God Never Rains on His Own

        Sleek, black, portable, convenient, obtrusive, silent, soulless.  And then out of nowhere, beyond my control, beyond its control.  A servant to its own design, it begins ringing, flashing.  A name dances in neon letters across the little grey screen on its face.  It sits on my desk.  My door is closed; no one outside can hear or see it.  I’m not there to answer it.  But it rings three more times, oblivious.  After the fourth ring it stops.  Then thirty seconds later, a faint beep and the words one message flash across the screen, waiting for my return. 
      It’s now.  I’m in a locked bathroom down the hall.  I’m shirtless; layers of dried tears cover my face and neck.  I’m standing in front of the mirror, about to carve into my left arm with a Swiss-army pocketknife.
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         Fifth grade.  I’m the fat kid at my school.  Luckily, the jokes I tell are funny enough that they I have friends despite that.  It’s lunch time.  We load up our green five-slotted trays with pizza, soggy baked french-fries, fruit or veggie, and regular or chocolate milk cartons.  We eat at large round tables covered in a Laminate plastic cheaply printed to look like solid wood.  Today the kids are playing a game.
         The game involves the pretty blonde girl I have a crush on.  Her name is Brittany Smith.  She is wearing a blue turtleneck sweatshirt. They give her the names of two boys from our grade and she then chooses between the two of them.  Specifically, she chooses which boy she would rather kiss. The kissing will never occur.  It’s simply a game to verbalize the schools pecking order.
         It runs through the entire twenty-five minute lunch period.  I sit there across the table from her listening to the game.  like everyone else I hope that my name won’t come up.  It does.  A blonde boy in a blue striped shirt puts his milk down. 
         “How about Jon or James?”
         That this pairing was even brought up is an insult to my character.  James Schnebly is a red-haired, blotchy skinned bully with huge yellow teeth who wears nothing but tattered NASCAR shirts and time-faded jeans.  His regular method of conduct is to belch, pass gas, or, lacking the fuel, to simply make noises as though he is. 
         Brittany looks at James.  He sits on his chair smiling that goofy freckled grin of his.  She looks at me and I look down, too bashful to make eye contact.  I will never be able to look into those blue eyelashed eyes.  She looks back and forth between us.  She purses her tiny pink lips. 
“James I guess.”
         I go home after school and lay on my bed, staring at the superhero posters on my ceiling. 
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         It’s now.  I flick on a red disposable lighter and dip the knife blade into the flame for a few seconds, putting it down when it gets to hot too handle.  People on T.V. and movies sterilize things that way.  I set the lighter down. And think.  My right hand is shaking.  But it’s always shaking.  I place the tip of the blade against my upper arm and press into the soft white skin.
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         Freshman year of high school.  I get my first high school report card.  It’s all A’s except for a B in Science.  And the B was pretty much a B+ anyways.  In elementary school and middle school I hadn’t even gotten that many A’s combined.  I’m so proud.  I can’t stop grinning as I ride the bus home.  I don’t really know anyone else on the bus, but I’m so proud of that it doesn’t matter today.  I get off at my stop.  I’m not the fat kid anymore and I can sprint all three blocks to my house.  I get inside.  My brother’s in the basement.  I can smell the pot smoke.  I’ve gotten used to over the years so I don’t get headaches anymore.  I try to do some homework, but I can’t focus.  I’m too excited. 
         Dad gets home first.  He pulls up in the new green truck he bought last weekend.  He comes in the back door and I greet him accordingly.  I’m pretending to do homework on the couch.
         I had put my report card on the table so they would see it.  Dad walks to the table and sets his jacket on top of it without noticing.  I jump off the couch. 
         “Dad, I got my report card today!”
         I push his jacket over and thrust the card into his hands.  He takes it with a stern look on his face.  He undoes his tie and walks into the family room to look at it where there’s more light.  I can’t wait to see him smile and tell me what a good job I did.  I can’t wait to have him tell me how proud he is.  He’s always been asking why I didn’t try harder and get grades like these ones.  He puts my report card on top of the TV and turns around.  He still has a stern look on his face.  He pulls his tie over his head and turns away again.
         “What happened with Science?”
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         I push the blade in until it hurts.  I push it in further.  The blade is still warm.  I draw it towards me, forming the first leg of the letter R.  I haven’t pushed hard enough.  I can barely see the scratch on my skin.  The blade is starting to cool.  It doesn’t feel right.  I flick the lighter on and warm it up again.
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         It’s senior year of high school.  I’m in love.  Her name is Jamie Lynn.  The first time she smiles at me, I know that all I will do for the rest of my life is see her smile.  Unlike every crush I’ve had before, this one is simply: beyond.  I can’t be near her without feeling the truest and happiest feelings I have ever felt.  She smiles at me and everything else is blown away.  We simply are.  From the time I leave school until I come back the next day, I can see her smile.  It just tends to linger like that.  And somehow I’ve managed to get this most beautiful, intelligent, and kind-hearted girl in the entire world to go to the prom with me. 
         Senior Prom is the first dance I’ve ever been to.  I have no idea what the protocol is for a dance or a prom, so I turn to the internet.  I search nearly the entire internet to learn all the tricks, from the wrist corsage to the tux rental and dinner etiquette.  I review every night before I go to bed so I won’t forget anything.
         Now it’s prom night.  It takes me almost an hour to get dressed in my tuxedo and style my hair appropriately.  That being done I drive my grey Taurus to her house.  On the way there it’s raining harder than I’ve ever imagined.  I only see brief flashes of the yellow striped road beneath the tides of water which so childishly slide down my windshield.  I would pull over, but I’m sure I’ll crash if I change lanes.  I go along slowly in deference to the weather.  About a block or two from her house, the rain begins to subside and then the sun comes out.  I almost think I see a rainbow forming over the chimney as I walk up her front steps.
         I open the door and there she is.  She looks like an angel.  She has on a white dress and her hair is tied in a circular braid around her head.  It looks just like a halo made of golden brown hair.  I brought an umbrella up the stairs just in case.  But God won’t rain on one of his own, and I just kept it in my pocket.
         We have met up with her friends, eaten some seafood, and now finally, we arrive at the dance.  Balloons of blue hues drift aimlessly, combing the ceiling overhead.  Underneath the dancers cluster together in pairs, moving their bodies all over but keeping their feet in the same spot.  I am moments away from the first time I will dance in public.  There are so many people.  We walk onto the dance floor.
I don’t know what the dance is so I look around and try to emulate what everyone else is doing.  A couple of times songs come on that have people doing something like a hip-hop Macarena, and I end up getting lost.  I feel like a complete idiot.  But then a hush falls across the room as the first slow song comes on.  This is every high school boys dream come to life.  The first slow dance with your true love.
Jamie puts her arms around my neck and I look uncertain.  Smiling, she takes my hands and puts them around her waist.  Her hands are soft and gentle.  She feels much smaller than I thought she would.  The sequins on her dress are rough but I can feel her warm body underneath.  I look into her eyes.  I’m in a state of such tremendous pleasure that my senses are completely unable to act.  All they can do is follow the experience.  As we dance upon the hardwood floor, under the white disco-lights which her deep brown eyes reflect like diamonds, I am completely happy. 
The slow dance ends and we go back to dancing in a big group of her friends and their dates.  As the next slow song comes up twenty minutes later, I turn to her.  One of the guys on the football team is whispering in her ear and putting his hand on her bare shoulder.  She comes up to me.
“Would you mind if I danced with Sam?”
I say I wouldn’t mind.  They head off to the dance floor and I turn to go get some punch.  I feel nervous about this guy, but I know she’s going to come back after the dance.  I get some punch and talk to a couple friends who came without dates.  The song ends and I walk back over looking for her, but she’s still dancing with Sam.
I turn back to the punch bowl and sit down in the chairs against the wall there.  I’m starting to be worried, but she is my date after all.  She chose me out of all the people in the school to go with.  This comforts me.  I really have nothing to worry about. 
After thirty minutes of sitting there alone the DJ announces that it’s time for the last slow dance.  I walk over to Jamie and ask how they’re doing.  She turned to me.
“Do you mind if I dance with him just one more time?”
Though I did, I couldn’t say it.
“Oh, sure.  That’s fine.” I said and smiled.  I turned and walked back to the steel blue folding chairs by the empty punchbowl.
The song ends. She walks over to me.
“We’re gonna go watch a movie or something.  Do you want to come?
Hearing her phrase the question like this makes me sick.  I said I was feeling tired and I was gonna drive home.  She got a cute little pouty look on her face.
“Aww, are you sure?
I nod.
“Ok then.  C ya!”
She leans down and gives me an awkward side hug.  And she leaves.  I stand up and leave. 
I get home.  I am too tired to cry and I need to go to sleep, but I can’t. I have to carefully take off each piece of the rented tuxedo one by one and hang them up.  I have to put the cuff-links back in their plastic container.  Take the jacket off and hang it up.  Take the vest off and hang it up.  Take the shoes off, put them back in the box.  Take the shirt and pants off and hang them up.  I don’t bother with the socks.  I lay down on my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to fall asleep. 
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I put more pressure on the tip of the blade.  This is the first time I’ve ever seen my skin this way.  It reminds me of cutting into a piece of raw skinless chicken.  I push.  I push harder.  I need to make this last.  I push harder.  A small drop of blood finally comes out of the skin; the pain is sharp and warm.  I keep the pressure on, spiting the pain.  I can’t maintain the pressure and make curves for the letters, so I make the R Jagged.  I flick the lighter on.  The knife goes back to the flame.  When it’s nice and hot, I begin to inscribe an E.  My teeth are clenched.
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         It’s twenty minutes ago.  I’m sitting in my dorm room holding a picture my 11 year old sister drew me.  It’s a picture drawn all in blue scented marker.  She loves cats, and this is a picture of her cat Murphy back at home.  She drew all his stripes, his spots, his whiskers.  She drew a little mouse tail coming out of his mouth.  Murphy has a smile on his face.
         In the past year at school I’ve been drunk almost every weekend.  Mostly because I was feeling bad about something and drowning it was easier than fixing it.  I’ve been high several times on anything from LSD to mushrooms to the marijuana that gave me headaches when my brother used it.  Right now I’m just drunk. 
         I think of what she would say if she knew what I had been doing.  She treats me like her hero when I’m home.  She still calls me by my initials: J.R.  She still follows me around everywhere.  She still wants to do everything I do.  The pet store is still like our own personal zoo when we go every week to look at the kittens and puppies.  Not the fish though, the fish are too boring.
         What have I become?  I take off my shirt and look into the mirror at my bloodshot eyes.  I feel my limbs and mind slowed down.  I’m not good enough to be her role model.  I can’t live like this anymore.  I’ve got to change something.  I’ve got to stop this shit.  I don’t know what to do. My roommate’s Swiss army knife is on his desk.  I pick it up and look at all the different tools it has.  I swing the knife out and touch it, I poke too hard and it cuts my finger.  I look at myself again.  I see myself standing there holding that knife.  I get an idea.  I walk out towards the bathroom.  I go in and lock the door behind me.
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         I’ve finished.  On my arm I can see the word clearly.  It’s formed of mostly bright red scratches, and only two or three small drops of blood.  I didn’t cut myself deep enough for it to bleed very much.  It was too painful. 
         I look outside to make sure no one was out in the hallway.  It was midnight, but that’s often peak traffic for a Friday night dorm.  It’s empty so I walk back into my room and close the door.  I put on a shirt.  My phone gives a faint beep.  I pick it up.  I dial the voicemail box and it rings, twice.  The message comes on telling me to put in my password.  I do, and I wait for the message.
         “Hi Bobby.  It’s Joan.  I’m in town for a while.  Call me back”
         Wrong number.  I put the phone down and lay down on my bed holding my arm and trying to go to sleep.