy, you know-the award they give to scientists and junk-but I have gotten this far and, hell, say what you want about him, but George W. Bush was the God damn president! I don’t agree with his politics, but knowing that one of us (you know, morons) was able to become President of The United States of America! It stirs a sense of both revulsion and pride. I can only imagine this is how black Republicans must feel.

So, yes, I am not going to be splitting the Adam any time soon (which is such a gay saying, am I right?), but I have accepted my lot in this life. For the most part, I feel the serenity and peacefulness that comes with knowing your place in the world.

However, every so often, something happens that throws me off balance. A moment materializes that makes me realize that I am not as smart as I think I am, which is depressing, because that is not too tall a cliff to fall off of in the first place.

The axe came down on Halloween night. I had just got home from my part time job and my girlfriend, Laura, had a few friends over for drinks and scary movies (although, when I got there, they were watching From Dusk ‘til Dawn, which, I for some reason don’t think qualifies, but we can save that for another discussion). As all conversations do after a few drinks, ours turned to the impending time change. Now, I think I have made it clear that I do not consider myself an Einstein, or even a Salk, for God’s sake, but I am able to complete the simple task of setting the clock back an hour. However, I soon learned that if time travel is ever invented, you probably won’t want me as a travel companion.

“The worst part about the time change” I whined with the casual arrogance of one who understands a simple process, “Is that it will be dark out now when I got to work.”

I explained that I wake up for work at 6:30 am every day. I usually leave the house at around 7:10 and that at that time it is still pretty dark out. Now it would be even darker because it was an hour earlier. This seemed like an even, intelligent, and logical assumption about what would happen if I set my clock back one hour.

It seemed that way, but of course, I was absolutely incorrect.

“No, no. It will actually be 7:30 when you wake up now,” said Rachel. She was a friend of the group’s. She lived in DC and while we have met on several occasions, we didn’t know each other that well. It is good we do not know each other that well, because as I am more behaved and diplomatic with people I don’t know as opposed to being pretty much a jerk with good, lifelong friends, it stopped me from, replying with, “What the fuck you talking about?”

Instead, I used the more genteel, “come again?”

Rachel explained it once more and then once more after that. To her credit, she quickly gleaned what the rest of the party had yet to. Which was basically this: I wasn’t going to get this. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. Maybe on my deathbed, I would spring up one last time exclaiming, “Oh! So, a an hour back, so when I wake up at 6:30, it will actually be..wait, I just had it…” and then I will pass and those will be my last words on this earth.

Rachel excused herself and Allison slid into position to take the reigns of driving through my thick skull what setting the clocks back an hour would mean.

“So, when you wake up now, it’s dark out, but after the time change, it will be light out at that time,”

“But it will be an hour earlier!” I cried.

“No, it will be an hour later.” She said, with the kind of look on her face people usually keep in reserve when explaining to a child why he can’t live on candy.

“…But…But…We are setting the clocks back!” I countered with what I felt to be a compelling argument.

“Well, you’ll see. On Mon when you wake up, it will be light out.”

We dropped the subject and I smiled and joked with everyone and as the evening turned to early morning, we all said our goodbyes and turned in for the night.

Oh, but I didn’t forget. I may forget my keys, wallet, and middle name, but when I think I am right, I hold on to that like an old miner holds onto a gold nugget. Which is to say, very tightly.

The alarm went off at 6:30, just as it always does during the weekday. I hit the snooze button, but as my eyes caught sight of what was outside, I vaulted out of the bed. I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning. I practically threw open my window and peered my head out to ask some passing street urchin, “ Did I miss, boy? Is it too late?”

“Miss what,” the precocious urchin would ask.

“The time change boy! Has it happened?”

He would have answered yes because, of course, it did happen. What got me out of bed was not the dark, but the complete absence of it. A steady stream of sunlight shone through my bedroom window and illuminated so much more than the hardwood floors. I had been wrong, of course. The sun was out. We had set the clocks back, but that also meant that it was actually 7:30 right now, and not 5:30 and if I think more about it, my head may explode.

I walked to work, feeling a slight twinge of defeat. It didn’t help that the shower failed to produce even a drop of warm water this morning. I was forced to wash myself of in the sink like a hobo at the Public Library.

So, there I was, walking to work, feeling out witted again, and smelling of hand soap and tap water. I felt foolish in my faulty logic, and this turned over in my brain a few times. After having some coffee and a cigarette, I quickly forgot about the intellectual thrashing I had suffered. I surveyed my Brooklyn neighborhood and took in the charming buildings and the busy Flatbush Ave parade of commuters. Life was teeming around me and the sun took it’s rightful place up in the blue sky.

I suppose that is one good thing about being stupid. I soon forgot what I was feeling bad about or why. I simply looked ahead and continued on the bright, sunny path ahead; content to stay out of the shadows.

Blog update

I have only started this blog and am already two weeks behind posting. Sorry about that. I have been working like crazy, lately and just haven't has as much time as expected to put into this sucka.

I have about half a dozen half- finished essays written up and this weekend, I am going to buckle down and knock a couple out and get some stuff posted.

For now, though, I am hoping to start serializing some stories. I have just started my first one. I will be honest, i just finished and am just throwing it onto the site, so there s a chance that this will be coming down by the weekend and reposted with the errors taken out.

For the story, itself, I am trying to write a horror-mystery that I have been kicking around in my brain for a while and I want to get at least a couple of parts up in time for Halloween!

I hope you like it!

Mirror, Mirror part1

She came shambling into the Sheriff’s office lobby wearing a pink, shabby, and dirty sweat suit. She was thin an gaunt and her eyes were surrounded by deep dark circles that gave the upper half of her face the appearance of always being in the shadows. She was a woman of 45 years of age, but the weathered lines on her face and hands grown rigid due to years of hard labor gave her the appearance of someone at least fifteen years older.

She paused at the empty booth protected by surrounding walls of bulletproof glass.

“Frank!” She called out sounding like a wounded reptile.

No one answered. The sleepy Sheriff’s office was as deserted and quiet as the Minerals museum out on Woodchuck Road.

“Frank!” she called out again, her cry sounding more desperate and pleading.

A harsh voice cut through the silence and echoed off the porcelain-tiled walls. It came from the intercom box just inside the booth.

“ ‘S that you Loretta?”

“You damn well know it is Tom!”

“You know I can’t talk to you right now. Not without a lawyer present”

“To hell with that, Tom! Your Goddamn goons is all over my house!”

“Not without a lawyer.”

“Damn it, Tom!”

“Lorretta.”

“You sons of bitches took my boy! You certainly to holy fuck will talk to me!”

Loretta balled up her bony hands into weathered, husks of fists and banged them against the bullet proof plexiglass. She screamed and shook with a dark rage. She screamed out all kinds of profanity, but they swirled together to form a symphony of deep, primal hurt. She lept away from the booth and made her way to the thick metal door that separated her from her quarry. That kept her from Sheriff Tom Morgan.

A loud, oppressive buzz broke the evil spell cast over the frail woman and, her hands still on the door, she could feel the lock give way. She gently and hesitantly pressed the door open and slowly padded over the threshold.

She turned to watch the door close behind her and, once it did, she turned back to see Sheriff Morgan standing in the hall, a silhouette against the streaming afternoon sunlight.

“Well, come on in.”

Loretta padded down the hallway and stood cautiously in the Sheriff’s office doorway. She pulled out a Benson and Hedges 100 and screwed it into her lips.

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked as she lit the cigarette.

The Sheriff only chuckled.“Well, I suspect not,” he said

She only grunted in reply.

“I do apologize for the ruckus we are causing you right now, ‘Retta.”

The Sheriff leaned back in his chair and broke into a small, genial smile.

“Yeah. I bet you are”

“Well, I certainly am. Whether you believe it or not, I don’t much enjoy this part of the job.”

“Right. This kind of shit is what makes your type’s dick hard.”

Lorretta continued smoking her cigarette, glaring at Sheriff Morgan as she did. All of the pain and anger she carried inside her resided in that stare and gave weight to it.

Sheriff Morgan took it in. He took it in and stared back with a benevolent, placid look that he hoped would calm her, if only a little. Tom Morgan had been at this type of work for over twenty years. He, too, was 45 years of age and had spent over half his life as a Coconut Grove police officer. For the most part, it wasn’t too demanding. It was a relatively small community in Northern part of Florida, actually over one hundred miles from the nearest beach. The one thing he learned, however, is the usually the best weapon needed to diffuse a tense situation was human kindness.

“What can I help you with, ‘Retta?”

“Don’t give me that cute shit. You know God damn well what you can help me with. You can call of your dogs, for starters!”

“Well, I can’t do that and you know it. As much as it pains me to have to do this, it simply must be done. There just ain’t no other way.”

“It’s my home!” She cried, “I..It’s our home,” she finished, softly.

“Loretta, as much as I would like to just skip going through your personal property, I just can’t. Your Henry…”

“No!”

“Your Henry..”

“Damn it!”

“Loretta your son is the prime suspect in the first murder case Coconut Grove has had in damn near 15 years!”

There was a shock of cold silence in the room. Loretta collapsed onto the floor and her half finished cigarette rolled under the Sheriff desk.

Sheriff Tom Morgan jumped from his seat and rushed to the woman’s side. He bent over as her body heaved with anguished sobs. He leaned over and under the desk and picked up the cigarette. He brought the cigarette up and held it up to view against the daylight. The burning ember of the tip of the cigarette did not look so harsh in the light of the day. He brought it to his lips and pulled in a deep drag.

Beneath him the broken woman trembled. He gathered her up into his arms. Down the hall he could hear loud, careless footsteps pounding on the cold linoleum floors. The footsteps grew ever louder until they found themselves stopped in the Tom Morgan’s door way.

A young, shocked face surveyed the scene trying to process the moment.

“Um, Sheriff, uh, we uh…”

The sheriff cradled the wounded mother in his arms. In her grief the young deputy’s presence went unnoticed.

“Not now, Phil”

“Well,”

“Phil,”
“When, uh, your finished. We found something.”

“Something?”

“We think you might want to take a look,”

Tom Morgan thought this over.

“All right. ‘Retta? I have business to attend to. Deputy Coins will take care of you, should you need anything, okay?”

She nodded in acquiescence.

“So, you heading to the house?”

“Your damn right. You take care of Ms. Wood, over there. I got work to do.”

Sheriff Tom Morgan then pulled on his beige Sheriff's cowboy hat. He turned on his heels and walk down the hall, disappearing behind the large metal door.

Greetings From Pluto

On Sept 13, 2006 The International Astronomical Union created an official definition of what classified a planet, which was weird, because planets have been around for a long time, and you would think someone would have gotten to that by then. Unfortunately, no one had and once the hammer came down, Pluto was hit the hardest.

I thought about that as I read over my little blog post from last week-or, more importantly, my blog title.

I titled this blog “Back of the Class” because that is where I sat throughout most of my education. As you may imagine, I was not a straight A student and to be honest, I would have settled for straight Cs.

I have romanticized the notion of the kids who sit in the back of the class. In my head, we were the misunderstood rebels who didn’t need to rollover for the teachers, or feed into the system’s conveyor belt mentality toward education. We were different, we had real ideas, and we could see through the bullshit, man!

It was with this thought in mind that I chose this blog’s moniker. Unfortunately, my stupid brain couldn’t leave well enough alone and I started thinking.

My thoughts turned to those wretched years inside of the Florida State Educational system, and about my life on the outside. I thought about the string of bad choices that eventually led to me being 32 and working as a Customer Service Rep for an online high-end clothing retailer.

Then my thoughts turned to Pluto.

It occurred to me that, like Pluto, I have always been on the outside. In school, I was the weird kid, who was barely getting by. My mind would wander during lessons, and by the time I got back, we were onto another subject. The other kids seemed to always know what was expected of them. What the assignments were. What was due and when. We may have been given a syllabus, but as I stared down onto that piece of paper, it might as well have been written in Sanskrit, because the information, to me, was indecipherable.

I suppose I may be classified now as having ADD, but back then, they just gave you safety scissors and made sure you didn’t spend too much time with the paste.

The other kids seemed to know what clothes to wear, what shows to watch, and what books to read. I had no clue what was happening in popular culture and even today, I find myself scrolling through Internet, wondering to myself, “what is a Lady Gaga?”


So, upon examining my fondness for this Blog title I have uncovered another layer of self-loathing. Which, to be honest, is not very hard. That’s kind of like finding a raisin in a newly opened box of raisins. That is to say, yeah, there are going to be raisins in there.

“The Back of the Class”. Why did I always sit in the back of the class?

I did not choose the back of the class because I was intent on pointing out all the hypocrisies of the world. I have no wish to be the plucky young fool whom sticks his tongue out at all of the mediocrity the world has to offer.

No, I am neither that brave nor that noble. I kept towards the back because I was too afraid to sit up front. I did not participate in school because I could not bear to be embarrassed.

Like Pluto, I was on the edges of a solar system and did not know how to break in.

In 2006, I had been living in New York City for a little more than two years. In that time, my comedy career had totally faded away, I was still reeling from the end of a long and tempestuous relationship, and I was completely broke and alone in New York City.

If Pluto had been downgraded, I had been practically demolished.

Whatever feelings of alienation I may have suffered as a teenager were now turned up to 11! More than ever, I felt cut off from society and I had no idea how or if I would ever get back.

Over time, things got better bit-by-bit. I am in a loving, healthy relationship. We live together in Park Slope. We have a cute little cat named Facita.

I have a job!

Oh, it is not an ideal job. Not by a long shot.

But, I am catching up on bills. And while I have said goodbye to a comedy career, I have finally been able to pause and take a breath. I have the opportunity to reevaluate. I don’t know what is on the horizon, but for the first time in years I don’t fear it.

At work, I still don’t quite feel right. It is hard for me to break into that world. Maybe because this is the closest I have ever been to having an office job. I have a little cubicle and everything. I even have a drawer where I can put stuff.

Like being back in school, everyone seems to know what’s going on. They seem to have a grip on things. They al have the jargon down. They know the score. They know what the initials for the acronyms for the jargon means!

Meanwhile, I am just trying to get by and seem normal.

As always, I am floating on the outer edges, hoping to get a glimpse of the sun’s warm glow.

And so it begins.

Ahhh, my first blog! I can feel my words-oh my precious, precious words-streaming into the hearts and minds of the literally hundreds, if not thousands of people who are currently using the internet. Everyday!

Now, as you are reading this you may be thinking, “Well, Mr. Gray, first of all thank you! “

“Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts and opinions with the rest of us here on the internet. It gets lonely here and, by gum, not enough people care to share their every passing notion with us. If only there were more people out there willing to just post some kind of half-assed, ill informed rant or, hell, just send out a message letting us know that you took the kids to Six Flags for the day.”

“ I don’t know, something. Why, if even just a couple of more people were to do that a day, we sure would appreciate it.”

Well, lonely man on the internet, your welcome!

I don’t know what I will be doing here on my little blog post. Probably just show up to shoot the shinola(or is it shit? I always mix those two up). Probably comment on things happening in the news. Maybe throw in my two cents about some pop culture event. Maybe even post my thoughts on the literature, film, or television that has had an impact on me.

…

All right, you got me. I’ll probably just talk about my cock a whole lot!