The Lawn

I live in a sunny place with well kept lawns and friendly dogs, at least that’s how you would describe my town if you were writing a book. My name is Joseph, after Chief Joseph. I don’t really know who Chief Joseph was, except that he was an Indian. I looked it up once, back in high school, the year I was trying to be Indian. Right now I’m sitting on the lawn of my parents house. The grass might look soft but if you sat on it for a few hours you would know it’s actually prickly and not a great place to spend an afternoon doing nothing. The worst part isn’t the grass. It’s uncomfortable but you get used to that after a while. The worst part is the view. You can look at either grass, asphalt or the house across the way. I chose asphalt for most of the time. When I was little I had trouble falling asleep. I would stare at the ceiling. It was one of those rough bumpy ceilings. I always wondered why they made ceilings that way, instead of just smooth like any other wall. One summer when I was an intern at some library I stayed with this lady. She told me it was called a “popcorn-ceiling” and they used to do it conceal poor workmanship, but they stopped doing it as much. I helped her remove the “popcorn-ceiling” at her place because she thought it was ugly. You spray it with a bit of water and it all comes down in one great big mess. Staring at the asphalt reminded me of staring at the ceiling when I was little. I traced out imaginary patterns in the texture to keep my mind busy. It works for while but then it gets boring. Right now, I’m bored, and starting to get a little cold. The sun started going down about 10 minutes ago. I’d go inside but I don’t have a key. Do most grown children have keys to their parents’ house? I suppose I must have given mine back at some point, maybe when I went away to college. No wait, I never had a key to this house, they moved here after I had already moved out. I forget that sometimes. When they get here I should ask them for one, in case of emergency or something. Today isn’t an emergency. I’m not really sure what it is. This past week has been kinda weird. Some weeks are just like that. Now that I think about it, I feel like I’ve been saying that about almost every week “You know, it’s just been one of those weeks”. They always seem to know, or at least they pretend they do which is good enough for me. Sometimes I’m afraid that when I talk no one will understand me. That even though I think I am speaking coherently it’s actually all gibberish. I imagine everyone looking at me quizzically and thinking I’m some sort of crazy. Mostly I don’t think about it too much and so far every time I’ve tried to talk it’s all come out just fine. But still, if someone doesn’t hear me or understand me right of way I sorta freeze and almost panic. I guess that’s what this week has been like: almost panic. I like that phrase “almost panic”. And I like having that phrase. Coming up with a succinct encapsulating term is a very satisfying way to end the week. I can get up and go inside now. Except I can’t because I still don’t have a key. I sorta forgot about that. If this were a TV show my parents would come home right now, we’d exchange some heartfelt words and walk in together. Perfect ending for an episode. I wonder if it’s this cold on TV sets. My mother is going to scold me for not wearing a jacket. She’s right, except that when I left it wasn’t cold. But then again, I knew they wouldn’t be home till late. Well I sort of knew. They’re actually out looking for me. A teenager would call that ironic. I don’t want to think about what my mother will call it. I don’t really want to think about any of it anymore which is why I’m trying to trace patterns in the asphalt except it’s dark so you can’t really see the asphalt anymore. If this were a story I would be able to see the stars, I’d probably even know a constellation or two, maybe one my dad taught me when I was a kid. You can see a few stars, but no more than ten. I’m pretty sure there are supposed to be more than ten stars. I can’t think of any reason why it would matter how many stars you can see. Except for my Jewish friend. He needs three stars to start his holidays. He’s my best friend. His name is also Joseph, but not for the same reason. I always thought coincidence like that only occurred in books. Now I’m staring up at one of the few bright stars. It might be the north star, I really have no idea. Except, in a few seconds it’ll be covered up by a cloud. All day nothing but a simple blue cloud and now that I’m looking up there’s a measly cloud covering the one patch of sky I want to stare mindlessly at. I’ve always wanted to lay on my back and imagine clever shapes in the clouds. I don’t think I ever have though. Either there are no clouds or there’s just a blanket of clouds or sometimes just lame wisps – never those nice cotton ball clouds that turn into giant killer rabbits in your mind like there are supposed to be. I can’t see that star anymore so I’m looking for the moon but I guess it’s a new moon today or something. I must look like a freak sitting on a dark lawn craning my neck around like I’m possessed or have some sort of tick. The neighbors are probably thinking about calling the cops. Maybe they’re constructing some grand fanciful tale about me, about how I escaped from a mental institute and am now preforming a sacred pagan ritual. They won’t call the cops though. They’ll just shake their heads and get bored of gawking at me from behind carefully drawn curtains and go back to watching TV. I’m not sure how I would explain my presence if the cops do come. I’d want to make up a cool story, but I’d probably just stammer and try – and mostly fail – to explain that I don’t have a key and my phone and wallet are in my jacket which I didn’t grab on my way out and I walked here and I’m waiting for my parents who are most likely out looking for me which isn’t ironic but just stupid. On second thought, it’s probably better no one calls the cops.

The thing is though, I don’t really have an exit strategy for getting off this lawn except being dragged off, figuratively, by my parents. In a little bit I’ll have to say “O look, here they come”. I can hear myself saying it and I sound stupid. Even though I’ve been waiting here, waiting for my parents here, for hours I suddenly don’t want to be waiting for them. I don’t want to just stand up when they pull into the driveway “Hey Dad,” and saunter inside. I could tell them “I’ll be inside in a sec, go on in”, the way executives make people wait in the hall before a meeting to show their powerful. My parents wouldn’t get it though. And I’m cold.

They found me asleep on the lawn like some hobo. Sleeping outside, on the grass, under the stars, ought to be romantic. I’m just sorta cold and stiff and still mostly asleep when my Dad guides me inside like a bleary eyed lamb lost in the frost. By the time we reach the door I’m actually mostly awake again but I pretend to still be half a sleep so I don’t have to answer anything. My Dad probably sees right through it but he doesn’t say anything and pretends along with me. I collapse – well, play-collapse – onto the guest bed my parents made up for me. They sold my bed a long time ago. Tomorrow there will be a “serious talk” with my parents. I try not to think about it. I made a rule for myself once that I’m not allowed to think negative thoughts or worry about the future when I’m in bed falling asleep. It actually works. Instead of playing out possible scenarios in my head, thinking of the perfect come back, trying to predict what Mother will say, not just worrying but feeling what that conversations is going to be like I just concentrate on falling asleep. I know it’s escapism. But that’s the point of the rule. It’s codified escapism so you don’t even have to think about the fact that it’s escapism. I can hear my parents talking in the kitchen. I wonder if it’s about me. I always assume it is. I briefly consider sneaking about and listening in. Do all grown children regress this much when they’re in their parents’ house?

I don’t remember falling asleep and I’m pretty sure I didn’t have any dreams. I rarely dream. Or maybe I just rarely remember my dreams. Not that it matters one way or the other. I’m glad I don’t dream much – or don’t remember them, whichever it is –, I don’t enjoy recalling and thinking about the dreams I’ve had. I do sometimes wonder what I would dream about if I dreamed more. Probably nothing super interesting. Ok, I’m going to go to sleep now because my own thoughts are starting to bore me and no one likes listening to someone just drone on and on. Good night.