The American Dream

The American Dream



         High school is bullshit. Literally everything is fake! What is the point? All I hear is that I’m not doing enough, therefore I am, nor will I ever be, successful. What is success even? I’ll break things down so you see what I mean.

         Where to start? Well what is the “high school life” about? School, social life, and sleep. There has to be more than that! Oh, that’s right homework, sports, clubs, work, musicality, parents, teachers, chores, dumbass friends, normal friends, the significant other, other responsibilities, and let us never forget, time to ourselves! It’s a lot for a teenager to accomplish all that AND figure themselves out.

         Now school, I honestly think is a babysitting program. Are all these ‘straight A’ students really going to become doctor, lawyers, and CEOs? I don’t think so! I bet more than half of them will fail and they’ll be too weak to accept it. As for homework, it keeps you occupied outside of school. Like portable school.

         My social life is honestly a wreak. I’m not too wild about my normal friends. They’re just people I talk to. Then my dumbass friends. Oh god! They get me in so much trouble. I hate them from time to time. It’s always fun until the law is laying it out on your ass. There is a lot of friction between my parents and I. Mainly because of my grades and what the teachers say about me. The law doesn’t help me either. But what can I say! I’m a teenager. Then ‘The Significant Other”. There’s always that girl you can’t have. Beautiful in everyway, however, she’ll never notice you as being anything. Although, that is just as it goes.

         As for extracurricular activities, I’m not in any clubs. Or sports. I work out and I keep myself busy. I play guitar in my friend’s band. He thinks we can go professional, I agree with that only if we could only drop our tone deaf singer. However, it’s nothing I’m really serious about. They, the music business, just uses the member. I, unlike much, am ignorant and will not be used.

         Then I have your typical responsibilities, work and chores. Some miscellaneous stuff. My job is amazing. Well. The work isn’t it. I work at a sawmill and it’s all physical labor. However, it’s my boss. He is a truly great man. The best part? He gets me. That man, Mr. Grode, is completely honest with me. He’ll tell me when I was being a goddamn jerk or when I was right and respectable. He understands my struggles in high school. You could say, possibly, that I love that man.

         And of course all this affects my sleep.

         So this is where the journey starts. I mean it started before this, such  as the growth of who I am at this point, however, what I mean is when I finally started growing up. By growing up, I mean taking things serious. I think you get the point. Shall we begin?



         Death. A rather serious matter. It can happen to anyone. And who did it happen to? The only person I looked forward to seeing everyday. Mr. Grode.

         I got to work a little late. Seventeen minuets to be exact. I began calling for him with my list of excuses ready, as well as all my complaints of the day. I walked into his office and he was leaning back in his chair, eyes open and his favorite mug, shattered across the floor. From him dropping it, obviously. His throat showed trauma, as his he was struggling to breathe. I dropped to my knees and felt panic bouncing in my chest. I honestly couldn’t believe he died.

         Finally, I found the strength to stagger to the payphone, to the right, put the quarter in, and call 911. They asked me what my emergency was, I burst into tears. I felt like a blubbering baby as I desperately tried to get my message though. She could barely understand me though my sobbing voice, however, she got what she needed and sent over an ambulance.

         Aren’t ambulances for saving lives? I guess it’s better than dragging him though the dirt. When they, the physicians, arrived, they found me on my knees and my head on Mr. Grode’s lap, crying. Surprisingly, they handled it extremely well, until they asked me if I was his son. Of course I said no, what else was I to say? They frowned, looked each other, and told me to grow up. That was a true wound. I loved that man, more than my own father. They never told me what happened to him.

         My depression was deep. I couldn’t imagine getting over it, until she spoke to me. It didn’t heal me from the tragedy, however, it did let me realize that he would what me to move on and be stronger from this and one point ask out this girl. Her name was Jane.

         Oh Jane. She was my obsession for so long. I have longed to hear voice, I expected it to sound like a harp. Or perhaps a flute. Something light and lovely. I appreciated her beauty, because she looked so natural. She had long, wild hair and fiery eyes. They matched her personality, fierce and free. Examining her from a far has been slowly killing me. Then she approached me and said:

         “Excuse me.”

         It was like harp! Or a flute. Nevertheless, it was sweet. I replied the best I could in that situation.

         “Huh?”

         She smiled. What a smile, “You’re in my seat.”

         I blinked. After a few awkward seconds, she continued.

         “Do you want to go the park sometime? A couple of my friends, they’re in a band, and they want people to, you know, show up.”

         I swallowed. Was this a date?

         Then I blurted out, “as a date?”

         Jane was taken back, then smiled, “what the hell, It’s a date. Friday. Meet me by the train tracks at five.”

         I nodded and smiled.

         “By the way, that’s still my seat,” she laughed.

         That laugh! It was so cute, and I could barely stand it!

         I eventually got up and checked her out. She wore a loose blue dress that tied around her little waist. My final thought on the matter was that I was going to marry that girl. I loved her.



         So I waited by the train tracks. I waited for so long. I was hoping that I wasn’t being stood up. After awhile I gave up. I turned and began to walk.

         “Wait! Don’t go!”

         I whirled back around, for the harp/flute voice was calling me. There she was, In a long white dress, running towards me, her hair a rebellious flag. She jumped to me side and giggled. I began to shake.

         She seemed perplexed, “what’s wrong?”

         “Nothing.”

         “Don’t lie to me! Be honest. I like honesty and I know you’re an honest boy.”

         “I love you.”

         “So.”

         “You don’t understand, it does stuff to you. I can’t function around you and I’m trying so hard.”

         A wide smile crossed her face, “that’s amazing. Will you help me feel that way? It sounds lovely.”

         “It really isn’t.”

         “So you won’t help me?”

         I paused. How should I take this? I bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

         She blushed, “so yes?”

         It was all coming together. She liked me, but didn’t love me… yet. It was a long walk to the ‘concert’. She talked most of the way there. I didn’t mind. I liked her voice and the things she talked about. Then she stopped.

         “I want you to talk about yourself.”

         I bit my lip, “there’s nothing to talk about.”

         “Come on there has to be something!”

         “Well none of it is very light.”

         “I don’t mind a dark topic.”

         “Um.”

         “Please?”

         I swallowed and looked around. What if I blow it by sharing too soon? I looked at her, she is known as out spoken. She takes risks. I can take this risk and if she resents it then I could possibly work things out later.

         Then I told her. First about Mr. Grode and how I cried. Then about school and my grades. I told her my opinions on the school system. I proceeded to my friends and my trouble with law. I told her about the band and how I played guitar. I finally told her about when I fell in love with her at our first glance.

         She seemed amused, “You’re really good at this.”

         “What?”

         “Helping me fall in love.”

         “Just watch, I’m going to marry you.”

         “Yuck! Good luck!”

         Conclusively, we made it to the concert on time. I watched her danced. She would sway and her dress would float about. Her arms up and defiant. She loved her rock and roll. Jane approached me and pulled on my arms, signaling me to dance. Normally, I would reject her, although, what the hell? It was just dancing. How hard could it be?

         I quickly learned that I loved dancing. I’m not sure if I looked good. I followed all of Jane’s movements and tried to copy her free look. I can honestly say I’ve never seen her more beautiful than when she had her arms flying, eyes closed, spinning about, and that grand smile. This was only the beginning of our adventure.



         So I’m graduating high school. Barely. Actually, I’m not. I wish I could say that I was, however, I just never took school seriously. Then I ran into the recruiter. I never he was over selling the army, but what the hell? I had no where else to go. So I ended up signing a two year contract in the army. Jane was not happy.

         “You’re joining those baby killers?”

         “They’re not baby killers. You have to realize they’re doing what the have to and it’s the governments fault. Please understand.”

         “I don’t know if I can.”

         “So you won’t wait for me.”

         “No.”

         “Then we’ll get married.”

         “No! Why would you do that?”

         “Don’t you love me?”

         “Not quite yet.”

         “Well let me finish, will you?”

         “I don’t know. I-”

         Interrupted her. For once in my life, I wanted her to shut up. So I kissed her. Our first kiss. After this action, she looked as if she was about to cry.

         “But this goes against everything I believe.”

         “Jane, you’ve never heard the other side.”

         “Sure I have! I-”

         “You’ve heard what you wanted to hear. Listen to them and then make your conclusion. Baby, I have to do this. I have no where to go.”

         She shook her head, tears on the brims of her eyes.

         I continued, “you now I’ll anything you want me to, but that’s only if I have the choice to do it.”

         “How long is your contract?”

         “two years.”

         “You’re kidding! That’s-

         “Jane.”

         “What!”

         “Will you marry me?”

         She took a deep breathe and shook her head.

         “Jane, take the risk.”

         Now I have her. She put her hands up to her face and shook her head once more. She looked into my eyes, she was actually considering it. Although, I needed to lock it into place.

         “Let me finish. Let me help you fall in love. I know I will succeed.”

         “Yes.”

         With that, we were wed and I brought her back to my shoddy apartment.

         “I’m used to living in The Van with my girlfriends.”

         “Well this is better. It has running water.”

         “But I bathed in the river-”

         “Just try it Jane. Aren’t you about risk and experience?”

         She shook her head. Then, she cried that night.

         I told her, “I’d be better when you finally love me. I promise.”

         After a week of living together, she began to move about easier. She didn’t seem as happy as when I met her. Not near as happy as the concert. I hope I’m not doing this wrong and end up destroying this girl. She walked me to the bus. The whole time, biting her lip. I kissed her goodbye.

         That wasn’t enough. So I whispered, “what are you afraid of?”

         She sighed, “I’m not afraid.”

         “Be honest, Jane.”

         “John, I’m afraid you wouldn’t come back to help me finish falling in love.”

         Smiling, my heart was bursting. I took her in my arms and kissed her, “I’ll be back, baby.”

         Then, finally, a smile! She looked beautiful again. I hopped on the bus, merrily in love. The seats had at least one person in each, so I sat in the first open one. I sat next to a brute looking man. He had long, unruly hair. It smelled a bit. His clothes were dirty and skin rough. He had a scowl on his face. For moment, I felt as I had made a mistake of who I sat by. He turned to me and smirked.

         “Is that your girlfriend?”

         “Wife, now.”

         “Does she love you?”

         “She will”

         He chuckled, “good luck. Mine left me and took everything. She claimed to love me and then one day, she was gone.”

         “I’m sorry.”

         “Oh, it’s fine. C’est la Vie. Did you know I lived in France for four years? Not many men can experience that. I’m a happy man. So, quel est votre nom?”

         “What?”

         “What is your name?”

         “Oh. John Doe.”

         “You’re kidding. That’s so generic. I’m Chuck Boke.”

         “Yeah, it is. Nevertheless, it makes me happy. Anyways, pleased to meet you.”

         “Et tu.”

         I laughed, “I have a feeling you’ll end up teaching me French.”

         “That I will!.”

         I became fast friends with Chuck. He was person whose company I actually enjoyed, other than Jane’s. My first real friend. This man would not get me in any kind of trouble. In fact he would take the blame. Nor was this man plain. He added to me. He was animated and rather interesting. He was plus to my life. A truly fascinating man.

         So this was the army. All you had to do was do as you were told. I found it rather, as some would put it, fun! I loved and hated boot camp. I was extremely challenging, and yet, I found it enjoyable. They broke me down and made me a better man. An army man. In fact they successfully broke everyone down and made them better men. For that is what the military does. Oh, how wrong was Jane! This experience would enthrall her! Perhaps, she would have a chance to join the military. She’d make a cute navy girl. Thinking about that depressed me. I missed Jane and all her restless beauty.

         Two weeks later, we were notified that we were going into combat that Thursday evening. I wrote Jane a long letter about how I was going to Vietnam. Then about my training and how I actually enjoyed it. Also, I included that I felt like a better man. A man worth loving. Then, I finished with Chuck Boke. I told her, he was my first real friend. She’d get a kick out of that.

         After that, I wrote one other letter that I ended up not sending. I wrote to my parents. I told them I married the most lovely girl. That her name was Jane and she had a radiant beauty. I apologized for moving out so suddenly. Without a word, in fact. I said I hoped to see them soon. Although, I would like it to be after my service. I then got into that I joined the army, that I thoroughly enjoyed boot camp, that I was serving six years, and that I was going to ‘Nam on Thursday.

         I regretted not sending that letter. However, that did not last long, because I started thinking about Jane. I continued to think of our future children. I was, already, so excited to see her. That will have to wait until later. That night I stayed up late with Chuck, while we discussed cultures and practiced French. It was a rather movie-like scene, but so it goes.



         We landed in the Vietnam base camp in the dead of night. We unpacked and set up our tents as soon as possible, as to sleep. Which none of us did on the flight here. It was all too unreal, almost artificial, as some might say. Our objective was to look for the Communists. That morning we were set to work. Looking among the ‘fox holes’. I could no longer complain. This was rather… hard. It was all just so demanding. Yet, I couldn’t complain. Complaining took up too much energy and you couldn’t risk that. However, because of Chuck, I can now speak French fluently. When we speak among ourselves, we speak in only French. The practice helps. I can’t wait to tell Jane. I hope she’s waiting for me, after all, she is my wife.

         Throughout all this, four months, we have not met any Communists. Until that fateful day. We didn’t just run into them, we crashed into a fiery explosion of an American Slaughter. It was rather brutal. I went from never shooting a gun to killing everything that moved, or so I thought. These men were determined. When hit, if they lived, they still fought.

         I shot an ordinary Vietnamese man, I proceeded forward, and surprisingly he jumps up, yelling. I froze. The shock got to me. Before I could think, his gun is pointed at my chest. Chuck runs to cover me. He gets shot in the shoulder. I then kill the man, who was ready to finish his job. I look to Chuck, who is holding his shoulder. He begins to cuss me out in French. And something truly terrible had to happen at the moment!

         We were surrounded by Vietnamese men and captured. My pant leg felt warm and wet. I’m sure Chuck did the same. This was no ordinary situation. These people torture. I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t hardened enough. I, honestly, could not breathe. They approached us and we put our arms up. I was hit over the head with the butt of his gun.



         When I woke up, I was laying across Chuck’s still unconscious body. I rolled off. I cried. I prayed. All this until Chuck woke up. We spoke in French. Actually, we prayed in French. This went about for some time. Then the Communists dragged us for the cell. Now, the torture. They sat and latched us to chairs that were side by side. A man, whom was carrying a pistol, entered. He spoke English.

         Communist. “Who are you?”

         Chuck. “Deux soldats Americains impuissants.”

         Communist. “What? Nhung gi ho noi?”

         Me. “Que?”

         Communist. “Stop that. You speak English, no?”

         Chuck. “Non. Oui.”

         He chuckled.

         Communist. “Stop that!”

         He was as impulsive as to shot Chuck in the head right then. I let out a feminine scream. Frankly, I cried. His brains were on my face and uniform. I began to vomit right into my lap. My best friend was dead. I wanted to die. I wish he shot me next. I can’t live with this. I began to howl in-between vomiting. Snot, tears, sweat, and blood were running down my face. I was a sight to see, however, these men have probably seen almost everyday.

         Communist. “Again, who are you?”

         I replied in sobbing voice, that was untranslatable. They eventually gave up on my disillusioned howling and threw me back in the cell. I wanted to die. However, I couldn’t. I needed to go home to Jane.



         Three months of whipping. It hurt less everyday. Soon, it was only routine. Whip, pass out, whip, pass out, and so on. They did more. I won’t get into that. All I know was I could never voluntarily sleep. The screams were to lively. Although they help me stay awake to talk to Chuck. I look up at the dull ceiling and in French, I ask him how he’s settling in and what’s it like Heaven and if he met anyone as interesting as himself. I miss him. Frankly, I loved him.

         That night. The Americans came to rescue us. They told me I  was going home. I was going to see Jane. I hoped she was still there, in that little shoddy apartment. I really needed her and her company. My little Jane Doe.

         I got to America around three in the morning. They’re letting me sit out on the rest of my contract for “psychological recovery”. I stood in the airport, stunned. I kneeled and kissed the ground. I waited. For three hours, I waited. Where was my Jane Doe? I turned and began to walk away. It was all hopeless.

         “Wait! Don’t go!”

         Running down the hall, dodging the airport people was Jane. She was wearing a long white dress. My heart began to burst. I opened up my arms and accepted her into my chest. Into my heart.

         “I cannot believe you waited,” I told her.

         “I cannot believe you waited!”

         “Three hours. You are very punctual.”

         “Is that a joke?”

         I shrugged, “I’m tired. Let’s go home.”

         Her eyes got big and she shook her head. Tears beaded her eyes.

         “It’s gone. I never got your income checks.”

         “Where have you been living?”

         “Under the bridge.”

         “You’re kidding? I’ll get us a room for tonight and we’ll sort it out in the morning.”

         I proceeded to get a room. She carried all her stuff with her in a large duffle bag. When we entered the motel room, I grabbed her, kissed her, and cried. I have been crying a lot. I feel like a weak man. Who am I kidding? I am a weak man. I told her about Chuck, she held her breathe.

         “Oh, John. It’d be OK. Um…”

         “What’s wrong?”

         “Your father. He’s dying. He has cancer. He contacted me looking for you. He wants to see you.”

         “That asshole? No! Hell No! You have any idea what hell I endured with that man?”

         “John. I want you to see him. Please.”

         “Why? Why do you even care?”

         “I love you. I want you to make peace with him, so you can feel better.”

         “So you finally love me?”

         Silence. Then a nod.

         Well if that’s the best I’m going to get, then I’ll take it. The next day I head down to the hospital and asked for my father. Apparently, today is the day. If there was any day to do this it was today. Jane came with. She wanted to meet my father.

         “Father.” I was still wearing my gear. It no longing had vomit or blood on it.

         “Son? What on earth are you wearing? Did you really join the military? Why in the hell would you do that? Do know what kind of war they’re having? Do you know how crazy those people are? Do you realize how senseless this war is? How corrupt?”

         “Yes, well-”

         “I’m proud of you.”

         “What?”

         “I’m proud of you. The military? You’re turning into quite a young man. I guess I was wrong about you.”

         “I- Well- Thank you.”

         “Who’s the young lady with you?”

         “This is my wife, Jane.”

         “Wife? Congratulations, son! She’s beautiful. Are any children to be expected?”

         “Eventually.” Jane.

         I was slightly shocked. I thought Jane didn’t want children. That she thought that they brought her down and were just a distraction from your own free time. I guess you get bored of free time. Anyhow, she stepped forward and shook hands with my father. He signaled for her to bend down and he kissed her on the cheek. He was smiling.

         “Father? Where’s mom?”

         Sadness crept into his eye, mouth still smiling though, “She left me. She met someone else.”

         “What! You’re kidding! That’s an outrage! I-”

         “Son! It’s fine. I gave them my blessing. I understand why she did it… Now! Tell me your adventures. From when you left home until now.”

         So I told him. About Mr. Grode, then Jane, Next Chuck, boot camp, learning French, the war, Chuck’s death, my French talks to Chuck in Heaven, the torture, the rescue, the airport, the apartment, and the news of my dear father. After all this he nodded.

         “Quite the man.”

         He quickly became tired and strained.

         “Father, I love you.”

         “I love you, too, son.”

         Then he died. As quickly and simply as that. Gone. Like Mr. Grode and Chuck. Jane came into my arms and cried. I cried, too.



         I started packing up my things. Jane asked me what I was doing and I replied that I couldn’t stay here any longer. That we had to leave before I had a break down. I told her that were going to the city and having a lot of babies. She laughed at that, however, I was serious. She agreed to live risky and happily went along with my unorganized plan. We got on a bus and told the driver to the nearest big city. Chicago.

         The streets were dim and the people just as dim. I got a shady motel room. The mattress was on the floor, there was no hot water, the wallpaper was filthy and peeling. It was perfect. Jane looked perfectly happy. We went looking for jobs that next morning. Within a week, we both had jobs. Her, a secretary at some rundown school. Me, physical labor, unloading and loading crates.

         Eventually, we bought a little apartment. Also, Jane was pregnant. My life was finally coming together. I loved my job, despite how manual it was. The people were friendly and frankly, they too, were failures. I was beginning to see that failing wasn’t too bad. Also, I joined another band. We perform on the weekends at this abandoned factory. We call ourselves, Vecticide. I don’t even know what it means. I honestly think Toby, our lead, made it up. So at these “concerts”, there’s booze, girls, and rock and roll. These men think it’s Heaven. Heaven for me was when Jane danced the way see did.

         After a concert dragging out pretty late, around four in the morning, I could tell something was wrong. I recognized a face in the crowd, however, it disappeared once more. When we got our break to drink and chat, the face appeared. And just as quickly, disappeared. I couldn’t tell if it was my imagination or if I was just drinking too much. I, frankly, could not determine the name of the face. I knew it was a face I did not want to see. I should have known trouble was coming.

         I was walking home. The streets were grungy, as if they weren’t before, and the light was scarce. Then I here footsteps. I panicked and ran. I couldn’t handle anymore stress. When I made it in front of the apartment building, I vomited. Fear was buzzing in my mind. I felt skittish. After a pause. No footsteps.

         Shaking my head, I proceeded into the building and soon into Jane’s arms. When I entered the mangy room, Jane was sleeping on the battered couch. Her little stomach, swollen. I felt reassurance. However, it didn’t last long. The door burst open, several bulky men entered the room. I couldn’t handle it, I collapsed and had, what I later learned to be, an anxiety attack. My eyes no longer saw, only shady, buzzing shapes. There was a loud, almost insufferable, ringing in my ears. My hands and feet were freezing, tingling even, although, the rest of my body was unbearably hot and sweating. I couldn’t breathe, there was too much pressure and my heart was racing. I felt incredibly dizzy, so I gripped the floor like a lunatic.

         By now, Jane was awake and aware. She couldn’t handle these brutes, not by herself. Especially, while she was pregnant. One of the brutes kicked me in the stomach, while she curled up in a ball at the end of the couch. They tore the place apart, by the time it was over, so was my anxiety attack. However, I remained incredibly weak from the experience. Then the biggest man approached Jane. I found my strength and hurled myself at him.

         Because of that, I got beaten up pretty bad, by all three men. They took everything of importance. I couldn’t believe what happened. I’ve been mugged but never robbed. Who was that even? I still recognized faces. Then it hit me. I supposedly took their jobs. I work hard in my work, I ended up showing them up. Thus, causing them to get fired. What if they come back? I won’t be able to handle it. Especially, if they touch Jane or my future baby.

         I began to pack what was left. Stepping over and back over the broken glass. When I was done, I looked to Jane. She was in the same position and crying.

         “Why’d they hit you like that? Why’d they gang up?”

         “Because, that’s what men like that do.”

         “Why’d you collapse?”

         “I couldn’t handle it.”

         “Do you need help?”

         “Well I’m done packing, but-”

         “That’s not what I’m talking about?”

         “What then?”

         “Well, there was Mr. Grode. You never properly addressed that. You just held it in. Then Chuck. You witnessed his murder. Then your father, his death. All these men you ended up loving, died. And, though it all, you held it in.”

         “Alright. So. Why does that mean I need help?”

         “Well, it might get out of hand and develop into something worth addressing.”

         “Jane, that’s all too expensive.”

         “Talking to me isn’t expensive.”

         “Are you saying I don’t talk to you?”

         “No, I’m trying to tell you that I want you to open up to me. That it will make you feel better.”

         “That sounds… weak.”

         “You know what’s weaker? Developing depression and becoming an alcoholic. Ignoring your wife and child and spending the rest of your time contemplating suicide.”

         We stared at each other. I felt angry, not at her, but at the events in my life. They didn’t have to happen. Although, I guess I should just get over it. It could be worse.

         “Alright. Later.”

         “Promise?”

         “Promise.”

         And with that she smiled and leapt up. She gathered her things, which wasn’t very much to begin with. This unsettled me. I wanted to spoil her, for she was my princess. She seemed happy, nevertheless. We hopped on the first bus. When we arrived, it was quite a sight. Where we originally came from, there were big beautiful trees. Then we moved to big beautiful buildings. Now we’re here and there’s nothing. Literally nothing, other than the bus station. Just endless miles of dirt into the horizon.

         I stopped a older man, “excuse me, where are we?”

         He laughed, almost in an unsettling way, “Why son, welcome to south west Texas. We’re on the brink of New Mexico. This is nowhere!”

         He hobbled off in a direction, unsure of where he’ll end up.

         “Now what? We can’t live here!”

         “It’d be alright, it depends on whether you want to go into central Texas or into New Mexico.”

         “Doesn’t New Mexico have all those Indians?”

         “I think so.”

         “Then let’s go there.”

         We moved to a small town. It was a rather sad one. A true dead end, however, where else could we go? We lived into a makeshift tent outside city limits. Eventually, we got jobs. When money started coming in, we bought a typical small house, Jane went to the dead college on the hill, and the baby was born. It was a boy, whom we named, Dan. Dan Doe. I loved my son and I loved my wife. They loved me back. We were finally happy, again.



         Then came that dreadful day. Jane began to notice that Dan was sicker than a normal child should be. He began coughing up blood. I could predict the ending of this and I didn’t want to endure it. Doctors couldn’t tell us what it was, they predicted three more months. So we enjoyed those three months the best we could. He died on a Sunday. His tombstone read:

Here Lies Our Happiness

Dan Doe

The Perfect Son

         That week I was fired from my job, reasoning unknown. I didn’t care. I was going to leave anyway, for Jane was not coping well in this environment. We moved west. To California. To paradise. I had to do this. To get off my ass and be in the better place. To help Jane heal.

         Jane managed to land a decent job, because of her college. She wants me to finish high school and go to college. I refused to do this and I told her I might go back into the military. She rejected that quickly.

         “You can’t leave. Not now.”

         “Why not? You’ll be fine.”

         “No, I won’t make it. Please.”

         I didn’t understand where she was coming from. Not at first. So resented it and barely managed to get another job, working as a garbage man. I really wish I graduated high school, but I didn’t so I have to deal with it. It’s not like those rich people have it any better. I sincerely believe it’s hell no matter where you go.

         Jane has been adopting new habits. Destructive ones. She has stopped eating and every night she tosses and turns, I don’t think she sleeps at all. She won’t get out of bed. I left for work and returned and she hadn’t moved. She got fired because of this. She would go weeks without saying a word. She used to love to talk. She no longer dances or sings. If she needs to concentrate on anything, she quickly gives up.

         Now, when we first moved here, she quickly made friends with a small older woman, Alice. Jane no longer spoke to her, although, I asked her to see Jane. She arrived at our home all done up and she asked me to leave the room. I listened though the door, however, could not make anything out. Then I heard Jane sobbing. My chest felt empty. After what seemed like eternity, Alice returned. She told me that Jane was depressed. This went over my head.

         Alice pushed for us to go to see someone right away. She offered to come with us. So we went the next morning and waited. There has been so much waiting in my life, especially with Jane. I guess that’s how it goes. The doctor was finally able to see us, however, he wished to speak with me in private. After a long chat about what Jane had to endure and how I felt guilty for putting her though all this, Alice stumbles into the room. She was hysterical with blood running from her lips. Then she finally is able to get the message out. Jane was gone.

         We ran about like desperate rats, only because we were desperate rats. Then I tried a random door. It was locked. My face flushed, again fear was taking control. I kicked the door open. There laid my once free, defiant little woman. She was broken. Blood stained the floor and walls. It was from her little wrists. And a knife sat, taunting me, beside her. I dropped to my knees and eloped her in my arms. How could this happen to her? How could it happen to me?

         The doctor heard my calls for help and retrieved Jane. I couldn’t save her, he could. So I let him take her. I sat on the floor, Alice peeked in. She sat beside me and held my head to her chest.

         Later in the day, I was escorted to her room. Her wrists were wrapped and slightly blood stained. She lay half awake. I hated hospitals, they’re so depressing. I tried to speak to her but she turned her head away. Why was she doing this? The doctor came to talk to me. He wanted to send her to a mental hospital. I’ve heard the stories, I was not going to let her endure that. The electric shocks, lobotomy, and restrictions. That is just asking for trouble. He, however, pressed that things have changed. I did not believe him, although, I had no choice. I wanted her to live and come home safe. I could not keep watch of her. So I allowed it.



         She returned a year and a half later. She had a bright smile on her face and her hair was wild. Her eyes were beaming and she immediately began talking. Of her experiences, the things she learned, of God, and lastly she demanded that we have another baby. She was elated to know that while she was gone, I got my GED. I also managed to earn a respectable job in a factory. And lastly, I bought a respectable house with three bed rooms.

         She was notably happier. She sang and talked and danced. She decided she wanted to help people. She went to another cheap college. She was always studying. She became pregnant, again. And everything, and I mean everything, seemed to be alright. She had twins, a boy and girl. Then she graduated college, passed her MCATS, and got into a fine medical school. The babes we named: Alice and Chuck. For obvious reasons.

         I know realize Jane’s struggle. She was so free and happy. She never became accustomed to tragedy. Then, when everything was going wrong, again and again. Things going against her beliefs and her previous dreams, she didn’t know how to take it. She didn’t understand change. When we lost our child, she could no longer see the point of her life. And I inflicted this life upon her.

         However, that is just as it goes. Some years later, Jane made a living working with clinical therapy. We had two more children: Bethany and Eli. I continued to work at the factory. I joined another band. We performed and drank on the weekends. Even with age Jane never lost her defiance again. Our daughters adopted the same rebellious behavior. It was rather difficult. My sons became rather introverted, however, extremely thoughtful.

         I remember in my younger years, hearing about the American Dream. I don’t know what the American Dream is, but I have a feeling that it is not set like what most people think. Such as: the white picket fence, nice house, nice car, good job, perfect wife, perfect kids, and this “success” feeling. It is customized, to what you feel is success. And what I think success is, is to make it though. That when my life ends, it ends in a way that is neutral to the world. That I left my mark behind. That I lived. Living for experience.

         I believe that experience is the American Dream.