The Long Way Home

        As I stood up and adjusted my tie, I noted the sad irony of the situation.  I should be wearing this Ralph Lauren suit to my interview with Merrill Lynch next month.  Instead, this suit serves as a shield, blocking the judgement of those standing behind me.  Maybe I'd at least be thought more honorable if I were wrapped up like this in a casket.  Everyone's judging.  There's not a decent word to be had about me at this point.  That is, except for my poor mother.  I notice more irony.  I can't stand to look at the one person who still loves me unconditionally.  I'll make it up to her.  But it will be at least five years before the chance presents itself.

         The Judge begins to explain his verdict, but I don't hear a word.  I turn around to see Amanda one last time.  She still won't look at me.  She never came to see me, never returned my calls.  Those deep green eyes stay focused on the person's back in front of her.  That long, straight blonde hair covers part of her face, hiding the running mascara on her left cheek.  I feel her torment.  I feel it and then some.  I am the one going to prison, after all.

         Christy was my friend, too.  We had seen and done a lot together, the three of us.  Unfortunately, all of that fun caught up with us.  In a split second all of our lives changed inexorably.  This time, though, there were no do overs, no second chances, she wasn't coming back.  That Verve Pipe song came into my head, “For the life of me, I cannot believe, we'd ever die for these sins, we were merely freshmen.”  I hate all of this goddam irony.  I thought I would be past these situations as a senior.

         But I still don't understand why Amanda won't talk to me.  She must know how I need her now.  Has she forgotten that she and Christy told me to drive?  Does she remember that I offered to pay for a cab, but she needed her car at the apartment in the morning?  Does it matter that it was a blow out, and had nothing to do with the drinking?  Here in the bible belt it doesn't matter.  These people are out for blood.  But, where was God when I was trying to pump life back into Christy on the dew-covered grass in that awful ditch?  Are 'mysterious ways' are the only explanation for me being in this court room, and a twenty one year old girl being in the ground?  I hope Amanda at least has God comforting her right now, because I'm sure as hell all alone here without her.

         My gaze stares straight ahead, but my focus lies on the girl with green eyes behind me, as Judge Warren finishes his speech and lays out his verdict.  I don't hear a word, just the quiet murmurs and silent applause from the hypocrites in the audience that want to see a kid burn.  This situation started with me wanting to go home, and I still just want the same.  As the bailiff approaches, I look back at her one last time.

         “Amanda, honey... I'm taking the long way home.”