#also like so visibly in front of [redacted] (the one i have a crush one) LIKE. hey. hi. i swear i am interested in you and not just flirting

[narke]

feel like i was accidentally flirty w one of my training gal pals today. sorry [redacted] youre great but i am not flirty. just extremely flush with endorphins

[brophyblam]

Write What You Know 1st Place Winner: “Woven Essay” by Jack Cahill ’17

House Fight - Strand A

Christmas time is always a bit dysfunctional at the (name redacted for anonymity) house. Christmas 2005 was such a year. Mom is in the kitchen, struggling to whip up a gluten free meal, frantically running back and forth to find new ingredients. Dad is in the family room, watching a Fox News special about the War on Christmas. I sit next to him and ask him what beer tastes like.

“Beer can kill you,” he says. “Ok,” I say nodding my head.

A light snow falls outside, dotting our rural Pennsylvanian backyard, coating the dead trees in a beautiful light blanket.

“When is Gus coming,” I ask. “Uhh...maybe half an hour,” my mom says somewhat nervously. “He has a new girlfriend, so be on your best behavior.”

Around six, Gus walks through the front door.

“Grandpa,” I yell! “Hey,” he grunts. His arm is wrapped around his girlfriend, Anna, who is about thirty years younger. With her long brown hair and curvy hips, I was really proud of my grandpa for landing that.

“Hey dad,” my mom says. She hugs him and he cracks one of his rare smiles. Grunting again, he walks away. Presumably into the liquor cabinet, not that I understood that then.

…..

That Christmas Eve I’m sitting in the basement, playing with my toy cars. I have a Volvo S60 figurine, and I push it across the tattered carpet, hoping that I can get more toy cars for Christmas.

As I make car sounds, I hear other sounds upstairs.

“You’re a freaking bitch!” “Screw you you balding old prick!”

Tears swelled up in my eyes. Such abrasive, horrible, deplorable words - they were so foreign to me.

My mom was upstairs, shielding Anna from my grandfather. He was stumbling and slurring his speech, I thought something was horribly wrong. Did he have rabies?

“Gus, get the hell out of our house,” my dad says firmly.

Before Gus packed and left, however, he walked upstairs to my room and left an assortment of toy cars on my bed.

“With Love, Gus,” the present reads.

He even carved a miniature parking lot for me to place the toy cars. In that moment, I knew he loved me. But I also knew he had demons. That night, my mom walked into my room and turned on the Toy Story nightlight. She smiled, but in a sad way, her face was visibly red from crying.

“Your grandpa is an alcoholic, Jack.”

Red Jaguar - Strand B

“Whaddya think, Jack,” he asks, taking a swing at his cigar. “It’s pretty.” “Of course it’s damn pretty, if this car were a woman, I’d marry it.”

The Jaguar XK8. Sleek and red as a model’s lipstick, droplets of rain shined on top of the roof, reflecting the beautiful car in the coming sunshine.

“Let’s drive this son of a bitch.” “Okay.”

I hop in the passenger seat and he whips the Jaguar out of my driveway, the smell of creosote after a rain permeating my senses. We pull out of the neighborhood, and he clutches the car into sixth gear, and we fly down Pima Road, the humid, post monsoon wind throwing my wispy blonde hair into disarray.

Grandpa Gus reaches for his water bottle, takes a big sip, and puffs on his cigar. Being thirsty, I reach for the water bottle and take a sip, but immediately spit it out. It’s so harsh and acidic and bitter.

“Don’t drink that, Jack.”

“Is that…”

“Yeah, if you tell your mother, I’ll tell her about that magazine you have.” Blackmailed by my own grandpa, gotta love it.

We make a U-Turn at Frank Lloyd Wright Rd, and he keeps the car at as high a gear as possible as he goes 105 up the steep incline of Pima.

“God bless this machine,” he says laughing.

I didn’t see that Jaguar for another eight months. When I saw it again, I was in Missouri.

I walked through snowdrifts and the blustery wind up the winding road in St Joseph Missouri. In front of me was his house, or what used to be his house. Bill Faulkner is in the front yard, placing a “For Sale” sign in the snow, but I focus on the red Jaguar, covered in snow. It looks sad, like a dog without an owner. It looked widowed, orphaned.

“Don’t talk about it so loud, Bill,” I hear my mom say from a ways away. “The kids are right over there.”

Strand C - Dr. Engelsa

“You have to tell me something.” “I don’t want to,” I say crossing my arms and pouting.

Ms. Engels sighs and takes out her red pen, jotting down some notes.

“Is it because of your grandpa,” she asked. “No - it’s been since before he died.” “Then what is it?” “I told you, I don’t know!”

I was becoming increasingly frustrated, my legs were bouncing restlessly, and I glanced at the clock.

“You’re here until I say we’re through, do you understand,” she said, noticing my wandering eyes. “Yeah.” “Yeah or Yes.” “Yeah,” I say, trying to be a smart ass.

I sit there in silence for about twenty seconds before she takes out her pen and starts interrogating me again.

“When did it start?” “Maybe last year? I don’t know.” “So 4th grade?” “Yeah.” “You mean yes, Jack, you mean yes.” “Yeah.”

At this point, I find myself being crushed by frustrations and anxiety, so I ask her;

“I have a lot of homework, can I go now?” “Fine, I’ll see you next week.”

I walk out of the dreary, sterile room and into the poorly lit hallway. Pictures that are supposed to convey happiness, pictures of families rolling around in the grass, pictures of beaches and sandcastles are plastered all across the wall. I want to knock those photos down.

I see my mom in the waiting room and we walk out to the car.

“How was it,” she asks in a hopeful tone. “Well...she’s mean, I don’t like her.” “Ok - but we need her to get your medicine.” “I don’t want my medicine.” “I know you don’t, but you need it.”

Strand D - Austria

   A light drizzle falls and is illuminated in the eerie moonlight. Streetlights flicker, showing me the way to go. The grand clock in the village center strikes 4am, and the entire town square echoes with a loud chime. I glance at the street sign, shrouded by early morning’s mist;  “Verlassen St Wolfgang im Salzkammersgut/Leaving St Wolfgang.”  I nod silently and continue walking. To my left, the Austrian alps, to my right, the stunning blue waters of Bad(Lake) Wolfgang. A lone Audi driver rolls down his window and slows down to ask me; “Sind sie gut?” “Ja, ich bin perfekt, danke.” I keep on walking, occasionally stopping to glance at the scenery. I soon exit the village and am drawn into the countryside, enamored and stricken with the natural beauty of it all. The lush green, snow capped mountains, the lake glistening in the sunrise. I smile a genuine, natural smile. I missed that feeling, that feeling of calm. Despite this, I keep walking. I walk until my legs nearly go numb. I walk until the two lane, winding countryside road comes to a sudden halt. By this point, the clouds have covered up the sun, and a summer storm is coming in. I wipe the sweat off my forehead and take a right at a dirt trail with a sign that simply reads;  “St Wolfgang, 13 KM.” 13 kilometers away from the hotel, just fantastic. The light drizzle soon turns to a steady downpour, but I don’t care. In the distance, I see a quaint, cozy little village, like something you may see in a Berenstein Bears book, or maybe a German fairytale. A few dogs hide under a tree to shield themselves from the rain, and as I go to pet one, a man stops me. He looks no older than twenty and has a droopy facial structure. With his overalls and childlike, yet red face, I assume he is a farmer’s son. “Wie Gehts?” His German is lacking - he is clearly a native speaker, but his slow mannerisms and style of speech leads me to believe that he is cognitively deficient. I spoke German with the man, but for the sake of simplicity, I will use English in the dialogue. “I’m fine, thanks,” I say hoping to avoid a conversation. “Why are you here?” “I don’t know, I went for a run.” “You are wet.” “I know, I don’t control the weather.”

 He failed to understand the joke, but he was smart enough to understand that I was lying to him. “Why are you really here? What are you running from,” he asks. “I’m exercising.”

“You are big child.” “Thanks, I think.”

….

“Are you sad?” “No,” I say insistently. “I mean...I’m not happy, but I’m not sad. I don’t know what I am.”

He seems to understand my broken German and pats me on the back.

“We all lose things,” he says. “We all go through the trouble, we all go through the (crap) - but everything is pretty.”

We didn’t say anything more - he just looked at me and then pointed to the serene mountain ranges in front of us and nodded. Slow as he may have been, he was wise. I arrive back at the hotel by around 11am, still surprised by the strange event that had just transpired. Regardless of how absurd and surreal it is, I smile, I take a shower and smile widely, knowing that I feel a bit more calm. I feel more calm because of the little things.