Musings
I wrote this up after school, it was only later that I went back and typed it.
I really don't have much to say about it but that doesn't mean I'm not insanely, childishly proud about it.
This is a story of friendship...
I’ve come to that moment in life where I question it all. You know; life, love, the meaning of existence. Men with long white bears call it philosophy - men like me call it “mid-life crisis.” Men like me acquire a gnawing fear of growing white beards and talking through our twilight years on philosophy.
I wish I could talk to Rob. He always knew what to do. And if not, he seemed confident enough that knowing didn’t matter anyway. He was an all-American type of guy. The confident swagger- the mysterious, leering gaze, the great unfurling laugh that so utterly overtook one’s senses that they must join in too or be swept aside in its roiling wake. He had that romantic, much-looked-upon craving for adventure - manifest destiny and all that. He also had that much less romantic, not so well-looked-upon craving for food.
Rob loved to eat. Rob loved to eat very much.
I remember barbecues, especially, were his favorite. He and I would sit in these ridiculous lawn chairs - the ones with the outdate, gaudy prints of large, much too flamboyant flowers that the wives especially loved. We sat always under the shade of the ingrown birch tree. We would talk. Rob would turn to me, coke in one hand; a charred meat-like substance in the other, and he would spin Shakespeare.
I swear, never has a man more nobly spoke of the delicacies on the staples of an all American diet. One would lose their way in the twisting prose donned on a slushie, in all its sublimely artificial colored glory and relive his tales of the truly harrowing experience on the drink’s curious habit to drizzle - thickly - down one’s throat. It was easy to be caught up in his epics woven entirely on the qualities that made the hotdog so gloriously an object to lust over. He would then lead one skillfully, with an unwavering passion, onto the keystone of all that was good, Christian, and American: the buffalo wing. Shakespeare, Cummings, Ginsberg, and Angelou were never so great a poet as this man. This man who could raise sickly, shriveled, possibly radioactive meat to lofty - nearly biblical - heights was my friend, and my savior. I don’t know how I would have survived that washed out town without him.
Rob died at thirty-one.
I was with my daughter one Sunday morning. We were laughing. She’s so cute when she smiles - she’s young enough that the dimples appear, still, on her cheeks; exasperated when they’re pulled back in that perfect, idyllic smile, yet she is old enough that most of the baby fat has spread out, lengthening her body and stretching it to proportions that hint already at a womanly figure.
I was with my daughter one drizzly Sunday morning. We were watching television and laughing. I remember the Wiggles were on and I was intoning their silly little words along with my daughter, a silly little smile on my face. I don’t care what they say - the Wiggles are geniuses in all their multi-colored glory. Whereas I have been trying for years to give my kids the best, happiest, “Kodak picture” moments of their life, five men with an uncanny ability to dance Broadway can light a smile on my daughter face the moment the tube flashes on. The phone rang.
I was singing along as I picked it up. I was laughing as I listened to the voice on the other line. I was crying as I put the receiver down.
I was with my daughter one drizzly Sunday morning. We were watching television and laughing. I was picking up the phone and smiling. I was listening as the voice on the other line told me that Rob had died in his sleep at two twenty-seven this morning - in face - and could I believe it? He had gone and died in his sleep this morning and I was learning about it at seven thirty-six today as my daughter watched me - her face beaming, the dimples making her features nauseating.
I was sitting on the couch and crying as the Wiggles informed me - in all their Broadway-inspired cheer - on the joys of friendship.
I was at a club the other night, you know, those real artsy one where everyone snaps their fingers together, drinks coffee, and speaks in low, undulating tones as if their discussions actually meant something. Well, I was listening to this one girl speak, drink growing cold in my hand, and I couldn’t stand her.
Okay, maybe that’s not quite fair. I guess I couldn’t stand her image - that whole persona. You know, there’s those people that go to those clubs and read their generic poems or some shit like that as if it were the deepest, most insightful work that has ever graced mankind. And all it is is a collection of pretty words strung together in some abstract sense. Because who hasn’t heard a poem about love? How about hate? No? Well, I don’t know what I’ll do if I hear another “creative” look on flowers or some “deep” shit like that.
Anyway, this girl goes on about the darkness of her soul - banging away on her bongos the entire time - and all I can think of is, Hell...I can do a better job than that. But I don’t get up. I don’t stand in front of the mike, clear my throat, and call for attention. And I most certainly do not pour my soul out in words or bong-beating. All I do is lean back in my seat and think Hell, just, hell...
There’s this real pretty girl in the cubicle next to mine. She’s gorgeous, teasing, and has the rack of an angel.
Unfortunately, she’s a good Christian. None of the guys get to see any output. Although, sometimes, when she bends low enough they are seen in their entire splendor, tucked neatly behind far too many layers of tightly knit tops.
I haven’t talk to her. Not much, anyway. And mostly about business...okay, always about business. There was a time, though, when she came to me for conversation.
“Are you alright?” there was that doleful look on her face that she assumed a lot when talking to a client.
“Oh, yeah, of course,” A large poster print of a yellow, smiling face beamed above the left of her head. It was memorizing....and perfectly round. My eyes drifted downwards.
“Do you want to talk? About him I mean,” She attempted a meaningful stare. My gaze continued in its downwards journey. Her eyes were two perfect orbs.
“You mean Rob?” my eyes finally landed on two perfectly circular, bouncy orbs cocooned tightly to her chest.
“You know he died in the middle of his sleep. Never woke up. A heart attack, I heard,” she interjected quickly, unsure.
“Naturally,” I hadn’t known before but it seemed so natural, so obvious.
“Well...,” she could see this wasn’t going anywhere fast, “if you want to talk about it, I’m always here.”
And so are they, I thought with a tone of finality. I glanced once more, just in case. They were still as radiant and perky as ever. It seemed so natural, now that I look back on it. I get to talk to the hottest girl in the office and my best friend is dead. It all seemed so natural.
My name is Hogarth Bentley. I suffered from a mid-life crisis at the age of thirty-four. My best friend is a dead man who composed the greatest literature the world has never seen in the seat of a creaky lawn chair, under the ingrown birch tree. I sing along with the Wiggles and mock the poets who wax eloquently in their basements full of snapping patrons. The first time the woman of my dreams talked to me, my best friend had died - and I got an eyeful of tit.
My name is Hogarth Bentley, and I believe the only people smart enough to get it were the Wiggles. It’s about friendship. I guess all the poets have always been saying it - that’s why nobody listens to them anymore. And I guess there are always those women in the cubicle next door with the perfect rack that gets it, but certainly nobody listens to them. I think, though, I’ve finally got it. It was so obvious. All this time, of course. It always is. Life’s sickeningly, perfectly ironic like that - it ties up all the loose ends.
My name is Hogarth Bentley. I believe in the philosophy of the Wiggles. I die at the age of eighty-seven of a stroke, six forty-three in the evening and this is a story of friendship.
I really don't have much to say about it but that doesn't mean I'm not insanely, childishly proud about it.
This is a story of friendship...
I’ve come to that moment in life where I question it all. You know; life, love, the meaning of existence. Men with long white bears call it philosophy - men like me call it “mid-life crisis.” Men like me acquire a gnawing fear of growing white beards and talking through our twilight years on philosophy.
I wish I could talk to Rob. He always knew what to do. And if not, he seemed confident enough that knowing didn’t matter anyway. He was an all-American type of guy. The confident swagger- the mysterious, leering gaze, the great unfurling laugh that so utterly overtook one’s senses that they must join in too or be swept aside in its roiling wake. He had that romantic, much-looked-upon craving for adventure - manifest destiny and all that. He also had that much less romantic, not so well-looked-upon craving for food.
Rob loved to eat. Rob loved to eat very much.
I remember barbecues, especially, were his favorite. He and I would sit in these ridiculous lawn chairs - the ones with the outdate, gaudy prints of large, much too flamboyant flowers that the wives especially loved. We sat always under the shade of the ingrown birch tree. We would talk. Rob would turn to me, coke in one hand; a charred meat-like substance in the other, and he would spin Shakespeare.
I swear, never has a man more nobly spoke of the delicacies on the staples of an all American diet. One would lose their way in the twisting prose donned on a slushie, in all its sublimely artificial colored glory and relive his tales of the truly harrowing experience on the drink’s curious habit to drizzle - thickly - down one’s throat. It was easy to be caught up in his epics woven entirely on the qualities that made the hotdog so gloriously an object to lust over. He would then lead one skillfully, with an unwavering passion, onto the keystone of all that was good, Christian, and American: the buffalo wing. Shakespeare, Cummings, Ginsberg, and Angelou were never so great a poet as this man. This man who could raise sickly, shriveled, possibly radioactive meat to lofty - nearly biblical - heights was my friend, and my savior. I don’t know how I would have survived that washed out town without him.
Rob died at thirty-one.
I was with my daughter one Sunday morning. We were laughing. She’s so cute when she smiles - she’s young enough that the dimples appear, still, on her cheeks; exasperated when they’re pulled back in that perfect, idyllic smile, yet she is old enough that most of the baby fat has spread out, lengthening her body and stretching it to proportions that hint already at a womanly figure.
I was with my daughter one drizzly Sunday morning. We were watching television and laughing. I remember the Wiggles were on and I was intoning their silly little words along with my daughter, a silly little smile on my face. I don’t care what they say - the Wiggles are geniuses in all their multi-colored glory. Whereas I have been trying for years to give my kids the best, happiest, “Kodak picture” moments of their life, five men with an uncanny ability to dance Broadway can light a smile on my daughter face the moment the tube flashes on. The phone rang.
I was singing along as I picked it up. I was laughing as I listened to the voice on the other line. I was crying as I put the receiver down.
I was with my daughter one drizzly Sunday morning. We were watching television and laughing. I was picking up the phone and smiling. I was listening as the voice on the other line told me that Rob had died in his sleep at two twenty-seven this morning - in face - and could I believe it? He had gone and died in his sleep this morning and I was learning about it at seven thirty-six today as my daughter watched me - her face beaming, the dimples making her features nauseating.
I was sitting on the couch and crying as the Wiggles informed me - in all their Broadway-inspired cheer - on the joys of friendship.
I was at a club the other night, you know, those real artsy one where everyone snaps their fingers together, drinks coffee, and speaks in low, undulating tones as if their discussions actually meant something. Well, I was listening to this one girl speak, drink growing cold in my hand, and I couldn’t stand her.
Okay, maybe that’s not quite fair. I guess I couldn’t stand her image - that whole persona. You know, there’s those people that go to those clubs and read their generic poems or some shit like that as if it were the deepest, most insightful work that has ever graced mankind. And all it is is a collection of pretty words strung together in some abstract sense. Because who hasn’t heard a poem about love? How about hate? No? Well, I don’t know what I’ll do if I hear another “creative” look on flowers or some “deep” shit like that.
Anyway, this girl goes on about the darkness of her soul - banging away on her bongos the entire time - and all I can think of is, Hell...I can do a better job than that. But I don’t get up. I don’t stand in front of the mike, clear my throat, and call for attention. And I most certainly do not pour my soul out in words or bong-beating. All I do is lean back in my seat and think Hell, just, hell...
There’s this real pretty girl in the cubicle next to mine. She’s gorgeous, teasing, and has the rack of an angel.
Unfortunately, she’s a good Christian. None of the guys get to see any output. Although, sometimes, when she bends low enough they are seen in their entire splendor, tucked neatly behind far too many layers of tightly knit tops.
I haven’t talk to her. Not much, anyway. And mostly about business...okay, always about business. There was a time, though, when she came to me for conversation.
“Are you alright?” there was that doleful look on her face that she assumed a lot when talking to a client.
“Oh, yeah, of course,” A large poster print of a yellow, smiling face beamed above the left of her head. It was memorizing....and perfectly round. My eyes drifted downwards.
“Do you want to talk? About him I mean,” She attempted a meaningful stare. My gaze continued in its downwards journey. Her eyes were two perfect orbs.
“You mean Rob?” my eyes finally landed on two perfectly circular, bouncy orbs cocooned tightly to her chest.
“You know he died in the middle of his sleep. Never woke up. A heart attack, I heard,” she interjected quickly, unsure.
“Naturally,” I hadn’t known before but it seemed so natural, so obvious.
“Well...,” she could see this wasn’t going anywhere fast, “if you want to talk about it, I’m always here.”
And so are they, I thought with a tone of finality. I glanced once more, just in case. They were still as radiant and perky as ever. It seemed so natural, now that I look back on it. I get to talk to the hottest girl in the office and my best friend is dead. It all seemed so natural.
My name is Hogarth Bentley. I suffered from a mid-life crisis at the age of thirty-four. My best friend is a dead man who composed the greatest literature the world has never seen in the seat of a creaky lawn chair, under the ingrown birch tree. I sing along with the Wiggles and mock the poets who wax eloquently in their basements full of snapping patrons. The first time the woman of my dreams talked to me, my best friend had died - and I got an eyeful of tit.
My name is Hogarth Bentley, and I believe the only people smart enough to get it were the Wiggles. It’s about friendship. I guess all the poets have always been saying it - that’s why nobody listens to them anymore. And I guess there are always those women in the cubicle next door with the perfect rack that gets it, but certainly nobody listens to them. I think, though, I’ve finally got it. It was so obvious. All this time, of course. It always is. Life’s sickeningly, perfectly ironic like that - it ties up all the loose ends.
My name is Hogarth Bentley. I believe in the philosophy of the Wiggles. I die at the age of eighty-seven of a stroke, six forty-three in the evening and this is a story of friendship.