The Axe

The Axe

            I was outside in my luscious green backyard that my mom tended to every weekend. Being more of my mother’s child, I wanted to be like her, so I helped tend to our small backyard that Saturday. The sun was shining—there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Palm trees placed on every side with the light shining through—the typical California picture. The lackluster, gray, classic tool shed stood up against the house atop the rocks next to the crisp mowed lawn. Located inside: a rake, multiple shovels (handheld ones and large heavy ones), a couple buckets, two saws, some plant food, and gardening gloves. My mom had been cutting down trees and large leaves, so the axe and long leaf cutter were lying in the grass. They laid there in a sad manner—it looked as if they had realized that people only use them when they don’t have enough strength to do things with their own hands. They were always glad to help, but never glad to be thrown around, being whacked on trees or being thrown to the ground.

            Justin joined us. He, my brother, didn’t have a good look on his face. A look of frustration and annoyance took over his face. No smile, no light in his eyes, not even a cute scrunch of the nose. This hadn’t been unfamiliar to me.

Bipolar.

When I first heard this word, I (an adolescent) had no idea what it meant. After multiple anger outbreaks at home from my brother and multiple family meetings later, I understood how bipolar kids act. My childhood was filled with watching a screaming, high tempered brother who hit everything he touched. I was eighteen months younger than him but acted eighteen months older than him. It was my life and it was my story.

Slam.

His door would shut.

Screams from inside his room, “I hate everyone. It’s not my fault.”

Bang.

He punched the wall thinking he would get his anger out, but it only resulted in red, later black and blue, knuckles. I deemed myself the normal child, but it came with great responsibility.

            Something my mother taught me since a young age was to always clean up after you make a mess, leaving it better than it was. I, being my mother’s “mini me” was doing exactly that when my brother came out and joined us. Trying to be kind I asked, “Justin, what’s wrong? Can I help you with anything.” No response. He just grunted over and over again. Trying to ignore the situation (which usually helped), I kept gathering the dead leaves and tossing them into the trashcan, attempting to make a three pointer.

I swear this only happens in movies, but no. This was happening in real life before my very own wide opened eyes. His body bent over, his hand dropped to the ground, and his fingered griped the handle of the axe. What is he doing? Why is he picking that up? Should I run? As I said each word slowly, I was being backed into the fence. “Justin.” One step back. “Put.” One more step back. “That.” One more step back. “Down.” My hands were in front of me acting as my shield (like that would do anything) and my back finally hit the fence. I am going to die. What is going to happen to me? My life flashed before my eyes. I remembered winning my first horse show, bringing our first puppy home, and even that morning of cooking a delicious breakfast including cheesy eggs and perfectly burned bacon with my family. All I could think of to say, while tears were flowing down my face faster than Niagara Falls, was, “Justin, please stop. Please put that down. What are you doing?”

Mom walked around the corner and immediately grabbed the axe out of his hands. I ran inside, trying to get the farthest distance away from him. Running into my dad, I grabbed him tightly and told him that Justin just had an axe in his hand, pinning me to the fence. His response, “Oh.”  

Lives

I read the Lives story, "Drama Unfolds at My Bus Stop." It was a story about a man who was waiting for the bus and there is a Oldsmobile coming down the road with a man who doesn't look conscious. Men eating sandwiches see what is happening and go and stop the car. The main guy takes care of the rest and calls 911. The man in the Oldsmobile is taken away in an ambulance and the main guy never finds out what happens to him after that.

The author did a great job at setting the scene and descriptions--I felt like I was there at the scene with him trying to help the hopeless, unconscious man. In the first sentence we are told that it is taking place in Brooklyn and this guy is going about a normal day, "I am in Brooklyn waiting for the bus the way most people wait for the bus: leaning dangerously over the curb." "Confidence leaks down my back in a thin stream, and I step through a series of actions absorbed from decades of watching procedural television." This sentence stuck out to me because it has a lot of depth and the wording is just so perfect. 

Something that I have learned from reading this story is that you can make a simple story come to life by writing it well. "I am dialing with one hand, while the other prods about his face and shoulders searching for the spot on the neck where the artery (vein?)." The main guy didn't just look for unconscious man's pulse, but he prods his body looking for that certain spot. 

The Swindler

The Swindler

            The phone rang. Usually no one wants to answer the phone, so it goes to our message machine. But, tonight I was expecting a call from Mary because we were working on a project together. The phone rang once—I picked it up.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

“Hi, is this Mary?”

Mary was my best friend. We had met in second grade. I was a short, stubby girl who always liked to dress herself. Mary was the taller and skinnier one who actually had a sense of fashion, even at a young age. I usually would come to school with my blonde short hair pinned back or in a ponytail but she would have hers perfectly combed. I can remember that we had the same teacher but I don’t remember what made us best friends.

“This is Susan.”

“Can I ask who you’re calling for?”

“I’m calling for Chet.”

I quickly pressed the end button and slammed the phone back onto the charger. Who was Susan? Why would she be calling at seven o’clock at night for my dad? We had to have our roof re-tiled but they wouldn’t be calling after hours. Thoughts kept running through my head about who this woman was, but I was interrupted by Dad, “Who were you talking to?”

I replied, “Oh, just Mary. Were working on a project together.” 

His eyes, open wide with a scared look, started at me for a while and then he quickly scurried away into the other room. I went on with my evening attempting to work on my project but I kept thinking about this girl Susan. Something about this situation just seemed wrong and my stomach turned in circles. I’m horrible at lying and I hate it but I had a gut feeling that I shouldn’t tell anyone that this woman had called.

Mom is in the kitchen whipping up some delicacy and Dad is in his office talking on the phone with who I assume are his business partners. Dinnertime arrives and Dad dashes in, to suddenly leave right after. “Goodbye sweetie. Goodbye Heather. I’m late for a business dinner.” he hastily said and kissed my mother and I before he ran out of the door.

           

            These situations had been going on for over four years, since I was seven. Dad would go to work. Mom would stay home and take care of me. She would make all the meals, pack all the lunches, and clean the house. Dad would come home from work when I came home from school. Mom would cook dinner and the Dad would leave. This would happen a couple times a week and it just became routine to me just like brushing my teeth.

*

            They were high school sweethearts. Their story wasn’t the typical “he was the football jock and she was the head cheerleader” story, but they met through mutual friends. He was dating a girl at the time and was introduced to Mom when all of their friends went bowling one night. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her even though he was with someone else. Something about Mom just made him fall in love so easily with her. They spent days and nights together. Dad finally ended his relationship with his previous girlfriend. They were inseparable and decided that marriage was in their future. After the “I do’s,” I came along. An unexpected but miraculous child, I was. I was an angel, always listening and following the rules. As I grew older I became closer to my mother as my father was usually was gone on business trips or business dinners with his partners.

*

            I had just turned sixteen and Mary wasn’t able to spend the day with me. We were going out for dinner to catch up a couple days after my birthday because she just came home from seeing her grandparents in Virginia for a week. We had never gone without seeing each other for more than a couple days so it was nice to finally see her. The trees were rustling outside as the autumn leaves fell from the gusty wind and slight drizzle. I took my umbrella outside, but the wind swallowed it up. We decided to walk along Ventura Boulevard and just come upon a restaurant that sounded tasty. The Swindler—we didn’t know what it meant or what food they served but we decided to give it a try.

“Table for two please.”

“The wait will be ten minutes if that’s okay.”

            My stomach was grumbling louder than the people talking in the restaurant. I looked across the room to see if there were any empty tables. My eyes peeled open in case someone left their table. My eyes came across a familiar looking man—someone who I couldn’t recognize fully but I knew that somehow I knew him. The perfectly combed brown hair, nice dress shirt, and the woman he was sitting with indicated to me he must be older, about mid forties. The woman hadn’t looked familiar, so I thought that I must be seeing things and that I actually didn’t know the man. He was holding her hand with a hugging grip; they were obviously in love. He leaned forward to give her a sweet kiss and as he pulled back we made eye contact. With a panic, I screamed, “Dad?!”

Word Theater

Attending the World Theater event was a cool experience. I thought that the whole idea of this event was something that would be interesting to put on. Having actual actors read the stories of a well known writer was very interesting and a cool experience.

Although it was difficult to understand the first story's plot, I enjoyed both the stories I heard. After talking in class about how the first actor didn't make voice inflections or change his accent according to who was speaking in the story, it is evident that it wasn't only not hard for me to understand but it was hard for others. Rather the second story, I could understand more; maybe it was how the actor performed it or it was just the plot that was more understandable?

I think that overall this was a great event and I wish I could have been able to see the second half.

Signs and Symbols

It is introduced to us in the first sentence that there is this couple "they" who knew this person, their son, "who was incurably deranged in his mind." We are told that this young man is disturbed and unbalanced. "Man-made objects were to him either hives of evil, vibrant with a malignant activity that he alone could perceive, or gross comforts for which no use could be found in his abstract world." This sentence contains an abundant vocabulary while describing how man-made objects scare him or offend him in some way, and since it was his birthday his parents were troubled with the thought of what they should get him. They settled on fruit jellies--something that usually someone wouldn't desire for a birthday present but we know from the second sentence, "desires he had none."

The climax occurs when the father suddenly wakes up in the middle of the night crying that he couldn't sleep. His wife tries to calm him down and find out what is wrong with him but all he cares about is gutting their son out of the place. Through just a short dialogue Nabokov shows how uncomfortable the father felt with his son in this place and he didn't want to be responsible for anything if he hadn't taken him out of the place right away. 

The phone call. Who is this lady that is calling for Charlie? And who is Charlie? Charlie must be their son. When the mother hung up the phone with the girl who was asking for Charlie, she said to her husband "It frightened me." My thought is that it was scary for her to have someone calling for her son while he was in the place for crazy people. The phone rang again and it was the same voice who was still asking for Charlie but mother hung up again on her. They got on with their time drinking their midnight tea and examined the jelly jars. The ending like is really interesting to me and just kept me on the edge of my seat, "He had got to crab apple when the telephone rang again." 

Vladimir Nabokov paints his picture well of what is going on but also uses detailed and vivid words to draw the reader in. We are given a little bit of background of the mother and father but also about their extended family including how they live on the husband's brother's money and how Aunt Rosa was killed by the Germans. How the beginning was going, it never had me suspect what was going to happen in the end.