The fight over same-sex marriage in America rages on.
With the vote in Maine three days ago, gay marriage has now been forbidden by the people in 31 states - every state in which the issue has come to a popular vote. In other words, no American electoral majority has ever supported gay marriage.
Many liberals would be quick to point out that it's important to keep this in perspective, remembering all the progress that has been made, and keeping in mind that the demographic momentum is in favor of same-sex marriage, since young people mostly think gays should be allowed to marry. Others would point to the vote on the same day in which Washington was added to the list of states whose voters have approved "everything but marriage" - civil unions with all or nearly all of the protections afforded by marriage - as a heartening sign.
Many would even go so far as to say that the fact that civil unions appear to be a more attainable goal makes them a more worthy goal. The pragmatist in me understands this line of thought. The pursuit of marriage equality in America is, even today, an incredibly daunting task. Large percentages of the electorate still view homosexuality as not just immoral but sinful; so they naturally believe that it is their duty as Americans to stop any attempts to normalize it, and that by doing so they are saving America from damnation.
These people are willing to do incredible mental gymnastics to find justifications for their opposition to same-sex marriage that appear logical to the average person. But it's much harder to logically justify opposition to civil unions, since they can't be seen to involve a redefinition of traditional marriage. The effect of this fact is that, in places where a slim majority opposes same sex marriage, a slim majority also supports civil unions. And of course, equality of legal recognition for gay couples seems far more important than the terminology; so it seems reasonable to forget about marriage (at least for a while), and focus on getting civil unions.
But let's think, for a moment, of the implications of legalizing civil unions, rather than marriage, for same-sex couples.
The logic of civil unions rests on the precept that homosexual relationships should only be legally recognized by setting up a separate system, for them to use, where normal people would get married. Civil unions, therefore, accept that a homosexual relationship is fundamentally different from what is normal and acceptable in polite society - and that, to reflect this, we must use a different set of legal protections for their relationships. All this, while proclaiming that we are affirming their equal rights.
But how can we possibly affirm equal rights through separate legal protections? Amendment XIV of the United States Constitution says, in part, "No State shall . . . deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws." For a long time, racial segregation in America was justified by saying that as long as the public services afforded to non-whites were equal, it was alright if they were separate, if society demanded so. In the 1954 supreme court case Brown v. Board of Education, the court unanimously ruled that "separate educational facilities are inherently unequal." Cannot the same be said of separate legal codes to recognize relationships?
This is why I am a supporter of gay marriage, rather than the more pragmatic civil unions. Granted, I generally think there are far more pressing issues facing America, and the world, than the question of who can marry who - that's why this is the first blog post I've written dedicated to the topic - but that doesn't make the current situation regarding marriage in America any less unjust. It is my sincere hope that the American electorate can manage to get its head out of its ass and realize the clear and unequivocal truth - that gays have, and have always had, the right to marry; and must in turn be given the legal ability to do so.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Mission statement (work in progress)
To live.
To look at the world with wonder, and embrace my natural desire to understand it more fully.
To remain at all times open to the fluctuations of my mood; to accept all emotions that come to me as parts of the same unified whole.
To seek out kindred spirits, and to intensify life with and through mutual respect and understanding.
To maintain a true and independent identity by being true to myself above and before all else.
To look at the world with wonder, and embrace my natural desire to understand it more fully.
To remain at all times open to the fluctuations of my mood; to accept all emotions that come to me as parts of the same unified whole.
To seek out kindred spirits, and to intensify life with and through mutual respect and understanding.
To maintain a true and independent identity by being true to myself above and before all else.
Monday, November 2, 2009
cathartic release
forever and a day
by zach freier
you walked with me
that night through the
empty city streets
under a sky blackened
by clouds.
neither of us knew
the way, but i didn't
care, because
as long as we were
together, i was where
i needed to be.
but every time i
looked at you, you
seemed fainter, your eyes
dimmer, your face
more transparent, and
i knew you were leaving.
i asked if you remembered
all the times you said
you'd always be
there for me,
forever and a day.
you turned to look
into my eyes one last
time, and told me that
i didn't need you,
that even if i
don't know my way,
i'll always walk
in the right direction.
i closed my eyes as
you said you'd always
love me, and when i opened
them, you were gone.
i am lost without you.
by zach freier
you walked with me
that night through the
empty city streets
under a sky blackened
by clouds.
neither of us knew
the way, but i didn't
care, because
as long as we were
together, i was where
i needed to be.
but every time i
looked at you, you
seemed fainter, your eyes
dimmer, your face
more transparent, and
i knew you were leaving.
i asked if you remembered
all the times you said
you'd always be
there for me,
forever and a day.
you turned to look
into my eyes one last
time, and told me that
i didn't need you,
that even if i
don't know my way,
i'll always walk
in the right direction.
i closed my eyes as
you said you'd always
love me, and when i opened
them, you were gone.
i am lost without you.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Ethics Essay: Virtue and Self-Interest in Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics
Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics is one of the earliest philosophical works that is still taken seriously to this day. It is over two thousand years old, yet it is still considered by most to be one of the best and most vital philosophical works of all time. There are certainly some elements within it which most people today would find ridiculous – for example, the implication that women are inferior to men – but it is, for the most part, fundamentally sound. However, one of the vital pieces of Aristotle's whole system of ethics seems, at first glance, to be flawed. That is, Aristotle claims that virtue is an essential component to happiness, but certain virtuous acts seem to be entirely contrary to one's own self-interest and happiness. I will argue, however, that Aristotle is right in this regard – in other words, that being virtuous is in my own self-interest. I will start by providing an overview of the main themes of Nicomachean Ethics, with an emphasis on the connection between virtue and happiness, and then move on to more clearly stating the apparent problem in Aristotle's reasoning, and refuting that objection.
The central argument of Nicomachean Ethics is that the greatest good is happiness, and that each person should therefore pursue happiness as the central goal of their life. Aristotle comes to this conclusion, as well as a broad outline of what happiness is, in the introductory book (Book I). He claims that the greatest good must be the final end toward which everything else strives, and that it must be “always desirable in itself and never for the sake of something else” and must on its own “make life desirable and lacking in nothing” (Book I, Ch. 7). Happiness, Aristotle says, meets these requirements, because “we choose [it] always for itself and never for the sake of something else, but honor, pleasure, reason, and every virtue we choose indeed for themselves . . . [are chosen] also for the sake of happiness.” Happiness is thus the greatest good, the pinnacle of excellence toward which we should all direct our lives and actions.
Aristotle's notion of happiness is, however, considerably different from the modern definition. Indeed, eudaimonia, the Greek word which Aristotle uses that has been translated as 'happiness', seems really to carry a connotation which the word 'happiness' does not. That is, eudaimonia is not a feeling, but a state of being; something which does not change from moment to moment, but rather can be used to describe a person's entire life. Eudaimonia, according to Aristotle, is a broad concept, which encompasses all of the lesser good pursuits of life – including pleasure, honor, friendship, even material wealth – but above all else, virtue.
This idea of virtue being the most vital component of happiness stems from what is known as Aristotle's function argument (Book I, Ch. 7). Aristotle claims that what makes something good can be found by asking what that something is good for; that is, what its function is. For example, the function of an eye is to see, so a good eye is one which sees well, and what is good for an eye is that which helps it to see well, such as glasses. The function of man, Aristotle says, is that capacity which man does not share with anything else. It cannot, therefore, be life, for this “seems to be common even to plants”; or sensory perception, for this “seems to be common even to . . . every animal.” This leaves us, according to Aristotle, with reason, as that which is unique to man. Thus, the function of man is reason; and a good man is one who lives a life full of activities that are in accordance with reason, which Aristotle equates with virtue; so a virtuous man is a good man. Furthermore, being a good person is a central component to leading a good, or happy, life, by Aristotle's definition.
Throughout Book II, Aristotle goes on to describe in detail what virtue is. He starts (Book II, Ch. 1) by splitting virtue into two classes, intellectual virtue and moral virtue. He says that while intellectual virtue can be taught, moral virtue – the more important type in regard to happiness, as it is the type which is concerned with actions and day-to-day life – “comes about as a result of habit.” That is, living virtuously makes one a virtuous person, which then leads to more virtuous actions.
Aristotle moves on to show the difference between virtue and the arts, through which he draws a vital conclusion about virtue (Book II, Ch. 4). He says “the products of the arts have their goodness in themselves”; that is, art can be judged as good or bad simply by looking at it. On the contrary, according to Aristotle, virtue depends not only on the action, but also on the mental state of the one performing the action. “The agent . . . must have knowledge”; that is, he must know that he is doing something virtuous; “he must choose the acts, and choose them for their own sakes”; that is, he must choose to do it because it is virtuous; and “his action must proceed from a firm and unchangeable character”; that is, it is not true virtue if he happens to do something good, but rather doing good things must be part of his character. Aristotle also makes the claim that a virtuous person takes pleasure in doing virtuous things (Book II, Ch. 3).
The most important component of Aristotle's definition of virtue, though, is known as the doctrine of the mean (Book II, Ch. 6-9). The basic concept here is that “virtue must have the quality of aiming at the intermediate” (Book II, Ch. 6); that is, for all passions and actions – such as fear, pleasure, anger, and honor – there can be too much, too little, or just the right amount. For example, it is possible to have too much fear – that is, to be cowardly; but it is also possible to have too little fear – that is, to be reckless. The middle ground here is a healthy, intermediate degree of courage, such that one does not run away from fearsome things, but also does not pursue them. Aristotle goes on to say (Book II, Ch. 8-9) that, while both the excess and the deficiency are inferior to the mean, in most cases one of them is closer to it. For instance, Aristotle says that recklessness is closer to courage than cowardice is.
Ultimately, much of the question of what is virtuous or not virtuous in any given situation is left to the reader to decide; after all, it would be impossible for Aristotle to look at every possible set of circumstances and actions and decide what the virtuous course of action is. Thus, Aristotle leaves us with these basic principles, and tells us to pursue happiness as our primary self-interest, and to do so primarily through performing virtuous acts.
The most profound and reasonable objection that can be raised against the position that it is in my own self-interest to be virtuous , by Aristotle's definition, is that it requires a lot of self-sacrifice. For instance, in his discussion of self-love (Book IX, Ch. 8), Aristotle claims that a good man “does many acts for the sake of his friends and his country, and if necessary dies for them.” For me to sacrifice my life for the sake of someone else would be the ultimate sacrifice; and this seems at odds with my own self-interest, as well as self-love, which Aristotle is promoting when he makes this claim. If I were to do such a thing, I would certainly be seen as noble by most people; but what good does that do me if I'm dead? A selfish person would most likely not be willing to give their life for someone else, precisely because they would see such an act as being in conflict with their self-interest. This conflict, furthermore, is not limited to the sacrifice of life. Indeed, Aristotle goes on to say that a good man will also sacrifice wealth, honor and office to his friends; but someone acting with their own self-interest in mind would not likely do these things, either. This seems, at first glance, to be a fatal flaw in Aristotle's reasoning.
Upon closer examination, however, there are several clear and powerful responses to this objection which, taken together, thoroughly refute it. The first comes from Aristotle's concept of true friendship, as discussed throughout Books VIII and IX. This is relevant because, when Aristotle said sacrifice is often a necessary component of virtue, he was talking about sacrificing for the sake of a friend (or one's country, and by extension all of one's friends). In a true friendship, according to Aristotle, both parties want what is good for each other. Indeed, Aristotle says “those who wish well for their friends for their sake are most truly friends; for they do this by reason of their own nature and not incidentally” (Book VIII, Ch. 3), and “as the virtuous man is to himself, he is to his friend also” (Book IX, Ch. 9). In other words, if I am virtuous and a good friend, what is good for my friend is what I want by nature, and is therefore in my self-interest. In light of this, my act of sacrificing my life for my friend no longer seems entirely contrary to my self-interest.
Another reason sacrifice is in my self-interest is that acting virtuously is pleasant to the virtuous person, as mentioned earlier. This applies even to the extreme case of sacrificing my life for a friend; indeed, as Aristotle says in the very same sentence as he mentions dying for a friend (Book IX, Ch. 8), the good man “would prefer a short period of intense pleasure [brought about by his extremely virtuous act of self-sacrifice] to a long one of mild enjoyment.” In other words, if I am a virtuous person, then my one act of sacrificing my life for my friend will be the happiest moment of my life, and is thus in my own interest. Furthermore, if I shy away from the moral obligation of self-sacrifice, then I will have to live the rest of my life knowing that I did so. That would be a fate worse than death, and would permanently cripple my ability to find happiness in life; and going through with the sacrifice would be the only way to avoid that.
The final, and most profound, rebuttal to the apparent conflict between sacrifice and self-interest lies in the relation to society of my willingness to sacrifice for my friends or country. That is, the more people there are in society who are virtuous, to the point of being willing to sacrifice anything – even their lives – for their friends, the better off society as a whole is. In his discussion of political friendship or unanimity (Book IX, Ch. 6), Aristotle says bad men “aim at getting more than their share of advantages, while in labor and public service they fall short of their share”; and clearly, the fewer of such men there are in society, the better. Conversely, then, what society needs is more people who are willing to be virtuous, even if it leads to them receiving less than they give. Furthermore, what is good for society is also good for me, because a better society would be more just, and would provide me with greater benefits. Therefore, my willingness to sacrifice myself for a friend if necessary is in society's interest, and by extension my own interest.
The argument that, because sacrifice is necessary for virtue, virtue is opposed to happiness and self-interest, certainly does at first glance seem to damage Aristotle's views. However, the closer inspection I have given to the issue has convinced me that his views clearly win over these objections. In my view, Aristotle's notions of virtue and happiness are not at all in conflict. That is, being virtuous is in my own self-interest.
The central argument of Nicomachean Ethics is that the greatest good is happiness, and that each person should therefore pursue happiness as the central goal of their life. Aristotle comes to this conclusion, as well as a broad outline of what happiness is, in the introductory book (Book I). He claims that the greatest good must be the final end toward which everything else strives, and that it must be “always desirable in itself and never for the sake of something else” and must on its own “make life desirable and lacking in nothing” (Book I, Ch. 7). Happiness, Aristotle says, meets these requirements, because “we choose [it] always for itself and never for the sake of something else, but honor, pleasure, reason, and every virtue we choose indeed for themselves . . . [are chosen] also for the sake of happiness.” Happiness is thus the greatest good, the pinnacle of excellence toward which we should all direct our lives and actions.
Aristotle's notion of happiness is, however, considerably different from the modern definition. Indeed, eudaimonia, the Greek word which Aristotle uses that has been translated as 'happiness', seems really to carry a connotation which the word 'happiness' does not. That is, eudaimonia is not a feeling, but a state of being; something which does not change from moment to moment, but rather can be used to describe a person's entire life. Eudaimonia, according to Aristotle, is a broad concept, which encompasses all of the lesser good pursuits of life – including pleasure, honor, friendship, even material wealth – but above all else, virtue.
This idea of virtue being the most vital component of happiness stems from what is known as Aristotle's function argument (Book I, Ch. 7). Aristotle claims that what makes something good can be found by asking what that something is good for; that is, what its function is. For example, the function of an eye is to see, so a good eye is one which sees well, and what is good for an eye is that which helps it to see well, such as glasses. The function of man, Aristotle says, is that capacity which man does not share with anything else. It cannot, therefore, be life, for this “seems to be common even to plants”; or sensory perception, for this “seems to be common even to . . . every animal.” This leaves us, according to Aristotle, with reason, as that which is unique to man. Thus, the function of man is reason; and a good man is one who lives a life full of activities that are in accordance with reason, which Aristotle equates with virtue; so a virtuous man is a good man. Furthermore, being a good person is a central component to leading a good, or happy, life, by Aristotle's definition.
Throughout Book II, Aristotle goes on to describe in detail what virtue is. He starts (Book II, Ch. 1) by splitting virtue into two classes, intellectual virtue and moral virtue. He says that while intellectual virtue can be taught, moral virtue – the more important type in regard to happiness, as it is the type which is concerned with actions and day-to-day life – “comes about as a result of habit.” That is, living virtuously makes one a virtuous person, which then leads to more virtuous actions.
Aristotle moves on to show the difference between virtue and the arts, through which he draws a vital conclusion about virtue (Book II, Ch. 4). He says “the products of the arts have their goodness in themselves”; that is, art can be judged as good or bad simply by looking at it. On the contrary, according to Aristotle, virtue depends not only on the action, but also on the mental state of the one performing the action. “The agent . . . must have knowledge”; that is, he must know that he is doing something virtuous; “he must choose the acts, and choose them for their own sakes”; that is, he must choose to do it because it is virtuous; and “his action must proceed from a firm and unchangeable character”; that is, it is not true virtue if he happens to do something good, but rather doing good things must be part of his character. Aristotle also makes the claim that a virtuous person takes pleasure in doing virtuous things (Book II, Ch. 3).
The most important component of Aristotle's definition of virtue, though, is known as the doctrine of the mean (Book II, Ch. 6-9). The basic concept here is that “virtue must have the quality of aiming at the intermediate” (Book II, Ch. 6); that is, for all passions and actions – such as fear, pleasure, anger, and honor – there can be too much, too little, or just the right amount. For example, it is possible to have too much fear – that is, to be cowardly; but it is also possible to have too little fear – that is, to be reckless. The middle ground here is a healthy, intermediate degree of courage, such that one does not run away from fearsome things, but also does not pursue them. Aristotle goes on to say (Book II, Ch. 8-9) that, while both the excess and the deficiency are inferior to the mean, in most cases one of them is closer to it. For instance, Aristotle says that recklessness is closer to courage than cowardice is.
Ultimately, much of the question of what is virtuous or not virtuous in any given situation is left to the reader to decide; after all, it would be impossible for Aristotle to look at every possible set of circumstances and actions and decide what the virtuous course of action is. Thus, Aristotle leaves us with these basic principles, and tells us to pursue happiness as our primary self-interest, and to do so primarily through performing virtuous acts.
The most profound and reasonable objection that can be raised against the position that it is in my own self-interest to be virtuous , by Aristotle's definition, is that it requires a lot of self-sacrifice. For instance, in his discussion of self-love (Book IX, Ch. 8), Aristotle claims that a good man “does many acts for the sake of his friends and his country, and if necessary dies for them.” For me to sacrifice my life for the sake of someone else would be the ultimate sacrifice; and this seems at odds with my own self-interest, as well as self-love, which Aristotle is promoting when he makes this claim. If I were to do such a thing, I would certainly be seen as noble by most people; but what good does that do me if I'm dead? A selfish person would most likely not be willing to give their life for someone else, precisely because they would see such an act as being in conflict with their self-interest. This conflict, furthermore, is not limited to the sacrifice of life. Indeed, Aristotle goes on to say that a good man will also sacrifice wealth, honor and office to his friends; but someone acting with their own self-interest in mind would not likely do these things, either. This seems, at first glance, to be a fatal flaw in Aristotle's reasoning.
Upon closer examination, however, there are several clear and powerful responses to this objection which, taken together, thoroughly refute it. The first comes from Aristotle's concept of true friendship, as discussed throughout Books VIII and IX. This is relevant because, when Aristotle said sacrifice is often a necessary component of virtue, he was talking about sacrificing for the sake of a friend (or one's country, and by extension all of one's friends). In a true friendship, according to Aristotle, both parties want what is good for each other. Indeed, Aristotle says “those who wish well for their friends for their sake are most truly friends; for they do this by reason of their own nature and not incidentally” (Book VIII, Ch. 3), and “as the virtuous man is to himself, he is to his friend also” (Book IX, Ch. 9). In other words, if I am virtuous and a good friend, what is good for my friend is what I want by nature, and is therefore in my self-interest. In light of this, my act of sacrificing my life for my friend no longer seems entirely contrary to my self-interest.
Another reason sacrifice is in my self-interest is that acting virtuously is pleasant to the virtuous person, as mentioned earlier. This applies even to the extreme case of sacrificing my life for a friend; indeed, as Aristotle says in the very same sentence as he mentions dying for a friend (Book IX, Ch. 8), the good man “would prefer a short period of intense pleasure [brought about by his extremely virtuous act of self-sacrifice] to a long one of mild enjoyment.” In other words, if I am a virtuous person, then my one act of sacrificing my life for my friend will be the happiest moment of my life, and is thus in my own interest. Furthermore, if I shy away from the moral obligation of self-sacrifice, then I will have to live the rest of my life knowing that I did so. That would be a fate worse than death, and would permanently cripple my ability to find happiness in life; and going through with the sacrifice would be the only way to avoid that.
The final, and most profound, rebuttal to the apparent conflict between sacrifice and self-interest lies in the relation to society of my willingness to sacrifice for my friends or country. That is, the more people there are in society who are virtuous, to the point of being willing to sacrifice anything – even their lives – for their friends, the better off society as a whole is. In his discussion of political friendship or unanimity (Book IX, Ch. 6), Aristotle says bad men “aim at getting more than their share of advantages, while in labor and public service they fall short of their share”; and clearly, the fewer of such men there are in society, the better. Conversely, then, what society needs is more people who are willing to be virtuous, even if it leads to them receiving less than they give. Furthermore, what is good for society is also good for me, because a better society would be more just, and would provide me with greater benefits. Therefore, my willingness to sacrifice myself for a friend if necessary is in society's interest, and by extension my own interest.
The argument that, because sacrifice is necessary for virtue, virtue is opposed to happiness and self-interest, certainly does at first glance seem to damage Aristotle's views. However, the closer inspection I have given to the issue has convinced me that his views clearly win over these objections. In my view, Aristotle's notions of virtue and happiness are not at all in conflict. That is, being virtuous is in my own self-interest.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Obituaries (Short Story)
I just realized I never posted the final draft of my Creative Writing short story, "Obituaries". So yeah, here it is.
Maybe I'll get back to writing, now that I'm back in Boulder. Maybe not. Maybe I should stop talking about getting back to writing, because it never seems to happen. Maybe I'm rambling now.
Enjoy.
Obituaries
by Zachary Freier
It was 5:38, 22 minutes to go on an early summer Friday; and there was nothing to do in CRM Life Insurance's Western Colorado office. My fellow cubicle workers and I had wheeled our identical black leather office chairs into an empty spot in the office – a Friday evening tradition – and they were all discussing their spouses. “My wife and I are thinking of going on vacation soon,” one of them said, to which another replied, “Where would you go?” “We haven't decided yet,” the first said, “somewhere nice.”
This all seemed like rather pointless conversation to me, but perhaps that was just because I couldn't relate to it. I was twenty-eight years old, and I was single. I was one of the only people I knew over the age of twenty-five who hadn't yet eloped; and the others were all perpetual bachelors, a role I didn't fit well into. This had haunted me for the past few years. I felt a sense of urgency about it, like I was running out of time. It was the same feeling that made me drop out of college after a year and start working this dead-end job at CRM.
“Wes,” one of my coworkers said, looking at me, “how's your wife doing?” They all laughed. He was referring to my one true love, my mountain bike. About a year before, I had made the mistake of talking about my bike in the office, using the customary female pronouns; and they just couldn't get enough of it.
“She's holding up fine,” I said, playing along. “We're going on vacation, too. This weekend. I'm taking her to Utah.” The only time I ever felt truly happy was when I went mountain biking. None of them understood that, of course, so they just laughed.
* * * *
I shifted down a few gears, and pedaled faster. Every muscle and tendon in my legs burned as I pushed myself and my bike up the steepest incline on the trail. The mountain's summit was up to my right, several thousand feet above the desert floor, at the northern end of a small chain that seemed out of place in its surroundings. The trail I was riding circled it about halfway up. It was rocky in some places, dusty in others. Pine trees stood on both sides along the whole length of the trail. A few times, it crossed small mountain creeks, which were running low as the last of the previous winter's snow melted from the very tip of the mountain, draining down to the Colorado River.
As I sped around a smooth curve to the right, there was a momentary break in the trees on my left, revealing a breathtaking sight. The mountain sloped downward steeply, plunging into the desert floor. A massive valley stretched out from the base of the mountain into the distance. Rock formations littered the floor of the valley, some clinging to the edges, others standing proud in the middle. They looked like sand castles. Just past the valley, I could barely make out the thin muddy sliver of the Colorado River. The clouds above were perfectly white and puffy, and looked so light that even the slightest wind would send them packing; but there was no wind.
Out of the corner of my eye I realized there was a sharp right turn less than ten yards ahead. I was going far too fast to take it. Out of instinct, I squeezed the brakes hard; but the front brake engaged a fraction of a second before the back. On a bike, when this happens at sufficient speed, it can be disastrous. The back wheel vaulted off the ground before its brake engaged to stop it. The whole bike, along with myself, pivoted over the front wheel.
I had no time to curse my bad luck or my stupidity as the path came flying up to meet me. I landed on my chest first, the rest of my body flopping onto the ground a fraction of a second later. I slid about a foot through the dirt before coming to a stop. My mind went completely blank for a few seconds.
When I came to, my breath was knocked out of me; but I wasn't worried about myself. I'd crashed many times before, and I was bound to crash many times in the future. I knew that the only injuries I'd have would be cuts, scrapes, and bruises. What worried me was that, when I managed to lift my head off the ground and look around, my bike was nowhere to be seen. She must have gone off the edge ahead. Rolling onto my side and gasping for air, I imagined her catapulting over my body, tumbling off the edge, propelled by gravity haphazardly down the hill, and glancing off of several broad pine trunks before finally hitting one square on, stopping her dead and doing God knows how much damage. This thought hurt more than my own landing. She had cost me almost two thousand dollars, and I loved her.
After a minute or two, I managed to catch my breath. I forced myself to my feet, brushing the dirt off of myself and coughing from all the dust in the air. My whole body hurt from the impact, but I could move fine, so I knew I hadn't broken anything. My forearms were covered in scrapes – the sort that sting like hell, but don't look too bad for a few minutes, before suddenly starting to bleed. I walked to where the trail veered off to the left, and my fears were confirmed. The hill before me was even steeper than I had imagined it would be, and the pines were thinner here than elsewhere on the mountain. My bike had tumbled about fifty yards down the hill before one of the trees had stopped her.
I descended the incline sideways, slowly, careful not to lose my footing. As I neared my bike's resting place, it became quite clear that I would not be riding her again any time soon. The front wheel was impaled on a short, dead branch protruding from the trunk of the tree near the base, two of the spokes snapped and a few others bent out of the way, the hub structure totaled. At some point in her descent, the front brake and gear shifter had slammed into something; the shifter was gone, the brake bent upward, and both the cables detached. One of the pedals was missing. I would have to carry my bike several miles to where I'd left my car, and drive her into Moab for surgery, which would be expensive.
I couldn't bear looking at her anymore, so I turned away and looked further down the hill. Something metallic next to a nearby tree caught my eye, and I made my way toward it. When I realized it was another bike, my first instinct was to laugh; some other poor bastard had done the same thing I did! Then, as I got closer, I saw something move underneath the bike, and I smelled...blood? My heart skipped a beat in fear, then began pounding at twice its normal rate. Yes, I thought, that smell blended in with the smells of the forest could be nothing other than blood.
I stepped slowly closer to the bike, and the man beneath it coughed. He sat with his back against a tree trunk, his mangled bike pinning him to it. This was probably how he landed from his fall down the hill. He looked up at me as I approached, and he seemed relieved. The first thing he said to me, between shallow, difficult breaths, was, “Oh, thank God . . . I heard something crash . . . I thought someone else . . . fell down the hill . . . Are you okay?”
I couldn't believe my ears. This man was likely in more pain than I'd ever been in my life, and he was worried about my well-being? “I'm fine,” I said, kneeling beside him, my legs trembling. “How bad is it?”
“Bad,” he coughed. “Can you get . . . this bike off me?” His breath rattled inside him. I slowly lifted the bike away from his body, laying it aside. He was a mess. One of his arms was broken, snapped halfway down the forearm at an unreal angle. Both of his ankles were shattered, his feet dangling lifelessly to the sides. The thing I was worried about, though, was his chest. Even through his bloody t-shirt it was obvious he had several broken ribs. At least one had broken the skin, I guessed from the blood that soaked his shirt and a few inches of the forest floor around him. I figured from his breathing that one of his other ribs had punctured one of his lungs. “See?” he said, “Bad.” He coughed again, and blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.
“How long have you been here like this?” I asked, barely able to believe what I was seeing.
“Oh . . . a few hours.”
“Good lord, we have to get you to a hospital!”
“I can't walk . . . and no offense . . . I don't think . . . you're strong enough to carry me.” He took a deep, rattling breath and laughed. He was right, of course. He was probably a few inches above six feet tall, and weighed at least two hundred pounds.
“Then I have to go get help.” I stood up.
“No . . . don't leave . . . there's not enough time . . . I don't want to . . . die alone.”
I knelt beside him again. “You're not going to die,” I said, though I wasn't sure I believed that myself. The amount of time he'd been there, how much blood he'd lost, and the fact that he had internal bleeding were all very bad signs. He probably only had one working lung, the other was probably filling with blood, and who knows what other organs might have been damaged as well. Still, I had to be as optimistic as possible. I had to do something. “At least let me go make a sign on the trail or something, so if someone else comes through they can help me get you off this mountain.”
He smiled weakly. “If it'll make you feel better . . . go ahead.”
“I'll be right back,” I assured him, and began making my way uphill.
“I promise . . . I won't go anywhere,” he said.
When I reached the top of the hill, I gathered rocks and sticks from the sides of the trail and piled them in the middle of the path. The path was clear otherwise at this point, so no one coming through could miss it. I swung my backpack off, pulled out a tattered black spiral notebook I used as my journal, and tore a page out of the back. With the pen I kept tucked in the spiral of the notebook, I wrote in large letters on the top of the page “PLEASE HELP”. Below that, in smaller letters, I wrote, “A man is seriously injured down the hill ahead. I need help getting him off of the mountain.” My hand shook as I wrote, and I feared it might not be legible; so I drew a large arrow pointing up the page, and set the page atop my makeshift roadblock so the arrow pointed toward the spot. I anchored it in place with a rock, and rushed back down to where the man was lying.
“See . . .” he said as I sat down on the ground beside him, “I didn't . . . go anywhere . . . I promised you I wouldn't.” He laughed. “What's your name?”
“Wes,” I said, relieved that he was still alive, “yours?”
“John . . . Nice to meet you, Wes.”
“Do you have family?” I asked.
“A wife . . . and a daughter.” He coughed, and spit a chunk of clotted blood onto the ground beside him.
“Then we've got to get you back to them,” I said. “Stay strong, for them.”
His breath started getting faster, and I knew he wouldn't last much longer. He reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me closer to him. “I have to tell someone . . . I didn't marry my wife . . . because I loved her . . . I married her . . . because I figured . . . she was the best I could do . . . and I had to marry sometime . . . I've . . . never been in love, actually.” His eyes filled with tears for the first time, and I could tell that this fact was more painful than all the bodily damage his fall had done to him. “Now . . . I never will be.”
I, of course, knew exactly what he meant by feeling the need 'to marry sometime'. It was easy for me to imagine myself in a few years, married without being in love. “You don't know that,” I said, trying to comfort him. “We're gonna get you out of here. You have the rest of your life ahead of you to find what you're looking for.”
He shook his head slowly. “Wes, are you married?”
“No. Why?”
His breaths were getting shallower, and the rattling was getting louder. “Don't make the . . . mistake I made . . . Don't . . . let the world . . . tell you what . . . you have to do . . . like I did.” He closed his eyes slowly, and they did not open again.
My job existed solely because people die, but I'd never seen it happen. It shook me to the core, and I couldn't help but cry.
* * * *
As I left the hotel, I picked up a 50-cent copy of the Moab Times-Independent from a newspaper dispenser, wondering if there was a story about what had happened. I searched the whole paper, and found nothing until I got to the bottom of the second to last page. His was the only one that day; but it was still labeled with the plural, Obituaries:
Jonathan Richard Thompson, 41, died Saturday in a mountain biking accident in the La Sal Mountains. Jonathan was a lifelong resident of Moab, and an avid outdoorsman. He is survived by two siblings, his wife, and his 8-year-old daughter.
Three sentences. That's all they gave him. The injustice made my stomach turn. Is that all a life is worth?
* * * *
The next Monday, I quit my job, and applied to go back to college. My boss begged me to stay, and offered a fifty cent raise. I told him to give it to someone else instead. My co-workers didn't understand my decision, either. Too much time in a place like that does that to people, I guess.
I could never bring myself to go back to that trail in the La Sals. Sure, it would be profound; and I could spend hours reminiscing on John, and how much he meant to me. But I was afraid of that place, and I didn't need to go there to remember. His last words were imprinted in my brain, and every time life got hard, I'd remember them. Then I'd shift down a few gears, and pedal faster.
Maybe I'll get back to writing, now that I'm back in Boulder. Maybe not. Maybe I should stop talking about getting back to writing, because it never seems to happen. Maybe I'm rambling now.
Enjoy.
by Zachary Freier
It was 5:38, 22 minutes to go on an early summer Friday; and there was nothing to do in CRM Life Insurance's Western Colorado office. My fellow cubicle workers and I had wheeled our identical black leather office chairs into an empty spot in the office – a Friday evening tradition – and they were all discussing their spouses. “My wife and I are thinking of going on vacation soon,” one of them said, to which another replied, “Where would you go?” “We haven't decided yet,” the first said, “somewhere nice.”
This all seemed like rather pointless conversation to me, but perhaps that was just because I couldn't relate to it. I was twenty-eight years old, and I was single. I was one of the only people I knew over the age of twenty-five who hadn't yet eloped; and the others were all perpetual bachelors, a role I didn't fit well into. This had haunted me for the past few years. I felt a sense of urgency about it, like I was running out of time. It was the same feeling that made me drop out of college after a year and start working this dead-end job at CRM.
“Wes,” one of my coworkers said, looking at me, “how's your wife doing?” They all laughed. He was referring to my one true love, my mountain bike. About a year before, I had made the mistake of talking about my bike in the office, using the customary female pronouns; and they just couldn't get enough of it.
“She's holding up fine,” I said, playing along. “We're going on vacation, too. This weekend. I'm taking her to Utah.” The only time I ever felt truly happy was when I went mountain biking. None of them understood that, of course, so they just laughed.
I shifted down a few gears, and pedaled faster. Every muscle and tendon in my legs burned as I pushed myself and my bike up the steepest incline on the trail. The mountain's summit was up to my right, several thousand feet above the desert floor, at the northern end of a small chain that seemed out of place in its surroundings. The trail I was riding circled it about halfway up. It was rocky in some places, dusty in others. Pine trees stood on both sides along the whole length of the trail. A few times, it crossed small mountain creeks, which were running low as the last of the previous winter's snow melted from the very tip of the mountain, draining down to the Colorado River.
As I sped around a smooth curve to the right, there was a momentary break in the trees on my left, revealing a breathtaking sight. The mountain sloped downward steeply, plunging into the desert floor. A massive valley stretched out from the base of the mountain into the distance. Rock formations littered the floor of the valley, some clinging to the edges, others standing proud in the middle. They looked like sand castles. Just past the valley, I could barely make out the thin muddy sliver of the Colorado River. The clouds above were perfectly white and puffy, and looked so light that even the slightest wind would send them packing; but there was no wind.
Out of the corner of my eye I realized there was a sharp right turn less than ten yards ahead. I was going far too fast to take it. Out of instinct, I squeezed the brakes hard; but the front brake engaged a fraction of a second before the back. On a bike, when this happens at sufficient speed, it can be disastrous. The back wheel vaulted off the ground before its brake engaged to stop it. The whole bike, along with myself, pivoted over the front wheel.
I had no time to curse my bad luck or my stupidity as the path came flying up to meet me. I landed on my chest first, the rest of my body flopping onto the ground a fraction of a second later. I slid about a foot through the dirt before coming to a stop. My mind went completely blank for a few seconds.
When I came to, my breath was knocked out of me; but I wasn't worried about myself. I'd crashed many times before, and I was bound to crash many times in the future. I knew that the only injuries I'd have would be cuts, scrapes, and bruises. What worried me was that, when I managed to lift my head off the ground and look around, my bike was nowhere to be seen. She must have gone off the edge ahead. Rolling onto my side and gasping for air, I imagined her catapulting over my body, tumbling off the edge, propelled by gravity haphazardly down the hill, and glancing off of several broad pine trunks before finally hitting one square on, stopping her dead and doing God knows how much damage. This thought hurt more than my own landing. She had cost me almost two thousand dollars, and I loved her.
After a minute or two, I managed to catch my breath. I forced myself to my feet, brushing the dirt off of myself and coughing from all the dust in the air. My whole body hurt from the impact, but I could move fine, so I knew I hadn't broken anything. My forearms were covered in scrapes – the sort that sting like hell, but don't look too bad for a few minutes, before suddenly starting to bleed. I walked to where the trail veered off to the left, and my fears were confirmed. The hill before me was even steeper than I had imagined it would be, and the pines were thinner here than elsewhere on the mountain. My bike had tumbled about fifty yards down the hill before one of the trees had stopped her.
I descended the incline sideways, slowly, careful not to lose my footing. As I neared my bike's resting place, it became quite clear that I would not be riding her again any time soon. The front wheel was impaled on a short, dead branch protruding from the trunk of the tree near the base, two of the spokes snapped and a few others bent out of the way, the hub structure totaled. At some point in her descent, the front brake and gear shifter had slammed into something; the shifter was gone, the brake bent upward, and both the cables detached. One of the pedals was missing. I would have to carry my bike several miles to where I'd left my car, and drive her into Moab for surgery, which would be expensive.
I couldn't bear looking at her anymore, so I turned away and looked further down the hill. Something metallic next to a nearby tree caught my eye, and I made my way toward it. When I realized it was another bike, my first instinct was to laugh; some other poor bastard had done the same thing I did! Then, as I got closer, I saw something move underneath the bike, and I smelled...blood? My heart skipped a beat in fear, then began pounding at twice its normal rate. Yes, I thought, that smell blended in with the smells of the forest could be nothing other than blood.
I stepped slowly closer to the bike, and the man beneath it coughed. He sat with his back against a tree trunk, his mangled bike pinning him to it. This was probably how he landed from his fall down the hill. He looked up at me as I approached, and he seemed relieved. The first thing he said to me, between shallow, difficult breaths, was, “Oh, thank God . . . I heard something crash . . . I thought someone else . . . fell down the hill . . . Are you okay?”
I couldn't believe my ears. This man was likely in more pain than I'd ever been in my life, and he was worried about my well-being? “I'm fine,” I said, kneeling beside him, my legs trembling. “How bad is it?”
“Bad,” he coughed. “Can you get . . . this bike off me?” His breath rattled inside him. I slowly lifted the bike away from his body, laying it aside. He was a mess. One of his arms was broken, snapped halfway down the forearm at an unreal angle. Both of his ankles were shattered, his feet dangling lifelessly to the sides. The thing I was worried about, though, was his chest. Even through his bloody t-shirt it was obvious he had several broken ribs. At least one had broken the skin, I guessed from the blood that soaked his shirt and a few inches of the forest floor around him. I figured from his breathing that one of his other ribs had punctured one of his lungs. “See?” he said, “Bad.” He coughed again, and blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.
“How long have you been here like this?” I asked, barely able to believe what I was seeing.
“Oh . . . a few hours.”
“Good lord, we have to get you to a hospital!”
“I can't walk . . . and no offense . . . I don't think . . . you're strong enough to carry me.” He took a deep, rattling breath and laughed. He was right, of course. He was probably a few inches above six feet tall, and weighed at least two hundred pounds.
“Then I have to go get help.” I stood up.
“No . . . don't leave . . . there's not enough time . . . I don't want to . . . die alone.”
I knelt beside him again. “You're not going to die,” I said, though I wasn't sure I believed that myself. The amount of time he'd been there, how much blood he'd lost, and the fact that he had internal bleeding were all very bad signs. He probably only had one working lung, the other was probably filling with blood, and who knows what other organs might have been damaged as well. Still, I had to be as optimistic as possible. I had to do something. “At least let me go make a sign on the trail or something, so if someone else comes through they can help me get you off this mountain.”
He smiled weakly. “If it'll make you feel better . . . go ahead.”
“I'll be right back,” I assured him, and began making my way uphill.
“I promise . . . I won't go anywhere,” he said.
When I reached the top of the hill, I gathered rocks and sticks from the sides of the trail and piled them in the middle of the path. The path was clear otherwise at this point, so no one coming through could miss it. I swung my backpack off, pulled out a tattered black spiral notebook I used as my journal, and tore a page out of the back. With the pen I kept tucked in the spiral of the notebook, I wrote in large letters on the top of the page “PLEASE HELP”. Below that, in smaller letters, I wrote, “A man is seriously injured down the hill ahead. I need help getting him off of the mountain.” My hand shook as I wrote, and I feared it might not be legible; so I drew a large arrow pointing up the page, and set the page atop my makeshift roadblock so the arrow pointed toward the spot. I anchored it in place with a rock, and rushed back down to where the man was lying.
“See . . .” he said as I sat down on the ground beside him, “I didn't . . . go anywhere . . . I promised you I wouldn't.” He laughed. “What's your name?”
“Wes,” I said, relieved that he was still alive, “yours?”
“John . . . Nice to meet you, Wes.”
“Do you have family?” I asked.
“A wife . . . and a daughter.” He coughed, and spit a chunk of clotted blood onto the ground beside him.
“Then we've got to get you back to them,” I said. “Stay strong, for them.”
His breath started getting faster, and I knew he wouldn't last much longer. He reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me closer to him. “I have to tell someone . . . I didn't marry my wife . . . because I loved her . . . I married her . . . because I figured . . . she was the best I could do . . . and I had to marry sometime . . . I've . . . never been in love, actually.” His eyes filled with tears for the first time, and I could tell that this fact was more painful than all the bodily damage his fall had done to him. “Now . . . I never will be.”
I, of course, knew exactly what he meant by feeling the need 'to marry sometime'. It was easy for me to imagine myself in a few years, married without being in love. “You don't know that,” I said, trying to comfort him. “We're gonna get you out of here. You have the rest of your life ahead of you to find what you're looking for.”
He shook his head slowly. “Wes, are you married?”
“No. Why?”
His breaths were getting shallower, and the rattling was getting louder. “Don't make the . . . mistake I made . . . Don't . . . let the world . . . tell you what . . . you have to do . . . like I did.” He closed his eyes slowly, and they did not open again.
My job existed solely because people die, but I'd never seen it happen. It shook me to the core, and I couldn't help but cry.
As I left the hotel, I picked up a 50-cent copy of the Moab Times-Independent from a newspaper dispenser, wondering if there was a story about what had happened. I searched the whole paper, and found nothing until I got to the bottom of the second to last page. His was the only one that day; but it was still labeled with the plural, Obituaries:
Jonathan Richard Thompson, 41, died Saturday in a mountain biking accident in the La Sal Mountains. Jonathan was a lifelong resident of Moab, and an avid outdoorsman. He is survived by two siblings, his wife, and his 8-year-old daughter.
Three sentences. That's all they gave him. The injustice made my stomach turn. Is that all a life is worth?
The next Monday, I quit my job, and applied to go back to college. My boss begged me to stay, and offered a fifty cent raise. I told him to give it to someone else instead. My co-workers didn't understand my decision, either. Too much time in a place like that does that to people, I guess.
I could never bring myself to go back to that trail in the La Sals. Sure, it would be profound; and I could spend hours reminiscing on John, and how much he meant to me. But I was afraid of that place, and I didn't need to go there to remember. His last words were imprinted in my brain, and every time life got hard, I'd remember them. Then I'd shift down a few gears, and pedal faster.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Creative Writing poems
Blogger is failing pretty miserably at rendering these, so I'll just direct you to my MySpace blog.
clicky clicky
clicky clicky
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Creative Writing Assignment #3: Short Story (Rough Draft)
Obituaries
It was 5:38, 22 minutes to go on an early summer Friday, and there was nothing to do in CRM Life Insurance's Western Colorado office. My fellow cubicle workers and I had wheeled our identical black leather office chairs into an empty spot in the office, a Friday evening tradition, and they were all discussing their spouses. “My wife and I are thinking of going on vacation soon,” one of them said, to which another replied, “Where would you go?” “We haven't decided yet,” the first said, “somewhere nice.”
This all seemed like rather pointless conversation to me, but perhaps that was just because I couldn't relate to it. I was twenty-eight years old, and I was not married. I was one of the only people I knew over the age of twenty-five who hadn't yet eloped, and the others were all perpetual bachelors, a role I didn't fit well into. This fact had haunted me for the past few years. I felt a sense of urgency about it, like I was running out of time. It was the same feeling that made me drop out of college after a year and start working at CRM.
“Wes,” one of my coworkers said, looking at me, “how's your wife doing?” They all laughed. He was referring to my one true love, my mountain bike. About a year before, I had made the mistake of talking about my bike in the office, using the customary female pronouns, and they just couldn't get enough of it.
“She's holding up fine,” I said, playing along. “We're going on vacation, too. This weekend. I'm taking her to Utah.” The only time I ever felt truly happy was when I went mountain biking. None of them understood that, of course, so they just laughed.
* * * *
I shifted down a few gears, and pedaled faster. Every muscle and tendon in my legs burned as I pushed myself and my bike up the steepest incline on the trail. The mountain's summit stood several thousand feet above the desert floor, at the northern end of a small chain that seemed out of place in its surroundings. The trail I was riding circled it about halfway up. It was rocky in some places, dusty in others, and pine trees stood on both sides along the whole length of the trail. A few times, it crossed small mountain creeks, which were running low as the last of the snow melted from the very tip of the mountain, draining down to the Colorado River.
As I sped around a smooth curve to the right, there was a momentary break in the trees on my left, revealing a breathtaking sight. The mountain sloped downward steeply, plunging into the desert floor. A massive valley stretched out from the base of the mountain into the distance. Rock formations littered the floor of the valley, some clinging to the edges, others standing proud in the middle. They looked like sand castles. Just past the valley, I could barely make out the thin muddy sliver of the Colorado River. The clouds above were perfectly white and puffy, and looked so light that even the slightest wind would send them packing, but there was no wind.
Out of the corner of my eye I realized there was a sharp left turn less than ten yards ahead. I was going far too fast to take it. Out of instinct, I squeezed the brakes hard, but the front brake engaged a fraction of a second before the back. On a bike, when this happens at sufficient speed, it can be disastrous. The back wheel vaulted off the ground before its brake engaged to stop it, and the whole bike, along with myself, pivoted over the front wheel.
I had no time to curse my bad luck or my stupidity as the path came flying up to meet me. I landed on my chest first, the rest of my body flopping onto the ground a fraction of a second later. I slid about a foot through the dirt before coming to a stop. My mind went completely blank for a few seconds.
When I came to, my breath was knocked out of me, but I wasn't worried about myself. I'd crashed many times before, and I was bound to crash many times in the future. I knew that the only injuries I'd have would be cuts, scrapes, and bruises. What worried me was that, when I managed to lift my head off the ground and look around, my bike was nowhere to be seen. She must have gone off the edge ahead. Rolling onto my side and gasping for air, I imagined her catapulting over my body, tumbling off the edge, propelled by gravity haphazardly down the hill, and glancing off of several broad pine trunks before finally hitting one square on, stopping her dead and doing God knows how much damage. This thought hurt more than my own landing. She had cost me almost two thousand dollars, and I loved her.
I finally managed to catch my breath, and I forced myself to my feet, brushing the dirt off of myself and coughing from all the dust in the air. My whole body hurt from the impact, but I could move fine, so I knew I hadn't broken anything. My forearms, though, were covered in scrapes – the sort that sting like hell, but don't look too bad for a few minutes, before suddenly starting to bleed. I walked to where the trail veered off to the left, and my fears were confirmed. The hill before me was even steeper than I had imagined it would be, and the pines were thinner here than elsewhere on the mountain, so my bike had tumbled about fifty yards down the hill before one of the trees had stopped her.
I descended the incline sideways, slowly, careful not to lose my footing. As I neared my bike's resting place, it became quite clear that I would not be riding her again any time soon. The front wheel was impaled on a short, dead branch protruding from the trunk of the tree near the base, two of the spokes snapped and a few others bent out of the way, the hub structure totaled. At some point in her descent, the front brake and gear shifter had slammed into something; the shifter was gone, the brake was bent upward, and both the cables were detached. One of the pedals was missing. I would have to carry my bike several miles to where I'd left my car, and drive her into Moab for surgery, which would be expensive.
I couldn't bear looking at her anymore, so I turned away and looked further down the hill. Something metallic next to a nearby tree caught my eye, and I made my way toward it. When I realized it was another bike, my first instinct was to laugh; some other poor bastard had done the same thing I did! Then, as I got closer, I noticed something laying underneath the bike, and I smelled...blood. My heart skipped a beat in fear, then began pounding at twice its normal rate. Yes, I thought, that smell blended in with the smells of the forest could be nothing other than blood.
I stepped slowly closer to the bike, and the man beneath it coughed. He sat with his back against a tree trunk, his mangled bike pinning him to it. This was probably how he landed from his fall down the hill. He looked up at me as I approached, and he seemed relieved. The first thing he said to me, between shallow, difficult breaths, was, “Oh, thank God . . . I heard something crash . . . I thought someone else . . . fell down the hill . . . Are you okay?”
I couldn't believe my ears. This man was likely in more pain than I'd ever been in my life, and he was worried about my well-being? “I'm fine,” I said, kneeling beside him, my legs trembling. “How bad is it?”
“Bad,” he coughed. “Can you get . . . this bike off me?” His breath rattled inside him. I slowly lifted the bike away from his body, laying it aside. He was a mess. One of his arms was broken, snapped halfway down the forearm at an unreal angle. Both of his ankles were shattered, his feet dangling lifelessly to the sides. The thing I was worried about, though, was his chest. Even through his bloody t-shirt it was obvious he had several broken ribs. At least one had broken the skin, I guessed from the blood that soaked his shirt and a few inches of ground in every direction around him. I figured from his breathing that one of his other ribs had punctured one of his lungs. “See?” he said, “Bad.” He coughed again, and blood dribbled out of the corners of his mouth.
“How long have you been here like this?” I asked, barely able to believe what I was seeing.
“Oh . . . a few hours.”
“Good lord, we have to get you to a hospital!”
“I can't walk . . . and no offense . . . I don't think . . . you're strong enough to carry me.” He took a deep, rattling breath and laughed. He was right, of course. He was probably a few inches above six feet tall, and weighed at least two hundred pounds.
“Then I have to go get help.” I stood up.
“No . . . don't leave . . . there's not enough time . . . I don't want to . . . die alone.”
I knelt beside him again. “You're not going to die,” I said, though I wasn't sure I believed that myself. The amount of time he'd been there, how much blood he'd lost, and the fact that he had internal bleeding were all very bad signs. He probably only had one working lung, the other was probably filling with blood, and who knows what other organs might have been damaged as well. Still, I had to be as optimistic as possible, and I had to do something. “At least let me go make a sign on the trail or something, so if someone else comes through they can help me get you off this mountain.”
He smiled weakly. “If it'll make you feel better . . . go ahead.”
“I'll be right back,” I assured him, and began making my way uphill.
“I promise . . . I won't go anywhere,” he said.
When I reached the top of the hill, I gathered rocks and sticks from the sides of the trail and piled them in the middle of the path. The path was clear otherwise at this point, so no one coming through could miss it. I swung my backpack off, pulled out a tattered black spiral notebook I used as my journal, and tore a page out of the back. With the pen I kept tucked in the spiral of the notebook, I wrote in large letters on the top of the page “PLEASE HELP”. Below that, in smaller letters, I wrote, “A man is seriously injured down the hill ahead. I need help getting him off of the mountain.” My hand shook as I wrote, and I feared it might not be legible; so I drew a large arrow pointing up the page, and set the page atop my makeshift roadblock so the arrow pointed toward the spot. I anchored it in place with a rock, and rushed back down to where the man was lying.
“See . . .” he said as I sat down on the ground beside him, “I didn't . . . go anywhere . . . I promised you I wouldn't.” He laughed. “What's your name?”
“Wes,” I said, relieved that he was still alive, “yours?”
“John . . . Nice to meet you, Wes.”
“Do you have family?” I asked.
“A wife . . . and a daughter.” He coughed, and spit a chunk of clotted blood onto the ground beside him. “I have to tell someone . . . I didn't marry my wife . . . because I loved her . . . I married her . . . because I figured . . . she was the best I could do . . . and I had to marry sometime . . . I've . . . never been in love, actually.” His eyes filled with tears for the first time, and I could tell that this fact was more painful than all the bodily damage his fall had done to him. “Now . . . I never will be.”
I, of course, knew exactly what he meant by feeling the need “to marry sometime”. It was easy for me to imagine myself in a few years, married without being in love. “You don't know that,” I said, trying to comfort him. “We're gonna get you out of here. You have the rest of your life ahead of you to find what you're looking for.”
He shook his head slowly. “Wes, are you married?”
“No. Why?”
His breaths were getting shallower, and the rattling was getting louder. “I don't want this to . . . sound cliché . . . but it's important . . . Don't get married . . . unless you're in love . . . Don't . . . let the world . . . tell you what . . . you have to do . . . like I did.” He closed his eyes slowly, and they did not open again.
My job existed solely because people die, but I'd never seen it happen. It shook me to the core, and I couldn't help but cry.
* * * *
As I left the hotel, I picked up a 50-cent copy of the Moab Times-Independent from a newspaper dispenser, wondering if there was a story about what had happened. I searched the whole paper, and found nothing until I got to the bottom of the second to last page. His was the only one that day, but it was still labeled with the plural, Obituaries:
Jonathan Richard Thompson, 41, died Saturday in a mountain biking accident in the La Sal Mountains. Jonathan was a lifelong resident of Moab, and an avid outdoorsman. He is survived by two siblings, his wife, and his 8-year-old daughter.
Three sentences. That's all they gave him. The injustice made my stomach turn. But I knew that, even if he didn't mean much to the world, he meant the world to me, and his real obituary would be the effect he had on me. My whole outlook on life had changed literally overnight. I knew I couldn't rush into marriage, or forget any of my dreams. I would quit my job, and go back to college. My life, from now on, would be my own, not society's. I would not give up.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Creative Writing Assignment #2: Dialogue
Runaway Train
Justin sits at his desk, staring distastefully at his Calculus homework. Jason is on a couch on the other side of the room, strumming absent-mindedly on an acoustic guitar. He stops playing for a moment and looks at Justin.
Jason: Why do you even bother with that bullshit class?
Justin, looking up, startled: How long have you been there?
Jason, playing a simple chord progression: A few minutes. Didn't you hear the guitar?
Justin: No, I'm too busy with my homework.
Jason: I asked you a question. Why do you bother with that bullshit class?
Justin: Calculus isn't a bullshit class.
Jason, messing up a chord and cursing under his breath: It isn't?
Justin: I have to take it. For my major.
Jason, starting into “Runaway Train” on his guitar: Ah, yes. Your major. Molecular, Cellular, and Developmental Biology. By the way, I've always wanted to ask, did you pick that 'cause it has a cool name, or do you actually like it?
Justin: I...I'm not sure. I've always been good at science, and MCDB is a good pre-med major, and...
Jason, interrupting him: Serial killers are good at killing people. Does that mean they should do it? On second thought, bad example. They usually enjoy it. But you get the idea, I'm sure.
Justin: Yeah, I get it.
Jason: So, do you really wanna be a doctor, or does it just sound like a good idea 'cause you think you'd be good at it?
Justin: I dunno, I don't think about things like this a whole lot. I'm sort of just going wherever life leads me, you know?
Jason, playing a bit louder and raising his voice over the sound of the guitar: Bullshit. You chose this path with no good reason, and you're sticking to it for no good reason. That's not following the whims of fate and chance, my friend.
Justin: Oh, you're probably right, like usual, but would you get off my back about this?
Jason, sighing: You do whatever you want, buddy. I guess it's not my place to complain.
Justin: So why do you always complain?
Jason: I just hate to see you ruining your life, is all.
Justin, closing his eyes and shaking his head: I'm not ruining my life!
Justin opens his eyes, and Jason is nowhere to be seen.
Justin, looking around the empty room and shaking his head: I have got to get a nicer hallucination.
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