Our father told my brother, Justin, \u201cEveryone forgets regular people.\u201d<\/p>\n
So Justin declared his birthdays to be \u201cfestivals for unregularity\u201d and then \u201cirregularity\u201d after being corrected, then back to \u201cunregularity\u201d for the sake of being unregular. He celebrated his 8th birthday by standing on his head, only to come down when our mom scolded him for not participating in duck-duck-goose, which he diligently did but returned to eat his cake up-side-down, declaring, \u201cWe are not like birds; we can swallow in space.\u201d<\/p>\n
He canceled his 9th birthday, declaring it to be an unregular year, much to the annoyance of his friends. On his 10th, he invited only girls even though he thought girls were boring.<\/p>\n
Our parents grew tired of his self-declared unregularity, and they told him, \u201cPeople like normalcy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Justin responded, \u201cWhat\u2019s the point of being liked if you\u2019re forgotten?\u201d<\/p>\n
Our mother retorted, \u201cWell, you\u2019re too old for birthdays, anyways.\u201d Despite throwing me birthday parties until I was 16, which my brother noticed with regular objections.<\/p>\n
This spread my brother’s unregularity to other parts of his life. He quoted Shakespeare despite never getting above a B+ in English. His favorite was Hamlet\u2019s speech even though his friends never allowed him to finish. His second favorite was Portia\u2019s description of contrition. Upon realizing he was not good enough to be a professional athlete, Justin quit sports, but our mom talked him into signing up for the soccer team anyway. He made assistant captain and the regional finals in his senior year. He tried dating another guy, but our dad said it was wrong to include this as unregular, not to mention Justin\u2019s uncomfort with the bulge in the other guy\u2019s pants. But Justin became a jock with gay friends. Jerry became his best friend. Other kids routinely joked about it, and he shrugged his shoulders with silent pride. He wore bell bottoms, bringing a subculture to a part of the school, and he did not drink, then did. He went to modern art exhibits featuring drip paintings, abstract hanging sculptures, and memoirs on the body. I asked him, \u201cDo you like them?\u201d<\/p>\n
He responded, \u201cI\u2019ll learn to like them.\u201d<\/p>\n
He signed up for Philosophy at university and spent years studying political philosophy, from Hobbs to Rousseau. He debated whether or not ethics was defined by our intent or the consequences of our actions. He bothered me over dinner about the limits of science, which as a cellular biology student, I did not believe in. \u201cCan we know what it is like to have the conscious states of a bat\u2019s echoic sonar by studying neurological functioning?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
I saw his point but did not want to give in. He insisted, \u201cCan we ever know what it is like to be a bat with objective knowledge? Think of a color-blind person studying the light spectrum and neurology\u00a0but never having\u00a0the visual experience of red or blue. This is so much more than that!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I conceded.<\/p>\n
He leaned back with the grandest smile.<\/p>\n
He became a feminist\u2014a radical at first, and then a moderate\u2014and explained how the concepts of “male” and “female” are self-fulfilled by performative behavior. And he waxed poetically about what Socrates started thousands of years ago and how \u201cThe good life comes from learning how to be a good person.\u201d<\/p>\n
He graduated with honors, debated going into graduate studies, and then he settled on applying for jobs in Communications. He first worked at Alta Pipelines, but he quickly moved to Wolly\u2019s Foods. His job title moved from Junior Communications Officer to Communications Officer and is currently Regional Head of Communications\u2014where he substantially increased and highlighted their weekly donations to the food bank. One night, while eating steak and potatoes, a dish he would not eat 10 years ago, he declared, \u201cI love making bad news bearable and good news exceptional.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy so?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve learned to find the upside in everything.\u201d<\/p>\n
He met Clair at the office. They dated for a year and a half, moved in, and recently got married. Jerry was his best man, and he jabbed barbs at him as \u201cthe most unregular guy I know,\u201d causing Justin to bury his face in his hands. Jerry ran over and hugged Justin mid-speech as he laughed and blushed. Clair got Justin into recycling. They are down to two bags of garbage a month. They bought Chevy Volts, then Teslas. And they volunteer as writing tutors with at-risk youth.<\/p>\n
Justin continued going to art exhibits no matter what the topic. I went to one: Our City in History. As we gazed at photographs of the city skyline evolving from four-story walk-ups, then ten-story buildings, to fifty-story skylines, I asked, \u201cDo you like the other exhibits?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI learned to love them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAll of them?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYup.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo more being unregular.\u201d<\/p>\n
He smiled, \u201cYou remember my birthdays.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI remember they were canceled.\u201d<\/p>\n
He chuckled, \u201cEveryone is forgotten; what type of a person do you want to be?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I glance over to see 3:27 glowing on the alarm clock. Collapsing into my pillow, I feel sweat beneath me. I look over at Jeffery. His arms are curled up into his chest. His side lifts ever so slightly, then falls back down. The moonlight speckles the ceiling. It globs through the leaves and branches, like water dripping through a strainer filled with seeds. My feet are tingling, and my calves are spasming. I am ready to run a marathon. My mind already is. I try focusing on nothing, then on my breath, but my legs start twitching, and I sigh. I swing my legs off the bed and rest my elbows on my thighs while bouncing my left leg on the ball of my foot. I push myself onto my feet, grab the towel from the bottom bedside drawer, and lay it on my back imprint, pressing down, careful not to wake Jeffery.<\/p>\n
I step into the main area of our condo, slipping on a tee shirt as I go. I take a last look at Jeffery curled up beside my towel. The moonlight dances on the wall. \u2018The storm didn\u2019t come,\u2019 I think, \u2018but the wind sure did.\u2019 I line myself up with the space between the TV stand and the coffee table. I slowly put my left foot in front of me, feeling the cool hardwood on my heel, then on the ball of my foot, as I rotate forward. “Breathe in, breathe out.” I think while I feel my ankle turn, and I take another step. \u2018Breathe in, breathe out.\u2019 I repeat as my mind calms, quickens, then calms. I think, \u2018I\u2019ll never sleep tonight\u2014no, return to your breath.\u2019 Sweaty footprints form behind me as I make my way across the room. I notice a picture of Jesus and a cross sitting on the buffet behind the dining table. I smile, walk over, pick them up, and place them in the buffet drawer, returning to my walking meditation.<\/p>\n
Lining up with my furniture, I take a step. My mind wanders\u2026 I look up from the pews at a group of adults, scrunching my face while I fiddle with my tie. \u00a0Two women wear bright red lipstick, black dresses that cover their arms and drape down to their lower calves, and gold studs in their ears. They listen to their husbands chatting with my childhood priest. The men laugh first. The women laugh second. One woman holds a full collection plate. She gazes at the priest as he chats with her husband. The plasticity of the woman\u2019s eyes seems so\u2026<\/p>\n
\u2018That is a thought,\u2019 I label it and bring my attention to my chest: lifting and pausing and falling, lifting and pausing and falling. My shirt sticks to my shoulders. I tug at it, and it feels moist as it drapes on my skin. I turn slowly and deliberately at the kitchen island. I feel the stiffness in my right ankle as I twist and take a few more conscious steps\u2026 My priest’s eyes dart about as he stands at the pulpit. They are catatonic. His arms move with emphasis. I am bewildered by how he speaks: \u201cFor it was Jesus who flipped the table of the money changers. He banished them from the temple, and he cleansed the temple of their greed.\u201d\u00a0 I sneer, staring at his hands as they slice through the air, rising and thrusting on the emphases. His hands are large, and there are several rings, gleaming gold and sparkling diamonds, on his fingers. His hands reach out, molesting the minds of the congregation, and filling the nave with gobsmacked eyes\u2026<\/p>\n
\u2018Thinking,” I label this digression, and I turn my attention back to my left foot as I place the toes down first for a change. It pushes my hips forward, and my back arches as a raise my arms for balance. My toes bend, sliding slightly from being placed into a footprint of sweat. I lower the rest of my foot. My toes straighten. My right fingers brush against my boxers. I pick at the fabric between two out-stretched fingertips and focus on the feeling between them and the feeling on my outer thigh. I hold my breath and turn\u2026 those eyes, those plastic eyes. Or is it made of bronze? He hovers above the priest, looking down. His arms stretch out. His feet are crossed. I stare into those eyes. My priest has different eyes: Lively. Commanding. Condemning. I scowl at those eyes.<\/p>\n
\u2018Thinking,” I note as I take another step. I remember dinner. My mom did not say anything, but she knew that I was trying\u2014for her. She knew I was being polite. She once said, \u201cIt isn\u2019t Jesus\u2019s fault.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d I said, \u201cWhat does he do?\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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